Thursday, 23 September 2010
In the silent recesses of the mind, volunteer subjects recount episodes, summon adventure in dreams, recite poems, solve equations, recall melodies, and while they are doing this the fiery play of their neuronal circuitry is made visible by the techniques of neurobiology. The observer reads the script unfolding not as ink on paper but as electric patterns in live tissue. At least some of the thinker's subjective experience - his feeling - is transferred. The observer reflects, he laughs or weeps. And from his own mind patterns he is able to transmit the subjective responses back. The two brains are linked by perception of brain activity.
Whether seated across from one another at a table, or alone in separate rooms or even in separate cities, the communicants can perform feats that resemble extrasensory perception (ESP). But only superficially. The first thinker glances at a playing card he holds cupped in his hand. With no clue other than the neural imagery to guide him, the second thinker reads the face of the card. The first thinker reads a novel; the second thinker follows the narrative.
Accurate transmission of the mind script depends as much as conventional language does on the commonality of the users' culture. When the overlap is slight, the script may be limited in use to a hundred characters; when extensive, the lexicon can expand to thousands. At its most efficient, the script transmits the tones and flourishes indigenous to particular cultures and individual minds.
Mind script would resemble Chinese calligraphy, not only a medium employed for the communication of factual and conceptual information, but also one of the great art forms of Eastern civilisation. The ideograms contain subtle variations with aesthetic and other subjective meanings of their own shared by writer and reader. Of this property the Sinologist Simon Leys has written, "The silk or paper used for calligraphy has an absorbent quality: the lightest touch of the brush, the slightest drop of ink, registers at once - irretrievably and indelibly. The brush acts as a seismograph of the mind, answering every pressure, every turn of the wrist. Like painting, Chinese calligraphy addresses the eye and is an art of space; like music, it unfolds in time; like dance, it develops as dynamic sequence of movements, pulsating in rhythm."
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
E. O. Wilson - Extract from 'Consilience' (as regards the relationship between place and the mystical)
At the centre of our world is home ground. In the centre of the centre are shelters backed against a rock wall. From the shelters radiate well-travelled paths where every tree and rock is familiar. Beyond lies opportunity for expansion and riches. Down a river, through a wooded corridor lining the opposite shore, are campsites in grassy places where game and food plants are seasonally abundant. Such opportunities are balanced by risk. We might lose our way on a too distant foray. A storm can catch us. Neighbouring people - poisoners, cannibals, not fully human - will either trade or attack; we can only guess their intentions. In any case they are an impassable barrier. On the other side is the rim of the world, perhaps glimpsed as a mountain front, or a drop toward the sea. Anything could be out there: dragons, demons, gods, paradise, eternal life. Our ancestors come from there. Spirits we know live closer by, and fall of night are on the move. So much intangible and strange! We know a little, enough to survive, but all the rest of the world is a mystery.
What is this mystery we find so attractive? It is not a mere puzzle waiting to be solved. It is far more than that, something still too amorphous, too poorly understood to be broken down into puzzles. Our minds travel easily - eagerly! - from the familiar and tangible to the mystic realm. Today the entire planet has become home ground. Global information networks are its radiating trails. But the mystic realm has not vanished; it has just retreated, first from the foreground and then from the distant mountains. Now we look for it in the stars, in the unknowable future, in the still teasing possiblity of the supernatural. Both the known and the unknown, the two worlds of our ancestors, nourish the human spirit. The muses, science and the arts, whisper: Follow us, explore, find out.
For there have been finally, but three attitudes taken toward the awesome mystery in the great mythological traditions: namely, the first, of a "yea": the second, of a "nay"; and the last, of a "nay," but with a contingent "yea," as in the great complex of messianic cults of the late Levant: Zoroastrianism, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. In these last, the well-known basic myth has been, of an originally good creation corrupted by a fall, with, however, the subsequent establishment of a supernaturally endowed society, through the ultimate world dominion of which a restoration of the pristine state of the good creation is to be attained. So that, not in nature but in the social order, and not in all societies, but in this, the one and only, is there health and truth and light, integrity and the prospect of perfection. The "yea" here is contingent therefore on the ultimate world victory of this order.
The second of the four functions served by traditional mythologies – beyond this of redeeming human consciousness from its sense of guilt in life – is that of formulating and rendering an image of the universe, a cosmological image in keeping with the science of the time and of such kind that, within its range, all things should be recognized as parts of a single great holy picture, an icon as it were: the trees, the rocks, the animals, sun, moon, and stars, all opening back to mystery, and thus serving as agents of the first function, as vehicles and messengers of the teaching.
The third traditional function, then, has been ever that of validating and maintaining some specific social order, authorizing its moral code as a construct beyond criticism or human emendation. In the Bible, for example, where the notions of a personal god through whose act the world was created, that same god is regarded as the author of the Tablets of the Law; and in India, where the basic idea of creation is not of the act of a personal god, but rather of a universe that has been in being and will be in being forever (only waxing and waning, appearing and disappearing, in cycles ever renewed), the social order of caste has been traditionally regarded as a piece with the order of nature. Man is not free, according to either of these mythic views, to establish for himself the social aims of his life and to work, then, toward these through institutions of his own devising; but rather, the moral, like the natural order, is fixed for all time, and if times have changed (as indeed they have, these past six hundred years), so that to live according to the ancient law and to believe according to the ancient faith have become equally impossible, so much the worse for these times.
The first function served by a traditional mythology, I would term, then, the mystical, or metaphysical, the second, the cosmological, and the third, the sociological. The fourth, which lies at the root of all three as their base and final support, is the psychological: that, namely, of shaping individuals to the aims and ideals of their various social groups, bearing them on from birth to death through the course of a human life. And whereas the cosmological and sociological orders have varied greatly over the centuries and in various quarters of the globe, there have nevertheless been certain irreducible psychological problems inherent in the very biology of our species, which have remained constant, and have, consequently, so tended to control and structure the myths and rites in their service that, in spite of all the differences that have been recognized, analyzed, and stressed by sociologists and historians, there run through the myths of all mankind the common strains of a single symphony of the soul. Let us pause, there, to review briefly in sequence the order of these irreducible psychological problems.
The first to be faced derives from the fact that human beings are born some fourteen years too soon. No other animal endures such a long period of dependency on its parents. And then, suddenly, at a certain point in life, which varies, according to the culture, from, say, twelve to about twenty years of age, the child is expected to become an adult, and his whole psychological system, which has been tuned and trained to dependency, is now required to respond to the challenges of life in the way of responsibility. Stimuli are no longer to produce responses either of appeal for help or of submission to parental discipline, but of responsible social action appropriate to one's social role. In primitive societies the function of the cruel puberty rites has been everywhere and always to effect and confirm this transformation. And glancing now at our own modern world, deprived of such initiations and becoming yearly more and more intimidated by its own intransigent young, we may diagnose a neurotic as simply an adult who has failed to cross this threshold to responsibility: one whose response to every challenging situation is, first, "What would Daddy say? Where's Mother?" and only then comes to realize, "Why gosh! I'm Daddy, I'm forty years old! Mother is now my wife! It is I who must do this thing!" Not have traditional societies ever exhibited much sympathy for those unable or unwilling to assume the roles required. Among the Australian aborigines, if a boy in the course of his initiation seriously misbehave, he is killed and eaten - which is an efficient way, of course, to get rid of juvenile delinquents, but deprives the community, on the other hand, of the gifts of original thought. As the late Professor A. R. Radcliffe-Brown of Trinity College, Cambridge, observed in his important study of the Andaman Island pygmies: "A society depends for its existence on the presence in the minds of its members of a certain system of sentiments by which the conduct of the individual is regulated in conformity with the needs of the society…The sentiments in question are not innate but are developed in the individual by the action of the society upon him.” In other words: the entrance into adulthood from the long career of infancy is not of a blossom, to a state of naturally unfolding potentialities, but to the assumption of a social role, a mast or "persona," with which one is to identify.
Both the great and the lesser mythologies of mankind have, up to the present, always served simultaneously, both to lead the young from their estate in nature, and to bear the aging back to nature and on through the last dark door. And while doing all this, they have served, also, to render an image of the world of nature, a cosmological image as I have called it, that should seem to support the claims and aims of the local social group; so that through every feature of the experienced world the sense of an ideal harmony resting on a dark dimension of wonder should be communicated. One can only marvel at the integrating, life-structuring force of even the simplest traditional organization of mythic symbols.