From The Wall Street Journal:
Imagine that you could shrink yourself small enough to be able to travel inside a brain. Hiking up the hippocampus or sailing around the cerebellum would no doubt be an awesome experience and well worth the trip. But nowhere would you be able to experience what the person with the brain was thinking, hearing or feeling. The buzzing hive of conscious life would be, to you, just a collection of cells.
The limits of such a fantastic voyage point to two seemingly irreconcilable ways of viewing ourselves: as biological matter and as self-aware mind. The contrast has stumped philosophers and scientists for centuries and is sometimes framed in terms of the objective and subjective, the external and internal. Neuroscientist Erik Hoel, taking up these two realms of human self-perception, calls them the extrinsic and intrinsic perspectives. In “The World Behind the World,” he tries to explain why they exist, how we might try to bring them under a common understanding and why we might never fully succeed. On top of that, he attempts to rebut the argument, ever more frequent these days, that the firings of neurons—not thoughts and desires—are the only real causes of human action. As if that weren’t enough, he tries to save the idea that we have free will too—all in slightly more than 200 pages. His project is, he admits, “impossible in scope,” but he still has the chutzpah to give it a go.
Mr. Hoel begins by challenging the idea that the dual perspective—inside and outside—has been a perennial, unchanging feature of human experience. He argues instead that the intrinsic perspective took a while to come into its own. Since the time of Homer, he says, our ability to describe and express our inner world has developed considerably. The first stirrings can be seen in ancient Greek writers like Simonides, who developed the “memory palace” method of memorization, and Euripides, who gave voice to the inner lives of his characters. This perspective languished during medieval times, Mr. Hoel says, but was given new life in the Renaissance by writers like Cervantes and developed yet more with the rise of the novel in the 18th century.
The argument is speculative and the timeline too neat, but the key point is well-made: Consciousness may be a human universal, but our desire and ability to articulate its qualities and recognize it explicitly as a distinctive perspective are human variables, not any more innate than our ability to study the world scientifically. And indeed, Mr. Hoel says, the rise of science, too, depended on our learning a perspective—the extrinsic one. He gives an even faster whistle-stop tour of this process of development.
Mr. Hoel begins by challenging the idea that the dual perspective—inside and outside—has been a perennial, unchanging feature of human experience. He argues instead that the intrinsic perspective took a while to come into its own. Since the time of Homer, he says, our ability to describe and express our inner world has developed considerably. The first stirrings can be seen in ancient Greek writers like Simonides, who developed the “memory palace” method of memorization, and Euripides, who gave voice to the inner lives of his characters. This perspective languished during medieval times, Mr. Hoel says, but was given new life in the Renaissance by writers like Cervantes and developed yet more with the rise of the novel in the 18th century.
The argument is speculative and the timeline too neat, but the key point is well-made: Consciousness may be a human universal, but our desire and ability to articulate its qualities and recognize it explicitly as a distinctive perspective are human variables, not any more innate than our ability to study the world scientifically. And indeed, Mr. Hoel says, the rise of science, too, depended on our learning a perspective—the extrinsic one. He gives an even faster whistle-stop tour of this process of development.
But then, in perhaps the book’s most interesting chapter, Mr. Hoel changes tack and argues that the achievements of neuroscience—the quintessential mode for extrinsic self-examination—fall far short of what the hype and headlines suggest. We have been promised so much, as if the close study of the brain’s collection of cells will yield a complete explanation for consciousness. The truth is, Mr. Hoel says, that mapping the brain’s neuronal activity has provided us with very little predictive information. You cannot, for example, reliably tell if someone is depressed by looking at a brain scan. The brain is simply too malleable, too fluid in its structures and too complex for scans to pinpoint what does what at the neuronal level and what effects will arise from any particular pattern of neural activity.
But there is a deeper problem. Neuroscience has assumed that it can proceed purely by adopting the extrinsic perspective. However, as our hypothetical miniaturized journey around the brain shows, this perspective has severe limits—almost by definition, it excludes consciousness itself. Neuroscientists carry on as though this exclusion doesn’t matter. They tend to see consciousness, Mr. Hoel writes, as “some sort of minimal subsystem of the brain, possessing no information, almost useless. The steam from an engine.” Mr. Hoel argues that “our very survival as an organism” depends on consciousness and its ability to track reality accurately—or, as he puts it, on “the stream of consciousness being constantly veridical and richly informative.” Nothing in the brain makes sense, he adds, “except in the light of consciousness.”
At this point, Mr. Hoel has deftly set the stage for another whirlwind tour, this one surveying the theories of consciousness that have come out of both psychology and neuroscience. But here the going gets tougher. To mix metaphors, the reader faces a steep learning curve across terrain that is slippery at the best of times. It doesn’t help that Mr. Hoel starts to use logic truth tables as though they were as easy to read as bar charts.
. . . .
You cannot, for example, by analyzing the movement of individual atoms in the atmosphere, tell whether or not it’s going to rain or blow a hurricane. You have to look at a larger, more-inclusive scale, the one of air-pressure systems and cloud formation. Because only events at this level can explain and predict weather events, we rightly say they are their causes. Similarly, patterns of individual neurons firing don’t tell you how a person is going to act. But what someone thinks and feels may do so. These states of mind, Mr. Hoel says, are rightly called causes of action: They have “agency” in a way that mere cells do not.
As if he hasn’t taken on enough already, Mr. Hoel finishes by tackling the thorny problem of free will. The ambition of this task is suggested by his conclusion: “Having free will means being an agent that is causally emergent at the relevant level of description, for whom recent internal states are causally more relevant than distant past states, and who is computationally irreducible.” This is a perfectly reasonable suggestion, but it requires more than the 13 pages it is given to make its meaning clear, let alone to build a case for it.
Link to the rest at The Wall Street Journal