I mentioned at the outset that 1 percent of births in Twinwirld result in halflings rather than pairsons. Actually, it’s not quite 1 percent — more like 0.99 percent. But in any case, in Twinwirld, a very young pairson will sometimes wonder what it could possibly be like to be born a halfling, and not to be composed of two nearly identical “left” and “right” halves that hang around together all the time, echoing each other’s words, thinking each other’s thoughts, forming a tight team. The latter state seems so absolutely normal that it is very hard to imagine a halfling’s deeply strange, semitary, and impoverished life (often jokingly called a “half-life”).
What about that tiny remaining portion of births, happening just 0.01 percent of the time? Well, there is a curious phenomenon that can occur in pregnancy: both fertilized eggs constituting the zwygote break in half at the same moment (no two knows why it always happens this way, but it does), and as a result, instead of a single twild being born, two genetically identical twildren emerge! (Oddly, the babies are called “identical twinns”, although they are never exactly identical.) The pairents of twinns of course love both of their “identical” offspring equally well, and very often give them cutely resonant pairs of names (such as “Natalie” and “Natalia”, in the case of twinn girlzes, or “Lucas” and “Luke”, for twinn boyzes).
Sometimes twinns feel the need, as they are growing up, to break away from each other, to strike out on their own, to show the wirld that they are not identical pairsons. But then again, some twinns enjoy playing the near-identicality game to the hilt. Roy and Bruce Nabel, for instance, are a typical pair of twinn boyzes (actually, now they’re grown up) who love to confuse their friends by having Bruce turn up when Roy is expected, or vice versa. Nearly everytwo in Twinwirld finds such stunts quite amusing, because the idea of twinns is so unfamiliar to ordinary pairsons in Twinwirld. Indeed, a normal (non-twinn) pairson in Twinwirld has almost no concept of what it could be like to be a twinn. How extremely strange it would be to grow up side by side with sometwo almost identical to twoself !
There was once even an author in Twinwirld who concocted a curious philosophical fantasy-world called “Twinnwirrld”, whose defining feature was that 99 percent of all births resulted in so-called “identical twinns” — but that’s a whole nother story.
“Twe”-tweaking by Twinwirld-twiddling
Several intertwined issues are inevitably raised by our short and hopefully provocative little jaunt. The most vivid, of course, is that in Twinwirld, a solo human body — a half — builds up a sense of itself as an “i” (lowercase!), while at the same time a pair of human bodies — a pairson — builds up a sense of itself as a “Twe”. This latter process happens partly thanks to genetics (just one genome, found in the zwygote, determines a pairson) and partly thanks to acculturation, enhanced by a slew of linguistic conventions, some of which were mentioned.
Suppose we wanted to apply the loaded word “soul” to beings in Twinwirld. What or who in Twinwirld has a soul? Even the noun “being” is a loaded word. What constitutes a being in Twinwirld? To my mind, both of these questions have the same answer as the following question: “What kind of entity in Twinwirld builds up an unshakable conviction of itself as an ‘I’? Is it a half, a pairson, or both?” What we’re really asking here is how strong each of two salient and rival analogies is — namely, how strong is the analogy between an “i” and an “I”, and how strong is the analogy between a “Twe” and an “I”?
I suspect that any human reader of this chapter can easily identify with a Twinwirld half (such as Karen’l or Greg’r), which would suggest that the “i”/“I” analogy seems convincing to most readers. I hope, however, that my human readers will also see a convincing analogy between Twe-ness and I-ness, even if, for some, it is less strong than that between “i” and “I”. In any case, since Twinwirld is just a fantasy, one can adjust its parameters as one wishes. You and I are both free, reader, to twiddle knobs of various sorts on Twinwirld to make “i” weaker and “Twe” stronger, or the reverse.
For the twirlwind trip just undertaken, I set the knobs determining Twinwirld at a middle-range level in order to make both analogies roughly equally plausible, hence to make the competition between “i” and “Twe” quite tight. But now I want to tweak Twinwirld so as to make “Twe” a bit stronger. In this new fantasy world, which I’ll dub “Siamese Twinwirld”, instead of positing that 99 percent of births yield standard identical twins, I’ll posit that 99 percent of births yield Siamese twins joined, say, at the hip. Moreover, I’ll stipulate that the Twinwirld pronoun “i” doesn’t exist in Siamese Twinwirld. Now the only analogy that remains is that between our concept of “I” and their concept of “Twe”. This may seem extremely far-fetched, but the curious thing is, our standard earthly world has much in common with Siamese Twinwirld. Here’s why.
We all possess two cerebral hemispheres (left and right halves), each of which can function pretty well as a brain on its own, in case one side of our brain is damaged. I’ll presume that both of your hemispheres are in good shape, dear reader, in which case what you mean when you say “I” involves a very tight team consisting of your left and right half-brains, each of which is fed directly by just one of your eyes and just one of your ears. The communication between your team’s two members is so strong and rapid, however, that the fused entity — the team itself — seems like just one thing, one absolutely unbreakable self. You know just what this feels like because it’s how you are constructed! And if you’re anything like me, neither of your half-brains goes around calling itself “i” and brazenly proclaiming itself an autonomous soul! Rather, the two of them together make just one capital “I”. In short, our own human condition in this, the real world, is quite analogous to that of pairsons in Siamese Twinwirld.
The communication between the two halves of a dividual in Twinwirld (whether it’s the Siamese variant or the original one) is, of course, less efficient than that between the two cerebral hemispheres inside a human head, because our hemispheres are hard-wired together. On the other hand, the communication between halves in Twinwirld is more efficient than that between nearly any two individuals in our “normal” world. And so the degree of fusing-together of two Twinwirld halves, though not as deep as that between two cerebral hemispheres, is deeper than that between two very close siblings in our world, deeper than that between identical twins, deeper than that between wife and husband.
Post Scriptum re Twinwirld
After I had written a first draft of this chapter and had moved on to the following one, which is based on emails exchanged between Dan Dennett and myself in 1994, I noticed that in one of his messages to me he referred to an unusual pair of twins in England that he had mentioned in his 1991 book Consciousness Explained (which I had read in manuscript form). I had forgotten this email from Dan, so I decided to go look the reference up in his book, and I found the following passage:
We can imagine.… two or more bodies sharing a single self. There may actually be such a case, in York, England: the Chaplin twins, Greta and Freda (Time, April 6, 1981). These identical twins, now in their forties and living together in a hostel, seem to act as one; they collaborate on the speaking of single speech acts, for instance, finishing each other’s sentences with ease or speaking in unison, with one just a split-second behind. For years they have been inseparable, as inseparable as two twins who are not Siamese twins could arrange. Some who have dealt with them suggest that the natural and effective tactic that suggested itself was to consider them more of a her.…
I’m not for a moment suggesting that these twins were linked by telepathy or ESP or any other sort of occult bonds. I am suggesting that there are plenty of subtle, everyday ways of communicating and coordinating (techniques often highly developed by identical twins, in fact). Since these twins have seen, heard, touched, smelled, and thought about very much the same events throughout their lives, and started, no doubt, with brains quite similarly disposed to r
eact to these stimuli, it might not take enormous channels of communication to keep them homing in on some sort of loose harmony. (And besides, how unified is the most self-possessed among us?)….
But in any case, wouldn’t there also be two clearly defined individual selves, one for each twin, and responsible for maintaining this curious charade? Perhaps, but what if each of these women had become so selfless (as we do say) in her devotion to the joint cause that she more or less lost herself (as we also say) in the project?
I don’t have any clear memory of when I first came up with the germ that has here blossomed out as my fairly elaborate Twinwirld fantasy, although I’d like to think it was before I read about the Chaplin twins in Dan’s book. But whether I got the idea from Dan or made it up myself isn’t crucial; I was delighted to discover not only that Dan resonated with the idea, but also that observers of real human behavior claimed to have seen something much like what I was merely blue-skying about. Twinwirld thus comes one step closer to plausibility than I might have suspected.
There is one other curiosity that by a great stroke of luck dovetails astonishingly with this chapter. A couple of days after finishing Twinwirld, I chanced to see a scrap of paper on my bedside table, and on it, in pencil, in my own hand, were written four German words — O du angenehmes Paar (“O thou pleasant couple”). That short phrase didn’t ring a bell, but from its antiquated and exalted tone, I guessed that it was probably the opening line of an aria from some Bach cantata that I had once heard on the radio, found beautiful, and jotted down. From the Web I quickly found out my guess was right — these are the words that open a bass aria from Cantata 197, Gott ist unsre Zuversicht (“God, Our One True Source of Faith”). It turns out that this is a “wedding cantata” — one intended to accompany a marriage ceremony.
Here are the words that the bass sings to the couple, given first in the original German and then in my own translation, respecting both the meter and the rhyme scheme of the original:
O du angenehmes Paar,
Dir wird eitel Heil begegnen,
Gott wird dich aus Zion segnen
Und dich leiten immerdar,
O du angenehmes Paar!
O thou charming bridal pair,
Providence shall e’er caress thee
And from Zion God shall bless thee
And shall guide thee, e’er and e’er,
O thou charming bridal pair!
Are you struck, dear reader, by something rather peculiar about these words? What struck me forcefully is that although they are being sung to a couple, they feature singular pronouns — du, dir, and dich in German and, in my English rendition, the obsolete pronouns “thou” and “thee”. On one level, these second-person singular pronouns sound strange and wrong, and yet, by addressing the couple in the singular, they convey a profound feeling of the imminent joining-together of two souls in a sacred union. To me, these poems suggest that the wedding ceremony in which they occur constitutes a “soul merger”, giving rise to a single unit having just one “higher-level soul”, like two drops of water coming together, touching, and then seamlessly fusing, showing that sometimes one plus one equals one.
I found translations of this aria’s words into French and Italian, and they, too, used tu to address the twosome, and this, just like the German, sounded far weirder to me than the English, since tu (in either language) is completely standard usage today (unlike “thou”) but it is always addressed to just one person, never ever to a couple or small group of any kind.
To experience the same kind of semantic jolt in modern English, you’d have to move from second person to first person, and imagine the opposite of the editorial “we” — namely, a pair of people who refer to the union they compose as “I”. Thus I shall now counterfactually extend Cantata 197 by imagining one last joyous aria to be sung by the united twosome at the very end of their wedding ceremony. Its first line would run, Jetzt bin ich ein strahlendes Paar — “I now am a radiant couple” — and the new wife and husband would sing it precisely in unison from start to finish, instead of singing two melodies in typical Bachian counterpoint, for doing that would inappropriately draw attention to their distinct identities. In this closing aria, “I” would denote the couple itself, not either of its members, and the aria would be thought of as being for the couple’s one new voice rather than for two independent voices.
Soulmates and Matesouls
The real point of the Twinwirld fantasy was to cast some doubt on a dogma, usually unquestioned in our world, which could be phrased as a slogan: “One body, one soul.” (If you don’t like the word “soul”, then feel free to substitute “I”, “person”, “self”, or “locus of consciousness”.) This idea, though seldom verbalized, is so taken for granted that it seems utterly tautological to most people (unless they deny the existence of souls altogether). But visiting Twinwirld (or musing about it, if a trip can’t be arranged) forces this dogma out into the open where it must at least be confronted, if not overturned. And so, if I have managed to get my readers to open their minds to the counterintuitive notion of a pair of bodies as the potential joint locus of one soul — that is, to be able to identify with a pairson such as Karen or Greg as easily as they identify with R2-D2 or with C-3PO in Star Wars — then Twinwirld will have discharged its duty well.
One of my inspirations for the Twinwirld fantasy was the notion of a married couple as a type of “higher-level individual” made of two ordinary individuals, which is why bumping into the O du angenehmes Paar scrap of paper was such a stunning coincidence. Many married people acquire this notion naturally in the course of their marriage. In fact, I had dimly sensed something like this intuitively before I was married, and I remember how, in the anticipation-filled weeks leading up to my wedding, I found this idea to be an implicit, moving theme of the book Married People: Staying Together in the Age of Divorce by Francine Klagsbrun. For instance, at the conclusion of a chapter about therapy and counseling for married couples, Klagsbrun writes, “I believe that a therapist should be neutral and impartial toward the partners, the two patients in the marriage, but that there is no breach of ethics in being biased toward the third patient, the marriage.” I was deeply struck by her idea of the marriage itself as a “patient” undergoing therapy in order to get better, and I must say that over the years, a sense of the truth in this image helped me greatly in the harder times of my marriage.
The bond created between two people who are married for a long time is often so tight and powerful that upon the death of either one of them, the other one very soon dies as well. And if the other survives, it is often with the horrible feeling that half of their soul has been ripped out. In happier days, during the marriage, the two partners of course have individual interests and styles, but at the same time a set of common interests and styles starts to build up, and over time a new entity starts to take shape.
In the case of my marriage, that entity was Carol-and-Doug, once in a while jokingly called “Doca” or “Cado”. Our oneness-in-twoness started to emerge clearly in my mind on several occasions during the first year of our marriage, right after we’d had several friends over for a dinner party and everyone had finally left and Carol and I started cleaning up together. We would carry the plates into the kitchen and then stand together at the sink, washing, rinsing, and drying, going over the whole evening together to the extent that we could replay it in our joint mind, laughing with delight at the spontaneous wit and re-savoring the unexpected interactions, commenting on who seemed happy and who seemed glum — and what was most striking in these post partyum decompressions was that the two of us almost always agreed with each other down the line. Something, some thing, was coming into being that was made out of both of us.
I remember how, a few years into our marriage, the strangest remark would occasionally be made to us: “You look so much alike!” I found this astonishing because I thought of Carol as a beautiful woman and utterly unlike me in appearance. And yet, as time passed, I st
arted to see how there was something in her gaze, something about how she looked out at the world, that reminded me of my own gaze, of my own attitude about the world. I decided that the “resemblance” our friends saw wasn’t located in the anatomy of our faces; rather, it was as if something of our souls was projected outwards and was perceptible as a highly abstract feature of our expressions. I could see it most clearly in certain photos of us together.
Children as Gluons
What made for the most profound bond between us, though, was without doubt the births of our two children. As a mere married couple without children, we were still not totally fused — in fact, like most couples, we were at times totally confused. But when new people, vulnerable tiny people, came into our lives, some kind of vectors inside us aligned totally. There are many couples who do not agree on how to rear their children, but Carol and I discovered happily that we saw eye-to-eye on virtually everything regarding ours. And if one of us was uncertain, talking with the other would always bring clarity into the picture.
That shared goal of bringing up our children safely, happily, and wisely in this huge, crazy, and often scary world became the dominant motif of our marriage, and it forged us both in the same mold. Although we were distinct individuals, that distinctness seemed to fade away, to vanish almost entirely, when it came to parenthood. First in that arena of life, and then slowly in other arenas, we were one individual with two bodies, one sole “pairson”, one “indivisible dividual”, one single “dual”. We two were Twe. We had exactly the same feelings and reactions, we had exactly the same dreads and dreams, exactly the same hopes and fears. Those hopes and dreams were not mine or Carol’s separately, copied twice — they were one set of hopes and dreams, they were our hopes and dreams.
I Am a Strange Loop Page 31
