Friday, July 5, 2019

The Emergence and Nature of Human Consciousness, Part One: Toward a Definition of Consciousness


The outer skin and other external features of humans are deceptive. They show a solidity and continuity that conceal the true nature of a human. If a person’s consciousness were visible, a human would take on the appearance of an ever-changing entity, a being in a state of flux, one whose boundaries would be shifting and indefinite, while perhaps remaining in a loosely-defined general area. Consciousness lies at the heart of our study. It is also one of the hardest of all terms to define, and any attempt to do so immediately runs into the paradox discussed earlier in this book: Is it possible for the brain to understand its own deepest functions, or does the complexity of the brain preclude such an understanding? In short, is it even possible for us to discuss consciousness coherently, much less grasp its quintessence?

Consciousness is the essential phenomenon that makes a human different in degree from other animals. Humans may not be alone in the possession of consciousness, but it is the advanced level of human consciousness and the powers that derive from it that have given the human species at least some level of control over this planet's surface. Human history may be thought of as the way in which the experience of consciousness has affected the lives and interactions of humans on this planet. It is the central thesis of this book that humans do not understand their own consciousness fully. They are unaware of all the variables that affect it, are unable to describe it clearly even as they are experiencing it, and hence are unable to analyze completely the situations in which they find themselves. In my view it is the incomplete nature of human comprehension that is the chief factor driving the convoluted history of our species. Obviously, therefore, a definition of consciousness is crucial if we are to grasp this idea.   

So what do we mean by the term consciousness? What is it? One way in which consciousness may be defined is the entire set of a human’s thoughts, feelings, sensations, memories, perceptions, and imaginings when they are awake (or in the dream world of sleep, which is a simulacrum of waking consciousness). It is the sense of being a self, an I set aside from other selves. It is the awareness of being aware.    

But in a sense, none of these descriptions really gets to the heart of the matter. Consciousness feels like something. It is something which is experienced. (We might well ask, what does it mean to experience something?) Every human seems to experience the phenomenon of consciousness in a completely subjective and unique way, and yet, there is enough overlap in the experience of consciousness between and among these humans that they understand something about what it's like to be another human.

The sense of experience that humans have at any given moment is sometimes referred to by the term mental state, how life seems at that moment. (And of course the word seems is itself ambiguous.) As I have said, trying to understand the link between the one and a third kilograms (or so) of gelatinous stuff in our skulls and mental states is, in my mind, the supreme challenge to the human brain. It is every bit as challenging as the human attempt to understand the quantum world's counterintuitive operations. So, let's review the ideas of some of the foremost students of this elusive phenomenon, the consciousness that defines who and what we are.

Attempting a Definition of Consciousness

William James, in his classic study, The Principles of Psychology [1890], used the term the stream of thought (which many express as the stream of consciousness) to describe the actual experience of the self being awake and aware. Here is how James described this stream:

How does it go on? We notice immediately five important characters in the process, of which it shall be the duty of the present chapter to treat in a general way:
1) Every thought tends to be part of a personal consciousness.
2) Within each personal consciousness thought is always changing.
3) Within each personal consciousness thought is sensibly continuous.
4) It always appears to deal with objects independent of itself.
5) It is interested in some parts of these objects to the exclusion of others, and welcomes or rejects - chooses from among them, in a word - all the while.1

It bears emphasis that if we accept James' quite reasonable and empirically-verifiable criteria, then we must conclude that every conscious human who has ever lived has had a unique internal life experience (however similar their external circumstances to other people), and it is probable that all humans who live in the future will also have a unique internal life experience. (I would add that it may be possible in the future for the consciousnesses of two or more separate humans to, temporarily, intersect so completely that a group rather than individual identity might emerge.)

The philosopher Thomas Nagel tackled consciousness in his famous article, "What Is It Like to Be a Bat?" in 1974. It was his contention that there is something that it is like to be when one is conscious, using as his example the experience of bats, who navigate dark environments largely by echolocation. This mode of perception is largely alien to humans, virtually inconceivable. A human does not know what it would be like to be a bat. Nagel uses this example to argue that experience is inherently subjective, and that it isn't really possible to know the subjective experience of others, especially beings who are very different from humans. Nagel states that while it is possible to describe mental events in an "objective" way, this wouldn't give us a true idea about what it is like to experience them if we had no first-hand experience.2

So it can be argued that consciousness is experienced in a uniquely internal and subjective way. But what is it to be conscious? Stanislas Dehaene, a researcher in the field of cognitive neuroscience, defines the key element of consciousness to be what he calls conscious access. This, he says, is the ability to "see an object and describe our perception to others". Dahaene then elaborates on this idea. First, out of myriad possible sensory stimuli, consciousness can focus on one specific stimulus. In fact, Dahaene maintains that we can really only focus on one thought at a time, although that thought might be complex. Next, attention given to one item means attention given to a previous item must be dropped. When we make such a change of focus, to an item of which we had been preconscious, a whole host of mental processes are now engaged, such as language. Dahaene then points out the phenomenon of selective attention, the product of the brain's ability to filter out various sensory stimuli and memories. The action of this filtering process is one of which we are not aware. Finally, he says that conscious access rests on vigilance, attention, and wakefulness, but even these are not enough by themselves to enable us to have such access.3

Max Velmans begins his survey of consciousness by posing a series of  questions, what he calls the five chief problems involved in understanding it:

Problem 1.    What and where is consciousness?
Problem 2.  How are we to understand the causal relationships between consciousness and matter and, in particular, the causal relationships between consciousness and the brain?
Problem 3.  What is the function of consciousness? How, for example, does it relate to human information processing?
Problem 4.  What forms of matter are associated with consciousness – in particular, what are the neural substrates of consciousness in the human brain?
Problem 5. What are the appropriate ways to examine consciousness, to discover its nature? Which features can we examine with first-person methods, which features require third-person methods, and how do first- and third-person findings relate to each other?

In terms of a definition, Velmans keeps it simple and direct: consciousness rests on experience. If a person is experiencing, they are conscious. If they're not experiencing something, they're not. Expanding on this, he maintains that the presence or absence of "phenomenal content" defines the presence of consciousness.4 We will look at the concept of phenomena below.

What causes consciousness? From where does it arise? John R. Searle, who specializes in the philosophy of mind and language, is quite firm in his opinion that what he calls mental phenomena arise from the physiology of the brain itself. He rejects the notion of objective reality, arguing that "in general mental states have an irreducibly subjective ontology". He also rejects the idea that the human brain is capable of comprehending everything about the reality in which it is immersed. Consciousness, he states, "is as much a part of the natural biological order as any other biological features such as photosynthesis, digestion, or mitosis."5

Mark Rowlands first considers the nature of what is called phenomenal consciousness. He points out that it is difficult to describe its content in a non-circular way. He argues that the major attempts to define phenomenal consciousness all have inherent limitations. For example, definitions often focus chiefly on sensory perceptions, the limitations of which he points out:

There is often a tendency, particularly in the case of visual examples, to place undue emphasis on perceptually basic, or near basic, experiences: experiences of a patch of redness, and the like. But this, as Wittgenstein would put it, might provide a diet of philosophically one-sided examples. Often, the phenomenal character of an experience can depend on its significance for the experiencer, and this, at least ostensibly, cannot be reduced to the significance of a conglomeration of perceptually basic, or near basic, properties.6

Rowlands examines the contention that such experiences have a qualitative feel, that they possess qualia. [Broadly speaking, qualia represent the sensory experience of phenomena.] He cites Nagel's argument, that it is something to be like when one experiences qualia, but he sees this argument as incomplete. He also examines the argument that phenomenal consciousness is best approached by examining the physical conditions in which it occurs. Rowlands says that even taken collectively these approaches—analysis of sensory experience, focusing on qualia, recreating specific physical states—are insufficient. After considering various issues surrounding the concept of phenomenal consciousness, and other attempts at a definition,  Rowlands arrives at the following position: consciousness possesses a dual structure. It can "be both the directing of awareness and that upon which awareness is directed". He argues that consciousness therefore has a "hybrid character". It is "something of which we are aware" in conscious experience, and it is "something with which we are aware".7

Gerald Edelman initially gives us a rather conventional definition of consciousness, describing it as a kind of awareness, and he adds to it the observation that consciousness "is thus a process, not a thing", a process "not exhausting all aspects of the objects with which it deals". It involves, he says, such things as mental images, volition, decision-making, and intentionality. By this last word he means (as many others have also said) that conscious thought is about something, be it an object or something which has occurred. It has content. Consciousness is not only awareness but awareness of its own functions or awareness of the fact that it is having perceptions. He makes a distinction between what he calls primary consciousness, which chiefly deals with mental imagery, and higher-order consciousness, "which in humans is also able to embody a model of the personal (what we shall call direct awareness) and also of the past and future."8

Edelman expands on his examination of consciousness with a list of what he calls constraints. The first is an assertion that a "global theory of brain function" and consciousness must rest on "a materialist metaphysics and on an epistemology of qualified realism". (By qualified realism, Edelman means that our perception of reality is indirect.) The second constraint is the contention that a model of consciousness must rest on an overarching theory of brain function. Edelman calls his global brain theory the theory of neuronal group selection. By this Edelman means a theory of consciousness that is strictly biological. In his words, "The theory should stay close to the structure, development, and evolution of the nervous system as it relates to the rest of the phenotype". The third constraint is the contention that consciousness can only form in "a species having the appropriate brain structure at a certain stage of brain development". And the fourth constraint is the contention that a carefully constructed model of brain function should be explanatory. It should allow us to say that if certain carefully defined conditions exist, then consciousness will emerge in an animal's brain.9

Edelman surveys a number of conventional, dictionary-based definitions of consciousness, and then plunges into the tasks that must be accomplished by what he calls an extended theory of consciousness. Among these are accounting for consciousness as an evolutionary product, accounting for the varieties of consciousness, explaining how primary consciousness leads to higher order consciousness, explaining the subjective character of consciousness, the ability of consciousness to account for objects outside of itself, and many others. It is by following these rigorous and extensive criteria that he hopes to point the way to a comprehensive definition.10

Antti Revonsuo focuses first on the concept of phenomenal consciousness, or as he puts it, "the study of the world-for-me, or, more generally, worlds-for-someone: the subjective psychological realities within which all of us live our lives." The foremost feature of phenomenal consciousness, in Revonsuo's view, is presence. As he puts it, "For a sensation to be present-for-me it must manifest itself directly before my mind, somewhere within my perceptual space." Presence, he says, is both spatial and temporal, and is something which happens to one in the immediate present. Then Revonsuo elaborates. Consciously-experienced events have a location, they are occurring within a person's subjective experience and most of them have an identifiable source. They possess duration, but here he is careful to note that the experience itself has duration, not necessarily the stimulus causing it. Experiences also have intensity.

Of particular note to Revonsuo is the next feature of experience: its quality. Experiences  are of a certain kind, such as the perception of one color as opposed to another, or of one kind of physical sensation as opposed to another. "Qualities are thus the 'stuff' that experiences are made of." He adds:

The sensory-perceptual world we normally enjoy involves immensely complex, ever-changing dynamic combinations of qualities. The qualities are carefully organized to make up shapes and forms, surfaces and objects, melodies and words, aromas and caresses: the entire world-for-me.11

Revonsuo then moves to a discussion of qualia, pointing to them as the basis of phenomenal consciousness. But he adds an important note: we don't experience qualia, these irreducibly basic phenomena, simply as a mass of sensations and perceptions. These phenomena are organized by the brain in such a way that "they are instinctively taken as meaningful, familiar objects".12

It is because qualia appear to present themselves in patterns that evoke meaning that it would be a good idea, at this juncture, to talk about the idea of representation in consciousness. Different researchers use the term to mean somewhat different things. What do we mean, in general, when we say the mind represents something? In the realm of pure thought, such as when we imagine or visualize objects, the objects we see in our imagination are mental representations of those objects, not the objects themselves. The use of language is a form of representation, inasmuch as words represent objects or ideas. Mathematical expressions represent ideas specific to that realm. Memories, especially those based on association, are a form of representation. In the view of some researchers there is a representing world and the represented world. [Broadly speaking, the represented world is the exterior world we perceive and the representing world is the way that world is interpreted in our consciousness.] As one specialist puts it, "The representation is an element within the representing world, and it reflects, stands for, or signifies some aspect of the represented world". 13

There is strong debate among philosophers about this doctrine, with many rejecting it outright. The great weakness of the representational view, in the eyes of many, is that it cannot adequately account for our awareness of bodily sensations. One can make a coherent argument for representation, or intentionality [again, the idea that perceptions have content] in such areas as visual stimuli. It is more difficult, even impossible, say critics, in such areas as painful or pleasurable physical experiences. There are representationalist philosophers who have attempted to integrate bodily sensations into representational schemes, but these efforts have not been universally convincing.

Self representational schemes seem to rest on the idea that not only do we experience phenomena in a subjective way, but we are aware of our own awareness. We have the experience and we are aware that is the self that is experiencing whatever phenomenal input is causing our subjective awareness, that it is the self that is being represented.14 This particular viewpoint (which I am greatly over-simplifying for the sake of brevity) is also disputed by various philosophers.

Some researchers prefer to emphasize different kinds or varieties of consciousness. These varieties are known as higher-order theories of consciousness. For example, the philosopher Ned Block differentiates between phenomenal consciousness and access consciousness. In a 1995 paper he explained the distinction:

Phenomenal consciousness is experience; the phenomenally conscious aspect of a state is what it is like to be in that state. The mark of access-consciousness, by contrast, is availability for use in reasoning and rationally guiding speech and action.

Block argues that it is possible to have phenomenal consciousness without having access consciousness. We might be aware of a sound, for example, and not associate it with a particular source doing a specific thing. When we identify that source, we are in access mode.15

Antonio Damasio points out that consciousness supports the actions the human animal needs to take in order to survive. Such actions include the acquisition of energy for the body and defense against physical threats. The images that consciousness provides us facilitate these actions by giving us options and letting us imagine outcomes. Advanced consciousness is therefore an evolutionary advantage humans have over other living things. As he puts it,

The pathbreaking novelty provided by consciousness was the possibility of connecting the inner sanctum of life regulation with the processing of images. Put in other words, it was the possibility of bringing the system of life regulation—which is housed in the depths of the brain in regions such as the brain stem and hypothalamus—to bear on the processing of the images which represent the things and events which exist inside and outside the organism.16

Damasio then turns to the issues that surround a definition of consciousness. Here he makes crucially important points about the term mind, which is often used interchangeably with the term consciousness. Consciousness is only one part of the mind, the part that "pertains to the knowing of any object or action attributed to a self". We can have mind without the experience of consciousness.17

Paul Nunez maintains that consciousness is what he calls a fundamental entity, something that can only be described by circular definitions. He offers an unconventional interpretation of the term. He puts it this way:

"To me, consciousness seems more analogous to fundamental physical properties like charge and energy...Given this argument, I posit that any serious study of consciousness must adopt a conceptual framework that allows for the possibility that consciousness is a fundamental property of the universe."18
Needless to say, such a position is open to very wide interpretation, and it is also one which many scientists and philosophers would contest vigorously.

There are researchers who argue that humans do not actually possess conscious thought at all. Philosopher Peter Carruthers says that we cannot explain the sources of our thought, and our interpretations of the thoughts of others are affected by unconscious influences we cannot really know.

I believe that the whole idea of conscious thought is an error. I came to this conclusion by following out the implications of the two of the main theories of consciousness... Now, whichever view you adopt, it turns out that thoughts such as decisions and judgments should not be considered to be conscious. They are not accessible in working memory, nor are we directly aware of them. We merely have what I call “the illusion of immediacy”—the false impression that we know our thoughts directly.

Carruthers maintains that we are required to try to guess the motivations of others, and we generally do so by assuming that others know their own mind, when in fact they face the same illusion of immediacy as we. He maintains that the unconscious and what we call the conscious "are not separate spheres; they operate in tandem." Consciousness, he argues, "is not direct awareness of our inner world of thoughts and judgments but a highly inferential process." 19

Finally, other researchers speculate that quantum mechanics can give us insights into consciousness, citing the strange fact that quantum events seem to vary depending on whether they are observed or not. Some philosophers wonder if inanimate objects or individual particles possess consciousness (panpsychism). And there are ideas, such as those espoused by Daniel Dennett, that consciousness is an illusion, and if it goes too far to say that it doesn't really exist, it can at least be said it doesn't exist in the way we think it does.

The Hard Problem of Consciousness

Philosopher David Chalmers has written extensively on consciousness, and is most notably associated with the idea of "the hard problem of consciousness". Here is his definition of the term:

The hard problem...is the question of how physical processes in the brain give rise to subjective experience. This puzzle involves the inner aspect of thought and perception: the way things feel for the subject. When we see, for example, we experience visual sensations, such as that of vivid blue. Or think of the ineffable sound of a distant oboe, the agony of an intense pain, the sparkle of happiness or the meditative quality of a moment lost in thought. All are part of what I am calling consciousness. It is these phenomena that pose the real mystery of the mind.

Chalmers speaks of what another researcher has called "the explanatory gap". Chalmers asserts that even if we had a thorough understanding of the neural correlates of consciousness, which is to say the places in the brain that are electrically active during conscious experience, we would still be at a loss to explain what it's like to be aware of our awareness. "Remarkably, subjective experience seems to emerge from a physical process. But we have no idea how or why this is."20

The response to Chalmers has, unsurprisingly, been varied. Some have even gone so far as to assert the hard problem is beyond solution. Adopting a position sometimes known as mysterianism, they contend that our brains are capable of knowing the hard problem exists, but lack the cognitive abilities to understand it.21

One researcher believes that concentrating on the hard problem distracts us from more pressing issues:

But there is an alternative, which I like to call the real problem: how to account for the various properties of consciousness in terms of biological mechanisms; without pretending it doesn’t exist (easy problem) and without worrying too much about explaining its existence in the first place (hard problem)...In the same way, tackling the real problem of consciousness depends on distinguishing different aspects of consciousness, and mapping their phenomenological properties (subjective first-person descriptions of what conscious experiences are like) onto underlying biological mechanisms (objective third-person descriptions).

But this researcher is not only talking about mapping the regions of the brain's activity. There is, he says, a more important consideration. He contends that a good model of the conscious brain might be Hermann von Helmholtz's concept of the brain as prediction machine. According to this hypothesis, the brain combines sensory signals (the meaning of which is not always apparent) with expectations and beliefs about the nature of the world. This process makes consciousness a sort of elaborate guess. When there is input that seems to violate these expectations, it's not always perceived as such. Finding out how the brain handles perception is therefore crucial to our understanding of consciousness, more so perhaps than trying to understand why consciousness exists in the first place.22

The "Easy" Problems of Consciousness

Chalmers has also discussed what he believes to be the "easy" problems of consciousness, by which he means mental phenomena that can be explained by straightforward scientific means, mental phenomena that have clearly identified mechanisms. Chalmers includes within this definition the following, in his words:

the ability to discriminate, categorize, and react to environmental stimuli;
the integration of information by a cognitive system;
the reportability of mental states;
the ability of a system to access its own internal states;
the focus of attention;
the deliberate control of behavior;
the difference between wakefulness and sleep.23

Chalmers' concept has been challenged by several other consciousness researchers, among them philosopher E. J. Lowe. Lowe argues that the terms Chalmers uses are themselves ambiguous and more applicable to insentient objects than to human beings. Moreover, Lowe contends that the experience of qualia and human cognition are deeply, intimately interrelated.24

The Search for the Neural Correlates of Consciousness

Since the advent of brain scans capable of detecting activity in certain parts of the brain during  particular states of conscious awareness, there has been a major effort made to locate the neural correlates of consciousness (NCC), those brain regions which seem to generate consciousness itself. But several researchers make a crucial point about this subject, which I summarize like this: Simply because some region of the brain "lights up" on brain scans when a person is feeling a particular emotion or sensation, it does not "explain" what it is like to experience the phenomenon. It merely indicates that that region of the brain is involved in the phenomenon.

And yet these regions bear examination. Perhaps the most crucially important study of this matter was published by Francis Crick and Christof Koch in 1990. In a paper entitled "Towards a neurobiological theory of consciousness", Crick and Koch laid out a cogent argument that the key to understanding the workings of consciousness is an understanding of what happens at the neural level. To illustrate this they focused on visual perception. After examining the mechanisms that underlie it, they came to the following conclusion:

Why, then, is consciousness so mysterious? A striking feature of our visual awareness (and of consciousness in general) is that it is very rich in information, even if much of it is retained for only a rather brief time. Not only can the system switch rapidly from one object to another, but in addition it can handle a very large amount of information in a coherent way at a single moment. We believe it is mainly these two abilities, combined with the very transient memory systems involved, that has made it appear so strange. We have no experience (apart from the very limited view provided by our own introspection) of machines having complex, rapidly changing and highly parallel activity of this type. When we can both construct such machines and understand their detailed behavior, much of the mystery of consciousness may disappear.25

Koch and another respected expert in the study of consciousness, Florian Mormann, came to the following conclusion after another extensive examination of the issues surrounding NCCs. It was their opinion that a feedback system from the frontal lobe to the sensory cortices reaches a sort of critical mass, upon which activity is distributed to a wide number of brain regions, creating what they call "the global workspace model of consciousness". They further concluded while there can be "complex behavior without conscious sensation", consciousness itself rests on this feedback system.26

A very thorough examination of the brain substrate that is involved in the generation of consciousness has identified what its author refers to as the consciousness system. Within this system are interacting networks of brain structures and neurotransmitters, all working in concert, frequently in parallel to each other, and exerting their influences in varying degrees at varying times. The overall tasks of the system are alertness, attention, and awareness. The consciousness system has both cortical and subcortical structures. The cortical structures involved include the association cortices (frontal and parietal), the anterior cingulate region, medial frontal cortex, the precuneus, the posterior cingulate region, and the retrosplenial cortex. [The retrosplenial cortex is involved in various cognitive functions, such as navigation, imagination, and episodic memory. It has major connections to the hippocampal regions.] The subcortical structures include the upper brainstem, thalamus, hypothalamus, and basal forebrain. The basal ganglia, cerebellum, claustrum, and amygdala may also be involved. At least seven different neurotransmitters appear to play a role as well.27 [It should be noted here that the term association cortex is sometimes rendered as the association areas, and refers to most of the cerebral surface. These areas process and coordinate information coming from the sensory cortices.]

The author makes a crucial observation about the role of the association cortices:

It is the collective activity of widespread areas of the bilateral association cortex that determines the level of consciousness. Taken as a whole, the higher-order association cortex interacts with subcortical arousal systems to exert powerful control over the overall level of arousal, attention, and awareness.28

The author of this study emphasizes that the neurophysiology of consciousness is just as important as the neuroanatomical networks involved in it, and that this physiology is much less well understood. Many hypotheses about neurophysiology have been proposed, such as that of Koch and Mormann above. I hope an examination of specific areas of conscious experience and other aspects of mind will yield clues to this.

Consciousness as an Emergent Phenomenon

In a significant study released in 2011, physicist and expert in complex networks Danielle Bassett and psychologist and neuroscientist Michael Gazzaniga argued that, "The brain...can be understood as a complex system or network, in which mental states emerge from the interaction between multiple physical and functional levels." They first note the ability of complex network theory to describe connections within a system, and how the system's growth can be shaped by external factors. This theory, they contend, is "particularly applicable to the study of the human brain", which they describe as a complex system with many subcomponents interacting across both time and space. They contend that the constraints on the brain's anatomy constrain its physiology, while noting that the degree of a brain region's neuronal connectivity does not necessarily tell us about that region's specific function. (Interestingly, they explain that the cortex possesses multipotentiality, noting that in people blind from a young age structures devoted to vision can develop into structures devoted to hearing.)29

Most significantly, the authors point out that the brain's components are organized in different scales of size, and act at different rates of speed. They refer to this as multiscale organization. For example, the highest frequency of gamma waves (those in excess of 30 hertz) appear to be necessary in higher cognitive processes, while lower frequencies of gamma, beta, delta, or theta waves affect other functions. [These brainwaves are the electrical pulses produced by groups of neurons.] It is this multiscale organization that allows the brain to be "more than the sum of the system’s parts at any particular level or across levels" as they put it. Consciousness itself may be the product of this organization, a genuine emergent phenomenon.30 There appears to be a constant interaction between the brain and what the authors call mind, the contents of the physical brain. It is this interaction that appears to shape who and what we are.

Summary

So, after weighing these various opinions, and considering the evidence presented in the previous chapters of this volume, along with my own hypotheses, I take the following positions:

A. Consciousness arises solely from the anatomy and physiology of the brain. When an animal brain becomes sufficiently large in absolute terms, sufficiently large in relation to the animal's size and composed chiefly of cortical tissue (in other words, when a brain possesses a high degree of encephalization), and, most crucially, when an animal brain has a connectome of sufficient density and interconnectivity, consciousness will arise. In the human animal, absolute brain size, degree of encephalization, and connectome complexity have allowed that animal to have the highest degree of conscious awareness of any member of the animal kingdom. It is probable that the capacity for conscious experience grew throughout our genus's evolutionary development. Consciousness is therefore one of the emergent phenomena brought about by organic evolution, a phenomenon which is more than the sum of its component elements, and its possession gives humans distinct survival and reproductive advantages.

B. There is no separation of "mind" and "body". Mind, being an emergent property of a sufficiently sophisticated brain, is an aspect of body. However, the terms consciousness and mind are not synonymous. Consciousness is only a part of the mind. Other features of the mind can act without being consciously experienced.

C. While consciousness arises out of the anatomy and physiology of the brain, it cannot be understood simply by an analysis of the physical factors which underlie it and by which it is generated. Consciousness can only truly be apprehended by the experience of phenomena or qualia and the ways  by which we access such phenomena or qualia. The perception of sensory information is imbued with various degrees of association and meaning. Inanimate objects often carry a variety of such meanings and associations, and other animals, particularly humans, often carry far more such meanings and associations. Moreover, since all regions of the brain are interconnected, intellectual, emotional, and basic survival functions interact with each other on a constant, reciprocal basis. Our responses to the world and our picture of ourselves are the product of this extremely complex interaction.

D. All definitions of consciousness are, to varying degrees, circular. The term awareness is an example of this principle. (To be aware is to be conscious. To be conscious is to be aware.) Again, consciousness must be experienced to be understood. Consciousness is not a thing, it is a process, a manifestation of the mind's hypotheses about itself and the "outer" world. And as is the case with the fundamental forces which underlie all physical reality, consciousness is best understood by what it does rather than what it is. It is the emergent brain property that permits a human to understand that they are a distinct physical entity, one set apart from other physical entities. It gives a human a sense of being a self (whether we accept the ultimate reality of that term or not). A self has a life story or narrative, and this narrative is based on a set of memories particular to the person who has them. A self has a characteristic way of perceiving reality, one which has been shaped by certain genetic predispositions, emotional reactions, and reactions to those reactions. Consciousness allows for the imagination of various scenarios, courses of action, personal expressions, and images involving the self. Consciousness allows a human to think about their own thoughts, to engage in reflexive and recursive thought. It is the awareness that one is aware. It incorporates within itself the entire sum of a human's sensory perceptions when awake, the ways the brain filters those perceptions at any given moment, the focus of a human's attention, the subconscious influences at work at any given moment, and the mixture of intellect and emotion by which a human interprets their experience. There appear to be different levels of consciousness, such as the distinction between the basic experience of qualia and the interpretation of those qualia.

E. Every human's conscious awareness is unique and individual. No two humans experience conscious awareness in identical ways. We must assume that no two humans in the past have ever had identical states of consciousness. And although we cannot assume that in the future no two humans will ever have identical conscious states, we must consider it unlikely. Therefore, we must assume that every human being who has ever lived has experienced the world in their own particular way. We must also assume, in my view, that they did not fully understand this experience. Nonetheless, humans have enough similarity of conscious experience that they can, to a limited degree, understand the experience of others. This understanding is by its very nature incomplete, and it is easy for a human to believe that they understand more about others than they really do. Humans sometimes say that they are of "one mind" with another or with a group of others. I submit that the concept of "one mind" is an illusion. Humans are forced to make assessments of other humans, but these assessments are often based on guesswork, and are never more than approximations.

F. Consciousness does not give a human a direct understanding of reality. It gives them a mediated version of it, one which is specific to our species. No human perceives "the thing in itself", nor has any human in the past ever done so. It is unlikely that any human in the future will ever do so, either. What humans perceive are representations of reality, a reality that is often filtered through a distinct sense of self. The processes which form consciousness do so in a synergistic fashion. But the processes themselves are flawed or incomplete. Perception can actually be misperception. Memory is not a fully reliable or complete record of a human's experience. What we think is understanding can actually be misunderstanding. Sensations may not be interpreted completely. Subconscious influences can affect judgment. Conflicting emotions can prevent complete focus on a given situation. The intellect may be lacking in key information. In short, consciousness has given humans immense powers and capabilities, but it has also made these same humans deeply fallible. Intelligence, and consciousness in general, did not evolve to give humans complete understanding of their situation. They evolved to help humans survive long enough to reproduce their genes. It is unlikely in the extreme that humans have the ability to consciously understand everything about the reality in which they live.

Personal Observations

The brain, the core of the nervous system, combines incoming sensory data with the emotional/intellectual memory of the past self and its reaction to similar input. Our responses to the world and our picture of ourselves are the product of this extremely complex interaction. There is a continuous synergetic relationship between the “outer” world of experience and the “inner” world of consciousness.

This picture of ourselves and the responses to the world formed by the human nervous system are (in most humans) consistent enough, predictable enough, and stable enough to allow for interaction with other humans and with the physical environment in which all of these humans live. It is sufficient to allow humans to make assessments about themselves relative to those humans and the environment. It provides a human with the means to navigate the ordinary, everyday world. It does not, however, provide a human with the automatic ability to cope with the most difficult or challenging or novel situations.

The fundamental reason consciousness began to evolve, in my view, is that certain information received by an animal is more crucial than other information. Certain information takes priority, and the ability of a nervous system to sort out signals, assess them, and attend to the most crucial ones is very much the key to survival. In a sense, I think consciousness is yet another manifestation of natural selection. (We will examine the possible origins of consciousness in the next chapter.)

An individual consciousness, the product of the brain's evolution, is shaped by the world, but it in turn shapes the world. Since the world is enormous in relation to it, this may not seem possible. But the individual brain decides what reality is, even though the person possessing that brain may not be fully aware that such a decision is being made. It is by the individual response to the world that consciousness shapes that world. In a sense, the world is what I say it is in the universe of myself. When we are awake we and the world are influencing each other, and humans are constantly interpreting their experience. What we are doing by this process, in my view, is creating a continuous metaphor, a picture of reality suited to the capacities of our brains.

I have stated that consciousness is best understood by what it does rather than what it is. And what it does, within the limits of genetic inheritance and inherent human physical capabilities, is make the human animal almost infinitely malleable in its behavior, if not at the individual than at the collective level. The collective action of consciousnesses working in concert can shape the world decisively, but never in the exact way anticipated. Human consciousness appears to be very good at organization (in general), but very poor at the understanding of long-term consequences (again, in general). Human consciousness, as stated in the conclusions, is inherently incapable of understanding everything in the environment around it. Nor is human consciousness able to perceive or understand all the variables at work in a given situation. These variables are simply too multitudinous, too diverse, too varied in their origins, and too complex and subtle in their interactions. It is unlikely (but not impossible) that any human will ever possess complete understanding of the nature and operation of these variables.

Human consciousness makes possible a capacity often called reflexivity, which fundamentally means self-awareness. It is the realization that one is part of the reality one is observing, and that the act of observing can itself alter this reality. Human consciousness allows for self-assessment, a trait unique to humans. Humans can evaluate their thoughts, current situation, and actions. They can think about their own thinking. Humans are capable of describing (in part) their internal experience and conveying this (however imperfectly) to other conscious humans. They are capable of compartmentalization, the ability to separate patterns of thought and the associated content these patterns create from other patterns and content.

Finally, every human who has ever survived infancy has lived in the river of consciousness, a place saturated with sensory perceptions, one in which vague, ill-defined pictures are "seen" and pieces of conversation and music are "heard". It is a place of both reaction and initiative, continuously changing, a place where long-forgotten memories can spontaneously be revived, along with the attendant emotions surrounding them. It is (for the vast majority) a place where language is processed and used. It holds tastes, preferences, knowledge, intellect. It is a place not only where we feel but try to understand what and why we are feeling. It is the place where the hidden or non-conscious parts of the mind act to shape us. It is the place in which the human senses the existence of a unique being—themself. And it is the place in which interaction with other conscious minds and with the world in which everyone exists takes place. When two conscious humans interact, it is as if two rivers have briefly flowed into each other, however incompletely. These confluences, over the course of a lifetime, give human consciousness characteristics that are virtually impossible to fully assess. The quest to understand consciousness and all the factors that shape it is, in one sense, a search for that which has driven the human story forward, a story that has unfolded in often puzzling or unexpected ways. Consciousness can be a place of mundane, ordinary experience, or a place of exaltation, or a place of torment, or a place of serenity, or a place of madness. But however it is being experienced, it is for us the entire universe. It is everything we are or ever will be. So now we turn to the possible origins of this elusive, seemingly indefinable phenomenon, reassured perhaps that we can know how it may have come to be without really being able to define it.

SOURCES:

1.             James, William, The Principles of Psychology,

http://psychclassics.yorku.ca/James/Principles/prin9.htm
2.             Nagel, Thomas, "What Is It Like to Be a Bat?"
http://faculty.arts.ubc.ca/maydede/mind/Nagel_Whatisitliketobeabat.pdf
3.             Dehaene, Stanislas, Consciousness and the Brain: Deciphering How the Brain Codes Our Thoughts. New York: Penguin Books, 2014, pp. 9, 20-23)
4.             Velmans, Max, Understanding Consciousness
https://www.questia.com/library/120092331/understanding-consciousness, pp. 4, 8
5.             Searle, John R. The Rediscovery of the Mind. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1995, pp. 1, 19. 24, and 90
6.             Rowlands, Mark, The Nature of Consciousness
https://www.questia.com/library/105042552/the-nature-of-consciousness, pp. 1-2
7.             Rowlands, pp. 3-15, p. 122
8.             Edelman, Gerald M., The Remembered Present: A Biological Theory of Consciousness. New York: Basic Books, Inc., Publishers, 1989, pp. 4-5
9.            Edelman, pp. 10-11, 264
10.          Edelman, pp. 15-19
11.          Revonsuo, Antti. Inner Presence: Consciousness as a Biological Phenomenon. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2006, pp. 32-35.
12.          Revonsuo, pp. 35-37
13.          Rowlands, 198-201; Herbert A. Simon, "On the Forms of Mental Representation", pp. 2-10, https://conservancy.umn.edu/bitstream/handle/11299/185337/9_01Simon.pdf?sequence=1;
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, "Mental Representation"; Timothy L. Hubbard, "What is mental representation? And how does it relate to consciousness?" in Journal of Consciousness Studies, January 2007.
14.          Kriegel, Uriah, Subjective Consciousness: A Self-Representational Theory. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2009, pp. 1-3, 101-103.
15.          Block, Ned, "On a Confusion About a Function of Consciousness" in Behavioral and Brain Sciences (1995) 18, 227-287
16.          Damasio, Antonio, The Feeling of What Happens: Body and Emotion in the Making of Consciousness. New York: Harcourt, Inc., 1999, pp. 23-25.
17.          Damasio, pp. 26-28.
18.          Nunez, Paul L. Brain, Mind, and the Structure of Reality. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2010, pp. 249-251.
19.          https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/there-is-no-such-thing-as-conscious-thought/
20.          Chalmers, David J., "The Puzzle of Conscious Experience", Scientific American
Vol. 273, No. 6, December 1995, pp. 80-86.
21.          http://www.scholarpedia.org/article/Hard_problem_of_consciousness
22.          https://aeon.co/essays/the-hard-problem-of-consciousness-is-a-distraction-from-the-real-one
23.          http://consc.net/papers/facing.html
24.          https://antimatters2.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/2-1-73-80.pdf
25.          Francis Crick and Christof Koch, "Towards a neurobiological theory of consciousness", in Seminars in the Neurosciences, Vol. 2, 1990 : pp 263-275             
26.          http://www.scholarpedia.org/article/Neural_correlates_of_consciousness
27.          Hal Blumenfeld, "Neuroanatomical Basis of Consciousness" in The Neurology of Consciousness: Cognitive Neuroscience and Neuropathology, Second Edition. Editors: Steven Laureys, Olivia Gosseries, Giulio Tononi. London: Academic Press, 2009, 2016, p. 4-8.
28.          Blumenfeld, p. 5
29.          Danielle S. Bassett and Michael S. Gazzaniga, "Understanding complexity in the human brain" in Trends in Cognitive Sciences, September 11, 2011
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3170818/
30.          Bassett and Gazzaniga



























  

Friday, April 26, 2019

The Human Situation




The human species therefore finds itself effectively alone in the Universe. As we will see in a subsequent volume, it is not likely that we are the only self-aware and reasonably intelligent species of life to have emerged in that universe. But the tremendous distances that separate us from other communicative species effectively isolate us, at least for now. And the human race cannot be said to have exerted, as yet, any influence whatsoever on the Universe outside of its home solar system.

Humans are a life form, a specific arrangement of energy-matter. Being a kind of animal, humans require oxygen, are heterotrophic (meaning they must ingest nutrition), require water (as all land animals do), are mobile (as are all but a few animal species), are vulnerable to illness and injury, and are mortal. These seemingly mundane facts have, in large part, set the boundaries of human life. Add to this the fact that humans possess a brain that combines autonomic functions, emotional responses, and advanced intellect. This combination gives humans a rich and baffling psychological complexity. It also inhibits their ability to understand themselves. Moreover, the brain's capabilities have allowed humans to construct societies and cultures too complex for humans to comprehend.

Further, despite their advanced brains, the members of the human species are bound by their own perceptual and cognitive limitations, as we will see in greater detail later. More specifically, humans are limited by the fact that all communication is approximate, a point I will stress several times in these volumes. Humans can never be entirely sure that their meaning has been understood (even by themselves) or that they understand the meaning of others. More broadly, humans do not fully understand their own situation at any given time, and the species exists in a situation too big and too complex for any of its members to grasp. Humanity itself is headed into a future the nature of which none of its members can predict with any certainty.

Immersed in this situation, humans tend to seek explanations for the world around them, whether they realize it or not. They ask questions about this world.  Obviously, for most humans throughout our time on this planet, the chief question has been How can we survive? But humans, being intensely social animals (with a handful of exceptions) live in a mental world of interaction. They interact with other humans, they interact with the physical world that surrounds them, they interact with their own reactions to that world. Hence, wittingly or unwittingly, they have questions about these various interactions.

These questions appear to fall into several broad categories, the boundaries of which are highly permeable and the definitions of which are open to widely variable interpretation. Humans ask questions about their identity as people. They do this unconsciously, for the most part. Establishing a sense of identity orients people in reality. Humans ask questions about other people and their relationship to them. In a life filled with interaction, answers to these questions are crucial, and many people never figure out the answers. Questions related to identity and relationships with others lay the foundations upon which human social and cultural life rest. They ask questions about their place in the world, how they should live, and how they can defend those they love. They ask questions about truth, about what and why the world is, about suffering, about meaning, and about death. The search for answers to this last set of questions has been central to the human experience, and has provided the impetus for most of our religious, philosophical, scientific, and artistic endeavors.

Finally, the very act of asking these questions, whether articulated or not, affects the nature of human life itself. If humans make and have always made history, it is the search for satisfactory answers to their questions that has caused them to do this.

Questions Related to Personal Identity

Upon birth, we must suppose that an infant faces a physical reality which is totally incomprehensible to him or her. Instinctive reactions, born of evolution’s long history, govern a baby’s behavior. As the neurons of the brain interweave themselves and make connections (while pruning back others), the earliest self-awareness an infant/toddler has begins to emerge. An “I” is beginning to take shape, the sense of being an object differentiated from other objects, a feeling of being connected by the senses to the outside world. So the initial question we face is, in my view, What am I? Children tend to quickly learn some variation of an answer to this question: I am a baby, I am baby boy or baby girl, I am something which belongs to mommy or daddy, I am someone who has needs. Young children just learning to speak are often excited to see other very young children, and will often exclaim, “Baby!”, upon seeing them. This recognition of others is a crucial part of personality formation and categorization. There are big people; there are little people. The earliest memories, usually from around the age of 3, indicate (in my view) a stage in the development of the self, and a new step toward defining the “What am I” question.  All throughout life, as roles are acquired and membership in various groups is understood, and assimilated into a person’s consciousness, the answers to What am I grow increasingly elaborate and complex. All sorts of categories now seem applicable: member of a family, member of a neighborhood, member of a school, member of a town, member of a nation, and so on. The answers to the question “What am I” form crucial aspects of an individual’s identity. By identity, I mean the association of the “I”, the self, with various definitions which seem to be congruent with experience. “What am I” continues to be asked (either consciously or unconsciously) all through life. Answers can include, “a child”, “a teenager”, “an adult”, “an employee”, “an old person”, and, if there is sufficient lucidity near the end of one’s life, “a dying person”. In a sense, What am I is the ultimate, primal, permanent question of life, one that follows us from birth all the way to the moment of death.

Who am I? is a variation on What am I?. The various definitions associated with the self, combined with an individual’s unique experiences and genetic predispositions, form a biographical narrative in a human brain (assuming the person in question is of adequate intelligence). This narrative is strengthened by the possession of a name, a ready identifier which becomes indelibly linked to us.  We say, in various ways, “I am [name]. I have a story that is mine alone. I have my own set of characteristics and ways of seeing the world. No one else is me. I live inside of myself, and I know my story better than anyone. Things have happened to me. I have done things. I have thought and felt things. I will be me for the rest of my life.” An individual human might change the definition of Who am I several times over a lifetime. And some people never quite get a handle on it. The answers to the question, Who am I can be vague, somewhat shapeless, indefinite, and malleable, as a human’s life unfolds and follows often unexpected paths. Answers to this fundamental question can change under the pressures of new circumstances, dramatic personal events (especially crises), and new, age-related perspectives.

Questions Related to the Existence of Others and Relations With Them

Who are the people around me? is a question that very young children ask without words and receive the answer to without realizing it. If they are fortunate (as most children are), they start out life with attentive caregivers, and these caregivers have titles or names that these children can associate with them. Typically, deep and profound emotional ties are established with these caregivers, given enough time and intensity of interaction. Gradually, the orbit of a child's experience widens, as they come to know not only family members but neighbors, residents of their larger area, children in school, and so on. Children tend to categorize and make associations with these people, establishing a kind of unconscious mental map of the world outside of the self. They interact (usually) with many other humans (and with non-human animals as well). By a certain age, most humans have started to form judgments about other people, shaped by the opinions of their valued caregivers, informed by their personal experiences, and deeply influenced by the culture they have internalized. And a vital element of our relationship with others rests on our ability to trust them.

Since humans must be able to predict and anticipate the behavior of others for their own safety (and indeed this is so crucial that some researchers believe consciousness itself arose out of this need), the question, Who can I trust, and to what degree? is of the utmost importance. It’s worth looking at what we mean by the word “trust”. (See also The Sinews of Trust in a later volume for a fuller discussion.)

Trust can be thought of as the willingness to let our defenses down—to be vulnerable, either physically or emotionally, or both—with another human or group of humans. This willingness to be vulnerable is based on an assessment of the predictability of other people’s behavior. If, in a particular setting, we feel that those who are present with us mean us no harm (at minimum), are positively inclined toward us (in a middle case), or would sacrifice important things to defend us (the maximum case), there is a feeling of trust. If I know that you are not going to try to hurt me, and will in fact be my ally, I can set aside my internal readiness to fight or flee, and can relax emotionally.

There are, obviously, degrees of trust between people, ranging from trust in a person in a limited setting for a limited duration all the way to people one can trust with one’s life. Knowing the difference between those we can trust with small things and those we can trust with the ultimate things is of obvious evolutionary importance. It is trust of an unspoken kind that regulates much of ordinary human behavior, and in situations where trust between people is low or completely absent, anarchy and “the war of all against all” tends to be the rule.

Many people find out about human cruelty and perversity far too early in life, and any hope these people have of being able to count on and be reassured by the behavior of others is critically damaged, often irreparably so, by trauma suffered in childhood. Most others are more fortunate, but sooner or later, everyone is exposed to the sins and weaknesses that our complex psychologies give rise to: corruption, lies, betrayal, and injuries in endless variety. Is betrayal so sharply felt because the need for trust is so deeply embedded in our brains? There seems to be something fundamental about betrayal that causes humans to respond to it with deep anger and hurt. Is this an indication of how ancient the need for trust really is?

As a person enters adulthood and gains a broader perspective, they often ask (again, unconsciously in some cases), more advanced questions. In the face of our  isolation within the physical Universe, we take comfort, perhaps, in the idea that we on this tiny planet at least have each other. But as we struggle to make ourselves understood, as we wrestle with our own natures, and as we struggle to understand others, we may find ourselves increasingly unsure of the degree to which we actually do have each other. We therefore ask the following urgent questions: Can I know myself? Can I know others? Can others know me? The answers are ones we usually don’t want to accept.

It takes many years for the typical human to understand, both emotionally and intellectually, that he or she sees the world in a way unlike that of any other human. When we are children, we simply assume, I believe, that everyone sees what we see and feels what we feel. (It could be said that when we are very young children we are so absorbed in our own reaction to the world that we simply don’t care what anyone else feels.)  The different reactions of people to the events of life are puzzling when we are young, even disturbing to us. How can you feel that way? How can you not agree with me?

But as we get older, we usually find the nature of our interactions growing more complex. More and more subtle misunderstandings arise. Other people often confuse us or anger us with their seemingly inexplicable behaviors. A conclusion usually becomes more and more inescapable to us: no one can possibly know the interior mental world of another human being, and, by inference, no other human can really know ours. Of course, from our youngest moments, most of us have been spoken to and immersed in the ocean of a particular language. We have been taught to communicate with others using this medium in the hope that we could convey our internal experience to others. But the inadequacies of language—its ambiguity, its imprecision, its frequently abstract nature, its infinite shades of meaning—impede our ability to convey meaning to each other. Gradually, if we force ourselves to look at it honestly, we come to realize that no one will ever truly understand 100% of what we mean. We come to realize that even we don’t always know what we mean, as we so often try to find words for feelings that no words can express. This realization manifests itself sometimes as resentment, sometimes as sorrow, sometimes as amused resignation, sometimes as a sort of cosmic indifference. In many of us, it creates a sense of  existential loneliness, and an unbridgeable isolation from other people. And there is more.

When we are in quiet moments, we often cannot get a handle on what we are experiencing at the eternal present. When we fall into the infinity of mirrors that is the attempt by the brain to understand the brain, it often produces a sense of indescribable mystification. We are reduced to thinking, “What is all this? What is experience itself?” Our brains’ inherent inability to grasp the whole reality that surrounds us strikes us at these moments, even if we don’t put the sense of how strange we feel into any words. We are simply swallowed up by our own minds, which are the product of a lifetime of sensations and interactions that have had effects on us that are simply too complicated for us to grasp. Not only are our reactions to experience too complex to sort out, these reactions are based on information about ourselves that oftentimes we just don’t have any more. We often don’t have any idea of what the root of a specific emotional response actually is. We have lost the thread of our lives, and it cannot be located again. 

It is at these moments that an even darker realization occurs to us: since we cannot convey total, unfiltered meaning to each other, and since we cannot account for all the many conflicting and competing emotions within us, we not only will never understand others, we will never really understand ourselves. If we dwell on this, the absurdity of the situation in which we find ourselves crashes down on us. We will never know others; others will never know us; we will never know ourselves. And yet, here we all are, thrown together, having to live with each other and interact with each other. It is as if the entire human population is a set of inmates, each one a prisoner in his or her own skull, trying to grasp enough of the world to survive in it (or, hopefully, prosper), and trying to communicate with the other prisoners trapped inside of their skulls.  It is in communication that our only hope of lessening our sense of isolation, and hence our existential loneliness, lies.

Communication is the basis of human interaction and in a very real sense, of human survival. Humans must convey part of their internal experience to others, right from the start of life, and must in turn attempt to apprehend part of the internal experience of others. But as I said above, such communication will always be approximate. (The more abstract and less concrete the concepts used in communication, the more approximate this communication will be.) I will examine the significant impediments to communication in more detail elsewhere. (See The Nature and Continuing Evolution of Language in a subsequent volume.)

Our only hope of understanding anything about each other is in the possession of common ground. If  I refer to something as being red, only your visual experience of a red object will suffice for you to grasp my meaning. (The mathematical formulae describing red as a wavelength will not suffice if you have never seen a red object.) If I tell you something is hot, only your tactile experience of a hot object will stir any degree of understanding in you. (And your associations with the words red and hot may be very, very different from mine.) At a minimum, we need some sort of linguistic and/or gestural common ground to grasp part of each other’s meaning. We need a store of common experience and common points of reference, a certain amount of shared information and shared skills (which is why education of some form is indispensable to people). But we will have to accept the fact that since it is logically impossible to be another person, and to have the whole set of that person’s knowledge, experience, emotional state, and state of consciousness at our disposal at a given moment of communication, we will never entirely tear down the walls of isolation. We will perceive reality in a way which may be very similar to others, but it can never, by definition, be exactly the perception of any other person. (The upshot of all this is if I’m right, I can’t be 100% certain why I feel the need to express this to you. And you can’t be 100% certain you know what I mean.)

Are the ambiguous nature of communication, our resulting sense of existential loneliness, and the unanswered mysteries of our own personalities the real origins of our quest for certainty? Are they the sources of our desire to believe that we understand, and the illusion that we are understood? Do the huge questions most of us feel are so important about God, death, suffering, the meaning of existence, the nature of truth, and others like them have their root in our sense of isolation? Does this feeling of being isolated engender in us the desire, ultimately, to be connected with a reality where the self can be subsumed into a greater and more significant whole and language has a single, definite meaning? Can it even give us the desire to live in a reality where words no longer matter?

Questions Related to Our Role in Human Society and Our Relation to Its Values

When a human asks, What is my place in the world?, he or she is quite possibly asking one of several things, or perhaps several things in combination. The person may be asking, “What is my rank or social standing compared to others?” This is a question of great importance, especially if a human comes to believe that his or her rank or social standing is unchangeable.  A person born into a “low status” family may come to develop a fatalistic view of human life and human opportunity, seeing himself as doomed to a life of menial labor and hardship. A person born into a “high status” family may come to develop a sense of entitlement and a feeling of superiority over those who are “lesser” than she. In a sense, when we ask about our social rank we are asking, “How important and powerful am I compared to other people?” (In societies with some degree of social mobility, the desire of many to be more important and more powerful can have major consequences.)  What is my place in the world, therefore, is in one way an inquiry into the possibilities of one’s life

Another answer to What is my place in the world ? can be a human’s belief about what he or she should do for a living or contribute generally to society. In other words, it’s really the question, “What should I do?” Some people come to see themselves as possessors of greatness, those tagged by “Fate” to do memorable things and accumulate great wealth. For others, “What should I do” is a question they never really answer completely, drifting through the years with no definite course.  And for most, “What should I do” is answered by accepting the advice, norms, training, education, and sometimes compulsion offered or imposed by others. Many people are never given any choice at all, and do only that which others choose for them.
Finally, What is my place in the world? can be a more abstract question related to other questions about the meanings of life and existence. A person may also be asking, “Where do I fit in the history of the world? How did I come to be in this situation at this place and time?” The answers a person gives to these variations of the basic question are heavily dependent on his or her level of learning and the cultural narratives he or she has been raised with.

How should I live my life? involves not just questions of social standing, but also an individual’s value system and personal philosophy. The most fundamental answer is, “through right living”, but the definition of right living can vary greatly from person to person. Is right living the steady and monomaniacal accumulation of power over others, the constant seeking of advantage, and the immediate gratification of all desires, regardless of the consequences to others? Right living to other people means a code of behavior to be followed, a disciplined way life, one replete with rules of conduct toward others, a life of duties and obligations. To others right living implies an effort to experience all that can be experienced while respecting the rights of others to engage in the same pursuit. There are myriad ways right living can be understood, therefore. Moreover, the definitions of right living may not have clear-cut boundaries, can shift dramatically, and can be improvised throughout a person’s life in the absence of an elaborately thought-out value system. In many ways, human history has been affected by the clash of answers to the question, “How should I live?” Many are not content to decide this for themselves—they seek to impose their answers on others out of the conviction that they, and they alone, know the proper course.

At a young age, most people begin to be given what will turn out to be a long series of instructions on what to do and what not to do. They will have these rules impressed into them in any number of ways, many of them physically hurtful ones. Also at a young age people will begin to glean lessons from the culture with which they are surrounded about what constitutes “right conduct”.  As a person grows older, he or she will generally begin making judgments about the behavior of others, perhaps comparing it to the standards of behavior which they have absorbed (in their uniquely individual way) from their kinship group, neighbors, and community. Whether they realize it or not, when they do this, most people are applying a set of standards that govern a general system by which the behavior of others is regulated (and by which their own behavior is in turn regulated). They are forming answers to the question, What is right and what is wrong?

This question is, naturally, at the very heart of what humans call their moral or ethical systems, and it has been answered in any number of ways. Wrong conduct, being abnormal and disruptive, seems to be identified more readily than right conduct, which tends to become part of the human mental background, part of the definition of “normality”. Among the definitions of wrong conduct humans have given over the centuries, the following tend to be the most prominent:


  •       Whatever violates the sacred teachings of the religion which is dominant in our culture.
  •       Whatever disrupts the orderly conduct of business and social relationships in our society.
  •          Whatever undermines the unity of our people.
  •           Whatever shows disloyalty to the rulers of our society.
  •          Whatever violates the prerogatives of parents over their children.
  •          Whatever brings dishonor to and condemnation of a family.
  •        Whatever violates the person or property of a human being who has committed no offense against anyone.
  •        Whatever undermines the trust people in our society have to have in order to live with each other.
  •          Whatever is, in general, contrary to the laws, norms, and traditions of our people.
  •         Whatever actions those in power take that are corrupt or unjust.
  •    Any combination of any of the above with varying degrees of emphasis on the individual guidelines.

Notice that only two or three of these statements could in any way be interpreted as emphasizing the primacy of the individual or the rights of a human against the power of those who govern him. In fact, throughout human history, questions of right and wrong have seldom been left to individual judgment, nor have they focused primarily on the rights of the person. Wrong conduct has generally been defined as conduct which undermines the collective well-being of a society, conduct which attacks the institutions on which the society is based. (Right conduct, naturally, is generally considered the exact inverse of each of the above statements.) Virtually every human who has ever lived, until the last few hundred years, has lived under definitions of right or wrong behavior similar to this. Respect for the individual’s privacy and personal conduct has, in the larger context, been an aberration in human history, not the norm.

But humans face moral and ethical dilemmas of a smaller scale every day, ones for which guidelines are not always clear. How should I treat those whom I don’t know? How friendly or unfriendly should I be to those I do know? Should I always be bluntly honest, or should I value tact above all? Should I help people I don’t know, or ignore all but the needs of my own family? Can I rightfully take advantage of the ignorance or gullibility of other people? It is this mass of billions of small moral decisions that often steers the day-to-day course of our world more than the broader and more formalized rules that govern societies.

Questions of right and wrong, can, of course, be given more ominous interpretations. What is right and what is wrong? Some answers are:

  • Whatever benefits me is right; whatever doesn’t benefit me is wrong.
  • Whatever promotes the power of my group is right; whatever lessens it is wrong.
  • Whatever hurts the people I hate is right; whatever doesn’t hurt the people I hate is wrong.

The terrible simplicity of such answers has very often been the basis for the most obscene crimes and atrocities in human history. And, unfortunately, those who reduce all of life to a simple question of whether they’re getting their way or not prevail more than we would like to admit

We see the suffering of others; we experience suffering, perhaps very severe, ourselves. We can imagine injury and pain from experience, and if we are rational (and not under the stress of life-or-death circumstances) we seek to avoid them at all costs. We especially seek to protect our children from them, very often at the price of our own well-being. We hear of or even witness horrors; dark fears insinuate themselves into our thinking, and one of the most elemental of all questions demands our attention: How can I protect myself and my loved ones from the world? I say “the world” in this formulation because many of our fears are centered in the generalized “others” who share the world with us, the strangers who may do us harm. (The issue of trust is at play here, of course.) We seek to give ourselves and those we love safe places in which to live, and we seek further to control as many of the potentially dangerous variables in our environment as we can. The inability to control these variables can lead to a feeling of helplessness, rage, frustration, despair, and chronic fear. People trapped in war zones or in generally lawless areas know the terrible urgency of finding safety, in many ways the prime objective of a living thing. The fear, caution, preparation, and alertness demanded by the need to keep ourselves and our loved ones safe has been one of the chief factors driving human history. Magnified over an entire population, the need to keep ourselves and our loved ones safe is at the heart of our defense efforts (although the individual soldier may be fighting under compulsion).

The issue of protecting one’s self and one’s loved ones is so significant that it is usually the priority consideration in a person’s life. The quest for security and the need to prepare for dangers which may emerge either from malicious strangers or unpredictable nature can lead to the sacrifice of all other values. Conversely, the failure to protect one’s loved ones (or the perceived failure) can lead a human down the most grievous abysses of despair. The protection of one’s kin, in particular, may have extremely ancient evolutionary roots; only the survival of the precious genes guarantees continuation of our line. The anguish we feel when those we love have been harmed may in part be rooted in this. Add in the depths of emotional attachment that people usually feel for those related to them, and the suffering of our loved ones becomes utterly intolerable, a fate to be avoided at any cost, including the abandonment of even the most deeply held moral beliefs. How can I protect myself and my loved ones from the world? For most people, the answer is, “Any way I have to.”

Questions About the Nature of the World and the Broader Issues of Existence

Survival may be a tremendous achievement for many people, and the minimal protection of themselves and their loved ones a true victory, given the often harsh realities of the world. But most people, at least in the more economically advanced areas of the Earth, seek something more once the basic minimums of life have been secured. Specifically, most people want to know the purpose of the human enterprise itself. They want to know, Is there a larger purpose to life than mere survival, and if so, what is it? This question is related to “How should I live my life?” but it is not identical to it. It contains the unspoken question, “Why do we live?” It also encompasses more than just one’s self, for it implies that humans as a group have some sort of mission to fulfill, and that this mission is both significant and discoverable. The answers people give to this question very often reveal deeply held personal beliefs or prejudices. A person might say that the purpose of life is to prepare for the establishment of the Kingdom of God, or that the purpose of life is to prepare for Eternity, or the purpose of life is to eradicate human suffering, or the purpose of life is to grab everything for yourself that you can before you die or the purpose of life is to have children and grandchildren and pass one’s family name down. Others might say in response to this question, “Purpose? There is no such thing. We just live and do the best we can, and then we die.” That statement very often also reveals deeply held beliefs, although most people might not readily perceive this. However it is answered, one thing is consistent: if a purpose is believed to exist, it is considered the main overall reason a person lives his or her life. It is the ultimate, overriding goal. It is, in essence, the root of a personal philosophy.

As a person more and more coherently defines himself or herself as a kind of living being existing in a definite kind of world, the questions What is the world and how did it come to be? and Why do humans exist? begin to be asked. The overwhelming majority of humans are taught answers to these questions by the adults in their culture, adults who have absorbed cultural traditions that are centuries or even millennia old. The dominant mythology of a given society is usually learned at a young age, and it can be remarkably difficult to dislodge from a person’s consciousness. The root of this difficulty, many times, is the fact that this mythology has been imparted by respected and beloved elders. Further, this mythology is generally learned when the brain is at or near its peak ability to learn. Mythology is also tenacious because of its strong emotional components, especially ones which exalt the group of which a child is a part. Cognitive dissonance can occur when cherished mythology is exposed to empirically-based scrutiny, and the mythology’s contradictions, illogical aspects, and  general explanatory flaws are exposed.

The questions of what the world is, how it came to be, and how humans came to be form the core of a human’s mental picture of himself in relation to the Universe, and his relationship to a hypothesized Divine Creator (or creative force) who is ultimately believed to be responsible for bringing that Universe, and by extension the human himself, into existence. The answers embraced by a human to this set of questions tell us, in many ways, a person’s opinion of herself and the others with whom she lives. Many humans prefer answers to these questions that tend to reaffirm their sense of being important in the scheme of things. It is this comforting belief in human centrality that is most brutally challenged by the facts of our utter spatial and temporal insignificance.

We are confronted on a daily basis with assertions of fact, statements which people claim to be “true” in the sense that the statements are, presumably, empirically demonstrable. We are presented with claims of evidence, claims that such-and-such an event occurred in real time at a real place. We have to make decisions about what we believe to be truly real. We are faced with the question, therefore, What is true and what is false?Upon this question rest whole belief systems and ideologies, as well as the related issues of whether we can even reliably ascertain answers to such a question. We are forced to define what we mean by “true” and “false”. How have people gone about doing so?

Throughout human existence, people have generally thought that whatever they perceived with their own senses was true. “I saw it with my own eyes” is considered conclusive proof to most of us. As far as the truth of larger things is concerned, there have been other methods employed. In most societies of the past, for example, the test of whether something was true or not was simple: do those with the ability to contact the supernatural plane of existence say that it is? If those believed to have this power passed a judgment on such a question, it was generally considered authoritative. There are gods, there is a soul, there are gods that weigh the soul in the balance after death, there is a sacred river we cross only in death, there are sacrifices which must be made to placate the gods, things can come alive again after dying, and all manner of such beliefs have been accepted as true because those with specialized knowledge of the metaphysical said so. Until a few hundred years ago this was considered the most powerful standard of truth in the vast majority of human societies.

But there have been, for many centuries, those for whom religious authority was insufficient. Some 2,500 years ago, on the eastern shore of the Aegean Sea, a small group of thinkers began the attempt to ascertain the truth or falsity of things through argument and the employment of reason, rather than by recourse to spiritual or mythological explanations of the world. In Asia, various thinkers looked beyond traditional faiths and began the search for what they considered to be the “essence” of reality, employing meditation, observation, and their own reasoning to find this essence. In each region, thinkers influenced each other, challenged each other, blended their ideas together, and created syntheses of ideas and standards of judging truth or falsehood. It was a revolution in human thinking, and it was to have huge consequences. It helped spawn the massive intellectual enterprise of science, which eventually was to transform the world and provide a systematic way of analyzing (within the limits of human ability) the nature of the reality with which humans were indirectly connected. But for most people, their own experience, and the role of authority continue to be paramount in their understanding of truth and falsehood, and that situation is likely to continue for the foreseeable future. They may respect philosophy and science, but they aren’t necessarily ready to accept their findings as the last words on an issue which most of them feel is connected to their eternal fate.

And then, there is the question that has, perhaps, caused more anguish and despair than any other: Why is there suffering? Often it is in our darkest and lowest times that we tend to ask this, when the issue of suffering is confronting us in the most direct and harrowing way possible.

In the chapter entitled, “Rebellion” in Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s immortal The Brothers Karamazov, one of the brothers, Ivan, a depressed intellectual, is discussing with his brother Alyosha, a gentle, Christ-like Russian Orthodox monk, the question of why God allows suffering. In particular, Ivan is tormented by the issue of the suffering of children, and he inundates his brother with horrible details of atrocities and abuses committed against children, which he has collected in the form of newspaper clippings and other documentation. One of the cases of abuse Ivan shares with Alyosha is a particularly hideous one involving the barbaric treatment of a five year old girl by her own parents. Ivan explains that the little girl, while locked in a stinking, freezing outhouse in the winter, was heard praying to God, asking Him what she had done to make her parents punish her so terribly. Then he adds:

“Can you understand why a little creature, who can’t even understand what’s done to her, should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful tears to dear, kind God to protect her?     Do you understand that, Alyosha, you pious and humble novice? Do you  understand why this infamy must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child’s prayer to ‘dear, kind God!’ I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But those little ones!... I am making you suffer, Alyosha. I’ll stop if you like.”

“Never mind. I want to suffer too,” muttered Alyosha.

Ivan speaks for many of us—and so does Alyosha. (It is a measure of Dostoyevsky’s intellectual integrity, by the way, that he, a Christian, was willing to throw the strongest and most emotionally wrenching case at his own belief system.) Almost all of us wonder why those who have done nothing wrong so often suffer so deeply and horribly. It seems to offend some very deeply embedded notion of fairness in us. It literally doesn’t make sense in our way of thinking. There is no justice in it. There is no proportion. The effect seems utterly disconnected to the cause. And when the victims of suffering are helpless, innocent children, our minds can come close to the breaking point if we dwell on it too long. Our natural sense of empathy for children, and our evolutionarily-conditioned protective instincts, are outraged by the pain and fear of “those little ones”. More broadly, we often wonder how a just and righteous God can look on such things, apparently, and do nothing. It is the ultimate problem for many religious believers, as they see not just children but all kinds of unoffending humans going through unspeakable tortures and devastating sickness. As one grows older, and there continues to be no apparent, predictable pattern that this suffering follows, our faith can be tested to its limits. Paradoxically, it is just such testing that can cause many to cling to their faith even more fervently: it is their last defense against the idea of a world of random, senseless, chaotic horror. Such people must believe that God or the Universe or the Supreme Intelligence has its reasons, and that someday the believers will understand those reasons. No other psychological position is tolerable for them.

The issue of suffering can be thought of as part of a broader question, and can indeed cause it to be asked: Why do evil and injustice exist? So often in history the brutal, the merciless, the cruel, and the morally indifferent have triumphed. So often the most terrible humans have lived to a ripe old age and died peacefully in their sleep while their countless victims had met their ends writhing in agony. So often the lawless and violent seem to prosper in life today, and barbarism is the norm in many, many places. (This may be part of the reason so many people want to believe in hell; they need to believe that the evil will be punished somehow, even if they escape the judgment of this world.) If God (or the Universe, or the Supreme Intelligence) is really the author of everything, is it the author of evil as well? Why does a purportedly all-powerful being even permit such a thing to exist? There is, in fact, an entire branch of theology called theodicy devoted to this question,. Religious thinkers have wrestled for centuries with the problem of evil. The best they have been able to do is to argue that God is so powerful that He or It can wrest good even out of apparent evil, or to argue that what seems evil to humans is not necessarily evil to a Being who has a plan for the evolution of the whole Universe. To many humans, such explanations are cold comfort, at best. Again, for their own mental well-being, they must believe that what is apparently evil has some larger purpose, and that in the end everything will make sense.

Two of the greatest questions humans confront, in some form, are deeply intertwined: Is life worth living? and Is there such a thing as meaning, and if so, is it discoverable? In what ways can these issues be approached?

At the beginning of The Myth of Sisyphus, in the section entitled, “An Absurd Reasoning”, the existentialist writer and philosopher Albert Camus startles us with his opening lines: “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to the fundamental question of philosophy.” (P. 3) To Camus the dilemma a human faces is justifying his or her existence in a Universe that is absurd, one apparently without purpose, and one in which hope is illusory. Camus asserts that belief in the transcendent, and thus the hopeful, is an illogical leap of reasoning, a sort of intellectual desperation, an attempt to hold off a conclusion that would render human life meaningless. In reply to the hopes for the existence of the transcendent, Camus writes:

I don’t know whether this world has a meaning that transcends it. But I know that I do not know that meaning and that it is impossible for me just now to            know it. What can a meaning outside my condition mean to me? I can understand only in human terms. What I touch, what resists me—that is what I understand. And these two certainties—my appetite for the absolute and for unity and the impossibility of reducing this world to a rational and reasonable principle—I also know that I cannot reconcile them. What other truth can I admit without lying, without bringing in a hope I lack and which means nothing within the limits of my condition? (P. 38)

To Camus, the limitations inherent in his human perspective preclude the possibility of ascertaining meaning. And yet, this does not mean for Camus that suicide necessarily follows as a rational course of action. On the contrary, he said, humans must revolt against the absurdity of life by confronting it, by living as fully as possible, accepting the inevitability of one’s fate without being resigned to it. Camus believed that humans can be “indomitable and passionate”, throwing themselves into life totally. “The absurd man can only drain everything to the bitter end, and deplete himself.” (P. 41) It is in this revolt, this refusal to stop engaging the world, this refusal to be reconciled to it, that Camus found his purpose for living.

Most people probably don’t approach these questions from the standpoint that Camus did, but they encounter them nonetheless. Is life worth living? Let’s pose two diametrically opposite cases. If a human has those whom she loves, and who love her in return, is emotionally invested in the wellbeing of her family and friends, has work that is enjoyable and useful, has frequent periods of joy, and holds out hope that reality will someday make sense to her, those reasons alone can be sufficient for living. But if a human is in constant despair, without family or friends, without joy, without meaningful work, without hope, and, most tragically, suffering from intractable pain or illness, the continuation of life may not make sense to him. Personal annihilation might appear to be the most rational choice in his situation. But in real life, the choices aren’t usually as clear cut as these examples might suggest. Humans may alternate between periods of enthusiasm for, or at least tolerance of, life, and periods where they think, “This just isn’t worth it.”. Virtually no one is entranced with life on a constant basis, but most of us find the prospect of personal annihilation unthinkable and troubling. Humans live somewhere in the gray, not easily defined middle of life, muddling through, and continuing onward through inertia and habit as much as conviction.

Is life worth living? To many people, it is worth living because they are obliged to do so—they have responsibilities, which in good conscience they cannot abandon. Is life worth living? To some it is because they have personal challenges and goals with which they are preoccupied, even obsessed. Is life worth living? To some, to abandon their lives would be to do something they cannot do—quit in the face of adversity and admit defeat. Is life worth living? To many of us, the answer is simple—as long as we have and know love, it is, despite all hardships.

What do humans mean by their search for “meaning”?  Here I am not talking about the interpretation of language, although meaning in language is certainly important. Here, I mean a question which in many ways is a summation of all the others. When we consider the meaning of existence, we are asking, What was all this for? If reality is the result of the will of a transcendent being, what was that will? Why does existence exist? Is there a logical reason for it, and is it aiming at some final condition, some ultimate state that must necessarily follow from its unfolding? Was there a reason we had to go through all the frequent misery that we had to endure? Most of us hope that there is some reason for all of our adversity and for existence itself. We want the story to have a satisfying conclusion, one that will resolve all our doubts and answer all of our questions.

Some have come to the conclusion that physical reality is the result of wholly natural processes, and if there is a meaning to all of this, it is far beyond our ability to discern it. To the question, is there such a thing as meaning, they might say no, and in fact they might go so far as to say that even the act of posing such a question is nonsensical. Others might reply that they don’t know what the ultimate “meaning” of the Universe’s existence is. They might add that the only real meaning they can know is that which they make for themselves, and that in the absence of certain knowledge, this is the best they can hope for. And we must ask, honestly: in a Universe in which we are so obviously insignificant, can any meaning ever be ascertained at all?

At last, the question of life’s meaning is, for most people, intimately connected with their attitudes toward death and what might come after it. The question What happens when people die? is of tremendous interest to most of us, even if the contemplation of our own demise is unsettling. The inevitability and seeming finality of death have been the subject of more speculation and discussion than perhaps any other existential question humans face. Death is a major concern of most of our religions, a major theme in our art and literature, a major subject for our philosophers, and a significant topic in the sciences. Few subjects are studied by such a breadth of disciplines. And few subjects compel our attention so strongly. It appears that the majority of the human race believes that death is not the end of the individual ego’s existence. Most humans believe in some sort of afterlife where the personality continues, or that a process of rebirth or transmigration takes place, where some essential part of the human is preserved to exist in different forms. Of course, every human who believes in these possibilities has his or her own vision of what this afterlife or rebirth might be like, and many believers have, throughout their lives, varying degrees of certitude about post-death survival.

For many humans, the idea that there might be no afterlife is intolerable. Why? First, because the idea of our non-existence terrifies many of us. After years of being, in effect, our own little Universes, it is inconceivable for many of us to imagine these Universes disintegrating into nothingness. The feeling might be described as I AM; how could I not be? For other humans, if there is no hope of an afterlife, there is no hope, period. Life would be a meaningless, futile act of mere survival. If there were no afterlife, it would mean that all their loved ones who had died would be gone forever. There would be no joyous reunions, no embracing of lost parents or lost children, no prospect of being reunited with those whose passing was made less painful only by the prospect that the separation would not be permanent. For others, the idea of no afterlife is intolerable because it would mean, ultimately, that there was no justice in the Universe. The virtuous would be unrewarded; those who had undergone terrible suffering would not find the compensation of eternal comfort and mercy; evil humans who had not been punished in life would get off the hook, so to speak. And for some, no afterlife means that there is no resolution to the personal issues and problems with which they may have struggled all of their lives, and no answers to questions that have disturbed them almost as long. For many people, a combination of these beliefs is at work. There are those who also might look forward to the afterlife as a vindication of their faith and the prospect of being united with the One, the Sacred, the Almighty, the Divine. Little wonder so many humans have, still do, and always will believe that death is not the end.  They might even believe because they embrace a version of Pascal’s Wager: If they believe in an afterlife, and none exists, they won’t be aware of it, and will be none the worse off. If they don’t believe in one, and one exists, then the consequences of their disbelief might be grim indeed.

For those who do not believe in an afterlife, on the other hand, it can stir in them the urge to live as intensely as they can within the time they have. If our time truly is finite, then what is aspired to must be achieved in the here and now. There will be no second chance, in this perspective. Experience must be seized; life must be encountered. Conversely, some who have no faith in an afterlife might be morose, convinced that the only true proposition is, “Life is hard and then you die.” To such people, life might not seem only meaningless—it might seem not even worth the effort.
             


We do not encounter these questions in nice, orderly sequence, nor do we encounter them in neat, easily discernable, clearly marked situations. We encounter them in the flesh and blood world of everyday life in ways that are often muddled and filled with contradictions. We might never ask ourselves any of these questions in straightforward language, even if we sense their presence; they may always simply be undefined feelings deep within us, never examined in any serious way. And most disturbing of all, even if we do confront them directly, we may never find answers that satisfy us. Our questions about the human situation can pose challenges that perhaps we are not equal to. If we cannot be certain about why humans exist, what is right and what is wrong, or whether death is the end or not, we might be filled with unease and a sense of incompleteness, as if important business had been left undone. The way a human deals with the questions of existence tells us important things about them. Those who never think about these issues are personifying Plato’s famous quote: “The unexamined life is not worth living”. Those who believe they have all the answers to them may actually be arrogant and self-deceived. And those who seek answers in an open-minded way, modestly, and with a sense of humility, may be better positioned in life than most people.

In thinking about all these questions, I am compelled to say that in my opinion, most people don’t consciously dwell on such matters very often, if at all. For the vast majority of us the demands of everyday life are such that there is very little mental or physical energy left for such “idle speculation”. And yet, I suspect that these are the questions, even if unspoken or not contemplated, around which humans build their lives and about which they are most concerned.  In my view, whether they know it or not, I believe most humans both want and need answers to these questions, ones that will help them reject a conclusion that for most people is utterly intolerable, namely, that existence is absurd and nothing ultimately means anything—including our own lives.

We were summoned into the world through an act that was not willed by us. As infants, we exist and perceive but we do not understand. We find ourselves thrown into a family (or some other group of caregivers). We find ourselves immersed in a particular way of life, which we come to assume is normal. We float in the river of time and we see the days pass in succession, not realizing what time itself is. We find ourselves in a particular historical era, although we are utterly unaware of this for many years. We are selves, being shaped by impulses, experiences, actions, reactions, personalities, and circumstances the nature of which we do not comprehend, but we cannot yet step outside of these selves to examine all of this. We interact with others, and we gravitate back and forth between the exterior world of this interaction and the interior world of our emotions, memories, impressions, and hypotheses about this interaction, the inner world of our emerging consciousness, the place in our brains where we process and absorb experience. This is our common inheritance as people, the reality each of us faces.

As we grow, and more and more see ourselves (usually) as a part of something larger than just us, we come to realize that the world is huge, life is complicated, that we don’t always understand what happens to us, other people can be challenging or frightening to deal with, and that much of existence just seems to be downright mysterious. Every human who has ever lived has, in my view, lived a version of this same story. Every human has found himself or herself in a world that was in many ways beyond their comprehension, but in which they were nonetheless forced to act and gather information.

Moreover, the only tenuous links these humans have to the world outside of their own heads are forms of communication which by their very nature are imprecise and approximate. Humans are trapped in a reality in which total mutual understanding is impossible, one in which their motives are often obscure or completely hidden even to themselves. They are forced to seek answers to their questions with limited knowledge and restricted understanding—and they will never have anything else.

It is these frequently confused, physically vulnerable, often talented, mentally isolated, unpredictable, surprisingly resilient, incredibly adaptable, virtually incomprehensible beings who have made and experienced the history of the world ever since the line between really bright ape and really limited human was crossed in some forever-lost moment of the past. We are going to look for the reasons why these beings want answers to questions that are often unanswerable, and why they have evolved to want and need answers to the particular questions they do. We will seek to understand (in part) the reality in which we find ourselves, and how that reality came to be. It is to the search for answers to these questions that we will now turn, even as we realize that after all of our searching and all of our examination, the answers may still elude us, as a butterfly gently hovers beyond the grasp of a fascinated two year-old.