“Right” signifying very, in great degree No antonym This comparison obviously reveals no basis for the statement that “wrong” and “right” are complete antitheses to each other, at least in the fine sense that _up_ is the opposite of _down_, _in_ of _out_, or _east_ of _west_. So that, if we accept the word “right” as descriptive of a behavior situation in which the dominant feature is the controlling and directing of human energies, the employment of technique to further man’s purposes, or the attainment of any “good” whatsoever, the word “wrong” cannot,—either according to the detailed list of its uses just presented, or according to the above scheme of its logical relationship to “right,”—be said to be the true antonym of that word. The law of reciprocal innervation does not, in its integrity, apply here. How then shall we explain the fact that people so habitually say and feel that “wrong” is the opposite of “right,” if it cannot be admitted that antagonistic muscles are always employed in the thoughts and the acts to which these two words refer? Perhaps the following interpretation will answer. Logicians are accustomed to say that any universal proposition, any sweeping statement, such as, “Every swan is white,” or “No aliens need apply,” is contradicted by the admission that one single exception is to be allowed. But obviously, such logical contradiction, such admission of a lone but effective exception, is not equivalent to granting that “No swans are white,” or that “Every alien is requested to apply.” Nevertheless, the tradition among logicians is that with the granting of one such exception, the sweeping statement originally made is held to be untrue, and hence, false. In physiological terms (than which there are none more fundamental), contradiction is for the logician equivalent to a partial but effective inhibition of any fully developed action-tendency. When Plato would say, “You may all now come in to dinner,” but is deterred by seeing Diogenes muddying his feet in order to tread the more scornfully on the clean banquet floor, Plato’s action-pattern of wholesale, cordial invitation is suddenly interrupted. And, _so far as Plato’s emotions are concerned_, the need to make one important exception in his invitation, is very much like having to turn the whole company out of doors. This tendency for an emotional repugnance to blot out all sense of proportion is clearly illustrated in certain oft-repeated fables. The story of the involuntary guest who had not on a wedding garment, of the ninety and nine sheep, and of the rich young man are cases in point. Similar examples may be found in the behavior of any household. The vexed hostess is heard complaining that one little _faux pas_ on the part of her serving-girl “completely spoiled the whole evening.” The sweet young thing whose lover arrives a quarter of an hour later than his appointment accuses him of being elsewhere enamoured to stay.