Antonio Damasio has written three books: Looking for Spinoza, Descartes’ Error, and The Feeling of What Happens. These are popular accounts of what we know about the important attributes of our minds. He has documented our discoveries, now that we can use various experimental techniques to ‘watch the brain thinking’ and see how the different parts of the brain are involved in what we feel about the things we think. We tend to forget that our brains are continually interacting with our bodies, which supply the brain with stance-determining hormones for longer-term behaviour, and mood-changing emotion-provoking chemicals for short-term modulation of our intentions and feelings, directing our thoughts.
According to these books, the result of having lived with a brain which we think we direct using a kind of tiller, but which actually is continually affected by cross-winds, occasional storms, rain and warm sun that provokes us into lazy days, is that we have evolved a series of memories with different flavours. Or, the result of having lived with a brain that we think we direct using a kind of automobile steering wheel and foot controls, but whose route is actually continually affected by long-term goals that change (‘Let’s go to a hotel, not to Auntie Janie’s again’), short-term road signs and other traffic, is that we have evolved a series of memories with different flavours. Or, each of us has a personal history which we explain internally by feelings attached to emotional memories, so we have evolved a series of memories with different flavours.
Damasio has imported emotional biasing into how we think about our own intentions, choices, other people, memories, and prospective plans. He claims that this is what emotion is ‘for’, and most psychologists now agree that emotionally labelled memories are the effect of having a brain whose interaction with its body paints emotions on to memories and intentions.
We habitually assume that real physical history, and particularly social history, works the same way as our own personal histories, with events labelled ‘good’ or ‘bad’… but it doesn’t. It’s misleading to think of the Big Bang, for example, as an explosion like a bomb or a firework, seen from outside. The whole point of the Big Bang metaphor is that at the moment the universe was born, there was no outside. More subtly, perhaps, we tend to think of the birth of the universe in the same way that we think of our own birth, or even our conception.
Real history, post whatever the Big Bang ‘really’ was, relies on the accumulation of countless tiny sequences of cause-and-effect. As soon as we begin to think about what any of these sequences looks like, taking it out of the context that drives it, we lose its causality. This seething sea of processes and appearances and disappearances, where no causality can be isolated, is sometimes called ‘Ant Country’. The name reflects three features: the seething, apparently purposeless activity of ants, which, in aggregate, makes ant colonies work; the metaphorical Aunt Hillary in Douglas Hofstadter’s Gödel, Escher, Bach, who was a sentient anthill and recognised the approach of her friend the anteater because some of her constituent ants panicked; and Langton’s Ant, a simple cellular automaton, which shows that even if we know all the rules that govern a system, its behaviour cannot be predicted except by running the rules and seeing what happens. Which in most people’s book is not ‘prediction’ at all.
For similar reasons, it is impossible to forecast the weather accurately, even a few weeks ahead. Yet, despite this apparent absence of causality at the micro-levels of weather, the impossibility of isolating causality in the swirling butterflies … despite the chaotic nature of meteorology in both the large and the small, weather makes sense. So does a stone tumbling downhill. So does a lot of physics, engineering, and aeronautics: we can build a Boeing 747 that flies reliably. Nevertheless, all of our physical models are rooted in brains that get most of their perceptions wrong.
Shouting at the monkeys in the next tree. That’s what brains evolved to do. Not mathematics and physics.
We get ecology and evolution mostly right, but often wrong, for the same reasons. The scenarios we build don’t work, they’re as false to fact as ‘weather’. But we can’t help building them, and they’re useful sufficiently often to be ‘good enough for government work’.
To underline this point, here’s an important evolutionary example. Think of the first land vertebrate, that fish that came out of the water. We have the strongest feeling that if we took a time machine back to the Devonian, when that first important fish was emerging from the sea, there ought to be a moment that we could isolate: ‘Look, by wriggling out on to the mud that female has escaped that predator, so she’s lived to lay her eggs, and some of them will become our ancestors … If she hadn’t got those leggy fins, she wouldn’t quite have made if, and we wouldn’t be here.’
Grandfather paradox again? Not quite, but we can illuminate the grandfather paradox neatly with this example. Ask yourself what would happen if you killed that fish. Would humanity never have happened? Not at all. By isolating a single event, we have tried mentally to make history follow a thin thread of causality. But we made the Adam-and-Eve mistake: ancestors don’t get fewer as you go back, they multiply. You have two parents, four grandparents, maybe only seven great-grand parents, because cousin marriages were commoner then. By the time you’ve gone back a couple of dozen generations, a significant proportion of all the breeders of that period were your ancestors. That’s why everyone finds some famous ancestors when they look – and the fact that famous people were rich and powerful and sexually successful helps too, so that they are reproductively better represented in that generation’s descendants.
Note that we said ‘breeders’ and ‘many’. Nearly all sexually produced creatures don’t breed, including humans of most previous generations. Not only are most of the people alive at that previous generation young children who won’t survive to breed; many of the apparently successful breeders contribute to lineages that die out before they get to the present day, because they are excluded from the limited ecosystem by more successful lineages as the generations pass.
So when we look at those Devonian fishes, there simply isn’t just one that was our ancestor. All of the breeders, a very unsystematic small proportion of the fish population, contributed to the recombining and mutating mix of genes that passed down from those fishes that left the water, through generations of amphibians and mammal-like reptiles, into the early mammals, were newly selected to characterise the early primates, and eventually ended up in us. There wasn’t a single grandfather fish, or one grandfather primate, no thin line of descent, just as there isn’t a thin line of causality leading from a butterfly’s wing flap to a hurricane. Nearly any fish you went back and killed would make virtually no difference to history. We’d still be here, but history would have taken a slightly different route to get to us.
But that doesn’t mean that history has no important accomplishments.
Some physicists, especially, have argued from this indeterminacy and chaotic influences at all the micro-levels that there is no pattern to history, that Heisenberg uncertainty rules. Wrong. Just because we cannot predict the weather more than about a week ahead, with the best and biggest computers, doesn’t mean that there isn’t such a thing as weather. Our thin-causal-thread evolutionary scenarios for the emergence of those fishes on to the land don’t work, but that doesn’t mean we must throw away all ideas of causality in evolution. Any event, when looked at in detail, seems not to have a clear cause, but that just means that our Damasio-minds are not suited to that way of analysing history.
We are much better at totally disregarding all the micro stuff, and making big guesses: I guess it’ll be sunny again tomorrow; or I guess that among all those fishes eating each other on the Devonian mudflats, some will escape on to the land. We’re confirmed in that guess by finding climbing perch, mudskippers and lots of other separate fish lineages doing exactly that on mudflats today.
The great evolutionary biologist Stephen Jay Gould got this point wrong in Wonderful Life: if evolution ran again, he stated, we would not get p
eople, because of all the tiny chaotic butterflies that determined evolutionary outcomes, so there were no thin causal threads. We disagree: we might not, almost surely would not, get the same primate coming down from the trees, but equivalent major innovations would occur in the new and different lineages. People are good at finding high-level groupings, making analogies and metaphors, arguing from what Aunt Janie does today to what she’ll do tomorrow, or did twenty years ago. But we oversimplify when we try to disentangle the maze of tiny causalities that lies behind any historical event, because we can’t handle that kind of complexity.
So, even though all of the causality happens at the micro-level, and we can’t analyse it except in terms of tens of particles interacting when it’s really billions, this isn’t what it’s about. It’s like the early twentieth-century physicists telling us that the dining-room table wasn’t really there, it was nearly all empty space, and that concepts like ‘hard’ and ‘brown’ had no place in the physicist’s view of the world. So much the worse for the physicist. Did he really not eat his dinner off just such a hard, brown table? And was not his brain designed to do really clever things with abstractions useful in his daily life, like hard and brown, rather than the very peculiarly unuseful concepts of atoms, nuclei, and so on?
On the contrary, our brains are excellent at all the higher-level judgements they’re called on to make, especially in a world that is full of hard, brown tables, doors, houses, trees to make them out of, and other people to help us or compete with us. But nearly all human brains are poor when it comes to the physics of atoms and the micro-world.
Back to history. We ‘make sense’ of large movements like the Enlightenment, democracy in ancient Athens, the Tudors; but we know that if we were to look at all the small-scale interactions, they would make little sense against the comprehensible backdrop. That is precisely why historical novels can be so fascinating, and why The Three Musketeers didn’t really affect Cardinal Richelieu and all the important people in seventeenth-century France. Nevertheless, we greatly enjoy the fiction that makes sense of the great movements by tying them down to the motives and nobility of a few people like D’Artagnan, with whom we can identify. The sequels Ten Years After and Twenty Years Later intrigued some of us, as Dumas found that he was on to a good thing and turned out more of the same. Some of us, at least, then found that Athos’s nobility rang increasingly false, and Porthos’s good humour was boring, while Aramis’s religiosity wore very thin as the years rushed by. The initial idea wedged into the history we knew, it was consistent and provided colourful incident. But the later money-spinners were increasingly at odds with how we knew history worked.
There is an excellent example of the converse of this, which makes that point even better than Dumas. Wells’s The Time Machine, as we’ve said, was the absolute classic time travelogue, showing us the large picture from prehistory to the social consequences of the capitalism that the socialist Wells wanted to criticise. Then the cooling Sun, the great crabs on a post-diluvian beach … lovely. But Stephen Baxter’s modern sequel The Time Ships shows us how clever the Morlocks will be, how the Traveller is really a little bit prurient about the little Eloi girl from the future – a resonance with Lewis Carrol’s Alice – who is innocent and a bit stupid.
It’s like a historical novel that puts all the little sexy and despicable bits into the great tapestry of history. Such literary exercises add colour and flavour to history, just as Damasio has shown that we do with our own personal memories. The pleasure this exercise gives us shows how our human minds read history: in the large without flavour, in the small with the kind of colour that we paint on to our own small reminiscences. So historical romance is just that: romantic painting of the little, interesting items, whose causality might affect the big picture, but doesn’t.
What does it mean, then, to ask whether time knits up any changes, or whether mischievous butterflies are ultimately responsible for the fall of empires?
Here fictional conventions cease to fit the real world. From the point of view of the wizards, Roundworld time is a one-dimensional sequence that they can access two-dimensionally like a book. For narrative reasons, we have to depict it like this because of all those thin-thread-of-causality historical stories that our minds find so congenial. In a fictional context, we have little choice. However, here we want to think about the nature of causality and free will in the ‘real’ universe, which – as we’ve made clear throughout the Science of Discworld series – does not have any narrativium. In that context, we have to understand that this simple image of Roundworld history is a fraud. The Trousers of Time also work well as a story, but as genuine physics they are a fraud: you can’t be pushed from one leg to the other by an event. Worse, you can’t tell that there has been such an event. As far as you are concerned, this is the world. It doesn’t have ‘ifs’ in its past.
None of this stops us using ‘what ifs’ (which by nature are fictions, not facts) to think about history. We can still ask, in our minds, what would have happened if, say, Lincoln had survived … but in the real world he didn’t, and we can’t run a mock-up of ‘if he did’ in the real world: only in our heads.
Science runs into precisely this difficulty. For instance, the main problem in testing medical treatments is that we can’t both give Mrs Jones the treatment and not give Mrs Jones the treatment, simultaneously, and compare the results. We can do it sequentially, but then the second treatment (whether it is placebo or real treatment) is of a different Mrs Jones, one who’s had the first treatment. So what the testers do is to have quite a large panel, do treatment first on some, placebo first on others – and they should perhaps do two placebos on a few, and two treatments on a few others.
What time-travel stories do, in our minds, is the same kind of test: ‘What would happen if Leonardo had really seen a submarine working?’ or equivalently ‘Did Leonardo see a submarine working?’ In The Science of Discworld, and more explicitly in The Science of Discworld II, we asked whether the interesting stories that we make up have some kind of coherent explanation, something like ‘evil’ – which we personified in the second book as Elves. To what extent do such concepts relate to the real rules of the real world? Now we argue that we cannot know if any answer we get is useful; we can’t even know whether we’ve got an answer at all. And that this is precisely why Dennett’s kind of free will is the only one worth having. It’s prospective, giving each of us the chance to make little items of an otherwise inevitable future evitable.
When we look back on something we’ve changed by that kind of an act of free will, it’s just as causal as everything else – and if the universe is in any sense determinate, then it is determinate in that sense. Think of Odysseus looking back at what happened as his ship failed to be caught by the Sirens. His men didn’t hear them, and he, who could hear them, couldn’t act to steer the ship. So he and his crew came through in that most unlikely of passages. There is a sense, of course, in which every sea passage is equally unique, just as every deal of cards is unique; but Odysseus’s journey, like a one-suit-per-player deal of cards, is totally remarkable too. Looking back into history, can we find journeys, events, and processes so remarkable that they seem to be the results of previous acts of free will?
What, then, is causality? For Damasio-like reasons, we tend to think that what gives history its dynamic is the big events, the ‘pivot points’. The fallacy is that we think big causes are needed to produce big effects. This is false (butterfly) but there is a problem: choosing the right tiny change (which butterfly?). And there are always billions of new butterflies, dragging new changes out from previously invisible differences ‘in the 13th decimal place’, unobservable until their effects show up.
Real history is like this; causes are often distributed, with huge numbers of tiny events all coming together. It is just this problem that leads Ridcully to employ such a huge number of wizards, doing such a bizarre set of trivial things, merely to get The Origin written.
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nbsp; We only justify this sort of causality in retrospect: history didn’t know ‘where it was going’. So changing the past creates a context for the future, not a causal chain, and this is how the wizards must operate, which is why we have thousands of them making endless trivial changes to Victorian history, instead of, say, assassinating Queen Victoria. Any Victorian, perhaps particularly the well-trained nursemaid, will tell you just that about your personal history: your heart must be pure (context) rather than your plans being subtle.
1 Counterfactual: a more acceptable word for what has for a long time been a very common feature of science fiction, the ‘alternate world’ or ‘worlds of if’ story (there was a pulp SF magazine in the 1950s called Worlds of If, in fact). ‘Counterfactual’ is now used when said stories are written by real writers and historians, to save them the indignity of sharing a genre with all those strange sci-fi people.
2 Well, there might be …
SEVENTEEN
GALÁPAGOS ENCOUNTER
CHARLES DARWIN WAS SITTING ON a grassy bank. Three types of bee buzzed among the flowers, and overhead examples of Hirundo rustica swooped after miscellaneous Ephemeroptera.
His thoughts were complex, as human thoughts tend to be when the mind is idling, but included: this is an interesting bank of astonishing complexity; there might be fish for lunch; he had a sore throat; he hoped never to receive another letter about barnacles; the rash seemed to be getting worse; there was a strange buzzing sound; had he really experienced that apparition?; homeopathy transcended all common sense; he really should find out where the ovaria were situated in Phyllosoma; it really was a very loud buzzing …
Science of Discworld III Page 23
