Insofar as the extended system—the effective and narrative Selves planted in the great web of cause and effect—can reach deep into geographical and social space, the computational need for such focusing of behavioral feedback is pressing. By taking responsibility for the processing and use of this information, the phenomenal Self gives rise to another useful illusion: that of free will. In the West, it has been known since at least the time of Voltaire and Hume that the concept of uncaused cause, which is a prerequisite for free will, is logically incoherent: if my “free” decision to do a particular deed arises absolutely independently of any of the existing circumstances, including my own prior actions and states of mind, then in no sense can it be considered free, or, indeed, mine.
Despite the hopelessly messed-up logic behind it, the illusion of free will is useful because along with the illusion of a unitary self it provides a handy accounting mechanism for social justice and thus facilitates cultural learning and other types of social cognition. As some Buddhist philosophers intuited long ago, the web of cause and effect being the sole reality implies that there can be freedom only to the extent that there is not a Self. When considered in a modern cognitive science context, this tenet is seen to bring out a deeper understanding of the freedom of will instead of negating it. I do not
obey
a code of conduct that is implicit in the web of cause and effect; rather, I
am
part of the web. The ultimate reach of this web is universal—and within the boundaries of physical law the universe is, of course, free.
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Our quest for self-knowledge has thus led to the startling, yet ineluctable conclusion that everything about the mind—from the representations it constructs, through the simulations it conducts to plan behavior, down to the subjectively free phenomenal Self that seems to be running the show—is virtual, in a concrete computational sense. Of course, to this virtual entity itself it all feels very real, which is the whole point of the mind’s going to the trouble of simulating a self in the first place.
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To me, having this much insight into such an exceedingly complex system whose well-being I care about so viscerally feels liberating. And yet, it seems to me at times also that this knowledge casts a diaphanous veil of unreality over the world, which makes me think of Everett Ruess, a young artist who in 1934 disappeared into the southern Utah wilderness and who wrote in one of his last letters home: “Often as I wander, there are dream-like tinges when life seems impossibly strange and unreal. I think it is, too, except that most people have so dulled their senses that they do not realize it.”
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SYNOPSIS
The mind learns the world of which it is part by seeking patterns of statistical dependencies among experiential particulars, starting with premises and subject to constraints that are defined by genetic endowment and epigenetic development. From these particulars, which may be represented fleetingly or stored in episodic memory, arise the generalities that populate conceptual memory. To be useful for understanding and prediction or for forethought (which is the overarching functional requirement of any mind), concepts encode distilled causal knowledge about the world.
A persistent cluster of such conceptual knowledge accrued by a mind becomes the effective Self, which is part of the larger web of cause and effect that constitutes the reality we face and governs behavior within the constraints imposed by that reality. Being both social and articulate, we use language to augment our effective Selves with narratives, which, on a different level, also encode specific episodes from our own and from other people’s personal history, as well as general knowledge about how the world works. Just like the causal strands of the effective Self, the stories that make up the narrative Self extend out into the world beyond our skulls.
Learning the code that one must live by is hard work for which we, as creatures that are subject to evolutionary pressure, are rewarded with transient effort- and success-related happiness—not because we are entitled to it, but because creatures that are thus rewarded learn better and are less likely to go extinct. To be happy, or for that matter to have any kind of feeling toward a percept, a thought, or an action, a cognitive system must have a capacity for phenomenal experience—a capacity that is predicated on certain structural qualities of the representation-space trajectories that the system’s state can follow. Insofar as feelings are included in the evolutionary causal loop, creatures like us, which take life personally by virtue of constructing and using phenomenal Selves that feel, have a competitive edge over zombies that by definition do not (which explains why the latter are such a rarity in real life).
The coalition of Selves that is the mind uses its collective causal knowledge of the world to exercise forethought and to plan its own behavior by conducting simulations of likely scenarios and weighing its options. Simulating the world, complete with gravity, fruit-laden apple trees, other people, and perhaps a snake slithering through the grass, sounds a lot like setting up a virtual reality environment. This concept, which used to be owned by computer graphics experts, is now familiar to every gamer, but even if you are a veteran computer game player, you may be in for a surprise. What your mind takes to be the rock-bottom reality of the kind that is supposed to exist outside the gaming console is virtual in exactly the same sense that the simulated world inside the game is.
As a quick case in point, try to reconcile in some other way the single, uninterrupted, wide-angle quality of the visual world that you see with the fact that you are looking at the world through two eyes. The wide-screen visual experience that we are used to is virtual: it is the product of intensive computation, whose purpose is to recover depth cues from the two slightly disparate arrays of data provided by the eyes; when this or other computations that feed the mind’s virtual reality fail, illusions follow. The mind’s virtualized representation of the world encompasses not just the world’s perceptual qualities: as we learned earlier, decision-making scenarios and action plans, as well as entire bundles of processes that represent certain parts of other people’s minds, are also simulated.
Having realized that, you’re but one step away from the epitome of self-knowledge: understanding the true nature of your Self. The bottom line, then, is this: the Self, along with all of its perceived and remembered attributes—anything and everything that is included in the feeling of being you—is a product of the brain’s virtual reality engine. This virtual Self is computed and put in charge of the situation purely for reasons of good governance, that is, efficient and purposeful control of the brain’s life-support system—your body.
7
An Irresistible Call to Depart
Prometheus goes on parole. Alexander meets Diogenes in Corinth. History is made in Bishopsgate. Peace is struck in the republic of soul. Ulysses leaves Ithaca again.
You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d—you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction, before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart.
—WALT WHITMAN,
Leaves of Grass: Song of the Open Road
(1892, 82:11)
Prometheus Goes on Parole
It is a beautiful, sunny June day here in Ithaca, in the great state of New York. On a fallen log in my backyard, a pileated woodpecker is having his lunch. A fawn whose mom parked it for the afternoon in the bushes behind the deck is napping. An overweight rabbit pretends to ignore the neighbor’s sheepdog, while munching down a dandelion leaf, the narrow end first. Squirrels are pursuing each other all over the stand of white pine and look momentarily smug whenever they catch up with themselves.
On days like this, I am always moved to see the pursuit of happiness, which the United States Declaration of Independence lists as one of my inalienable rights, as just the thing for me. After all, I already have my life (good for as long as it lasts) and liberty (as much of it as the physics of the universe and my place in society allow). I have even experienced happiness occasionally (as recently as today), so I am sure I’ll know it when I catch it again. But will I know what to do with it?
It would be nice if happiness, once caught, could be saved for later enjoyment, just as I preserve high-resolution digital photos of the idyllic—to the point of embarrassment—wildlife activity in my backyard, so that I can put them on my screen and remember June in late November, when the outdoor scenery in upstate New York brings to mind
The Seventh Seal
rather than
Bambi
. Alas, storage does not quite work with happiness. Even if the entire situation, not just a few megapixels’ worth of it, were meticulously reconstructed, chances are it would not feel as happy as it once did. I can tell, because I have been there, more than once.
Let me illustrate what I mean with an example. I have been trying to understand for years why, given my love of hiking to wild and remote places, it is so hard for me to relax at the hike’s destination for any significant length of time. Here I am, having scrambled up a deep desert gorge to the rarity of rarities: a flowing spring. It is barely past noon (I have been hiking since dawn), and I know that I have hours to spare before I must start on my way back to civilization, and yet I feel a growing restlessness. A chunk of cured sausage wrapped in a flour tortilla and accompanied by a pickle (good for the salt balance when hiking in dry heat) offers a welcome diversion, but fifteen minutes later the urge to depart becomes irresistible. I get up and walk on.
I used to think it was just me, but no, it turns out that human nature is responsible—more precisely, my position along the spectrum of restlessness, with which the members of my species are endowed to different degrees. It seems plausible that many of us would be perfectly happy to spend a long afternoon listening to the tiny desert brook that is the only source of water within a two days’ walk, but who are those people? I suspect that they are the very same ones who are less susceptible to the call of the wild to begin with. If you would rather stay at home than go off on a walkabout at the first opportunity, you are more likely to find peace at any temporary stop along the way. The urge that drives people out into the wilderness is one and the same as the urge to move on that makes them restless once they are there.
This “call to depart,” which may be likened to a chronic case of cabin fever, is just one particularly noticeable side effect of the gift of Prometheus: forethought. We know that animal species evolve the capacity for forethought because anticipating an imminent danger and generally thinking ahead promotes reproductive fitness. In humans, the capacity for forethought is particularly well developed. In our minds, we can revisit, reevaluate, and learn from past experiences, imagine and learn from events that could have transpired but did not, and simulate alternative futures. What is common to all such situationally creative thinking, which I described in an earlier chapter, is that it temporarily insulates the thinker from the surrounding reality. While savoring the memories of last year’s vacation, wondering what kept you from getting out of the stock market before it crashed, polishing the phrasing of your next pay raise request, or even just trying to recall what that earlier chapter was about, you are effectively absent from the here and now.
Letting the mind wander in this manner is what the human brain does by default throughout waking life, as well as when dreaming while asleep. Some people like to wander the real world in person (this category includes myself and, posthumously, Walt Whitman), but even those who like to stay at home travel in virtual worlds whenever the cognitive demands of the present relent momentarily from occupying their minds. More often than not, default-mode simulated travel in space and time happens without conscious effort or even awareness of having strayed from reality. It does not matter that the mind’s propensity to wander evolved in the first place because it happens to help with planning a course of action—now that it can part with reality and venture into virtual spaces, the mind is habitually on a hair trigger to do so. In this sense, we are doomed to be perpetually restless in the present because the mind is an embodiment of the anticipation of the future.
In David Cronenberg’s expertly unnerving film
eXistenZ
, the characters play an immersion-style virtual-reality game, which they are given to believe they can suspend by exclaiming: “eXistenZ is paused!” In comparison, the reality that we are given to believe we inhabit can be suspended simply by thinking about something else. This insight greatly livens up Prometheus’s gift of forethought, which otherwise would seem terminally boring. Prudence is good for you (as evolution and our parents never tire of reminding us), but it does not sound like much fun. What joy it is to discover that the same mental faculties that make you wise by helping you see that which is about to be born also free you from the tyranny of the here and now!
For stealing his fire and for endowing mortal creatures with forethought, Zeus chained Prometheus to a rock in the Caucasus Mountains, sending an eagle every day to gnaw on the Titan’s liver (in clear violation of the Geneva Conventions). In romantic imagination, right is destined to win over might, and so in Shelley’s
Prometheus Unbound
the tyranny of Zeus is eventually overthrown. It is heartening to observe that in this respect life imitates art, up to a point. The mind is free to roam, even as it keeps getting yanked back to reality every time the brain’s physical well-being (as in evading the proverbial saber-toothed tiger) requires its presence. Prometheus’s sentence is not annulled; he is out on parole.
1
All the same, having to check in every now and then with the parole officer of reality is not too steep a price for a mind to pay for otherwise unlimited access to a virtual world over which it reigns.