Contributions to Thought

Psychology of the Image 

Introduction to Psychology of the Image
When we refer to the “space of representation” some readers may think of a kind of “container” in whose interior are certain “contents” of consciousness. If they further believe that those “contents” are images, and that those images operate as mere copies of perception, we will have a few difficulties to sort out before we are able to come to agreement. Indeed, those who think in this way position themselves within the perspective of a naive psychology—a branch of the natural sciences—that begins without examination from a vision oriented toward the study of psychological phenomena in terms of materiality. 
It is useful to clarify from the outset that our position regarding the theme of consciousness and its functions does not share this assumption. For us, the consciousness is intentionality. Clearly, intentionality does not exist in natural phenomena and is totally alien to the studies of the sciences occupied with the materiality of phenomena.
It is our aim in this work to give an account of the image as an active way for the consciousness to be in the world—a way of being that cannot be independent of spatiality, and in which the numerous functions fulfilled by the image depend upon the position that it assumes in this spatiality. 

Chapter 1: The Problem of Space in the Study 
of Phenomena of Consciousness
1.1 Background 
Through the years there has been no lack of psychologists who, having located the sensation-producing phenomena in an “external” space, have spoken of representations as if they were simply copies of what was perceived. It seems especially odd, then, that when dealing with the facts of representation, they have not concerned themselves with clarifying “where” these phenomena take place. They have described the facts of consciousness, linking them to the passage of time (without explaining that passage), and they have interpreted the sources of these events as determinant causes (located in an external space). No doubt they thought that in this way they had exhausted the primary questions (and answers) that had to be dealt with in order to give a foundation to their science. They believed that the time in which both internal and external phenomena take place is an absolute time. Similarly, they maintained that since space is often distorted in images, dreams, and hallucinations, it can only hold for “external” reality and not for the consciousness. 

Various psychologists have concerned themselves with trying to understand whether representation is proper to the soul, the brain, or some other entity. In this context we cannot forget Descartes’s celebrated letter to Christina of Sweden in which, as a way of explaining how thought and will are able to set the human machine into motion, he mentions a “point of union” between the soul and the body.
It is strange to think that it is precisely this philosopher who, while bringing us so much closer to a comprehension of the immediate and indubitable data of thought, nonetheless failed to take note of the theme of the spatiality of representation as a datum independent of the spatiality that the senses obtain from their external sources. Certainly, as the founder of geometrical optics and the creator of analytic geometry, he was very familiar with the problems related to locating phenomena precisely in space. He had all the necessary elements (both his methodological doubt and his concern with the placement of phenomena in space), but failed to take that additional small step that would have allowed him to grasp the idea of the location of representation in various “points” of the space of consciousness.
Almost three hundred years passed before the concept of representation became independent of naive spatial representation and acquired its own meaning. This was thanks to the reevaluation or, more correctly, the re-creation of the idea of intentionality, an idea that had previously been noted by the scholastic philosophers in their studies of Aristotle. The credit for this re-creation belongs principally to Franz Brentano, and numerous references to the problem of intentionality can be found in his work. Though Brentano did not fully develop these notions, his efforts nonetheless laid the foundation for subsequent advances.
It was the work of one of Brentano’s disciples, however, that finally allowed an adequate statement of the problem and so permitted an advance toward solutions that, in my view, will end up revolutionizing not only the discipline of psychology (apparently the appropriate field for the development of these themes) but many others as well.
In Ideas Pertaining to a Pure Phenomenology and a Phenomenological Philosophy, Husserl studied the “regional idea of the thing in general” as that self-identical something that is maintained in the midst of the innumerable changes of this or that determined form, and that makes itself known in the corresponding infinite series of noemata, also of a determined form. 
 The thing is given in its ideal essence of res temporalis in the necessary “form” of time. It is given in its ideal essence of res materialis in its substantial unity, and in its ideal essence of res extensa in the “form” of space. This is so notwithstanding the infinitely varied changes of form or, given a fixed form, the changes of place, which can also be infinitely varied or “mobile.” Thus, Husserl says, we apprehend the idea of space and the ideas included in it. In this way, the problem of the origin of the representation in space is reduced through phenomenological analysis to the different expressions in which space exhibits itself as an intuitive unity.1
Husserl places us in the field of eidetic reduction, and though innumerable insights may be drawn from his works, our interest here is oriented toward themes that are proper to a phenomenological psychology rather than to phenomenological philosophy. Thus, even though we will repeatedly abandon the epoché of the Husserlian method, these transgressions will find their justification in the need to create a more accessible explanation of our point of view. On the other hand, if post-Husserlian psychology has failed to consider the problem that we will refer to as “space of representation,” this indicates nothing more than the need for some of its theses to be reconsidered. In any event, it would be excessive to accuse us of a naive relapse into the world of the “natural mind.”2
Moreover, we are not concerned with “the problem of the origin of the representation of space” but, on the contrary, with the problem of the origin of the “space” that accompanies any representation and in which all representation is given. Since the “space” of representation is not independent of representations, how could we understand such a space other than as the consciousness of the spatiality of any representation? And even if the direction of our study involves observing representation introspectively (and hence, naively) and also introspectively observing the spatiality of the act of observing, still, nothing prevents us from attending to the acts of consciousness that refer to spatiality. This could later be developed into a phenomenological reduction or, without denying the importance of that reduction, it could be postponed, in which case the most that could be said is that this description is incomplete.
Finally, as regards antecedents in the attempt to describe the spatiality of the phenomena of representation, we should note that Binswanger has also made a contribution, though without having reached an understanding of the profound significance of “where” the representations are given.3
1.2 Distinctions Among Sensation, Perception, and Image
Defining sensations in terms of afferent nervous processes that begin in a receptor and travel to the central nervous system, or the like, is something proper to physiology rather than psychology, and such descriptions are not useful for our purposes.
There have also been attempts to define sensation as any experience, out of the total number of perceptual experiences that could exist within a determined modality, as given by the formula (UT-LT)/DT where UT denotes the upper threshold, LT the lower threshold, and DT the differential threshold. This way of presenting things does not allow us to grasp the function of the element that is being studied, and in general the same objection holds for all approaches that share an atomistic background. On the contrary, this approach appeals to a structure (e.g., perception) in order to isolate the “constitutive” elements of this ambit, and from there it then attempts to explain, in a circular way, that same structure.
We can provisionally understand sensation as the register obtained upon detecting a stimulus from the external or internal environment that produces a variation in the tone of operation of the affected sense. But the study of sensation must go further, since we observe that there are sensations that accompany the acts of thinking, remembering, apperception, and so on. In every case there is a variation in the tone of operation of a sense or, as with coenesthesia, a combination of senses, but of course thinking is not “felt” in the same way or mode as an external object. Therefore, the sensation appears as a structuring carried out by the consciousness in its activity of synthesis, but analyzed in a particular way in order to describe its original source, that is, in order to describe the sense from which the impulse originated.
As for perception, there have been various definitions, such as: “Perception is the act of becoming aware of external objects, their qualities or relationships, and unlike memory and other mental processes, perception follows directly from sensory processes.” However, we understand perception as a structuring of sensation that is performed by the consciousness in reference to a sense or combination of senses.
The image has been described as “an element of experience arising from a central point, and possessing all the attributes of sensation.” We prefer to understand the image as a structured and formalized representation of the sensations or perceptions that originate, or have originated, from the external or internal environment. The image, then, is not a “copy” but a synthesis; an intention, not the mere passivity of the consciousness.4
1.3 The Idea of “Consciousness-Being-in-the-World” as a 
Descriptive Touchstone in Facing the Interpretations 
of Naive Psychology
We must revive the idea that all sensations, perceptions, and images are forms of consciousness, and that it would therefore be more correct to speak of “consciousness of sensation,” “consciousness of perceptions,” and “consciousness of the image.” Here we are not taking an apperceptive stance in which there are both psychological phenomena and an awareness of them. Rather, we are saying that it is consciousness itself that modifies its own way of being, or better, that consciousness is nothing but a way of being—being emotional, for example, or being expectant, and so on. 
When imagining an object, the consciousness does not stand apart, uncommitted and neutral toward this operation; the consciousness in this situation is a commitment referred to the imagined. Even in the aforementioned case of apperception, we would still have to speak of consciousness in an apperceptive attitude.
It follows that there is no consciousness but consciousness of something, and that this something is referred to a type of world—naive, natural, or phenomenological; “external” or “internal.” Our understanding is not helped, then, by studying the state of fear of danger, for example, in a kind of descriptive schizophrenia in which we take as given that we are investigating a type of emotion that does not implicate other functions of the consciousness. In reality, things are not like this at all.
When we are afraid of a danger, for example, the whole consciousness is in a state of danger. And even though we might recognize other functions (such as perception, reasoning, or memory), it is as if they were now operating saturated by the situation of danger, with everything referred to the danger. In this way, consciousness is a global way of being-in-the-world and a global behavior in front of the world. And if psychological phenomena are spoken of in terms of synthesis, we must know to which synthesis we are referring and what is our starting point in order to understand what separates our concepts from others that also speak of “synthesis,” “globality,” “structure,” and so on.5
At the same time, having established the character of our synthesis, nothing prevents us from going deeper into whatever form of analysis will allow us to better clarify and illustrate our exposition. But these analyses will always be understood in a larger context, and the object or the act under consideration cannot be made independent of that context, nor can it be isolated from its reference to something. The same holds for the psychic “functions,” which are working conjointly according to the way of being of the consciousness at the moment we are considering it.
Is the point, then, that there are sensations, perceptions, and images acting even during full vigil, when, for example, we are dealing with a mathematical problem that occupies our entire interest? Is this so even during the exercise of mathematical abstractions in which we must avoid every type of “distraction”? Indeed, we are saying that such abstractions would not be possible if these mathematicians did not have sensory registers of their mental activity, or if they did not perceive the temporal succession of their thought processes, or if they did not imagine thanks to mathematical signs or symbols (symbols defined by convention and later memorized). Finally, if our mathematizing subjects wish to work with meanings, they must recognize that these are not independent of the expressions that are formally presented to them through their sight or their representation.
But we go even further than that in maintaining that other functions are working simultaneously, or in saying that the state of vigil, in which these operations are being carried out, is not isolated from other levels of activity of the consciousness, is not isolated from other types of operations that are more fully expressed in semi-sleep or sleep. And it is this simultaneity of work of distinct levels that allows us to speak of “intuitions,” “inspirations,” or “unexpected solutions” that at times suddenly burst into logical discourse, adding their own schemas, in this case within the context of doing mathematics. Scientific literature is filled with examples of problems whose solutions have appeared in activities far removed from those of logical discourse, illustrating precisely the involvement of the whole consciousness in the search for solutions to such problems.
We do not support this position on the basis of neurophysiological schemes that uphold these claims on the basis of the activity registered by an electroencephalograph. Nor do we support it by appealing to the action of some supposed “subconscious,” “unconscious” or any other epochal myth based on dubiously formulated scientific premises. We base our approach on a psychology of the consciousness that acknowledges diverse levels of work and operations of varying importance in each psychic phenomenon, all of which are always integrated in the action of a global consciousness.
1.4 The Internal Register Through Which the Image 
Is Given in Some “Place”
Pressing the keys on the keyboard I have in front of me causes the appearance of graphic characters that I can see on the monitor connected to it. The movements of my fingers are associated with particular letters, and automatically, following my thoughts, the phrases and sentences flow out. Now, suppose that I close my eyes and stop thinking about the previous discussion in order to concentrate on the image of the keyboard. In some way I have the keyboard “right in front of me,” represented by a visual image that is almost as if copied from the perception I was experiencing before I closed my eyes.
Opening my eyes, I get up from my chair and take a few steps across the room. Again I close my eyes, and upon remembering the keyboard, I imagine it somewhere behind me. If I wanted to observe the image exactly as the keyboard presented itself to my perception, I would have to place it in a position “in front of my eyes.” To do that, I must either mentally turn my body around or “move” the machine through the “external space” until it is located in front of me. Now the machine is “in front of my eyes,” but this produces a spatial dislocation, because if I open my eyes I will see a window in front of me. In this way, it becomes evident that the location of the object in the representation is placed in a “space” that may not coincide with the space in which the original perception was given.
Furthermore, I can go on to imagine the keyboard located in the window in front of me, or I can imagine the whole ensemble closer to or farther away from me. I can even expand or shrink the size of the whole scene or some of its components. I can distort these bodies, and finally, I can even change their colors.
But I also discover some impossibilities. I cannot, for example, imagine those objects without color, no matter how hard I try to make them “transparent,” since it is precisely color or “shade” that will define the edges or differences of the transparency. Clearly, I am confirming that extension and color are not independent contents, and hence I cannot imagine color without extension. It is precisely this point that makes me reflect that if I am unable to represent color without extension, then the extension of the representation also denotes the “spatiality” in which the represented object is placed. It is this spatiality that interests us. 

Chapter 2: Location of What Is Represented 
in the Spatiality of Representation
2.1 Different Types of Perception and Representation
Psychologists through the ages have made extensive lists dealing with perceptions and sensations, and today, with the discovery of new neuroreceptors, they have begun to talk about thermoceptors and baroceptors, as well as internal detectors of acidity, alkalinity, and so forth. 

To the sensations corresponding to the external senses we will add those that correspond to diffuse senses such as the kinesthetic (movement and corporal posture) and coenesthetic (register of temperature, pain, and so on—that is, the register of the intrabody in general) which, even when explained in terms of an internal tactile sense, cannot be reduced to that.
For our purposes what has been noted above should suffice, without claiming that this in any way exhausts the possible registers that correspond to the external and internal senses or the multiple perceptual combinations possible between them. 
It is important, then, to establish a parallel between representations and perceptions that are generically classified as “internal” or “external.” It is unfortunate that the term “representation” has so frequently been limited to visual images.6 Moreover, spatiality seems almost always to be referred to the visual, even though auditory perceptions and representations also reveal the sources of stimuli localized in some “place.” This is also the case with touch, taste, smell, and, of course, with those senses referred to the position of the body and the phenomena of the intrabody.7
2.2 The Interaction of Images Referred to 
Different Perceptual Sources
In the earlier example of automatism we were dealing with the connection between the flow of words and the movement of the fingers, which when striking the keys triggered graphic characters on the monitor. This clearly illustrates a case where precise spatial positions are associated with kinesthetic registers. If spatiality did not exist for these registers, such an association would be impossible. But it is also interesting to verify how thought in the form of words is translated into the movement of the fingers, linked to particular positions of the keys. Moreover, such “translation” is quite common, and frequently occurs with representations based on perceptions originating in different senses. 
For example, all we need to do is close our eyes and listen to different sounds in order to observe that our eyes tend to move in the direction of the auditory perception. Moreover, if we imagine a piece of music, we can observe how our mechanisms of vocalization tend to adapt, especially to high- and low-pitched sounds. This phenomenon of “subvocalization” is independent of whether the piece of music has been imagined as sung or hummed, or whether the representation involves an entire symphony orchestra. The reference to the representation of high-pitched sounds as “high” and low-pitched sounds as “low” is the telltale sign that confirms the existence—in association with the sounds—of spatiality and positioning in the system of vocalization.
There are also other interactions between images that correspond to different senses. In relation to this question, it could be that ordinary language offers greater insight than scholarly treatises. Consider such cases as “sweet” love and the “bitter” taste of defeat, “hard” words, “gloomy” thoughts, “great” men, the “fire” of desire, and “sharp” minds. 
In light of all this, it should not seem strange that many of the allegorizations that occur in dreams, folklore, myths, religions, and even daily reverie are based on translations from one sense to another, and hence from one system of images to another. So for example, a raging fire may appear in a dream from which the subject awakens with a bad case of heartburn; or the subject, having dreamed of being mired in quicksand, may wake to find his legs entangled in the sheets. What seems most appropriate, then, in dealing with these phenomena is to base our interpretations on an exhaustive investigation of the immediately given rather than adding new myths that claim to interpret these dramatizations. 
2.3 Representation: Capacity for Transformation
In our example we saw how the representation of the keyboard could be altered in its color, shape, size, position, perspective, and so on. It is also clear that we could completely “recreate” the object in question, modifying it until it became unrecognizable. If, finally, our keyboard becomes a rock (as the prince becomes a frog), even if all the characteristics in our new image are those of a rock, for us that rock will remain “the transformed keyboard.” Such recognition is possible thanks to the memories and the history that we keep alive in our new representation. This new image will involve a structuring that is no longer simply visual. And it is precisely this structuring in which the image is given that allows us to establish memories, climates, and affective tones related to the object in question, even when it has disappeared or been drastically modified. Conversely, we can observe that the modification of the general structure will produce variations in the image (when recalled or superimposed on the perception).8 
We find ourselves, then, in a world in which the perception seems to inform us of its variations, while the image, in stimulating our memory, launches us to reinterpret and modify the data coming from that world. Accordingly, to every perception there is a corresponding representation that unfailingly modifies the “data” of “reality.” In other words, the structure perception-image is a behavior of the consciousness in the world, whose meaning is the transformation of this world.9
2.4 Recognition and Non-recognition of the Perceived
Looking at the keyboard, I am able to recognize it thanks to the representations that accompany my perceptions of that object. If, when I again see the keyboard, it has changed for any reason, I will experience a lack of correspondence with those representations. As a result, I might experience any of a gamut of mental phenomena. These could range from disagreeable surprise to a total lack of recognition in which the object would appear as “another” object, and not the one I expected to find. This lack of coincidence reveals the discrepancies between the new perceptions and the old images. In that moment, I compare the differences between the keyboard I remember and the one now present to me. 
Non-recognition of a new object that presents itself is in fact the re-cognition of the absence of an image corresponding to this new object. So it is that quite often I try to accommodate the new perception through “as if” interpretations in relation to something familiar.10
We have seen that the image has the ability to free the object from the context in which it was perceived. The image has sufficient plasticity to modify itself and dislocate its references. In fact, the reaccommodation of the image to the new perception does not present great difficulties (difficulties that become evident in the phenomena that accompany the image, as is the case with the emotional phenomena and the corporal tone that accompany the representation). Therefore, the image can move—transforming itself—through the different times and spaces of consciousness. In this present moment of consciousness I can retain the past image of this object, which has been modified, or extend it toward other possible modifications of “what it might become” or toward other possible ways of being. 
2.5 Image of the Perception and Perception of the Image
To every perception corresponds an image, and this fact is given as a structure. We can also note that neither affect nor corporal tone can be separated from the globality of the consciousness. Earlier we mentioned a case in which we tried to follow perceptions and translated images, as in adaptations of the vocal apparatus or the movement of the eyeballs when seeking, for example, the source of a sound. Following this kind of description is easier if we locate ourselves in a single band of perception-representation-motricity. 
So it is, then, that if I face the keyboard and close my eyes, I can still, with relative accuracy, extend my fingers and hit the correct keys. This is because my fingers follow images that operate in this case, “delineating” my movements. If, however, I displace the image toward the left in my space of representation, my fingers will follow the delineation and will no longer coincide with the external keyboard. If I then “internalize” the image toward the center of the space of representation, placing the image of the keyboard “inside my head,” for example, the movement of my fingers will tend to be inhibited. Conversely, if I “externalize” the image, placing it “several paces in front of me,” I will experience that not only my fingers but also entire areas of my body will tend in that direction.
If the perceptions of the “external” world correspond to “externalized” images (“outside” the coenesthetic-tactile register of the head, “inside” of whose boundary is the “look” of the observer), the perception of the “internal” world will have corresponding “internalized” representations (“inside” the limits of the tactile-coenesthetic register, which in turn is “looked on” also from “within” this boundary but displaced from its central position, which is now occupied by that which is “seen”). This shows a certain “externality” of the look that observes or experiences any given scene. Taking this to the extreme, I can observe the “look” itself, in which case the act of observation becomes external with respect to the “look” as an object, which now occupies the central position. This “perspective” shows that besides the “spatiality” of that which is represented as a non-independent content (following Husserl), there is a “spatiality” in the structure object-look. It could be said that in reality this is not a “perspective” in the internal spatial sense but rather involves acts of consciousness that when retained appear continuous, producing the illusion of perspective. But even as temporal retentions they cannot escape, as far as representation, from becoming non-independent contents, and consequently subject to spatiality, whether they are simply represented objects or the structure object-look. 
Some psychologists have noted this “look” that is referred to the representation but have mistaken it for the “I” or the “attentional focus.” No doubt such confusion is due to a lack of understanding of the distinction between acts and objects of consciousness, and also of course to prejudices with respect to the activity of representation.11 
Therefore, when I am faced with imminent danger, such as a tiger leaping toward the bars of the cage in front of me, my representations will correspond to the object, which, moreover, I recognize as dangerous. 
The images that correspond to the recognition of external “danger” are structured with previous perceptions (and therefore, representations) of the intrabody. These gain special intensity in the case of “consciousness of danger,” modifying the perspective from which the object is observed and producing the register of a “shortening of space” between the danger and myself. In this way, the action of the images in various locations in the space of representation clearly modifies conduct in the world (as we have seen with respect to the “delineating” images). 
In other words: Danger magnifies the perceptions and the corresponding images of one’s own body, but that structure is directly referred to the perception-image of that which is dangerous (external to the body), through which the contamination, the “invasion” of the body by the dangerous is assured. My whole consciousness is, in this case, consciousness-in-danger, dominated by the dangerous—without limits, without distance, without external “space,” since I feel the danger within me, for-me, in the “interior” of the space of representation, within the boundary of the tactile-coenesthetic register of my head and skin. My most immediate, “natural” response is to flee from the danger, to flee from my endangered self (moving delineating images in my space of representation in the direction opposite to the danger and toward the “outside” of my body). If, through a powerful effort of self-reflection, I decided to remain face to face with the danger, I would have to do this “fighting with myself.” I would have to reject the danger from within and with a new perspective take mental distance from the compulsion to flee from the danger. I would have to modify the placement of the images in the depths of the space of representation, and hence the perception I have of them. 

Chapter 3: Configuration of the 
Space of Representation
3.1 Variations of the Space of Representation 
in Relation to the Levels of Consciousness
It is a commonplace that during sleep the consciousness abandons its everyday interests. It also pays less attention to stimuli originating from the external senses, responding to them only when the impulses pass a certain threshold or touch on a “sensitive point.” 

The profusion of images during dreaming sleep reveals the vast number of correlative perceptions occurring. It is clear, at the same time, that external stimuli are not only attenuated but also transformed so as to facilitate the conservation of that level of consciousness.12
Certainly, the way of being of the consciousness in sleep is not a way of not being in the world. Rather, it is a particular way of being and acting in the world, even when the activity is directed toward the internal world. Hence, if during sleep with dreams the images help to conserve that level by transforming external perceptions, they are also working in conjunction with deep tensions and relaxations and with the energetic economy of the intrabody. The same thing takes place with the images in our “daydreams,” and it is precisely in this intermediary level that we gain access to the dramatizations proper to the impulses that are being translated from one sense to another. 
In vigil, images not only contribute to the recognition of perceptions but also tend to direct the activity of the body toward the external world. Also, we necessarily have an internal register of these images, through which they influence the behavior of the intrabody.13 However, these phenomena are perceptible only in a secondary way, and then only when the interest is directed toward the muscular tonicity and motor activity. Thus, the situation can undergo rapid change when the consciousness configures itself “emotionally” and the register of the inner body is amplified, while at the same time the images continue to act upon the external world. On other occasions the images may, as a “tactical adaptation of the body,” inhibit all activity. These adaptations may subsequently be judged to have been correct or mistaken, but in any case there can be no doubt that they are behavioral adaptations in facing the world.
As we have already seen, images referred to internal and external space must be located at different depths of the space of representation in order to carry out their functions. During sleep I am able to see images as if I were observing them from a point located inside the scene itself (as if I were in the scene and looked at things from “me,” without seeing myself from “outside”). From this perspective I believe not that I am seeing “images” but rather perceptual reality itself. This occurs because, unlike when I close my eyes in vigil, I do not have a register of the boundary within which the images appear, and so I believe that I am, with open eyes, seeing what is happening “outside myself.”
However, in this case the delineating images do not mobilize muscle tonicity because, even though I believe I am perceiving “external” space, in reality the image is located in the space of representation. So while my eyes follow the movements of the images, my bodily movements are attenuated in the same way that perceptions originating through external senses are attenuated and translated. This is similar to the case of hallucination, except that, as we will see, in hallucinations the register of the tactile-coenesthetic boundary has for some reason disappeared, whereas in the previously discussed case of sleep, it is not that such boundaries have disappeared but simply that they cannot exist.
Images placed in this way surely delineate their action toward the intrabody, utilizing various transformations and dramatizations that also allow us to restructure situations already lived—updating our memories, and certainly decomposing and recomposing emotions that were originally structured along with the image. Paradoxical sleep (and in some ways “reverie”) fulfills important functions, among which the transference of affective climates to transformed images should not be overlooked.14
There exists at least one other case of placement in the oneiric scene: the case in which I see myself “from outside,” that is, I see the scene in which I am included and carry out actions, but from a point of observation external to the scene. This case is similar to the one in vigil in which I see myself “from outside” (as happens when, in a theatrical performance or otherwise feigning, I represent or portray a certain attitude). The difference is, however, that when vigilic I have an apperception of myself (I regulate, control, and modify my activity), and when in sleep I “believe” in the scene as it presents itself, because in this situation my self-criticism is reduced and the direction of the dream sequence seems to be outside my control.
3.2 Variations of the Space of Representation in 
States of Altered Consciousness
In order to address the phenomena of altered states of consciousness, we must leave aside the traditionally established differences between illusion and hallucination. Let us take as a reference those images that, because of their characteristics, are often taken for perceptions from the external world. Of course, there is more to an “altered state” than this; nonetheless, that is the aspect that concerns us here. It can occur that a person in vigil will “project” images, mistaking them for real perceptions from the external world. In this case, the person will believe in these images in the same way as the dreaming person mentioned earlier, in which the dreamer was unable to distinguish between internal and external spaces because the tactile-coenesthetic boundary of the head and eyes could not be included in the system of representation. Moreover, both the scene and the subject’s look are located in the interior of the space of representation, but without any notion of “interiority.”
Accordingly, if someone in vigil loses the notion of “interiority,” it is because the register that divides the internal from the external has somehow disappeared. Nonetheless, images projected “outside” retain their delineating power, launching motor activity toward the world. Subjects in this situation would find themselves in a peculiar state of “waking dream,” of active semi-sleep, in which their behavior in the external world has lost all efficiency in regard to objects. This can reach a point where these subjects end up talking with people who are not there or acting inappropriately in other ways. 
Such situations are frequently seen in cases of fever, hypnosis, and sleepwalking. Occasionally they may also occur at the moment of entering or leaving sleep. Certainly, they can also be observed in some cases of intoxication, as well as in particular kinds of mental disturbances. The phenomena that allow this projection of images correspond to a kind of tactile-coenesthetic “anesthesia” in which images lose their “boundaries” when the sensation that serves as the reference dividing “external” and “internal” space is lacking. 
There are various sensory deprivation experiments in which the “limits” of the body seem to disappear and subjects experience variations in the dimensions of different parts of their bodies. Hallucinations are also common in those situations in which a subject, suspended in complete silence and total darkness, floats in a saturated saline solution that is maintained at skin temperature. Then, for example, gigantic butterflies may seem to flap their wings in front of the subject’s open eyes. The subject may later recognize this image as “originating” in the functioning (or malfunctioning) of his or her lungs.
There are a number of questions that might follow from this example. Why, for instance, is the pulmonary register translated and projected as “butterflies” in this case? Why do other subjects in the same situation not experience hallucinations at all? Why does a third group project rising hot-air balloons, for example, rather than butterflies? It is clear that the allegories that correspond to the impulses of the intrabody cannot be separated from the personal memory, which is also a system of representation. We can see this in the case of ancient forms of sensory deprivation (for example, the solitary caves sought out by mystics of an earlier age). In this way people obtained adequate results, in terms of hypnogogic translations and projections, especially when combined with other practices that amplify the registers of the intrabody such as fasting, prayer, and sleep deprivation. The world’s religious literature abounds with references to such phenomena, with accounts of both the procedures used and the outcomes obtained. It can clearly be seen that, apart from the particular visions of each experimenter, there are other images that correspond to the representations of the subject’s particular religious culture.
The same phenomena occasionally occur in proximity to death. In these situations we find projections that correspond specifically to each subject, as well as others related to elements of the culture and era in which the subject lives. Even in the laboratory, hypnogogic images with both personal and cultural substrata can often be provoked with experiments using the Meduna mixture of gases, as well as through hyperventilation, carotid and ocular pressure, stroboscopic lights, and so forth. 
What is important for us, however, is the conformation of those images, as well as the location of the “look” and “scene” in different depths and levels of the space of representation. It is in this regard that the reports from individuals subjected to conditions of sensory deprivation are often so interesting. Even in cases where there are no hallucinations, the reports nearly always agree on a number of points. Besides feeling “disoriented” about the position of their limbs and head, subjects often speak about the difficulty of knowing exactly whether their eyes were open or closed, and of the impossibility of perceiving the boundary between their bodies and the space around them.15
From all of this we are led to certain conclusions. Certainly among them would be the observation that activity toward the external world is impeded with the internalization of the motor representation. That is, as in the example of the keyboard located “inside” the head rather than “in front of” the eyes, the location of the image more “internally” than is required in order to delineate action blocks the body’s movement toward the external world.16
With respect to the anesthesia mentioned earlier, the loss of the sensation of the “boundary” between internal and external space prevents the correct placement of the image; hence, hallucinations can be produced when these images are externalized. On the other hand, in semi-sleep (daydreams and paradoxical sleep), the internalization of images acts upon the intrabody. And in the situation of “emotional consciousness,” numerous images tend to act upon the intrabody.
 3.3 The Nature of the Space of Representation
We have not been speaking of a space of representation per se or of a quasi-mental space. Rather, we have said that representation as such cannot be independent of spatiality, though we are not thereby maintaining that representation occupies space. It is the form of spatial representation that concerns us here. So it is that when we speak of a “space of representation” rather than simply of representation itself, it is because we are considering the ensemble of perceptions and (non-visual) images that provide the registers (the corporal tone, as well as that of the consciousness) on the basis of which I recognize myself as “me.” That is, I recognize myself as a continuum despite the flow and changes that I experience. So the space of representation is not such because it is an empty container to be filled with phenomena of consciousness, but rather because its nature is representation, and when particular images occur, the consciousness cannot present them other than under the form of extension. Thus, we might also have emphasized the material aspect of what is being represented without thereby speaking of its substantiality in the same sense as would physics or chemistry; rather, we would be referring to the hyletic data, that is, to the material data and not to materiality itself. 
We are left, however, with a difficulty. Of course, no one would think that the consciousness has color or that it is a colored container simply because visual representations are presented as colored. So when we say that the space of representation possesses different levels and depths, is it because we are speaking of a three-dimensional space with volume? Or is it that the perceptual-representational structure of my coenesthesia is presented as having volume? Undoubtedly the latter is the case, and it is thanks to this that my representations may appear above or below, to the left or the right, toward the front or back, and that my “look” may also have a particular perspective toward the image.
3.4 Copresence, Horizon, and Landscape 
in the System of Representation
We can consider the space of representation the “scene” in which the representation, excluding the “look,” is given. Clearly, such a scene involves a structure of images that draws on numerous perceptual sources and previously perceived images. 
For each structure of representation that appears in the scene there exist innumerable alternatives that are not completely unfolded but rather act copresently. Of course, here we are not speaking of “manifest” and “latent” contents or the “associative pathways” that can lead the image in one direction or another. For example, consider the theme of linguistic expressions and meanings. While trying to decide what to say, I can observe that there are numerous alternatives to choose among. I make these choices not by following a lineal associative direction, but rather in relation to meanings. These meanings are related, in turn, to the overall meaning of what I am going to say. In this way we can understand whatever is said as a meaning expressed in a particular region of objects. It is clear that I could extend myself to another region of objects that is non-homogenous with the overall meaning that I wish to transmit. However, I refrain from doing this precisely so as not to destroy the transmission of the overall meaning. What this makes clear is that there are other regions of objects copresent in my discourse, and that I could let myself be taken by aimless “free association” within the chosen region. But even in this case I can see that such associations correspond to other regions, to other meaningful totalities.
In this example of language, my discourse is developed in a region of meanings and expressions. It is structured within the limits set by a “horizon” and separated from other regions, which in turn are structured by other objects or by other relations between objects.
In this way the notion of a scene in which the images are given corresponds approximately to the idea of a region limited by a horizon proper to the system of representation that is acting. We can look at it in this way: When I represent the keyboard, the ambit and the objects that surround it in the region, which in this case I could call the “room,” are acting copresently. Hence, I discover that not only are alternatives of a material type acting (adjacent objects within the ambit), but that those alternatives are multiplied into different temporal and substantial regions, and this grouping into regions does not correspond to the form “all objects belonging to the class.…”
I constitute the world in which I perceive and carry out my daily routine, not only through representations that allow me to recognize and act but also through copresent systems of representation. The structuring that I make in the world I call a “landscape,” and I can verify that the perception of the world is always a recognition and interpretation of a reality according to my landscape. This world, which I take to be reality, is my own biography in action, and the action of transformation that I carry out in the world is my own transformation. When I speak about my internal world I am also speaking about the interpretation that I make of it and the transformation that I carry out in it.
The distinctions that we have made until now between “internal” and “external” space, based on the register of boundaries set by the tactile-coenesthetic perceptions, cannot be maintained when we speak about this globality of the consciousness in the world, for which the world is its “landscape” and the I its “look.” This mode of consciousness-being-in-the-world is basically a mode of action in perspective, whose immediate spatial reference is the body itself, not simply the intrabody. But the body, while being an object of the world, is also an object of the landscape and an object of transformation, and in this way it ends up becoming a prosthesis of human intentionality.
If images allow recognition and action, then according to the structure of the landscape and the needs of individuals and peoples (or according to what they consider their needs to be), they will, in the same way, tend to transform the world. 

Notes to Psychology of the Image 
1 “What in our innocence of phenomenological niceties we take for mere facts: that a spatial thing always appears to ‘us humans’ in a certain ‘orientation,’ oriented, for instance, in the visual field of view as above and below, right and left, near and far; that we can see a thing only at a certain ‘depth’ or ‘distance’; that all the changing distances at which it can be seen are related to a center of all depth-orientations ‘localized’ by us in the head, invisible though familiar to us as an ideal limiting point—all these alleged facts (Faktizitaten), contingencies of spatial perception which are foreign to the ‘true,’ ‘objective’ space, reveal themselves down to the most trivial empirical subdivisions (Besonderungen) as essential necessities. Thus we see that not only for us human beings, but also for God—as the ideal representative of absolute knowledge—whatever has the character of a spatial thing is intuitable only through appearances, wherein it is given, and indeed must be given, as changing ‘perspectively’ in varied yet determined ways, and thereby presented in changing ‘orientations.’ 

“We must now seek not only to establish this as a general thesis, but also to follow it up into all its particular formations. The problem of the ‘origin of the presentation of space,’ the deepest phenomenological meaning whereof has never yet been grasped, reduces itself to the phenomenological analysis of the essential nature of all the noematic (and noetic) phenomena, wherein space exhibits itself intuitionally and as the unity of appearances, and the descriptive modes of such exhibiting ‘constitutes’ the spatial.” Ideas General Introduction to Pure Phenomenology, E. Husserl (New York: Collier, 1975, Section 150).
2 In section 6 of the Epilogue to Ideas Husserl says: “For those who live in the habits of thought prevailing in the science of nature it seems to quite obvious that purely psychic being or psychic life, is to be considered a course of events similar to natural ones, occurring in the quasi-space of consciousness. Evidently and in principle, it makes no difference in this regard whether one lets the psychic data be blown into aggregates “atomistically,” like shifting heaps of sand, even though in conformity with empirical laws, or whether they are considered parts of wholes which, by necessity, either empirical or a priori, can behave individually only as such parts within a whole—at the highest level perhaps in the whole that is consciousness in its totality, which is bound to a fixed form of wholeness. In other words, atomistic psychology, as well as Gestalt psychology, both retain the sense and the principle of psychological “naturalism” (as we have defined it above) or “sensualism,” as it can also be named if we recall the use of the term “inner sense.” Clearly, even Brentano’s psychology of intentionality remains tied to this traditional naturalism, although it has brought about a reformation by introducing into psychology the descriptive concept of intentionality as a universal and fundamental one”. Ideas Pertaining to a Pure Phenomenology and to a Phenomenological Philosophy Second Book (Studies in the Phenomenology of Constitution), E. Husserl, trans. R. Rojcewicz and A. Schuwer (Dordrecht/Boston/London: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1989, Epilogue, section 6 pg. 423).
3 Grundformen und Erkenntinis menslichen Daseins, L. Binswanger (Zurich: Niehans, 1953); Ausgewahlte Vortrage und Aufsatze (Francke Berna, 1955). See “La Psychanlyse existentiale de Ludwig Binswanger,” Henri Niel, Critique (October 1957). Quoted in Histoire de la Psychologie, Fernand Lucien Mueller (Paris: Payot, 1976). 
4 This discussion began long ago. Sartre, in his critical study on the various conceptions of imagination, says: “Associationism lived on among certain tardy partisans of the theory of cerebral localization, and was latent among a host of writers who were unable to dispose of it despite every effort. The Cartesian doctrine of pure thought that is capable of replacing the image on the very terrain of imagination returned to favor through Buhler. A large number of psychologists finally maintained with R. P. Peillaube the compromise theory of Leibniz. Experimentalists such as Binet and the Wurzburg psychologists claimed to have noted the existence of imageless thoughts. Other psychologists no less devoted to fact, such as Titchener and Ribot, denied the existence and even the possibility of such thoughts. Matters had not advanced one step beyond the time of the publication of Leibniz’s reply to Locke in the New Essays.
“For the point of departure had not changed. In the first place, the old conception of images had been retained. In a more subtle form, no doubt. Experiments such as those of Spaier revealed, to be sure, a sort of life where, thirty years earlier, only static elements had been seen. Images have their dawn and their dusk, and change form under the gaze of consciousness. The investigations of Philippe doubtless revealed a progressive schematization of images in the unconscious. Generic images were admitted to exist, the work of Messer revealing a host of indeterminate representations in consciousness, and Berkeleyan particularism was abandoned. With Bergson, Revault d’Allonnnes, Betz and others, the old notion of schemata came back into fashion. But there was no surrender of principle. The image was an independent psychic content capable of assisting thought but also subject to its own laws. And although a biological dynamism replaced the traditional mechanistic conception the essence of the image continued nonetheless to be passivity.” Imagination: A Psychological Critique, J.P. Sartre, trans. Forrest Williams (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1962, pp. 75–76).
5 “Every psychic fact is a synthesis. Every psychic fact is a form, and has a structure. This is common ground for all contemporary psychologists, and is completely in accord with the data of reflection. Unfortunately, these contentions have their origin in a priori ideas. In agreement with the data of inner sense, they do not originate there, in inner experience. Psychologists have thus resembled in their undertakings those mathematicians who wanted to retrieve the continuum by means of discontinuous elements. Psychic synthesis was to be retrieved by starting from elements furnished by a priori analysis of certain logical-metaphysical concepts. The image was one of those elements, and reveals, in our opinion, the most decisive rout experienced by synthetic psychology. The attempt was made to soften the image, to refine it, to render it as fluid and as transparent as possible, so that it would not prevent syntheses from taking place. And when certain writers realized that even thus disguised, images were bound to shatter the continuity of the psychic stream, they rejected images entirely, as pure Scholastic entities. But they failed to realize that their criticism had to do with a certain conception of images, not images themselves. All the trouble lay in having come to images with the idea of synthesis, instead of deriving a certain conception of synthesis from reflection upon images. The problem raised was the following one: How can the existence of images be reconciled with the requirements of synthesis? They failed to realize that an atomistic conception of images was already contained in the very manner of formulating the problem. There is no avoiding the straightforward answer that so long as images are inert psychic contents, there is no conceivable way to reconcile them with the requirements of synthesis. An image can only enter into consciousness, if it is itself a synthesis, not an element. There are not, and never could be, images in consciousness. Rather, an image is a certain type of consciousness. An image is an act, not some thing. An image is a consciousness of some thing.” Imagination: A Psychological Critique, Sartre, p. 146.
6 This is probably the source of confusion that has led thinkers such as Bergson to affirm: “An image may be without being perceived; it may be present without being represented.”
7 By 1943, it had been observed in laboratories that some individuals have a tendency to favor auditory, tactile, or coenesthetic images over visual ones. This led G. Walter in 1967 to formulate a classification of imaginative types according to their predominant sense. Independently of his claims, the idea gained ground among psychologists that recognition of one’s own body in space or the memory of an object were quite often not based on visual images. Moreover, they began to consider the case of perfectly normal subjects who described their “blindness” as regards visual representations. From this point on it could no longer be maintained that visual images should be considered the nucleus of the system of representation, relegating other imaginative forms to the dustbin of “eidetic disintegration” or the field of literature, where “idiots” and “morons” say things like: “I couldn’t see it, but my hands saw it, and I could hear it getting night, and my hands saw the slipper but I couldn’t see myself, but my hands could see the slipper, and I squatted there, hearing it getting dark.” The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner (New York: Vintage, 1954, pp. 88–89). 
8 Recall the example of the modification of space that Sartre gives in The Emotions: Outline of a Theory. There he speaks of a ferocious animal that suddenly leaps toward us threateningly. In this situation, even though the animal is caged we are startled, and it is as if the distance that separates us had disappeared. The same phenomena are also described by the character Kolnai in Nausea. He describes the sensation of revulsion as a defense when faced with the advance of the warm, viscous, and vitally diffuse, which gets closer until it “sticks” to the observer. For him, the reflex of vomiting in front of the “disgusting” is a rejection, a visceral expulsion of a sensation that has been “introduced” into his body. We think that in both these cases representation plays a central role, being superimposed on the perception and modifying it. We can see this in the case of the “dangers” that are ignored by a child but become matters of importance for the adult who has previously suffered mishaps. In the second case the rejection of the “disgusting” is affected by memories associated with the object, or particular aspects of the object. How else could we explain that one and the same food can be treated as a gastronomic delicacy by a particular group of people and as unacceptable or even repugnant by another? Furthermore, how would we understand the phobias or “unjustified” fears someone might have about an object that to other eyes seems harmless? Since perceptions do not differ so drastically among normal subjects, the differences must be in the image, or rather in the structuring of the image.
9 It should be understood that when we speak of the “world” we are referring as much to the so-called “internal” as to the so-called “external” world. It is also clear that this dichotomy is accepted because in this exposition we are placing ourselves in the naive or habitual position. It is useful to recall the comments in Chapter 1, Paragraph 1 regarding falling once again naively into the world of the “natural psyche.”
10 As if… this object were similar to another one that I am familiar with; as if something had happened to this object that I know; as if it were missing some characteristics to become that other already known object, etc.
11 We use the word “look” with a meaning that extends beyond the visual. Perhaps it would be more correct to speak of a “point of observation.” Thus, when we say “look,” we could refer to a non-visual register (kinesthetic, for example) that still involves a representation.
12 Even though the attitude of abandoning daily interests is rejected in the vigilic state, the tendency toward preserving the level also occurs there. Vigil and sleep tend to run through their respective cycles, replacing each other in a more or less foreseeable sequence, very different from the case of daydreaming and paradoxical sleep (sleep with visual images), which at times erupt into these levels. Perhaps this situation, which we could call semi-sleep, corresponds to reaccommodations or “distancings” that allow the level to be preserved.
13 How can we explain somatization without understanding the capacity that internal images possess to modify the body? An understanding of this phenomenon should contribute to the development of a psychosomatic medicine, in which the body and its functions (or dysfunctions) could be globally reinterpreted in the context of intentionality. From this perspective, the human body would be seen as a prosthesis of the consciousness in its activity toward the world.
14 However, investigating these topics would take us far from our central theme. A complete theory of the consciousness (which is not what we are attempting here) will need to take all these phenomena into account.
15 Doubtless the experiences described above deserve clever neurophysiological explanations, but these would not be related to our theme, nor could they resolve the questions we are considering.
16 After suffering a powerful fright or a serious conflict, subjects can observe that their limbs do not respond to their will; this paralysis may last only a brief moment or it may persist. Such cases as the sudden loss of speech as a consequence of emotional shock correspond to the same range of phenomena.

Historiological Discussions
Introduction to Historiological Discussions
My objective in this work is to clarify the prerequisites for a foundation of historiology. It is clear that knowledge of the dates of historical events will not in itself, even when supported by the latest research techniques, be sufficient to establish a claim that such knowledge is scientific. That is, historiology will not become a science through the mere fact of wanting to—no matter how ingenious the contributions made to it or how great the quantity of information accumulated. Rather, it will become a science by overcoming the difficulties it encounters in justifying its initial premises.

The present writing does not present an ideal or desired model of historical construction; instead, it addresses the possibility of coherently constructing the historical. Of course, our understanding of the term “history” in this essay differs greatly from the classical use. Let us remember that in his Historia Animalium Aristotle described history as an activity of searching for information. Over time, this activity became a simple narrative of successive events. And so, history (or historiography) wound up being a knowledge of chronologically ordered “facts.” In this way it remains dependent on the availability of what are at times scarce and at other times abundant source materials. However, what is most disconcerting in all of this is that the fragments obtained through such research are presented as historical reality itself, all based on the assumption that the historian has not established an order, has not prioritized information, and has not structured the narrative based on the selection and expurgation of source material. Thus we have reached a situation where it is believed that the task of historiology is not interpretive. 
Defenders of this attitude today acknowledge certain technical and methodological difficulties. Nonetheless, they continue to insist that their work is valid because their intention is dedicated to a respect for historical truth (in the sense of not falsifying the facts), and they are vigilant to avoid any a priori metaphysical distortions. 
From the above it can be seen that historiography has become a sort of covert moralism, justified as scientifically rigorous, that begins by considering historical phenomena as seen from “outside,” obscuring the fact of the historian’s “look” and therefore the distortions it introduces.
This will not be our approach. Our interest is an interpretation or philosophy of history that goes beyond the orderly narrative or simple “chronicle” (as Benedetto Croce ironically calls it). Moreover, it is not a matter of concern if such a philosophy is based on a sociology, a theology, or even a psychology, provided it is at least minimally conscious of the intellectual construction that accompanies the doing of historiography. 
In conclusion, let me note that we will often use the term “historiology” rather than “historiography” or “history.” This is because the latter two terms have been used with such varied implications by so many authors that today there is considerable confusion surrounding their meanings. We will use “historiology” in the sense in which Ortega y Gasset1 coined it, and the word “history” (lowercase) to refer to historical fact and not the science in question. 

Chapter 1: The Past as Viewed from the Present
1.1 The Distortion of Mediated History
First, it would be worthwhile to clear up some problems that hinder the clarification of the fundamental problems of historiology. While these errors are numerous, considering even a few of them will help eliminate a certain mode of approaching these themes that leads directly to an obscuring of concrete history, not because of a lack of data but rather because of the specific interference of the historian in dealing with the data in question. 

Even in the writings of the “Father of History” an interest can clearly be seen in emphasizing the differences between his people and the barbarians.2 And in Titus Livius the narrative is transformed in order to contrast the virtues of the old Republic with the period of the Empire in which the author lives.3 This purposeful method of presenting facts and customs is foreign neither to historians of the East or the West. They have, from the very beginnings of written narrative, constructed a particular history out of the landscape of their epoch. Affected as they were by their times, many manipulated the facts not with any malice, but on the contrary, considering that their task was to bring out the “historical truth” that had been suppressed or hidden by the powerful.4 
There are many ways in which one’s own present landscape can be introduced into the description of the past. Sometimes history is told, or an attempt is made to influence it, through the use of legend or the pretext of a literary work. One of the clearest such cases can be found in Virgil’s Aeneid.5 
Religious literature, in turn, often shows the distortions of interpolation, expurgation, and translation. When these errors have been intentionally committed, we are dealing with cases where the alteration of past situations may be explained by the “zeal” inspired by the historian’s own landscape. Even when errors have simply slipped in for other reasons, we are still left at the mercy of facts that can only be clarified by applying the techniques of historiology.6 
There also exists manipulation of the source texts on which the historical commentary relies, carried out with the intention of supporting a certain thesis. Systematic misrepresentation of this type has become important, for example, in the contemporary production of daily news.7 
In addition, there are the not insignificant defects of oversimplification and stereotyping. These tendencies have the advantage of minimizing the work involved in trying to give a global and definitive interpretation of the facts, valuing or discrediting them in accordance with the more or less accepted model. The problem with such procedures is that they allow the construction of “histories” in which second-hand information or hearsay is substituted for facts. 
There are, then, numerous forms of distortion. But surely the least evident (and most decisive) is that located not in the historian’s pen but in the heads of those who read the historian and accept or reject that description in accordance with how it fits their particular beliefs and interests—or the beliefs and interests of a group, a people, or an entire culture—in a certain historical moment. This type of personal or collective “censorship” is not open for discussion since it is taken as reality itself, and it is only when events finally clash with what is believed to be “reality” that the prejudices held until that moment are finally swept away. 
Of course, when we speak of “beliefs” we are referring to the sorts of pre-predicative formulations of which Husserl spoke, and that appear as much in daily life as in science. Therefore, it is of little importance whether a belief has mythical or scientific roots, since in any case it involves prepredicates that have been formed previous to any rational judgment.8 Historians and archaeologists of different times have experienced the serious difficulties presented by those situations in which data have been all but discarded because they had been considered irrelevant—and later it was precisely these same data, earlier abandoned or discredited by “good sense,” that occasioned a fundamental turning point in historiology.9
There are four defects in the treatment of historical fact, which we could summarize so that, to the extent possible, we can move beyond them and set aside those works that are in the grip of such approaches. The first involves the deliberate introduction of the period in which the historian lives into the narrative, as occurs in myth, religion, and literature. Another situation involves the manipulation of sources. A third, oversimplification and stereotyping, and lastly there is the kind of “censorship” produced by the prepredicates of the age. Nevertheless, if someone were to make explicit these errors or demonstrate how difficult they are to avoid, their contribution might be taken seriously inasmuch as their presentation has been made with reflection and the development can be followed rationally. Fortunately, this is often the case, and it is precisely what allows us to have a productive discussion.10 
1.2 The Distortion of Immediate History 
Any autobiography, any narrative about one’s own life (which would seem to consist of those facts that are the most indubitable, immediate, and well known to oneself) still suffers undeniable distortions and distance from the events that took place. Setting aside the question of bad faith—as if this were possible—let us assume that the narrative in question is being produced for oneself and not an external audience. We could use the example of a personal diary to illustrate this point. Upon rereading this type of record, authors can verify: (1) that even “facts” written down almost as they occurred nonetheless received a particular emphasis regarding certain “knots” that were significant at that time but have become less relevant in the present. Indeed, these authors may now think that they should have instead taken greater note of other aspects, and that were they to rewrite this diary they would do so in a very different way; (2) that their descriptions involved a reworking of what took place, as if they had structured things from a temporal perspective different from the present one; (3) that the values they applied at that moment are very different from those they hold at present; (4) that, encouraged by the pretext of writing the narrative, varied and at times compulsive psychological phenomena have strongly colored the descriptions to the point that today’s readers blush at what they once wrote (the candor, the forced cleverness, the exaggerated self-flattery, the undeserved self-criticisms, and so on). Continuing in this way, a fifth, a sixth, and a seventh consideration could be offered with respect to the distortion of personal historical fact. Consider, then: What may not happen when it comes to describing historical events that have been interpreted by others and that we have not lived through ourselves? So it is that historical reflection is carried out from the perspective of the historical moment in which that reflection takes place—and from this perspective it turns to modifying these events.
The line of thinking developed above may seem to exhibit a certain skepticism with respect to the faithfulness of historical description. However, it is not this point that we should focus on. From the beginning of this essay we have admitted the presence of the intellectual construction that operates in the task of the historian, putting things in this way in order to emphasize that the historian’s temporality and perspective are unavoidable themes in historiological consideration. For how is it that such distance is produced between the fact and its telling? How is it that the telling varies with the passage of time? How is it that events unfold outside of the consciousness? And what degree of relationship is there between lived-temporality and the temporality of the world about which we offer our opinions and upon which we sustain our points of view? These are just some of the questions that must be answered if we wish to provide historiology with a foundation, consecrating it as a science, or even simply to establish the possibility that historiology as such could exist. It could be argued that historiology (or historiography) already exists. Certainly this is true, but in the present state of affairs historiology has more the characteristics of a field of knowledge than of a science. 

Chapter 2: The Past Seen as Without 
Temporal Foundation
2.1 Conceptions of History
In the last few centuries a number of writers have begun to search for a rationale or system of laws that would explain the development of historical events, but they did so without any attempt to explain the nature of events themselves. For these authors, it is no longer simply a matter of recounting events, but rather of establishing a rhythm or form that can be applied to them. They have discussed at length the problem of the historical subject, in which, once isolated, they have claimed to find the motor of events. But whether claiming the human being, nature, or God as the subject, no one has yet explained to us what historical change or movement is. This question has often been ignored, taking for granted that, as with space, time, too, cannot be seen in itself but only in relation to a certain substantiality. And without further ado, these writers have focused on the substantiality in question. All of this has resulted in a kind of child’s jigsaw puzzle in which the pieces that do not fit are forced into place. In the numerous systems in which some rudiments of historiology appear, all the effort seems to be focused on justifying the dateability, the accepted calendar time, of facts, analyzing how they occurred, why they occurred, or how things must have occurred—without considering what this “occurring” is, how it is possible in general that something occurs. This form of proceeding in historiological matters we could call “history without temporality.” 

Let us look at some cases that illustrate these characteristics. Doubtless, Vico11 contributed a new point of view regarding the treatment of history, and he is seen in some measure as the initiator of what later came to be known as “historiography.” Nevertheless, this tells us nothing about what foundation he may have given to that science. Indeed, while he points out the difference between “consciousness of existence” and “science of existence,” and in his reaction against Descartes raises the banner of historical knowledge, he does not thereby explain historical facts as such. Certainly, his greatest contributions lie in attempting to establish: (1) a general idea regarding the form of historical development; (2) a set of axioms; and (3) a method (“metaphysical” and philological).12 
Our new Science must therefore be a demonstration, so to speak, of the historical fact of providence, for it must be a history of the forms of the order which, without human discernment or intent, and often against the designs of men, providence has given to this great city of the human race. For though this world has been created in time and particular, the orders established therein by providence are universal and eternal.13
With this, Vico proposes that “this Science must therefore be a rational civil theology of divine providence”14 and not a science of historical facts as such. 
Vico, influenced by Plato and Augustine (in his conception of a history that participates in the eternal), anticipates numerous themes of romanticism.15 Setting aside the idea of “clear and distinct” thought as the organizational principle, he attempted to penetrate the apparent chaos of history. His cyclical interpretation of the ebb and flow of history—based on a law of development in three ages: divine (in which the senses predominate); heroic (fantasy); and human (reason)—had a powerful influence on the formation of the philosophy of history. 
Sufficient emphasis has not been given to the nexus joining Vico with Herder,16 but if we recognize in Vico the birth of the philosophy of history17 and not simply the historical compilation typical of the Enlightenment, we must concede to Herder either the anticipation of or direct influence on the emergence of this discipline. Herder asks, Why is it, if everything in the world has its philosophy and its science, that what touches us most directly—the history of humanity—should not also have its own philosophy and science? Even if the three laws of development that Herder establishes are not identical to those enunciated by Vico, the idea that human evolution (starting from the human race and its natural environment) traverses different stages until it arrives at a society based on reason and justice recalls the voice of that Neapolitan thinker. 
In Comte18 the philosophy of history attains a social dimension and an explanation of the human fact. His law of the three stages (theological, metaphysical, and positive) echoes Vico’s notion. Comte is not particularly concerned with clarifying the nature of those “stages,” but once proposed they seem particularly useful for understanding the march of humanity and its direction—that is, the meaning of history: “On peut assurer aujourd’hui que la doctrine que aura suffisamment expliqué l’ansemble du passé obtiendra inévitablement, par suite de cette seule épreuve, la présidence mentale de l’avenir.”19 It is clear that history will serve as a tool for action within the schema of the practical destiny of knowledge, with the “voir pour prévoir.”
2.2 History as Form
In Spengler,20 as in Comte, we find an undisguised practical interest in historical prediction, in the first place because such prediction seems possible to him. As he himself wrote: 
In this book is attempted for the first time the venture of predetermining history, of following the still untraveled stages in the destiny of a Culture, and specifically of the only Culture of our time and on our planet which is actually in the phase of fulfillment—the west-European-American. We are trying, I repeat, trying to track that culture into those stages of its development that have not yet taken place.21
Regarding his practical interests, he would have the new generations dedicate themselves to activities such as engineering, architecture, and medicine, abandoning all philosophy or abstract thought, which has already entered its “stage of decline.” We see that his interests go still further when he indicates a type of politics (in both the specific and general sense) that must correspond to the present and immediate future of the culture in which he is writing.22
For Comte, history could still be comprehended on a human scale. His law of the three stages applied as much to humanity as to individuals in their development. For Spengler, history has already become dehumanized as a universal biographical protoform, which has to do only with biological man (as well as animals and plants) insofar as birth, youth, maturity, and death happen to them. 
The Spenglerian vision of “civilization” as the final stage of a culture did not stop Toynbee23 from taking civilization as the unit of research. In fact, in the introduction to his Study of History Toynbee discusses the problem of the minimum historical unit, discarding “national history” as isolated and unreal because history in fact corresponds to multiple entities that embrace a more extended region. What is important to him above all is the comparative study of civilizations, a concept that we often find replaced by that of “society.” Of greatest interest (for our purposes) is Toynbee’s interpretation of the historical process. No longer is the subject of history a biological being marked by destiny, but rather an entity that, between the open and the closed, is guided by impulses or circumspection in facing obstacles. 
We must also take note of Toynbee’s explanation of social movement as involving challenge and response. He does not, however, use the term “impulse” in a strictly Bergsonian sense, nor is his use of the idea of challenge-response a simple transplanting of stimulus-response or Pavlovian reflex. Finally, what is of most interest to us is his understanding that the great religions transcend the disintegration of civilizations, and that they are what allows us to have the intuition of a “plan” and a “purpose” in history. In any event, the accommodation of his model to a particular historical form kept him from an understanding of temporality. 

Chapter 3: History and Temporality
3.1 Temporality and Process
Hegel has taught us (in the third book, second section of The Science of Logic24) to distinguish among mechanical, chemical, and vital processes: “The result of the mechanical process does not already exist before that process; its end is not in its beginning, as in the case of the teleological end. The product is a determinateness in the object as an externally posited one.” Its process is, moreover, externality that does not affect its sameness and that is not explained by its sameness. Further on he will tell us: “Chemism is itself the first negation of indifferent objectivity and the externality of its determinateness; it is, therefore, still infected with the immediate self-subsistence of the object and with externality. Consequently it is not yet for itself that totality of self-determination that proceeds from it and in which rather it is sublated.” Finality appears in the vital process in the measure that the living individuals, in the face of the presupposed objective world, are put into tension with regard to their original presuppositions and positioned as the subject, in-itself and for-itself… 

It was some time after the death of Hegel before that outline of vitality became the central theme of a new point of view, the “life-philosophy” of Wilhelm Dilthey. He understood “life” not only as psychic life but as a unity found in that permanent change of state in which consciousness, constituted in relation to the external world, is a moment of subjective identity of this structure in process. Time is the form of correlation between subjective identity and the world. The passage of time appears as an experience and has a teleological character: It is a process with direction. Dilthey has a clear intuition but does not claim to construct a scientific edifice. For him, in the end, all truth is reduced to objectivity, and, as Zubiri points out, applying this to any truth means that everything, even the principle of contradiction, will be a simple fact. In this way, though he is reluctant to seek a foundation of a scientific nature, Dilthey’s brilliant intuitions in the philosophy of life will have a powerful influence on the new current of thought. 
Dilthey explains history from “within,” from where it is given, within life, but he does not stop to describe with precision the nature of becoming. It is here that we encounter phenomenology, which, after successive and exhaustive approaches, promises to confront the fundamental problems of historiology. Surely, the difficulty phenomenology faces in justifying the existence of another “I,” different from one’s own, and in general in showing the existence of a world different from the “world” obtained after the epoché, extends to the problem of historicity inasmuch as it is external to lived experience. It is often said that phenomenological solipsism turns subjectivity into a monad “without doors or windows,” to use the phrase so dear to Leibniz. But is this really the case? If so, the possibility of basing historiology on indubitable principles, like those obtained by philosophy treated as a rigorous science, would be seriously compromised. 
It is clear that historiology cannot simply take its guiding principles from the natural sciences or mathematics and incorporate them without further ado as part of its own legacy. Here we are speaking of justifying historiology as a science, and hence there is a need to assist its emergence without appealing to the simple “evidence” of the existence of the historical event, in order to then derive from it a science of history. No one can fail to notice the difference between simply being occupied with a field of facts and transforming that field into a science. As Husserl comments in discussion with Dilthey, it is not a question of doubting the truth of a fact, but of knowing whether one can be justified in raising it to a universality of principle. 
The major problem surrounding historiology is that as long as the nature of time and historicity are not understood, the concept of process appears artificially grafted onto its explanations, rather than the explanations deriving from the concept. That is why we must insist that a rigorous approach be taken with this problem. But time and again philosophy has had to abandon its attempts to develop such an explanation—for example, in the case of its endeavor to be a positive science, as in Comte; a science of logic, as in Hegel; a critique of language, as in Wittgenstein; or a science of propositional calculus, as in Russell. Therefore, when phenomenology does in fact appear to fulfill the requirements of a rigorous science, we are led to ask whether there is in it the possibility of giving a foundation to historiology. Before this can happen, however, we must deal with a few difficulties. 
Centering on our theme, we ask: Is Husserl’s inadequate response regarding historicity due simply to the incomplete development of this particular point, or is it that phenomenology itself is incapable of becoming a science of intersubjectivity, of worldliness—that is, of the temporal facts external to subjectivity?25
In Cartesian Meditations Husserl says: 
If perchance it could be shown that everything constituted as part of my peculiar ownness, including then the reduced “world,” belonged to the concrete essence of the constituting subject as an inseparable internal determination, then, in the Ego’s self-explication, his peculiarly own world would be found as “inside” and, on the other hand, when running through that world straightforwardly, the Ego would find himself as a member among its “externalities” and would distinguish between himself and “the external world.”Tr.1
This invalidates in great measure what he established in Ideas Pertaining to a Pure Phenomenology and a Phenomenological Philosophy, inasmuch as the constitution of the “I” as “I and the surrounding world” belongs to the field of the natural attitude.
What we find is a great distance between the thesis of 1913 (Ideas) and that of 1929 (Fifth Cartesian Meditation). The latter is what brings us closer to the concept of “opening,” of being-open-to-the-world as what is essential to the I. Here we find the connecting thread that will allow other thinkers to find being-there, without involving an isolated phenomenological “I” that could not constitute itself except in its existence or, as Dilthey would say, “in its life.” 
Here let us make a short digression, before again returning to Husserl. 
When Abenhazan26 explains that human activity is carried out in order to “distract oneself,” he shows that “placing oneself before” is at the root of doing. If a historiology “seen from outside” were constructed on the basis of that thought, surely it would try to explain historical facts through distinct modes of doing with reference to this type of distraction. If, on the other hand, an attempt were made to organize that historiology “seen from within,” it would try to find a reason for the historical human fact, starting from the “placing oneself before.” This would result, then, in two very different types of exposition, search, and verification. 
The second approach would bring us closer to an explication of the essential characteristics of historical facts, insofar as they are produced by the human being, whereas the former would leave us with a mechanistic and psychologistic explanation of history, without an understanding of how that simple “distraction” can engender processes and be itself a process. This is the form of understanding things that, in diverse philosophies of history, has held sway until today. But this approach has not taken those philosophies much beyond what Hegel conveyed to us in his study of mechanical and chemical processes. 
It is clear that up until the time of Hegel such positions were acceptable. However, to continue with them after his explanations denotes, at the very least, a kind of intellectual shortsightedness for which it would be difficult to compensate simply through historical erudition. Abenhazan points to doing as a distancing of oneself from what we could call “placing oneself before,” or the Heideggerian “being-already-in (the world) as being-together-with.” Insofar as its existence, all human structure is projection, and in this projection the existent play with their destiny.
If we put things in this way we would have to offer an explanation of temporality, because it is the comprehension of temporality that would allow us to understand the pro-ject, the “placing oneself before.” This sort of exegesis is not incidental but unavoidable. There is no way to understand how temporality occurs in events, that is, how they gain temporality in a conception of history, other than by including the intrinsic temporality of those who produce these events. Thus, it is useful to agree: Either history is an occurring that reduces the human being to an epiphenomenon, in which case we can speak only of natural history (unjustified because among other things it omits human construction), or it is human history (among other things capable of explaining construction of all sorts).
For my part, I hold to this second position. 
Let us review, then, what of significance has been said regarding the theme of temporality. 
Hegel has illustrated for us the dialectic of movement but not that of temporality. He defines temporality as the “abstraction of consuming,” locating it along with “place” and “movement” following the tradition of Aristotle (particularly his Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences, the chapter “Philosophy of Nature”). 
Hegel tells us that the being of time is the now. And inasmuch as the now is a “no longer” or “not yet,” it is, consequently, like a non-being. If we take the “now” from temporality, clearly it becomes an “abstraction of consuming.” But the problem persists, inasmuch as “consuming” itself takes place in time. Moreover, we cannot understand how, as he later explains, from the linear placing of infinite nows it is possible to obtain a temporal sequence. 
Negativity, which relates itself as point to space, and which develops in space its determinations as line and surface, is, however, just as much for itself in the sphere of Being-outside-of-itself, and so are its determinations therein, though while it is positing as in the sphere of Being-outside-of-itself, it appears indifferent as regards the things that are tranquilly side by side. As thus posited for itself, it is time. (cited by Heidegger in Being and Time, Section 82, H 429)Tr.2
Heidegger tells us that both the naive as well as the Hegelian conceptions of time, sharing as they do the same perception, occur through the leveling and covering that hides the historicity of the being-there, for whom the passing of time is not, at bottom, a simple horizontal alignment of “nows.” This involves, in reality, the phenomenon of turning the look away from “the end of being-in-the-world” by means of an infinite time that for all intents and purposes could not be, and as a consequence could not affect the end of the being-there.27 In this fashion, temporality has until now been inaccessible, hidden by the common conception of time that characterized it as an irreversible “one after another.” 
Why cannot time be reversed? Especially if one looks exclusively at the stream of “nows,” it is incomprehensible in itself why this sequence should not present itself in the reverse direction. The impossibility of this reversal has its basis in the way public time originates in temporality, the temporalizing of which is primarily futural and “goes” to its end ecstatically in such a way that it “is” already towards its end.Tr.3
So it is only starting from the temporality of the “being-there” that one can comprehend how mundane time is inherent to temporality. And the temporality of the being-there is a structure in which past and future times coexist (but not side by side as aggregates), and the latter exist as projects or, more radically, as “protensions” necessary to intentionality (as Husserl taught). In reality, the primacy of the future explains the being-already-in-the-world as the ontological root of being-there. This is, of course, of enormous consequence, and affects our historiological investigation. Heidegger himself says: 
The proposition “Dasein is historical,” is confirmed as a fundamental existential ontological assertion. This assertion is far removed from the mere ontical establishment of the fact that Dasein occurs in a “world-history.” But the historicality of Dasein is the basis for a possible kind of historiological understanding which in turn carries with it the possibility of getting a special grasp of the development of historiology as a science.Tr.4
With this, we find ourselves at the level of the pre-requisites that must necessarily be unveiled in order to justify the emergence of the science of history. 
Basically, we have returned from Heidegger28 to Husserl, not with respect to the discussion of whether or not philosophy can be a science but instead with regard to whether an existential analysis based on phenomenology is capable of giving a foundation to the science of historiology. In any case, the charges of solipsism already raised against phenomenology by Heidegger turn out to be inconsistent, and thus the temporal structurality of the being-there confirms, from another perspective, the immense value of Husserl’s theory. 
3.2 Horizon and Temporal Landscape 
It is not necessary to discuss here how the configuration of every situation is effected through the representation of both past events and more or less possible future events, which, when compared with present phenomena, allow one to structure what has been called the “present situation.” This inevitable process of representation in the face of events makes us understand that these facts can never have the structure that is attributed to them. This is why, when we speak of “landscape,” we are referring to situations that always imply facts that are weighted by the “look” of the observer. 
So then, if students of history fix their temporal horizon in the past, they do not thereby reach a historical setting in itself; rather, they still configure it in accordance with their own particular landscape because, insofar as representation is concerned, their present study of the past is articulated in the same way as any other study of situation. This leads us to reflect on those lamentable attempts in which historians endeavor to “introduce” themselves into a selected historical setting with the objective of reliving these past events, never realizing that in the end they are introducing their own present landscape. In light of these considerations, we should note that an important aspect of historiology must be the study of the historian’s landscape, because it is through the transformation of the landscapes of historians that we are able to catch a glimpse of historical change. In this sense, those weighty writers wind up telling us more about the times in which they are writing than about the historical horizon they have chosen for their study. 
The objection could be raised that the study of the landscapes of historians is also carried out from a landscape. This is indeed so, but it is this type of metalandscape that allows comparisons to be established among elements made homogeneous insofar as they pertain to the same category. 
Of course, a cursory examination of the previous proposition could result in it being assimilated into almost any type of historiological vision. If a supposed historiologist held that the “will to power” was the engine of history, he might infer (following what has been said) that historians of different epochs are the representatives of the development of such a will; if he held the idea that “social class” is what produces historical movement, he might place historians as representatives of a certain class, and so on. In turn, such historiologists would see themselves as conscious champions of the aforementioned “will” or “class,” which would allow them to place their own imprint on the category “landscape.” They could attempt to study, for example, the landscape of this will to power in different historians. Nevertheless, the attempt would be only a procedure based on an expression and not on a meaning, because achieving clarity in the concept of landscape requires a comprehension of temporality that does not derive from the theory of will. For that matter, it is surprising how many historiologists have appropriated explanations of temporality foreign to their interpretive scheme, without feeling the need to clarify (from their theory) how it is that representation of the world in general and the historical world in particular is configured. 
We note that the clarification carried out above is a condition for the subsequent development of ideas and not simply one more step that we can happily do without. This is one of the prerequisites for historiological discourse and cannot be discarded simply by labeling it as “psychological” or “phenomenological” (that is to say, Byzantine). Placing ourselves in opposition to those prepredicates from which designations such as the aforementioned derive, we maintain, with even greater audacity, that the category “landscape” is applicable not only to historiology but also to any vision of the world, since it allows us to emphasize the look of the one who observes the world. It is, then, a concept necessary for science in general.29
Even if the look of the observer—in this case the historiologist—is modified when confronting a new object, the landscape of this historiologist contributes to directing this look. If we counter this with the idea of a look that is free, oriented without assumptions with respect to a historical event that abruptly occurs (like the look attracted by reflex to a sudden stimulus in daily life), we must consider that placing oneself in front of the emerging phenomenon is already part of configuring a landscape. To maintain that in order to do science the observer must be passive contributes little to knowledge unless it is an understanding that this position is the translation of a conception of the subject as the simple reflection of external stimuli. In turn, such obedience to “objective conditions” shows the devotion to nature professed by a type of anthropology in which the human being is simply a moment of nature and therefore itself a natural being.
Certainly, in other times questions were asked and answers were given regarding the nature of the human being, without realizing that what defines the human being is, precisely, its historicity, and therefore its activity of transforming the world and transforming itself.30
On the other hand, we must recognize that just as one can make incursions from one landscape into scenes presented by different temporal horizons (as typically occurs with historians who study an event), it is also true that within the same temporal horizon, within the same historical moment, the points of view of those who are contemporaneous and therefore coexist may coincide, although they do so from landscapes of formation that are different, owing to non-homogenous temporal accretions. This discovery dispels the naive view that has prevailed until only recently and highlights the enormous distance in perspective that exists between the different generations. These generations, though they occupy the same historical stage, do so from diverse situational and experiential levels. 
Various authors (Dromel, Lorenz, Petersen, Wechssler, Pinder, Drerup, Mannheim, and so on) have addressed the theme of the generations, but it is Ortega y Gasset who must be recognized for having established in his theory of generations the key to understanding the intrinsic movement of the historical process.31 If we are to find an explanation for the way that events unfold, we will have to make an effort similar to that of Aristotle, who in his time tried to explain movement through the concepts of potency and act. Now as then, arguments based on sensory perception prove insufficient to explain movement, and so today it is not sufficient to explain historical becoming by means of factors to which the human being responds merely passively, or as the transmission mechanism of an agent that remains external. 
3.3 Human History
We have seen that the human being’s open constitution refers to the world, not simply in an ontic but in an ontological sense. We have, moreover, considered that in this open constitution the future predominates as pro-ject and as finality. This constitution, projected and open, inevitably structures the moment in which it finds itself into a landscape as present situation. This takes place through the “intercrossing” of temporal retentions and protensions that are in no way arranged as linear “nows” but as actualizations of different times. 
To this we should add: In every situation, the reference is always one’s body. In the body, one’s subjective moment is related to objectivity, and it is through the body that “interiority” or “exteriority” can be understood, according to the direction given to one’s intention, to one’s “look.” Facing this body is all-that-is-not-itself, recognized as that which is not immediately dependent on one’s own intentionality but susceptible to being acted upon through the intermediation of one’s own body. Thus, the world in general and other human bodies within reach of one’s body (of which one registers the action) set the conditions in which the human constitution configures its situation. These conditionings determine the situation and present themselves as possibilities for the future (in future relationship with one’s own body). In this way, the present situation can be understood as modifiable in the future.
The world is experienced as external to the body, but the body is also seen as part of the world since it acts in the world and receives the action of the world. In this way, corporality is also a temporal configuration, a living history launched toward action, toward future possibility. The body becomes prosthesis of the intention, responding to placing-oneself-before-the-intention in both temporal and spatial senses—temporally, in the measure that the body can actualize in the future the possibility of intention, and spatially, insofar as representation and image of intention.32
The destiny of the body is the world, and insofar as it is part of the world its destiny is to transform itself. In this unfolding, objects are amplifications of corporal possibilities and the bodies of others appear as multiplications of those possibilities, insofar as they are governed by intentions recognized as similar to those that govern one’s own body. 
What is it about the human constitution that necessitates this transformation of the world and itself? It is the situation of temporo-spatial finitude and deficiency in which it finds itself. This situation is registered, according to the distinct conditioning factors, as pain (physical) and suffering (mental). Thus, the surpassing of pain is not simply an animal response but a temporal configuration in which the future predominates. Hence, it is a fundamental vital impulse, even when life does not find itself in a desperate situation at any given moment. Suffering in the face of danger, re-presented as future possibilities, and present actualities in which pain is present in other human beings both trigger not only a natural, immediate, reflex response but also a deferred response, along with construction to avoid pain. The surpassing of pain appears, then, as a basic project that guides action. And it is that intention which has made possible communication among diverse bodies and intentions in what we call the “social constitution.” 
Social constitution is as historical as human life, it configures human life. Its transformation is continuous, but in a different way than that of nature. In the latter, changes do not take place due to intentions. Nature appears as both a “resource” for surpassing pain and suffering and a “danger” to the human constitution, and this is why the destiny of nature itself is to be humanized, intentionalized. And the body, inasmuch as it is natural, inasmuch as it is danger and limitation, shares the same end: to be intentionally transformed, not only in position but in motor resources; not only in exteriority but in interiority; not only in confrontation but in adaptation.
In the measure that the human horizon expands, the natural world, as nature, recedes. Social production continues and expands—but this continuity does not occur through the presence of social objects alone, objects that, while carriers of human intentions, have not (until now) been able to continue extending themselves. This continuity is given by human generations, which are not placed “one beside the other” but instead interact with and transform each other. These generations are what allows continuity and development—they are dynamic structures, social time in movement, without which society would fall back into a natural state, losing its condition as society. 
It happens, moreover, that in every historical moment, generations of different temporal levels, with different retentions and protensions, coexist—and therefore configure different landscapes of situation. The bodies and behavior of children and the elderly reveal, for the active generations, the presence of what they have come from and toward what they are moving; in turn, for the extremes of that triple relationship, they reveal the other extreme of temporal position. But this never remains fixed, because while the active generations become older and the elderly die, children are transformed and begin to occupy active positions. Meanwhile, new births continuously reconstitute society. 
When, through abstraction, this incessant flow is “stopped,” we can speak of a “historical moment” in which all the members who share the same social stage may be considered contemporaries, living in the same time (insofar as dateability is concerned). But they are also coetaneous in a nonhomogeneous way with respect to their internal temporality (memory, project, and landscape of situation). In reality, the generational dialectic is established among the most contiguous “strata,” which try to occupy the central activity (the social present) in accordance with their interests and beliefs. The ideas that the generations in dialectic express take shape and are founded upon the basic prepredicates of each generation’s own formation, which includes an internal register of a possible future. 
Clearly, it is possible to understand the larger processes (the “molecular dynamics,” so to speak, of historical life) beginning from the smallest element, the minimum “atom” of the historical moment. Of course, this would require the development of a complete theory of history, an undertaking that certainly lies beyond the scope of this brief essay. 
3.4 The Prerequisites for Historiology
It is not for me to determine what characteristics historiology should, as a science, possess. That is the task of historiologists and epistemologists. Our concern has centered on raising the questions necessary for a fundamental understanding of historical phenomena as seen “from within.” Without this foundation, historiology could become a science of history in the formal sense, but not a science of human temporality in the profound sense. 
Having understood the temporo-spatial structure of human life and its socio-generational dynamic, we are now in a position to say that without incorporating these concepts there will be no coherent historiology. Indeed, it is precisely these concepts that become the prerequisites for the future science of history.
Let us consider some final ideas. The discovery of human life as opening has broken the old barriers, accepted by earlier philosophies, that have existed between an “interiority” and an “exteriority.” Previous philosophies have also failed to give a sufficient account of how it is that the human being apprehends and acts within spatiality. Claiming that time and space are categories of knowledge tells us nothing about the temporo-spatial constitution of the world, and of the human being in particular. That is why an unbridgeable gap has, until now, divided philosophy and the physical-mathematical sciences. These sciences have given their own particular views about the extension and duration of the human being and its internal and external processes. The deficiencies of earlier philosophy have nevertheless permitted it a fruitful independence from the physical-mathematical sciences. This has, however, brought with it certain difficulties for understanding the human being and its meaning, and therefore the meaning of the world. So it is that primitive historiology has struggled in the obscurity of its fundamental concepts. 
Today, understanding the structural constitution of human life and the role that temporality and spatiality play in this constitution, we are in a position to know how to act toward the future, leaving behind the “natural” being-thrown-into-the-world, leaving behind the pre history of the natural being, and intentionally generating a world history as the world is converted into the pros-thesis of human society. 

Notes to Historiological Discussions
1 “This word—historiology—is used here I believe for the first time.…” And further on: “Unacceptable in current historiography and philology is the disparity between the precision employed to get or to handle data, and the imprecision—even more, the intellectual poverty—in the use of constructive ideas. 

“Against this state of affairs in the realm of History, there raises up historiology. It is moved by the conviction that History, like empirical science, above all has to be construction and not a ‘gluey mass’—to use the words that Hegel hurls again and again at the historians of his time. The case that the historians could have against Hegel, by opposing [the idea] that the body of history should be constructed directly by philosophy, does not justify the tendency, even more marked in that century, of being content with a sticking together of data. With a hundredth part of what for some time has already been gathered and polished, it was enough to work out some kind of scientific conduct much more authentic and substantial than so much, in effect, that History books offer us.” Translated in Theory of History in Ortega y Gasset: The Dawn of Historical Reason, J. T. Graham (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1997, Appendix, “Hegel and Historiology”). Originally published as La Filosofía de la Historia de Hegel y la Historiología, J. Ortega y Gasset, Revista de Occidente (February 1928). Reprinted in Kant, Hegel, Scheler (Madrid: Alianza, 1982, pp. 61 and 72). 
2 Herodotus, 484–420 b.c.e. See e.g. Herodotus: The Histories (New York: Norton, 1992). 
3 Titus Livius Livy, 59 b.c.e.–17 c.e., History of Rome (later known as The Decades).
4 For example, consider the following quotation: “I begin this work with the time when Servius Galba, with Titus Vinius for his colleague, was consul for the second time. Many authors have given accounts of the earlier period, the 820 years dating from the founding of the city, and many of them wrote of the dealings of the Roman people with eloquence and freedom. After the conflict at Actium, when for the sake of peace it became necessary that all power should be centered in one man, these great intellects vanished. And with this, history’s truths suffered in many ways.” The Histories, Tacitus. Unpublished translation from the Latin by Salvatore Puledda and Daniel Zuckerbrot. 
5 Virgil lived between 70 and 19 b.c.e. The poet began his masterwork as Augustus was consolidating the empire following the battle of Actium. Thanks to his earlier works, The Bucolics and The Georgics, Virgil was already a celebrity. But starting with The Aeneid, he gained the favor of the emperor. Of course, he was not a courtier like Theocritus or a mercenary like Pindar, but nonetheless he was someone whose interests coincided with those of officialdom. 
Within the epic Aeneid Virgil embeds the genealogy of Rome. There he traces the history of Rome back to the moment at the end of the Trojan War when the gods prophesy to Aeneas that his descendants will govern the world. On the shield that Vulcan forges for the hero appear the images of the history that is to come, up to the central figure of Octavian (Augustus), the emperor who will bring universal peace. 
In Virgil, the meaning of history is divine, because it is the gods who direct human actions to fit their own designs (as also occurs in the Homeric source of his inspiration). However, this does not prevent Virgil from interpreting this destiny from the perspective of the earthly interests of the poet and his protector. In the fourteenth century, The Divine Comedy will appear, in which another poet will take up the story, making Virgil the guide in his incursions through mysterious territories and considerably reinforcing the authority of the Virgilian model. 
6 Here is one such case. In reference to the Book of Daniel, the encyclical of Pius XII, Divino Afflante Spiritu, speaks of “the still unresolved difficulties of the text.” Though he does not enumerate them, we can point to some. For example, the book survives in three languages: Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek. The Hebrew and Aramaic portions fall within the Jewish canonical scriptures. The Catholic Church has recognized the seventh-century Greek version as part of its own apostolic scriptures. The Jews do not include Daniel among their prophets but as part of their Hagiographa. On the other hand, some Christians, inspired by the Scriptures edited by the United Biblical Societies (the 1569 version of Casiodoro de Reina), find themselves with a Daniel considerably at variance with that of the Catholics, for example the version of Eloíno Nácar Fúster and A. Colunga. This does not seem to be simply a mistake, since the version of Casiodoro de Reina was revised by Cyprian de Valera (1602), with subsequent revisions appearing in 1862, 1908, and 1960. In addition, the Catholic version contains some sections that do not appear in the Protestant version, including Deuteronomy (Gr. 3, 24–90) and the Appendix (Gr. 13–14).
The greater difficulties lie not in these matters, however, but in the text itself. Here we find, for example, that the incident in which Daniel is taken to the royal palace in Babylon is placed after the third year of the reign of Jehoiakim (605 b.c.e.). However, that event took place before the two other deportations that historically we know occurred in 598 and 587 b.c.e. As the scholar M. Revuelta Sañudo observes in a note to the Bible (23rd edition, Paulinas): “The historical references in the first six chapters are not in agreement with what history tells us. According to the text, Belshazzar is the son and immediate successor of Nebuchadnezzar and the last king in the dynasty. In reality, Nebuchadnezzar’s successor was his son Evil-Merodac (Avil-Marduk, 562–560 b.c.e.), and his fourth non-dynastic successor was Nabonidus (Nabu-na’id, 556–539), who brought to the throne his son Belshazzar. Finally, Babylon fell into the hands of Cyrus, not Darius the Mede who does not appear in the historical record.” 
These historical defects should not be understood as alterations made in bad faith but as one more cumulative element in the distortion of the text. Meanwhile, the prophetic vision of Daniel gives a narrative of the succession of kingdoms in the form of allegories about the horns of a ram, which are none other than the kings: Alexander the Great; Seleucus I Nicator; Antiochus I Soter; Antiochus II Kallinikos; Seleucus III Ceraunus; Antiochus III the Great; Seleucus IV Philopater; Heliodorus; and Demetrius I Soter. Interpreting these allegories in a not very rigorous fashion, one could think that the prophetic spirit of Daniel is foretelling events that lay several centuries ahead. But if the explanation is read carefully, one sees expressions that correspond to usage more than three centuries later. Thus, he says: “The two horns of the lamb that you have seen are the kings of Medea and Persia; the ‘he-goat’ is the king of Greece, and the large horn between his eyes is the first king, and when it breaks, the other horns appear in its place—four kings will rise in the nation, though they will not be as strong as the first.” Clearly this refers to the struggle between the Persian Empire and Macedonia (334–331 b.c.e.) and the fragmentation of Alexander’s young empire at the time of his death. Daniel appears to be prophesying events that will take place 250 years later, while in reality these are interpolations likely added under the influence of the Maccabees in the first century b.c.e., or perhaps even later under Christian influence. In 11, 1–5 we read: “Three more kings will appear in Persia, and the fourth will far surpass all the others in wealth; and when he has extended his power through his wealth, he will rouse the whole world against the kingdom of Greece. Then there will appear a warrior king. He will rule a vast kingdom and will do what he chooses. But as soon as he is established, his kingdom will be shattered and split up, north, south, east and west. It will not pass to his descendants, nor will any of his successors have an empire like his; his kingdom will be torn up by the roots and given to others as well as to them” (The New English Bible, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970). Indeed, Alexander’s empire was divided at his death (323 b.c.e.) among his generals (not his descendants) into four kingdoms: Egypt, Syria, Asia Minor, and Macedonia. In Maccabees these historical facts are given without artifice, but Maccabees was written in Hebrew, probably between 100 and 60 b.c.e.
Finally, the differences in meaning among the diverse translations are remarkable, as can be seen in comparing the Jewish and Catholic versions. With respect to Daniel 12, 4, the first says: “Many will appear and wisdom will increase” (from the Hebrew text edited by M. H. Leteris, translated to Spanish by A. Usqe, Buenos Aires: Editorial Estrellas, 1945), whereas the Catholic version presents it as follows: “Many shall be lost and iniquity shall increase.” The historical distortion in Daniel ends up lending great prophetic authority to that book, and because of that John of Patmos uses that same system of allegorization in The Revelation of St. John (particularly 17, 1–16), with the result that the old model is reinforced and the latter book gains in prestige. 
7 The systematic manipulation of the news media has been addressed not only by historiographers and scholars in this field but also by authors of fiction, among them George Orwell, who in his book 1984 gave one of the more complete descriptions. 
8 My point of view, according to which historical fact is apprehended not as it is but as we wish to understand it, finds its justification in this, and not in a Kantian perspective that would deny the possibility of knowledge of the thing-itself, nor in a skeptical relativism with respect to the object of historical knowledge. In the same sense I have said: “Of course, the historical process will continue to be understood as the development of a form that is, when all is said and done, nothing but the mental form of those who view things in that particular way. And it does not matter what sort of dogma is appealed to, the background that dictates one’s adherence to that position will always be that-which-one-wants-to-see.” Humanize the Earth, “The Human Landscape,” Silo: Collected Works, Volume I (San Diego: Latitude Press, 2003, Chapter VII, paragraph 2). 
9 Remembering Schliemann, for example, and his (for many at the time) disconcerting discoveries.
10 Many historians working in other fields have reasoned in this way; for example, Worringer in Abstraction und Einfühlung, where he deals with the question of style in art. Because such a study must necessarily appeal to a conception of historical fact, this author psychologizes the history of art (and psychologizes the historical interpretations of artistic phenomena), making an awkward but conscientious declaration of his own point of view. “This is the end result of a deeply ingrained error regarding the essence of art in general. This error has its expression in the belief, sanctioned through many centuries, that the history of art is the history of artistic capacity, and that its self-evident and constant goal is the artistic reproduction of natural models. Consequently, artistic progress was seen in the increasing veracity and naturalness of the representation. The question of artistic will was never raised because that will seemed to be fixed and indisputable. Capacity alone was the problem in question, never the will. It was believed, then, really, that humanity needed thousands of years to learn to draw with exactness, that is, with natural truth; it was truly believed, that in each moment artistic production was determined by the increase or decrease of this capacity. Passing unnoticed in all of this—even though so close and so necessary for the researcher who wants to understand many situations in the history of art—was the knowledge that this capacity is only a secondary aspect that receives its determination and its norms from the will, the superior and uniquely determining factor. Nevertheless, current research in the sphere of art can no longer, as we have said, make do without this knowledge. For such research the following maxim is axiomatic: We have been able to do everything that we have wanted, and what we haven’t done is because it is not within the direction of artistic will. The will, which used to be indisputable, now becomes itself the focus of research, and capacity is now excluded as the criteria of value.” Translated from La Esencia del Estilo Gótico, G. Worringer (Buenos Aires: Revista de Occidente Argentina, 1948, pp. 18, 19).
11 Giovanni Battista Vico, 1668–1744.
12 This is the subject matter of the first, second, and fourth parts of Vico’s Principi di scienza nuova d’intorno alla natura delle nazioni, per li quali si ritrovano altri principi del diritto naturale delle genti. 
13 The New Science, Giovanni Battista Vico, third edition, 1744, transl. T. Goddard Bergin and M. Haraold Fisch (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1948, p. 91, par. 342).
14 The New Science, Vico.
15 La filosofia di G. B. Vico e l’età barocca, Lorenzo Giusso (Rome: Editrice Perella, 1943). 
16 Johann Gottfried von Herder, 1744–1803.
17 In reality, this is a “bio-cultural” conception of history, but not in itself less philosophical than any other. As for the designation, Voltaire is among the first to have spoken of the “philosophy of history.” 
18 Auguste Comte, 1798–1857.
19 Discours sur l’esprit positif, A. Comte (Paris: Librairie Schleicher Freres, 1909, par. 73). Note that this is not present in par. 73 of the French edition of the International Positivist Society. 
20 Oswald Spengler, 1880–1936.
21 The Decline of the West, Vol. 1, “Form and Actuality,” Oswald Spengler (New York: A. Knopf. 1932, p. 3, Introduction). 
22 The Hour of Decision, Part One: Germany and World-Historical Evolution, Oswald Spengler (New York: Knopf, 1934).
23 Arnold Toynbee, 1899–1975.
24 Hegel’s Science of Logic, G.W.F. Hegel, transl. A. V. Miller (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press International, Humanities Paperback Library, 1991).
25 In a note to the Spanish edition of Husserl’s Cartesian Meditations, M. Presas makes the following observations: “The Fifth Meditation responds to the objection of transcendental solipsism and can be considered—following the opinion of Ricoeur—as the equivalent of, and substitute for, Descartes’s ontology introduced in the Third Meditation by means of the idea of the infinite and by the recognition of being in the very presence of this idea. While Descartes relied on God in order to transcend the cogito, Husserl transcended the ego by means of the alter ego. Hence, just as Descartes had searched for the superior foundation of objectivity in divine truth, Husserl sought it in a philosophy of intersubjectivity.” Cf. Etude sur les Meditations Cartésiennes de Husserl, P. Ricoeur, Revue Philosophique de Louvain (53, 1954, p. 77).
It is with the motive of introducing the reduction that Husserl proposes the problem of intersubjectivity in this way. Five years later, in the lectures entitled Grundprobleme der Phanomenologie (given in Gottingen during the winter semester of 1910–11), Husserl extended the reduction to the reduction of intersubjectivity. On various occasions he referred to these lectures (published in volume XIII of Husserliana), above all in his Formal and Transcendental Logic. There he gives a short exposition of the investigations, which will later appear in the Cartesian Meditations; but he points out that there are many and difficult special investigations to make explicit, which he hopes to publish in the next year. However, as is well known, Husserl did not publish the investigations on specific topics referring to intersubjectivity. Meditaciones Cartesianas, E. Husserl (Madrid: Ediciones Paulinas, 1979, p. 150n).
Tr.1 Cartesian Meditations: An Introduction to Phenomenology, E. Husserl, transl. D. Cairns (The Hague, Boston: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1982, section 44, p. 99).
26 Abu Muhammed Ali bin Ahmad bin Said Ibn Hazm, 994–1063. From “Cuidado,” Diccionario de Filosofía, José Ferrater Mora (Madrid: Alianza, 1984).
Tr.2 Being and Time, M. Heidegger, transl. J. Macquarrie and E. Robinson (San Francisco: Harper, 1962, p. 481, H 429).
27 “The principal thesis of the ordinary way of interpreting time—namely, that time is ‘infinite’—makes manifest most impressively the way in which world-time and accordingly temporality in general have been levelled off and covered up by such an interpretation. It is held that time presents itself proximally as an uninterrupted sequence of ‘nows.’ Every ‘now,’ moreover, is already a ‘just now’ or a ‘forthwith.’ If in characterizing time we stick primarily and exclusively to such a sequence, then in principle neither beginning nor end can be found in it. Every last ‘now,’ as ‘now,’ is always already a ‘forthwith’ that is no longer; thus it is time in the sense of the ‘no longer now’—in the sense of the past. Every first ‘now’ is a ‘just-now’ that is not yet; thus it is time in the sense of the ‘not-yet-now’—in the sense of the ‘future.’ Hence time is endless ‘on both sides.’ This thesis becomes possible only on the basis of an orientation towards a free-floating ‘in-itself’ of a course of ‘nows’ which is present-at-hand—an orientation in which the full phenomenon of the ‘now’ has been covered up with regard to its dateability, its worldhood, its spannedness, and its character of having a location of the same kind as Dasein’s, so that it has dwindled to an unrecognizable fragment. If one directs one’s glance toward Being-present-at-hand and not-Being-present-at-hand, and thus ‘thinks’ the sequence on ‘nows’ through ‘to the end,’ then an end can never be found. In this way of thinking time through to the end, one must always think more time; from this one infers that time is infinite.” Being and Time. M. Heidegger (p. 481, H 429).
Tr.3 Being and Time, M. Heidegger (p. 478, Section 81, H 426).
Tr.4 Being and Time, M. Heidegger (p. 381, Section 66, H 332).
28 This in spite of Husserl’s declaration: “…I have nothing to do with Heideggerian wisdom, with that genial lack of scientificity.” Cited by Iso Kern, vol. 15 of Husserliana, XXss. 
29 So indispensable is the concept of “landscape” that it appears as something obvious in the writings of contemporary physicists. Erwin Schrödinger, an eminent representative of this field, says: 
What is matter? How are we to picture matter in our mind? 
The first form of the question is ludicrous. (How should we say what matter is—or, if it comes to that, what electricity is—both being phenomena given to us once only?) The second form already betrays the whole change of attitude: matter is an image in our mind—mind is thus prior to matter (notwithstanding the strange empirical dependence of my mental processes on the physical data of a certain portion of matter, viz. my brain). 
During the second half of the nineteenth century matter seemed to be the permanent thing to which we could cling. There was a piece of matter that had never been created (as far as the physicist knew) and could never be destroyed! You could hold on to it and feel that it would not dwindle away under your fingers.
Moreover this matter, the physicist asserted, was with regard to its demeanor, its motion, subject to rigid laws—every bit of it was. It moved according to the forces which neighboring parts of matter, according to their relative situations, exerted on it. You could foretell the behavior, it was rigidly determined in all the future by the initial conditions.
This was all quite pleasing, anyhow in physical science, insofar as external inanimate matter comes into play. When applied to the matter that constitutes our own body or the bodies of our friends, or even that of our cat or our dog, a well-known difficulty arises with regard to the apparent freedom of living beings to move their limbs at their own will. We shall enter on this question later.… At the moment I wish to try and explain the radical change in our ideas about matter that has taken place in the course of the last half-century. It came about gradually, inadvertently, without anybody aiming at such a change. We believed we moved still within the old ‘materialistic’ frame of ideas, when it turned out that we had left it.” Nature and the Greeks and Science and Humanism, E. Schrödinger (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, pp. 115–116).
30 No natural being, no animal—no matter how great their capacity of work or how social their order or family may be—has produced such profound changes as the human being. Nevertheless, for a long time the evidence of this seems not to have mattered. If today, as a result in part of the technological revolution and the changes brought about in the modes of production, information, and communication, such evidence is recognized, it is clear that many still do this reluctantly, as they cast doubt on these changes by warning of the “dangers” that these advances present for life. In this fashion, the unsustainable view of the passivity of the consciousness has been translated into a consciousness guilty of transgressing against a supposed natural order. 
31 How it is possible that such a conception has passed almost unnoticed by the world of historiology? This is one of the great mysteries, or better still tragedies. Its explanation can be found in the prepredicates of the epoch, which exercise such enormous influence in the cultural environment. In the period of German, French, and Anglo-Saxon ideological supremacy, the works of Ortega y Gasset were associated with a Spain that, in contrast to today, was marching against the flow of the historical process. Making matters worse was the limited and biased exegesis of his prolific output made by some of his commentators. From another angle, he paid dearly for his efforts to translate the important themes of philosophy into an accessible, almost journalistic language, something that proved unforgivable to the mandarins of academic pedantry of recent decades. 
32 See “Psychology of the Image” in Contributions to Thought, Silo. Originally published as “Psicología de la Imagen” in Contribuciones al Pensamiento (Buenos Aires: Planeta, 1991).