This theory also helps explain why the Second, Third, and Fifth Doctors don’t remember that Rassilon is the villain, even though the First Doctor is there when the villain is revealed; and why the Fourth Doctor doesn’t know what’s happening to him and take steps to avoid being caught in Borusa’s Time Scoop, so that he can join and assist his “other selves” rather than endangering their existence (“The Five Doctors,” 1983). Indeed, if all the Doctors are one individual, why doesn’t physical contact between them have consequences at least as disastrous as those of the meeting of the 1977 Brigadier and the 1983 Brigadier (“Mawdryn Undead,” 1983), or the meeting of baby Rose and teenager Rose (“Father’s Day,” 2005)? Easy! Later Doctors needn’t remember everything that earlier Doctors thought or did, if no occupant of the Doctor role is identical with any other. Time doesn’t unravel, and Reapers don’t fly, if two distinct individuals meet each other.
There’s plenty of evidence supporting the other view. When the Second and Third Doctors first meet, they seem clear they’re the same Time Lord: “I am he and he is me” (“The Three Doctors); and even in “The Power of the Daleks” (1966)—a major source of skepticism about the orthodox view. In fact, there are plenty of hints that the new Doctor is the same individual as the old: such as when he remembers meeting Marco Polo, and when a revived Dalek, relying perhaps on some alien power of intuition, recognizes the Second Doctor, despite having encountered only the First.
Conclusive proof that the “non-rigid designator” theory is wrong comes when the Fifth and the Tenth Doctors meet. The Tenth Doctor is able to save the day by remembering and doing what the Fifth Doctor saw the Tenth Doctor do to save the day (“Time Crash,” 2007). Here, the Tenth Doctor and the Fifth Doctor share the memory of the Tenth Doctor manipulating the TARDIS so as to avert the destruction of the universe, and this couldn’t happen unless the Fifth and the Tenth were the same individual, for these “two Doctors” are bound in a loop of time that’s impervious to any outside influences that might allow for some alternative explanation.
But if we revert to the standard “rigid designator” view, the original problems resurface. Specifically, if regeneration doesn’t mean the literal end of one Doctor, how are we to explain the Doctor’s anxiety about the outcome of the process, and the ambiguity of his attitude towards “other Doctors”?
A New Body ...
Someone might try to answer the first question by returning to the Ninth Doctor’s closing thoughts. He muses that he might end up with two heads or with none. Is he seriously worried that his regeneration might result in something non-humanoid? Given that the Doctor has always been humanoid, this would seem baseless and irrational.95 For more plausible answers, let’s inquire into the nature of the individual that might survive regeneration.
According to philosopher John Locke, a material object is a collection of ‘atoms’, and if even one atom is added or subtracted from the collection, it ceases to be that very body.96 Strictly, then, since particles are being gained and lost constantly, all bodies have a very fleeting existence: none of the bodies that were in this room a moment ago now remains. In this strict sense, it isn’t even the same room!
Adopting Locke’s conception of body, clearly we can’t say that the individual picked out by the proper name “the Doctor” is a particular body, because there are distinct bodies on either side of regeneration.
Could we regard regeneration as a process during which this individual, whatever it is, survives a change of bodies? The Doctor Who series certainly encourages this way of looking at it. Before regenerating, the First Doctor announces that his body is wearing a little thin. “So he gets himself a new one?” says an incredulous companion. And surely “changing bodies” is an appropriate description of the Doctor’s Third and Fifth regenerations, for if all the particles of the Doctor’s body are being destroyed by radiation (“Planet of the Spiders”), or spectrox toxaemia (“The Caves of Androzani”), it’s hard to see how his life could be saved just by reorganizing them. And then we have the Tenth Doctor’s own words: “I changed my body, every single cell” (“Children in Need” special, 2005).
But if we use Locke’s conception of a material body, regeneration doesn’t seem as special as it should, because Locke’s conception implies that very many things “change bodies” constantly, as they gain and lose particles, and thus the regenerating Doctor undergoes nothing more than what each of us undergoes from one second to the next. An appropriate contrast is restored, however, by noting that regeneration is a process in which all of the cells of the Doctor’s body are replaced instantaneously. Any connection between the pre- and post-regeneration bodies therefore can’t be at a purely physical level.
So the Doctor, the individual that survives the regenerative process, isn’t a physical body. Rather, regeneration is, at least partly, a process whereby that individual changes bodies. But what is that individual?
Absolutely the Same Man
As we’ve seen, Locke thinks that if a material body gains or loses any particle, it stops existing, and some other body succeeds it. So when we say that this oak tree used to be an acorn, or that this kitten will soon be a cat, we’re talking nonsense if we’re talking about the same material body. The fact that, when we say things like this, we’re not talking nonsense, shows that we can’t be focusing on material bodies.
So what are we focussing on? “An organization of parts in one coherent body, partaking of one common life,” Locke says. The word “organism” seems to capture what he has in mind: an individual living animal or plant capable of growth and reproduction. Locke counts a “man”—meaning a human being—as an organism in this sense. So if we say that young and old Timothy Latimer (“The Family of Blood,” 2007) are the same human being, we’re not talking about the same body, but about the same organism.
Despite the obvious fact that the Ninth Doctor has a “new face, new everything,” says the Tenth Doctor, and Harriet Jones comes to agree, he’s “absolutely the same man” as the Ninth (“The Christmas Invasion”). This fits the account we’re now discussing—at least, if we allow that the organism that the word “man” refers to here isn’t a human being but a Time Lord. The First Doctor, the Second, and so on, are stages in the history of one particular Time Lord organism, ushered in and out according to processes driven by the “one common life” uniting them all.
Locke’s strict conception of a material body implies that regeneration annihilates the Doctor’s old body. Thus we might regard its annihilation as fuelling the construction of the Doctor’s new body, as a phoenix rises anew from its own ashes. A somewhat less strict conception of material bodies permits us to say that the “one common life” underlying the organism transforms the old body by reconfiguring its constituents, as a butterfly emerges from its chrysalis case (“The Power of the Daleks”).
The important thing is that if we regard “the Doctor” as rigidly designating a particular organism, we shouldn’t regard regeneration as involving the death of the Doctor in any sense. The organism survives regeneration, necessarily, because the organism drives regeneration. True, if regeneration fails, that’s the end of the organism. But equally true, if the organism doesn’t survive, no regeneration occurs.
So should we regard “the Doctor” as referring to a particular organism? If we did, we’d be at a loss to explain the ambiguity of the Doctor’s own attitude towards regeneration, and the anxiety he expresses at the prospect. In “The Parting of the Ways,” he’s not anxious about regeneration failing—about the death of the organism —but about the outcome of the full, successful regeneration process—about whether he’ll survive it. “The Doctor” doesn’t refer to an organism, but to something else.
I Remember! I Am the Doctor!
Having distinguished between a material body and an organism, Locke goes on to distinguish between an organism—in this case, a man—and a person. So, is the individual picked out by the proper name “the Doctor” a person?
&nb
sp; Some fans of Doctor Who would say that all the different incarnations of the Doctor are facets or aspects of the same person, while other fans—perhaps even the same fans at different times—would say that when the Doctor regenerates he becomes a different person.
I’ll assume that most people who say the second thing are confusing the concept of person with the concept of personality. Sometimes a change of personality is noted by saying things like “She’s a different person,” and of course we do use personality as one way of distinguishing between persons. If I sent an email to someone I regarded as very imaginative and gregarious, and received a reply that was very dull and timid, I might wonder whether the person who replied was the person I sent it to. But personality doesn’t constitute a person, because it makes perfect sense to suppose that a person’s personality might change, and change radically. A radical change of personality doesn’t mean a literal change of person.
So what is a person? Clearly persons aren’t the same as organisms as such, since there are plenty of organisms that we wouldn’t regard as persons. I wouldn’t say that a tree or a cat was a person, for example. But I would say that most human beings are persons.
Is there a rational basis for denying that trees and cats are persons while granting that human beings can be persons? Or is this just “speciesism”—mere prejudice against members of species other than our own?974 Well, we’re perfectly willing to regard the Doctor as a person even though he’s not human. But would we regard him as a person if he didn’t look human? Maybe we’re just prejudiced against non-humanoid species.
Again, not so. Doctor Who features all sorts of radically non-humanoid persons—the Rills and the Monoids (“The Ark,” 1965), Alpha Centauri (“The Curse of Peladon,” 1973), K9, the list goes on. And of course we needn’t tie ourselves to Doctor Who or even to the sorts of creatures that could only turn up in science fiction. If one day my cat sat down and told me of her adventures, I think I’d start to regard her as a person, even though she’s a cat.
So a person isn’t a personality, since a person can change his personality and yet remain the same person, and a person isn’t an organism as such, since many organisms—trees, cats, snails—aren’t persons. A person isn’t a human being as such, because there could in principle be non-human persons, such as the Doctor. (And some human beings might not be persons—though I haven’t argued here for that controversial point.) A person isn’t a humanoid being as such, because there could in principle be non-humanoid persons.
So what is a person? Well, discounting prejudice against non-humans and non-humanoids, why don’t I regard my cat as a person? What does she lack that persons possess? Many philosophers argue that what’s essential for being a person—necessary and sufficient, as they say—is thinking. I mean, thinking in the sense of using concepts, and having beliefs and other thoughts.
Locke proposes that a person is “a thinking intelligent being that has reason,” and adds that a person must have “reflection,” so that he or she “can consider itself, the same thinking thing in different times and places.” To be a person, that is, one must be self-reflecting: in having thoughts and experiences, one must be able to regard them as one’s own thoughts and experiences, and no one else’s.
This account gives Locke a criterion for deciding on personal identity—that is, whether person B now is the same person as person A at some earlier time. He claims that person B today is the same person as person A in the past if and only if B can remember some thought or experience of A’s as his or her own thought or experience. If and only if I can remember, as my own, some thought or experience that occurred in 1993, am I the same person as the person who had that thought or experience in 1993. This is the criterion of psychological continuity.
It’s been much criticized. Firstly, it seems to imply that it’s logically impossible for a person to forget anything that they’ve thought or experienced, because if you don’t remember thinking or experiencing something, it wasn’t you that thought or experienced it. But surely one can forget some of one’s thoughts and experiences. Secondly, philosopher Thomas Reid accuses Locke’s criterion of breaking the laws of logic. Imagine that Sarah Jane Smith in 2006 remembers writing a certain article in 1996, and that Sarah Jane Smith in 1996 remembers meeting four Doctors in 1983 (“The Five Doctors”). According to Locke’s criterion, 2006 Sarah Jane is the same person as 1996 Sarah Jane, and 1996 Sarah Jane is the same person as 1983 Sarah Jane. But if 2006 Sarah Jane doesn’t remember meeting four Doctors in 1983 (“School Reunion,” 2006), then 2006 Sarah Jane isn’t the same person as 1983 Sarah Jane, even though 2006 Sarah Jane is the same person as 1996 Sarah Jane and 1996 Sarah Jane is the same person as 1983 Sarah Jane! Thus Locke’s criterion violates the logical principle of the transitivity of identity, which says that if C is B and B is A, C must be A.
Philosopher Derek Parfit attempts to amend Locke’s theory to avoid such problems.98 Perhaps psychological connectedness is sufficient for personal identity—if C remembers as his own some thought or experience that B regarded as his own, then C is the same person as B. But the necessity of psychological connectedness for personal identity must be understood differently from the way Locke understands it.
An analogy: in a chain, the connection is between one link and at most two others, not between one link and every other. So the latest link in a chain is not connected to the first—it doesn’t have direct contact with it. But it is connected to a link that’s connected to a link, and so on, all the way back to the first link. Thus we can say that they’re parts of the same chain. Analogously, a person’s current psychological states needn’t be connected with some specific earlier psychological state in order for that earlier psychological state to belong to the same person. As long as a person’s current psychological states are connected to psychological states that are connected to psychological states, and so on, back to the specific psychological state in question, there’s sufficient psychological connectedness for personal identity.
Thus 2006 Sarah Jane is the same person as 1983 Sarah Jane because, even though 2006 Sarah Jane doesn’t remember, as her own, certain of 1983 Sarah Jane’s experiences, 2006 Sarah Jane does remember, as her own, certain of 1996 Sarah Jane’s experiences, and 1996 Sarah Jane did remember 1983 Sarah Jane’s experiences as her own. The memories overlap, in other words.
The Doctor after regeneration can remember as his own certain of the thoughts and experiences of the Doctor before regeneration. This goes for every regeneration so far. He forgets certain things, as do we all. But there’s sufficient psychological continuity for psychological connectedness and thus for personal identity, even across the nine-hundred-year life of the underlying organism. All of the Doctors are one and the same person.
Time Will Tell
When the Doctor regenerates, the organism—the animal—survives regeneration; for the organism drives the regenerative process which replaces one body with another, all at once. Regardless of physical and personality changes, the Doctor is the same person post-regeneration as pre-regeneration, if and only if there’s sufficient psychological continuity for connectedness with some pre-regeneration Doctor.
Crucially, the organism and the person might part company. The same organism underlies, drives and survives regeneration, but if the regenerative process shook things up to such an extent that there was insufficient psychological continuity or connectedness—if, for example, the post-regenerative person never remembered as his own any of the thoughts and experiences of the pre-regenerative person—that would be the death of the person picked out by the designator “the Doctor.”
Doctor Who provides evidence that regeneration carries this awful possibility of personal annihilation. Quite often, the “new Doctor” suffers a spell of amnesia. This is usually partial (“The Power of the Daleks”; “Castrovalva,” 1982; “The Twin Dilemma,” 1984; “Time and the Rani”), but can be almost total (“Doctor Who: The TV Movie”). And the amnesia has so far been temporary.
But who’s to say that after some future regeneration it won’t be total and permanent?
Perhaps that’s what happened—or has yet to happen—in the case of the Valeyard, a future “evil” version of the Doctor, existing “somewhere between his twelfth and final incarnations” (“Trial of a Time Lord,” 1986). Given his exchanges with the Doctor, it seems unlikely that the Valeyard recalls any of the Doctor’s thoughts and experiences as his own. By our neo-Lockean criterion, then, the Doctor and the Valeyard are different persons, although the same organism. And this is borne out if we consider that the Valeyard’s plan, to possess all of the Doctor’s remaining incarnations, would be pointless otherwise. For if the Valeyard is the same person as the Doctor, the Doctor’s remaining incarnations are already his.
All of this indicates that the Doctor can never be sure that any of the thoughts and experiences he now regards as his own, or has ever regarded as his own, will be regarded in the same way by the consciousness emerging on the other side of the process. Psychological continuity and connectedness might fail. Thus it might strike him as a real possibility that the person he is will be extinguished along with his current body, even though the underlying organism—the animal—survives.
Doctor Who and Philosophy Page 27
