The key problem is, it seems to me, that when we try to understand what we are, we humans are doomed, as spiritual creatures in a universe of mere stuff, to eternal puzzlement about our nature. I vividly remember how, as a teen-ager reading about brains, I was forced for the first time in my life to face up to the idea that a human brain, especially my own, must be a physical structure obeying physical law. Although it may seem strange to you, just as it does to me now, this realization threw me for a loop.
In a nutshell, our quandary is this. Either we believe that our consciousness is something other than an outcome of physical law, or we believe it is an outcome of physical law — but making either choice leads us to disturbing, perhaps even unacceptable, consequences. My purpose in these final pages is to face this dilemma head-on.
The Pull and Pitfalls of Dualism
In Chapter 22, I discussed dualism — the idea that over and above physical entities governed by physical law, there is a Capitalized Essence called “Consciousness”, which is an invisible, unmeasurable, undetectable aspect of the universe possessed by certain entities and not others. This notion, very close to the traditional western religious notion of “soul”, is appealing because it conforms with our everyday experience that the world is divided up into two kinds of things — animate and inanimate — and it also gives some kind of explanation for the fact that we experience our own interiority or inner light, something of which we are so intimately aware that to deny its existence would seem absurd if not impossible.
Dualism also holds out the hope of explaining the mysterious division of the animate world into two types of entity: myself and others. Otherwise put, this is the seemingly unbridgeable gap between the subjective, first-person view of the world and an impersonal, third-person view of the world. If what we call “I” is a squirt of some unanalyzable Capitalized Essence magically doled out to each human being at the moment in which it is conceived, with each portion imbued with a unique savor permanently defining the recipient’s identity, then we need look no further for an explanation of what we are (even if it depends on something inexplicable).
Furthermore, the idea that each of us is intrinsically defined by a unique incorporeal essence suggests that we have immortal souls; belief in dualism may thus remove some of the sting of death. It is not very hard for someone who grows up drenched in the pictorial and verbal imagery of western religion to imagine a wispy, ethereal aura being released from the body of someone who has just died, and sailing up, up, up into some kind of invisible celestial realm, where it will survive eternally. Whether we are believers or skeptics, such imagery is part and parcel of our western heritage, and for that reason it is hard to shuck it entirely, no matter how solidly one’s belief system is anchored in science.
Not long after my wife Carol died, I organized a memorial service for her, interleaving reminiscences by a few dear friends and relatives with musical selections that had meant a great deal to her. To close this sad ceremony, I chose the final two-and-a-half minutes of the opening movement of Sergei Prokofiev’s first violin concerto, an astonishing work of musical poetry under whose spell Carol had fallen as deeply as I had. The beautiful and moving passage that I selected from this concerto (as well as its twin, at the end of the piece as a whole) might as well have been written to evoke the image of an ascending soul, so tenuous, tremulous, and delicate is it throughout, but most of all in its final upward-drifting tones. Though neither Carol nor I was religious in the least, there was something that to me rang so true in this naïve image of her purest essence leaving her mortal remains and soaring up, up, forever up, even if, in the end, it was not into the sky that her soul was flying, but merely into this guy…
As this story reveals, this guy, for all his years of scientific training and hardheaded thinking about mind and spirit as rooted in physics, is at times susceptible to the traditional dualistic imagery with which most of us are brought up — if not by our families, then by our wider culture. I can fall for the alluring imagery, even if I reject the ideas. But in my more rational moments, such imagery makes no sense to me, for I know only too well how dualism leads to a long list of unanswerable questions, some of which I wrote out in Chapter 22, showing it to be fraught with such arbitrariness and illogicality that it would seem to collapse under its own weight.
The Lure and Lacunas of Nondualism
If instead one believes that consciousness (now with a small “c”) is an outcome of physical law, then no room remains for anything extra “on top”. This is appealing to a scientific mind because it is far simpler than dualism. It gets rid of a puzzling dichotomy between ordinary physical entities and extraordinary nonphysical essences, and it cancels the long list of questions about the nature of the nonphysical Capitalized Essence.
On the other hand, throwing dualism out the window is troubling as well, because, at least on first glance, doing so seems to leave us with no distinction between animate and inanimate entities, and no explanation for our unique experience of our own interiority or inner light, no explanation for the gulf between our self and other selves. A more careful look at this viewpoint, however, shows that there is room in it for such distinctions.
In the Introduction, I wrote of “the miraculous appearance of selves and souls in substrates consisting of inanimate matter”, a phrase I suspect made more than one reader bristle. “How can the author refer to a human brain — the most animate of all entities in the universe — as ‘inanimate matter’?” Well, one of the leitmotifs of this book has been that the presence or absence of animacy depends on the level at which one views a structure. Seen at its highest, most collective level, a brain is quintessentially animate and conscious. But as one gradually descends, structure by structure, from cerebrum to cortex to column to cell to cytoplasm to protein to peptide to particle, one loses the sense of animacy more and more until, at the lowest levels, it has surely vanished entirely. In one’s mind, one can move back and forth between the highest and lowest levels, and in this fashion oscillate at will between seeing the brain as animate and as inanimate.
A nondualistic view of the world can thus include animate entities perfectly easily, as long as different levels of description are recognized as valid. Animate entities are those that, at some level of description, manifest a certain type of loopy pattern, which inevitably starts to take form if a system with the inherent capacity of perceptually filtering the world into discrete categories vigorously expands its repertoire of categories ever more towards the abstract. This pattern reaches full bloom when there comes to be a deeply entrenched self-representation — a story told by the entity to itself — in which the entity’s “I” plays the starring role, as a unitary causal agent driven by a set of desires. More precisely, an entity is animate to the degree that such a loopy “I” pattern comes into existence, since this pattern’s presence is by no means an all-or-nothing affair. Thus to the extent that there is an “I” pattern in a given substrate, there is animacy, and where there is no such pattern, the entity is inanimate.
Rainbows or Rocks?
There still remains a sticky question: What would make a loopy abstract pattern, however fancy it might be, constitute a locus of interiority, an inner light, a site of first-person experience? Otherwise put, where does me-ness come from? The notion that such a pattern grows enormously in size and complexity over time, perceives itself, and entrenches itself so deeply as to become all but undislodgeable will constitute a satisfactory answer for some seekers of truth (such as Strange Loop #641). For others, however (such as Strange Loop #642), it will not do at all.
For the latter sort of thinker, there will always remain the kind of riddle posed in Chapter 21 about the two freshly minted atom-for-atom copies of a destroyed body, one on Mars and one on Venus: “Where will I wake up? Which, if either, of the two bodies will house my inner light?” Thinkers of this kind cling fiercely to the instinctive notion of a unique Cartesian Ego that constitutes the identity, the “I”-ness, the inner
light, the interiority of any sentient being. To such thinkers, it will be totally unacceptable to suggest that their precious notion of me-ness is more like a shimmering, elusive rainbow than it is like a solid, mass-possessing rock, and that there is thus no right answer to the perplexing “Which one will I be?” riddle. They will insist that there has to be a genuine marble of “I”-ness in one of the two bodies and not in the other one, as opposed to an elusive rainbow-like entity that first recedes and then disintegrates entirely as one draws ever closer. But to believe in such an indivisible, indissoluble “I” is to believe in nonphysical dualism.
Thrust: The Hard Problem
And this is our central quandary. Either we believe in a nonmaterial soul that lives outside the laws of physics, which amounts to a nonscientific belief in magic, or we reject that idea, in which case the eternally beckoning question “What could ever make a mere physical pattern be me?” — the question that philosopher David Chalmers has seductively and successfully nicknamed “The Hard Problem” — seems just as far from having an answer today (or, for that matter, at any time in the future) as it was many centuries ago.
After all, a phrase like “physical system” or “physical substrate” brings to mind for most people, including a substantial proportion of the world’s philosophers and neurologists, an intricate structure consisting of vast numbers of interlocked wheels, gears, rods, tubes, balls, pendula, and so forth, even if they are tiny, invisible, perfectly silent, and possibly even probabilistic. Such an array of interacting inanimate stuff seems to most people as unconscious and devoid of inner light as a flush toilet, an automobile transmission, a fancy Swiss watch (mechanical or electronic), a cog railway, an ocean liner, or an oil refinery. Such a system is not just probably unconscious, it is necessarily so, as they see it. This is the kind of single-level intuition so skillfully exploited by John Searle in his attempts to convince people that computers could never be conscious, no matter what abstract patterns might reside in them, and could never mean anything at all by whatever long chains of lexical items they might string together.
Riposte: A Soft Poem
And yet to you, my faithful reader who has plowed all through this book up to its nearly final page, I would hope that things seem otherwise. Together, you and I have gone through instance after instance of increasingly sophisticated structures having loops, from the ever-darting-off Exploratorium red dot to fine-grained television cameras taking in the screens they fill, then to formulas asserting that they have no PM proof, and winding up with the strange loop that comes about inside the ever-growing repertoire of symbols in each human being’s brain. (Élan mental we have no truck with, for it leads to endless traps.)
If there were ever, in our physics-governed world, a kind of magic, it is surely in these self-reflecting, self-defining patterns. Such strange loops, inspired by Gödel’s Trojan horse that sneaked self-consciousness inside the very fortress that was built to keep it out, and recalling Roger Sperry’s tower of forces within forces within forces (found inside each teet’ring bulb of dread and dream), give the only explanation I can fancy for how animate, desire-driven beings can arise from just plain matter, and for how, among the swarm of loops that populate our planet, there is one, and only one, that you call “I” (and I call “you”).
A Billion Trillion Ants in One’s Leg
You and I are mirages who perceive themselves, and the sole magical machinery behind the scenes is perception — the triggering, by huge flows of raw data, of a tiny set of symbols that stand for abstract regularities in the world. When perception at arbitrarily high levels of abstraction enters the world of physics and when feedback loops galore come into play, then “which” eventually turns into “who”. What would once have been brusquely labeled “mechanical” and reflexively discarded as a candidate for consciousness has to be reconsidered.
We human beings are macroscopic structures in a universe whose laws reside at a microscopic level. As survival-seeking beings, we are driven to seek efficient explanations that make reference only to entities at our own level. We therefore draw conceptual boundaries around entities that we easily perceive, and in so doing we carve out what seems to us to be reality. The “I” we create for each of us is a quintessential example of such a perceived or invented reality, and it does such a good job of explaining our behavior that it becomes the hub around which the rest of the world seems to rotate. But this “I” notion is just a shorthand for a vast mass of seething and churning of which we are necessarily unaware.
Sometimes, when my leg goes to sleep (as we put it in English) and I feel a thousand pins and needles tingling inside it, I say to myself, “Aha! So this is what being alive really is! I’m getting a rare glimpse of how complex I truly am!” (In French, one says that one has “ants in one’s leg”, and the cartoon character Dennis the Menace once remarked that he had “ginger ale in his leg” — two unforgettable metaphors for this odd yet universal sensation.) Of course we can never come close to experiencing the full tingling complexity of what we truly are, since we have, to take just one typical example, six billion trillion (that is, six thousand million million million) copies of the hemoglobin molecule rushing about helter-skelter through our veins at all moments, and in each second of our lives, 400 trillion of them are destroyed while another 400 trillion are created. Numbers like these are way beyond human comprehension.
But our own unfathomability is a lucky thing for us! Just as we might shrivel up and die if we could truly grasp how minuscule we are in comparison to the vast universe we live in, so we might also explode in fear and shock if we were privy to the unimaginably frantic goings-on inside our bodies. We live in a state of blessed ignorance, but it is also a state of marvelous enlightenment, for it involves floating in a universe of mid-level categories of our own creation — categories that function incredibly well as survival enhancers.
I Am a Strange Loop
In the end, we self-perceiving, self-inventing, locked-in mirages are little miracles of self-reference. We believe in marbles that disintegrate when we search for them but that are as real as any genuine marble when we’re not looking for them. Our very nature is such as to prevent us from fully understanding its very nature. Poised midway between the unvisualizable cosmic vastness of curved spacetime and the dubious, shadowy flickerings of charged quanta, we human beings, more like rainbows and mirages than like raindrops or boulders, are unpredictable self-writing poems — vague, metaphorical, ambiguous, and sometimes exceedingly beautiful.
To see ourselves this way is probably not as comforting as believing in ineffable other-worldly wisps endowed with eternal existence, but it has its compensations. What one gives up on is a childlike sense that things are exactly as they appear, and that our solid-seeming, marble-like “I” is the realest thing in the world; what one acquires is an appreciation of how tenuous we are at our cores, and how wildly different we are from what we seem to be. As Kurt Gödel with his unexpected strange loops gave us a deeper and subtler vision of what mathematics is all about, so the strange-loop characterization of our essences gives us a deeper and subtler vision of what it is to be human. And to my mind, the loss is worth the gain.
NOTES
Page xi gave me the impetus to read a couple of lay-level books about the human brain… These were [Pfeiffer] and [Penfield and Roberts]. Another early key influence was [Wooldridge].
Page xi the physical basis…of being…an “I”, which… Placing commas and periods outside quotation marks when they are not part of what is being quoted exhibits greater logic than does American usage, which puts them inside regardless of circumstance. In this book, the logical convention (also the standard in British English) is adopted.
Page xiv Hofstadter’s Law… This comes from Chapter V of [Hofstadter 1979].
Page xiv “What is it like to be a bat?”… See Chapter 24 in [Hofstadter and Dennett].
Page xv I have spent nearly thirty years… See, for instance, [Hofstadter and Moser
], [Hofstadter and FARG], [Hofstadter 1997], and [Hofstadter 2001].
Page xviii virtually every thought in this book…is an analogy… See [Hofstadter 2001].
Page xviii not indulging in Pushkinian digressions… See James Falen’s sparkling anglicization of Pushkin’s classic novel-in-verse Eugene Onegin [Pushkin 1995], or see my own translation [Pushkin 1999]. There is no sublimer marriage of form to content than Eugene Onegin.
Page xviii typeset it down to the finest level of detail… In this book, one of my chief esthetic concerns has been where page breaks fall. A cardinal rule has been that no paragraph (or section) should ever break in such a way that only one line of it occurs at the top or bottom of a page. Another guiding principle has been that the interword spacing in each line should look pleasing, and, in particular, not too loose (which is a frequent and annoying eyesore in computer-set text). In order to avoid such blemishes, I have done touch-up rewriting, often quite extensive, of just about every paragraph in the book. Page xviii itself is a typical example of the end result. And of course the page you are right now reading (and that I am right now touching up so that it will please your eye) is another such example.
The foregoing esthetic constraints (along with a number of others that I won’t describe here) amount to random darts being thrown at every page in the book, with each dart saying to me, in effect, “Here — don’t you think you could rewrite this sentence so that it not only looks better but also makes its point even more clearly and elegantly?” Some authors might find this tiresome, but I freely confess that I love these random darts and the two-sided challenges that they offer me, and I have worked extremely hard to meet those challenges throughout. There is not a shadow of a doubt that form–content pressures — relentless, intense, and unpredictable — have greatly improved the quality of this book, not only visually but also intellectually.
I Am a Strange Loop Page 49
