THE PHYSICAL SCIENCES

variety were received from and about the external environment.  Along with that (whether as cause or effect we cannot tell), there developed an nt that increasing complexity of the nervous system, the living instrume
interpreted and stored the data collected by the sense organs.

There comes a point where the capacity to receive, store, and inter-pret messages from the outside world may outrun sheer necessity.  An organism may for the moment be sated with food, and there may, at the moment, be no danger in sight.  What does it do then?
It might lapse into an oysterlike stupor.  But the higher organisms, at least, still show a Strong instinct to explore the environment.  Idle curi-osity, we may call it.  Yet, though we may sneer at it, we judge intelligence by it.  Ile dog, in moments of leisure, will sniff idly here and there, pricking up its cars at sounds we cannot hear; and so we judge it to be more intelligent than the cat, which in its moments of leisure grooms itself or quietly and luxuriously stretches out and falls asleep.  The more advanced the brain, the greater the drive to explore, the greater the "curi-osity surplus." The monkey is a byword for curiosity.  Its busy little brain must and will be kept going on whatever is handy.  And in this respect, as in many others, man is but a supermonkey.
The human brain is the most magnificently organized lump of matter in the known universe, and its capacity to receive, organize, and store data is far in excess of the ordinary requirements of life.  It has been estimated that in a lifetime a human being can learn up to 15 tril-lion items of information.
It is to this excess that we owe our ability to be afflicted by that y painful disease, boredom.  A human being forced                                                    into a situ-
ation where he has no opportunity to utilize his brain except for minimal survival will gradually experience a variety of unpleasant symptoms, up to and including serious mental disorganization.
What it amounts to, then, is that the normal human being has an intense and overwhelming curiosity.  If he lacks the opportunity to satisfy it in ways immediately useful to him, he will satisfy it in other ways-even regrettable ways to which we have attached admonitions such as: "Curiosity killed the cat...... Mind your own business."
The overriding power of curiosity, even with harm as the penalty, is reflected in the myths and legends of the human race.  The Greeks bad the tale of Pandora and her box.  Pandora, the first woman, was given a box that she was forbidden to open.  Quickly and naturally enough she opened it and found it full of the spirits of disease famine,
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bate, and all kinds of evil-wh'ch escaped and have plagued the world
ever since.
In the Biblical story of the temptation of Eve, it seems fairly certain (to me, at any rate) that the serpent bad the world's easiest job.  He might have saved his tempting words: Eve's curiosity would have driven

her to taste the forbidden fruit even without temptation.  If you are of a he Bible allegorically, you may think of the serpent as mind to interpret simply the representation of this inner compulsion; in the conventional cartoon picturing Eve standing under the tree with the forbidden fruit in her hand, the serpent coiled around the branch might be labeled "Curiosity." human drive, can be put to ignoble use If curiosity, like any other
-the prying invasion of privacy t@at has gi en the word its cheap and unpleasant connotation-it nevertheless remains one of the noblest properties of the human mind.  For its simplest definition is "the desire to know."
This desire finds its first expression in answers to the practical needs of human life-how best to plant and cultivate crops, how best to fash-ion bows and arrows, how best to weave clothing-in short, the "applied arts." But after these comparatively limited skills have been mastered, or the practical needs fulfilled, what then?  Inevitably the desire to know leads on to less limited and more complex activities.
It seems clear that the "fine arts" (designed to satisfy inchoate and boundless and spiritual needs) were born in the agony of boredom.  To be sure, one can easily find more mundane uses and excuses for the fine arts.  Paintings and statuettes were used as fertility charms and as religious symbols, for instance.  But one cannot help suspecting that the objects existed first and the use second.
To say that the fine arts arose out of a sense of the beautiful may also be putting the cart before the horse.  Once the fine arts were devel-oped, their extension and refinement in the direction of beauty would have followed inevitably, but even if i tbl's bad not happened, the fine arts would have developed nevertheless.  Surely the fine arts antedate any possible need or use for them, other than the elementary need to occupy the mind as fully as possible.
Not only does the production of a work of fine art, occupy the mind satisfactorily; the contemplation or appreciation of the work supplies a similar service to the audience.  A great work of art is great precisely because it offers a kind of stimulation that cannot readily be found else-where.  It contains enough data of sufficient complexity to cajole the brain into exerting itself past the usual needs, and, unless a person is hopelessly ruined by routine or stultification, that exertion is pleasant.

But if the practice of the fine arts is a satisfactory solution to the problem of leisure, it has this disadvantage: it requires, in addition to an active and crea'ive mind, a physical dexterity.  It is just as interesting to pursue mental activities that involve only the mind, without the sup-plement of manual skill.  And, of course, such an activity is available.  It is the pursuit of knowledge itself, not in order to do something with it but for its own sake.
Thus the desire to know seems to lead into successive realms of