NOTE: This is a follow-up article to Patrick's post on Wednesday titled, "Body, Soul, and the Mind/Brain Question".
 

 
Having laid the foundation of the human soul in Wednesday's post, let us now turn to its proper character and function. According to St. Thomas Aquinas, man’s soul comprises all those powers proper to lower organisms, namely metabolism, sensation, and locomotion; however, a still higher power remains that is non-existent in all other soul-possessors—intellection. “We must conclude that the nutritive soul, the sensitive soul, and the intellectual soul are in man numerically one and the same.”¹

Therefore, according to Thomas, the substantial form of the human body is the intellective soul, which, in the larger context of this question, is interchangeable with mind. It is by means of the intellective (or intellectual) soul/mind that man experiences an intellectual mode of existence in the world as an embodied creature, an existence entirely different than that experienced by plants, amoebas, frogs, or dogs. There is something it is like to be a knowing, human person, and this something is markedly different from what it is like to be a bat, for example.² Intellectual existence shapes every facet of our lives and inherently defines what it means to be human.³

This intellectual soul permits us entrance into the sphere of truths where we can apprehend absolute principles and act as responsible agents. It also allows us to encounter a world not populated by brute particulars, but particulars of a universal kind. This allows us to know not simply that things are, but on an even deeper level, what things are. It gives us the ability to paint and build houses, to fall in love, and do science.

As we noted earlier, the middle path of hylomorphism must avoid the pitfalls of dualism and its twin, materialism, and it must also account for world-access and presence. Where dualism wishes to assert the preeminence of mind/spirit/soul over and against the body and brain, hylomorphism adamantly maintains that they are not separable, except through the event of death. The body and the soul are “grown-together,”⁴ forming a concretized whole that has powers and capacities greater than the sum of its parts. While the substantial form of man, his soul, is the principle of actuality and thus possesses a type of freedom from the body as it persists through time, nevertheless the material component of man, his body, is an absolutely essential ingredient to the substance of man, for the very raison d’être of form is to inform some matter.

Hylomorphism also sufficiently guards against materialism. The hylomorphic alternative does grant materialists that matter is eminently important, concurring with them that the matter of the body is essential—especially so when concerning the matter of the brain. However hylomorphism maintains, in contrast to materialism, the real presence of personal subjectivity experienced by each person by insisting that the substantial form of man is the intellectual soul. There is something about man (human nature) that is properly transcendent, non-reducible, and subjective. Because of this, we are able to reach beyond the material constituency of our corporeality in a non-physical, spiritual way, especially when we come to know anything. This must be granted if one honestly assesses one’s life-as-lived experiences. “We go beyond the restrictions of space and time and the kind of causality that is proper to material things,” writes Sokolowski,⁵ when we make vows,⁶ use language, utilize words and symbols, create art, share ideas and thoughts, perform works of Shakespeare, propose mathematical formulas, debate and discuss, engage in politics, and much, much more.⁷

This is especially the case when we invoke the personal pronoun, I, and act as responsible subjects and agents of truth—there is truly an “I” to speak of, present in every human person, that serves as the center of all personal activity. This spiritual modality of man is his intellective soul. But all of these activities, powers, and capabilities which are spiritual in character, require, at least in part, that we be embodied as well. One cannot bring to life Shakespeare’s Hamlet—a spiritual activity transcending space and time—without having actors with bodies. Though this may seem obvious, it is important for this position.

When it comes to the brain and the mind, it is not a case of either/or, but rather both/and. The brain and nervous system, being informed by the downward causality of man's intellectual soul and thus existing in a properly intellectual way, have a critical role to play when it comes to consciousness and perception. This, however, does not prove that the brain is the seat of intellection, but on the contrary, simply reinforces the hylomorphic position. The brain and the mind are wedded together, or, as Kass says, “grown-together.” Therefore, the mind working in, with, and through the brain exists and operates in a truly spiritual and transcendent way, allowing for world-access.

The mind is not some homunculus trapped within the Cartesian theater of consciousness and scanning the screens of sensory input. Rather, it is actively engaged with the world through the brain and the body as a whole. And just as hylomorphism maintains that persons are concretizations of matter and form grown together, so too does this anthropology grant that things existing in the world exist as matter-form composites. Our world is not populated by heaps of matter but rather matter as informed and as organized wholes. These matter-form composites, existing as intelligible wholes, are potentially knowable to man for he is an intellectual being capable of coming to know things by virtue of his intellectual soul. Moreover, through the brain—not by the brain but rather through it—the meaning, or the intelligibility, of things is conveyed.

Sokolowksi illustrates this idea further utilizing an innovative analogy. The brain and nervous system function, he maintains, much like a transparent lens. When a lens works properly, it refracts and presents that which is beyond it, whether that is a newspaper or the Andromeda galaxy light years away. Unlike a television screen that creates that which is seen, a lens serves as the physical medium through which what is seen is conveyed.

When I hold up a magnifying glass at arm’s length, and gaze into it looking at the wall opposite me through the lens, the image that seems to appear in the glass is not actually in the glass like the image on a TV screen, but rather is actually out there, beyond the glass. With the TV screen, I behold a representation, an image of the real thing, but not the thing itself. But with a lens, what I see in the glass is not something representing the wall, but rather the wall as wall, but in a specifically non-physical way. The lens, then, serves as a physical medium through which the external world of matter-form composites is conveyed and known.

Applying this analogy to the mind and the brain, we can begin to grasp the complex interrelation of soul and body. The brain and the nervous system are the physical medium through which the external world is accessible and knowable to the immaterial mind, not as the result of a secondary stage of re-presentation, but in a single, concomitant moment. The mind needs the brain for it is in accordance with human nature that we come to knowledge and understanding of the world through our physicality and the corporeality of things. This lensing analogy is also helpful in the negative sense, for if the lens is damaged, or misshapen, it cannot convey its object clearly or without distortion. So too when the brain is damaged, the extra-mental world of matter-form composites is not as easily accessible or knowable, and perhaps even opaque to the mind.

The intellect and the brain are wedded together, with the brain and nervous system acting like transparent lenses, not giving themselves, but rather giving that which is beyond them and other. It is only by being interwoven in the body that the mind, the I, can come to know anything, and, furthermore, it is only by encountering corporeal things, through the senses, that we are ever able to attain knowledge of the incorporeal. Therefore, to posit any separation between the mind and the brain, or, to posit any theory that considers the two identical, is incorrect. We conclude that the brain, though an absolutely necessary cause, is not a sufficient cause for the human mind.

This solution offered, however, may strike some as dissatisfying, still riddled with ambiguities. I would like to address that feeling of uneasiness. For many of us, our own intellects have been influenced by the categories and presuppositions of the Cartesian worldview that surrounds us in our contemporary culture. Because we live in a positivistic society that is more apt to follow the decrees of scientism, we almost unconsciously equate the true with the provable, or scientifically demonstrable. We want things to be, as Descartes articulated in his Meditations on First Philosophy, clear and distinct.⁸ Because of this, we desire to know clearly and distinctly how the immaterial mind and the material brain relate exactly to the point that it could be modeled. However, this desire is misplaced and unwarranted. There are inherent limitations concerning the human person that do not admit of such clear and distinct conceptions.

One such instance concerns the very nature of conscious experience. According to philosopher of consciousness David Chalmers, there are easy problems concerning the mind, and then there are hard problems. The easy problems of consciousness are those that are susceptible to the standard methods of cognitive science.⁹ Essentially, the easy problems—which are in fact monumentally complex in scope and wildly ambitious in aim—concern the functionality and structural mechanisms of cognition, like the “ability to discriminate, categorize, and react to stimuli...the focus of attention,” and much more.¹⁰ In all of these cases, a clear cognitive or neurophysiological model can be employed to give an adequate account of what’s going on up there.

However, the real issue in explaining consciousness is the problem of felt experience. As Chalmers puts it, there is a co-relative subjective element (i.e., pertaining to a subject, a unique I) to all of our objective mental activities; with each and every perception of the color red, for example, there is a concomitant felt subjective experience of what it’s like to perceive the color red. In a word, “there is something it is like to be a conscious organism.”¹¹ I think Chalmers is correct to point out this perplexing quality of consciousness that is simply inextricable by recourse to material explanations and does not admit of clear and distinct answers. Why is it that when our visual or auditory systems engage in visual or auditory information processing, we have a visual or auditory experience? Why is it that when I hear “Amazing Grace,” or smell Dial soap I have an experience of these particular stimuli? His question, the hard problem, is this: “why should physical processing give rise to a rich inner life at all? It seems objectively unreasonable that it should, and yet it does.”¹²

I believe that Chalmers’ distinction between the easy and the hard problems of consciousness is merely symptomatic of a second, deeper dichotomy concerning the nature of the human person: the distinction between problem and mystery and the rampant confusion of the two. Problems are those things that can be objectified.¹³ For us today, the word objective connotes a sense of precision, exactness, or unbiased truth. It comes from the Latin word objectum, which means, “a thing put before (the mind or sight).”¹⁴ In its original usage, then, something objective was something placed before me, in front of and present to my powers of manipulation, capable of being solved or overcome. Problems are questions in which I am not involved, and because of that, I can solve them (at least in theory). They can be addressed and solved through a technique repeatable by others. A mystery, on the other hand, is something in which I myself am inherently a part of; I cannot be separated from it, in an objective sense.¹⁵ With mystery, I am both part of the problem and the problem-solver.

In our modern world—particularly the Western culture—everything has been reduced to the problematic, leaving no room for mystery; we Americans are good with problems—we put a man on the moon, for goodness sakes! Mysteries, are a different story. In our culture, mysteries are those things that we have not yet solved. Daniel Dennett announces, “Human consciousness is just about the last surviving mystery. A mystery is a phenomenon that people don’t know how to think about—yet.”¹⁶ He goes on to equate the mystery of consciousness with other mysteries that eventually fell before the methods of science, such as the origin of the universe, the reproductive process, the nature of time, space, and gravity.¹⁷ Unfortunately, I do not suppose that the mystery of the human mind will give way to Daniel Dennett’s probing any time soon.

What I have been arguing for, and what I have proposed by way of a hylomorphic alternative, is a recapitulation of the mystery of the human person, revealed in the spiritual modality proper to him. The competing anthropologies of dualism and materialism each treated man as a problem to be solved: How, Descartes asked, can we clearly and distinctly conceive of the mind in relation to the body? Or, how, materialists wonder, can we prove that the mind is nothing but an epiphenomenon of the brain? Both positions fail, where they hylomorphic alternative maintains a both/and position that accounts for corporeality as well as intellectuality. It does not attempt to swallow up subjectivity into physical brain activity alone. It incorporates the brain and the mind in such a way that they are not only compatible, but also co-dependent and “grown-together.”¹⁸ The mind, or spirit, of man exercises definitive downward causality on the brain and the matter of the body, while the body and the brain are needed for the full flourishing and activity of the mind. Truly, man is not a problem to be solved, but rather a mystery to be lived. Let us insist on the mystery of the human person, and especially, on the mystery of the mind and the brain.
 
 
(Image credit: Kool News)

Two fantastic articles at Strange Notions in recent weeks have turned from the question of God to the question of the human self. In “Atheism and the Personal Pronoun,” Patrick Schultz explores what he calls a “doorstop” argument for the soul: under materialist atheism, we are mindless machines, but given that every one of us is inescapably a subjective “I,” materialist atheism looks false. In “Exorcizing the Ghost from the Machine,” Matthew Newland counters this argument by looking at brain-mind causality, naturalistic “emergence,” and split-brain research, concluding that the conscious mind may very well be a kind of “city” of proto-minds operating in unison. I find points of agreement in both pieces, but would like to reframe the question from a third perspective. (If nothing else, I hope this whole discussion is a reminder that there is room in the Catholic Church for vastly different conclusions on some very fundamental questions.)

There’s an old Irish joke that Richard Dawkins recounts as well as anyone in The God Delusion:

“A journalist, researching for an article on the complex political situation in Northern Ireland, was in a pub in a war-torn area of Belfast. One of his potential informants leaned over his pint of Guinness and suspiciously cross-examined the journalist: “Are you a Catholic or a Protestant?” the Irishman asked. "Neither," replied the journalist; “I'm an atheist.” The Irishman, not content with this answer, put a further question: “Ah, but are you a Catholic atheist or a Protestant atheist?”

The absurdity of the joke is that the Irishman is so entrenched in the local standoff that he can’t help but see a hapless outsider as belonging to one side or the other. As far as he’s concerned, there is no third option.

This is a perfect analogy for what has happened with modern philosophy of mind. Instead of Catholics and Protestants, we have rationalists and empiricists; instead of Jesus, our common reference point is Descartes. And instead of unbelievers, we have those who doubt the wisdom of the epistemological turn inaugurated with Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am.”

That turn, like it or not, wields enormous influence on all of Western thought and culture, especially modern philosophy. On the continent, Descartes’ fellow rationalists were all hugely influenced by his epistemology, and though they came to different conclusions, all continued the angelic quest for the foundations of reason. Across the English Channel, the empiricists also put on the mantle of epistemology, but were skeptical about “innate ideas”, seeing in man only a bundle of sense perceptions. Kant, awoken from his “dogmatic slumber” by Hume’s skepticism, attempted to rectify these two traditions with his Critique of Pure Reason, catapulting us further into rarefied spiritual air with the German and British idealists – which, in turn, capitulated us into the logical positivism that has dominated the Anglo-American universities until just recently. Even today, most maneuvers and counter-maneuvers, from Chalmers’ p-zombies to Dennett’s Cartesian theater, are situated in the same contextual snare. Like quicksand, the more we wrestle with Cartesian notions of the self, the deeper he sinks us into the epistemological tradition—and round and round we go.

Schultz and Newland, too, both reference Descartes in their articles. Schultz, echoing Aquinas, notes that the soul is “an animating principle” of the body, but the analogy of emptied suits and the language of a brain “belonging” to a soul both conjure, however slightly, the shadow of Cartesian rationalism.

In reaction to this, Newland proposes to “exorcise” the “ghost from the machine” by exploring Whitehead’s empiricism, positing a bundle of “little minds” that emerges from its “environment, structure, and chemical reactions.” Newland mirrors the arc of empiricism in one other crucial way: the invocation of an Aristotelian “soul” feels redundant. What is this “soul” if not an unnecessary metaphysical tier tacked on to what’s already been broken down and explained? This seems to be the arc of naturalism from Locke to Dennett where our spiritual side is concerned: the effervescent “soul” becomes as wispy and feckless an appendage as a phantom limb. It seems cleaner and more efficient to just cut it off and move on.

These two systems, often in very subtle ways, tend to push us to one side or the other whenever we approach the self, dragging us into an endless tug-of-war over one and the same epistemological rope. Henri Bergson, in his Introduction to Metaphysics, sought a way out through the concept of intuition, arguing that the two traditions were “dupes of the same illusion,” both “equally powerless to reach the inner self.” Jacques Maritain, a young student at the Sorbonne, had been in suicidal despair over the positivist view of life until he sat in on Bergson’s lectures. Eventually, he and Étienne Gilson, another student of Bergson’s, initiated a twentieth century revival in Scholastic metaphysics, abandoning their master’s philosophy but continuing his attack on the Cartesian-Kantian bloodline.

This revolt was not some isolated French fashion. As Charles Taylor shows in his essay "Overcoming Epistemology", recent philosophy has seen a succession of attempts from both analytic and continental thinkers to get out from under the crushing weight of the epistemological tradition. There is the phenomenology of Husserl, Heidegger, and Merleau-Ponty (carried forward today by Jean-Luc Marion) and the existentialism which sprouted from it; there is the late turn in Wittgenstein’s thought away from logical analysis toward ordinary language; there is neopragmatist Richard Rorty’s hugely influential Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature published in 1979; and there is Taylor’s own book, Sources of the Self, which looks to the “moral sources”—cultural, historical, and religious as well as philosophical—that inform our modern notions of the self.

What that self finally is for each of these thinkers obviously varies greatly. But Taylor argues that what’s more important is what they have in common:

"We argue the inadequacy of the epistemological construal, and the necessity of a new conception, from what we show to be the indispensable conditions of there being anything like experience or awareness of the world in the first place. Just how to characterize this reality, whose conditions we are defining, can itself be a problem, of course…For all this extremely important shift in the center of gravity of what we take as the starting point, there is a continuity between Kant and Heidegger, Wittgenstein, or Merleau-Ponty. They all start from the intuition that this central phenomenon of experience, or the clearing, is not made intelligible on the epistemological construal, in either its empiricist or rationalist variants."

In other words, we need to step out of the stream of consciousness and out into the broader valley surrounding it. We need to, like the atheist in the Irish joke, proclaim our freedom from the provincial dilemma which creeps up in increasingly subtle ways. It’s not the Cartesian ghost we need to exorcise, but the epistemological séance that conjured it in the first place.

That reorientation of man back toward our being-in-the-world—one that simultaneously resists the perennial impulse toward reductionism—is well underway. We see, to use Bergson’s phrasing, an empiricism “worthy of the name” on the horizon, one which is “obliged to make an absolutely new effort for each object it studies.” Gilson’s formulation—with its eye squarely on the wisdom of classical philosophy—rings true for all of us, and is as good a place as any to start:

“Man is not a mind that thinks, but a being who knows other beings as true, who loves them as good, and who enjoys them as beautiful.”

 
 
(Image credit: Culture CPG)

Not too long ago Patrick Schultz wrote a most interesting article for StrangeNotions.com on the nature of the “self” (or rather, the lack of one) if we attempt to describe human beings in material terms. Specifically, he says, when materialists try to explain the human person, “something quite puzzling (and frightening) occurs—human subjectivity disappears; that which makes humans human is explained away. The personal pronoun ‘I’ is swallowed up.”

Shultz then illustrates this idea through the words of one of my favourite popular science writers, Carl Sagan. A materialist himself (he famously imagined human beings as “stardust”), Sagan once described himself as “a collection of water, calcium, and organic molecules called Carl Sagan. You are a collection of almost identical molecules with a different collective label.”¹ When talking about himself, Sagan does not describe a single entity, but a collection of many diverse particles, piled five feet and eleven inches high (or so Google told me when I asked it how tall he was). I might refer to Sagan, were he alive and standing near me today (along with myself), as a particular assortment of chemical compounds, the sum total of all those little “parts”.

But this is of course contrary to my intuitive experience, and I’m sure the same is true for you as well. As a matter of fact, I happen to be standing in front of my computer right now typing these words, just as (a bit later from my point of view) you now happen to be reading them. In either case, “I” and “you” are singular pronouns, and I certainly experience this moment as a single united experience: there are my thoughts as I write, the movement of my hands across the keyboard, the David Bowie album I happen to be listening to (1976’s Station to Station), my simultaneous Facebook chat with a good friend (Hello Paulina!) and the sight of these very words as they appear on the screen. All these things, occurring simultaneously in this present moment, are part of a single noisy, busy, (yet somehow) unified experience, which I am now living.

But how can that be? How can I be, if I am really nothing but an assemblage of collected chemical compounds, or (perhaps better), a mobile bag of (mostly) water? Where am I located, in the midst of all these collected bits and diverse streams of experience? It seems strange that I should be only “one”, experiencing the world as a single thing (my “self”), for the many particles composing my body are not one, and water molecules are not conscious (otherwise, since the brain is about 75% water, we might hope to increase our intelligence by drinking more of it). Schultz ends his article with the illustration of the Iron Man’s empty suit (sans Tony Stark), and asks us to imagine that materialists are essentially saying that this is all human beings really are (though I prefer the more timeless idea of an empty suit of knight’s armor. But I digress). So has Schultz pointed out the Achilles’ heel of materialism? After all, how could something so absurd be true?

Even though Schultz and I certainly play for the same team, theologically speaking, I would have to disagree with him. Because the reality, I think, is so much more complicated. The self does indeed exist (it would be silly to deny such a thing, for one must have a “self” if one is to deny it, accept it, or try to imagine it). And so the question is this: Where does the “self” come from? Put differently, how can I understand my “self” in relation to the particles composing my body? What I would like to do with the remainder of is article, then, is to consider these questions.

Mind and matter and matter and mind

One fact that we must take into account, if we are going to explain the existence of the mind, is its apparent dependence upon the “stuff” of the brain. Neurons, the pathways between them, and the activity in which they engage, all seem instrumental and necessary if we hope to think, act, or interact with the world. Drop a brick on my head, damage or destroy a part of the brain, and my abilities will become impaired.

The correspondence between damage to the brain and cognitive ability was noted famously over 150 years ago by the French physician Pierre Paul Broca, and the discovery he made while doing the autopsy of a man known as “Tan”. Tan had been hospitalized for many years, and had almost completely lost the ability to speak; the only word he could say, in fact, was “Tan”, and he repeated it over and over as he attempted to communicate. Following Tan’s death, when Broca removed and studied his brain, Broca found extensive damage to the frontal lobe of its left hemisphere, to an area known today as “Broca’s area”. Later studies confirmed that this particular brain region was responsible for producing spoken language. Damage it, and you would destroy anyone’s ability to speak.²

This, and many other cases (such as the famous example of Phineas Gage, whom I would recommend you read all about) suggests a definite correspondence between my subjective experience and abilities, and the particles composing my body (and more specifically, my brain).

Do You Want to Build a Snowman?

Another idea I would like to consider, as we contemplate the nature of the mind (and of the self) is the idea of “emergence”. This is basically the idea that things can in fact be more than the sum of their parts. In other words, I can be made of all the things Carl Sagan listed (water, calcium, and organic molecules), and yet still be more than that, as a unique, living, thinking being.

Consider water, for example. Not only does the stuff comprise most of our bodies, but it is itself comprised of two distinct components (hydrogen and oxygen). Hydrogen and oxygen are two completely different things, each with its own chemical and physical properties. And yet when they combine together, as two hydrogen atoms bond with an oxygen atom, they produce something new (water!), with chemical and physical properties all its own. And so the many combine into one, and the one is different from those components out of which it is comprised. Water behaves in a way in which hydrogen or oxygen alone never would. Other chemical compounds behave differently with one another, then, than they otherwise would. And this may be something important to keep in mind (no pun intended).

Sagan may have described himself as a collection of chemical compounds, but it’s important to realize that these compounds may behave in distinct and unexpected ways when in “close quarters” (or held together by the same skin and skeletal structure). Perhaps self-awareness and intelligence are very unusual (even miraculous) sorts of chemical reactions arising from compounds composing the human body?

A simple illustration. I cannot build a snowman out of one hydrogen atom, or even a the contents of a tank filled with hydrogen, but bond a hydrogen atom to an oxygen atom (many times), accumulate a large amount of water, freeze it under the right conditions, and make the proper deliberate actions (rolling the snow into balls and stacking them) and I can! I can hardly accurately describe my snowman as a collection of hydrogen and oxygen atoms. After all, the temperature, the structure and properties of snowflakes, and my wish to build a snowman have all combined to create something which is more than just the sum of its parts.

The point is, a suit of armor (or Tony Stark’s suit) is indeed inert and “nothing-buttery”; it is only a fancy hunk of metal, so long as there’s no one inside it. But the human body is very different from a suit of armor; it is active and alive, containing a plethora of varied chemical compounds that act and interact with one another. My “self”, then, could be such an emergent property, arising from the structure, properties, and interactions occurring between my own component parts.

I am Large; I Contain Multitudes

Let’s put all this together now, with one other interesting fact about the brain, as I think it will shed some new (and surprising) light on the nature of the mind. We’ve been searching for the one “self” amongst the bits and pieces and particles composing the body (and especially the brain). But what if the truth were more complicated? 160 years ago the poet Walt Whitman wrote, “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. I am large; I contain multitudes.”³ And though he could not have known it then, Whitman may have been literally right. While treating patients suffering from epilepsy, neurobiologist Roger Sperry cut the nerves connecting the left and right hemispheres of the brain. This experimental surgery was done to prevent seizures from spreading from one side of the brain to the other. But then something incredible happened: each half of the brain, severed from the other, appeared to take on a life of its own. Each hemisphere became the source of a separate mind, each one of equal intelligence but differing in abilities.⁴ Dr. Michael Gazzaniga, who worked under Dr. Sperry at that time, describes what happened:

In later experiments with other patients, we put assorted objects within reach of the left hand but blocked form view. A picture of one of the objects was flashed to the right hemisphere, and the left hand felt among the objects and was able to select the one that had been pictured. When asked, “Did you see anything?” or “What is in your left hand?” the patient denied seeing the picture and could not describe what was in his left hand. In another scenario we flashed the picture of a bicycle to the right hemisphere and asked the patient if he had seen anything. Once again he replied in the negative, but his left hand drew a picture of a bike.⁵

But Gazzaniga does not suggest that every human being is in fact a pair, or two minds sharing one body (recall Aristophanes’ story from Plato’s Symposium). Rather, Gazzaniga goes much further than that, suggesting that each hemisphere is composed of many smaller “minds”, and that these little minds (or sites of particular mental process) connect together to form larger and more complex structures capable of doing and understanding more and more. Like a snowball rolling down a hill, growing larger and larger as it accumulates more and more snow. Smaller brain structures connect together to form the two hemispheres, which in turn connect together to form a whole brain and a single “self”. ^[vi] Out of many, one.

Though a strange idea, it isn’t really all that new. Long before Walt Whitman, Plato suggested the same thing in The Republic. There we can read Socrates’ comparison of the human being to a city, and his suggestion that the former is just a smaller version of the latter. After all, our bodies are composed of cells which perform specific tasks, and so too are cities composed of people who go to do their jobs every day. Human bodies are “cities” built up out of cells, their tissues which are made of cells, their organs (made of tissues), and systems (made of organs), thus making the body a complete whole of cooperating interdependent parts. Plato thought our cities were built the same way: our countries are formed of similar units: people instead of cells, families and associations composed of individual people, institutions made of families and associations, and society as a whole. As above, so below.

Conclusion

So we might be able to understand the “self” as a real thing that nonetheless depends on a very specific combination of chemical compounds, chemical reactions, structure, and environment (since human bodies would not survive on the surface of the sun, for example). Naturally, though, plenty of mysteries remain, as the complexity of this structure and the nature of all the chemical reactions taking place within our bodies continue to lie beyond our present understanding. We can remain open to the mystery of how such a remarkable thing as the “self” could have ever arisen in nature (if we are naturalists, that is. Theists, of course, already know the answer to that mystery). And we can marvel at the nature of the “self” that emerges from such a remarkable set of circumstances and is capable of doing so much (music, art, novels, pyramids, rocket ships, roller-coasters, and everything else we can create).

One last thing deserves a mention. I would like to remind readers that the idea of the “self” as a result of environment, structure, and chemical reactions does not invalidate the idea of the soul. Not at all. Already, I have noted the similarity of Gazzaniga’s idea of the mind as a collection of smaller minds to the idea of the human being described in Plato’s Republic. And any student of Aristotle knows that the soul is best understood as the form (or the “living structure”) of the body. According to Aristotle’s understanding, the soul is the power a human being has to grow, move, or think. Even if the “self” is indeed the result of a collection of chemical compounds or an assemblage of particles, I don’t think Schultz has any reason to worry.

I am still here.
 
 
(Image credit: New Statesman)