I Am a Strange Loop

CHAPTER 20

A Courteous Crossing of Words

Dramatis personæ:

Strange Loop #641: a believer in the ideas of I Am a Strange Loop

Strange Loop #642: a doubter of the ideas of I Am a Strange Loop

SL #642: Dreary, oh so dreary. In fact, your picture of the soul is not just dreary; it’s completely empty. Vacuous. There’s nothing spiritual there at all. It’s just physical activity and nothing more.

SL #641: What else did you expect? What else could you expect? Unless you’re a dualist, that is, and you think souls are ghostly, nonphysical things that don’t belong to the physical universe, and yet that can push pieces of it around.

SL #642: No, I don’t go for that. It’s just that there has to be something extremely special that accounts for the existence of spiritual, mental, feeling, perceiving beings in this physical world — something that explains our inner light, our awareness, our consciousness.

SL #641: I couldn’t agree with you more. An explanation of such elusive phenomena surely calls for something special. Building a soul out of physical nuts and bolts is a tall order. But bear in mind that in my view, consciousness is a very unusual sort of intricately organized material pattern, not just any old physical activity. It’s not the swinging of a chain, the plopping of a stone in a pond, the splashing of a waterfall, the swirling of a hurricane, the refilling of a flush toilet, the self-regulation of the temperature in a house, the flow of electrons in a program that plays chess, the wiggling of an ovum-seeking sperm, the neural firings in a hungry mosquito’s brain… but we are getting ever closer as this list progresses. An “inner light” starts to turn on as we rise in this hierarchy. The light is still incredibly dim even at the list’s end, but if we extend the list further and sweep upwards through the brains of bees, goldfish, bunnies, dogs, and toddlers, it grows far brighter. It gets very bright when we arrive at human adolescents and adults, and it stays bright for decades. What we know as our own consciousness is, yes, nothing but the physical activity inside a human brain that has lived in the world for a number of years.

SL #642: No, the essence of consciousness is missing from your picture. You’ve described a complex set of brain activities involving symbols triggering each other, and I’m prepared to believe that something like that does take place inside brains. But that isn’t the whole story, because I am nowhere in this story. There is no room for an I. You’ve proposed myriads of unconscious particles bouncing around, or perhaps big clouds of activity made of particles — but if the universe were only that, then there would be no me, no you, no points of view. It would be the way the earth was before life evolved — millions of sunrises and sunsets, winds blowing hither and thither, clouds forming and scattering, thunderstorms swooping along valleys, boulders tumbling down mountains and gouging out gulleys, water flowing in riverbeds and carving deep canyons, waves breaking on sandy beaches, tides flowing in and out, volcanoes spewing out red-hot seas of lava, mountain chains bursting up out of plains, continents drifting and breaking apart, and so on. All very scenic, but there would be no inner life, no mind, no inner light, no I — no one to enjoy the great scenery.

SL #641: I sympathize with your sense of the barrenness of a universe made of physical phenomena only, but some kinds of physical systems can mirror what’s on their outside and can launch actions that depend upon their perceptions. That’s the thin edge of the wedge. When perception grows sophisticated enough, it can lead to phenomena that have no counterparts in systems that perceive only in a primitive manner. By “primitive” perceiving systems, I mean entities like, for instance, thermostats, knees, sperms, and tadpoles. These are too rudimentary to merit the term “consciousness”, but when perception takes place in a system endowed with a truly rich, fluidly extensible set of symbols, then an “I” will arise just as inevitably as strange loops arise in the barren fortress of Principia Mathematica.

SL #642: Perception?! Who’s doing the perceiving? No one! Your universe is still just a vacuous system of physical objects and their intricate, intertwined, enmeshed movements — galaxies, stars, planets, winds, rocks, water, landslides, ripples, sound waves, fire, radioactivity, and so forth. Even proteins and RNA and DNA. Even your beloved feedback loops — heat-seeking missiles, thermostats, refilling toilets, video feedback, domino chains, pool tables flooded with hordes of microscopic magnetic balls. But something crucial is missing from this bleak scene, and that’s me-ness. I am in a specific place. I’m here! What would pick out a here in a world consisting of water and float-balls in thousands of tanks, or in a world having zillions of different domino chains? There’s no here there.

SL #641: I really do understand that this matter would nag at you; it should nag at any thinking person. My reply is this: In the vast universe of diverse physical events that you just evoked so vividly, there are certain rare spots of localized activity in which a special kind of abstractly swirling pattern can be found. Those special loci — at least the ones that we have run into so far — are human brains, and “I” ’s are restricted to those loci. Such loci are hard to find in the vast universe; they are few and far between. Wherever this special, rare kind of physical phenomenon arises, there’s an I and a here.

SL #642: Your phrase “abstractly swirling pattern” makes me think of a physical vortex, like a hurricane or a whirlpool or a spiral galaxy — but I suppose those aren’t abstract enough for you.

SL #642: No, they really aren’t. Whirlpools and hurricanes are merely spinning vortices — fluid cousins to tops and gyroscopes. To make an “I” you need meanings, and to make meanings you need perception and categories — in fact, a repertoire of categories that keeps on building on itself, growing and growing and growing. Such things are nowhere to be found in the physical vortices you mentioned. That’s why a far better metaphor for an “I” is the structure of the self-referring formulas that Gödel found in the barren-seeming universe of PM. His formulas, like human “I” ’s, are extremely intricately and delicately structured, and are hardly a dime a dozen. “Ordinary” formulas of PM, like “0+0=0”, say, or a formula that states that every integer is the sum of at most four squares, are the analogues to inert, “I”-less physical objects, like grains of sand or bowling balls. Those simple kinds of formulas don’t have wraparound high-level meanings in the way that Gödel’s special strings do. It takes a great deal of number-theoretical machinery to build up from ordinary assertions about numbers to the complexity of Gödelian strange loops, and likewise it takes a great deal of evolution to build up from very simple feedback loops to the complexity of strange loops in brains.

SL #642: Suppose I granted you that there are lots of abstract “strange loops” floating around the universe, which somehow coalesced over the course of billions of years of evolution — strange loops residing in crania, a bit like audio feedback loops residing in auditoriums. They can be as complex as you like; the complexity of their physical activity doesn’t matter one whit to me. The knotty issue that simply will not go away is: What would make one of those strange loops me? Which one? You can’t answer that.

SL #641: I can, although you won’t like my answer. What makes one of them you is that it is resident in a particular brain that went through all the experiences that made you you.

SL #642: That’s just a tautology!

SL #641: Not really. It’s a subtle idea whose crux is that what you call “I” is an outcome, not a starting point. You coalesced in an unplanned fashion, coming only slowly into existence, not in a flash. At the beginning, when the brain that would later house your soul was taking form, there was no you. But that brain slowly grew, and its experiences slowly accumulated. Somewhere along the way, as more and more things happened to it, were registered by it, and became internalized in it, it started imitating the cultural and linguistic conventions in which it was immersed, and thus it tentatively said “I” about itself (even though the referent of that word was still very blurry). That’s roughly when it noticed it was somewhere — and not surprisingly, it was where a certain brain was! At that point, though, it didn’t know anything about its brain. What it knew instead was its brain’s container, which was a certain body. But even though it didn’t know anything about its brain, that nascent “I” faithfully followed its brain around just as a shadow always tags along after a moving object.

SL #642: You’re not dealing with my question, which is about how to pick me out in a world of indistinguishable physical structures.

SL #641: All right, let me turn straight to that. To you, all the brains housing strange loops seem no different from thousands of sewing machines scattered hither and yon, all clicking away. You would ask, “Which sewing machine is me?” Well, of course, none of them is you — and that’s because none of them perceives anything. You see brains that house strange loops as being just as inert and identity-lacking as sewing machines, pinwheels, or merry-go-rounds. But the funny thing is that the beings whose brains house those strange loops don’t agree with you that they have no identity. One of them insists, “I’m the one right here, looking at this purple flower, not the one over there, drinking a milkshake!” Another one insists, “I’m the one drinking this chocolate shake, not the one looking at that flower!” Each one of them is convinced of being somewhere and of seeing things and hearing things and having experiences. What makes you reject their claims?

SL #642: I don’t reject their claims. Those claims are perfectly valid — it’s just that their validity has nothing to do with brains housing strange loops. You’re focusing on the wrong thing. Any claims of “being here” and “being conscious” are valid because there is something extra, something over and above strange loops, that makes a brain be the locus of a soul. I can’t tell you just what it is, but I know this is true, because I am not just physical stuff happening somewhere in the universe. I experience things, such as that purple flower in the garden and that loud motorcycle a couple of blocks away. And my experience is the primary data on which everything else that I say is based, so you cannot deny my claim.

SL #641: How is that any different from what I’ve described? A sufficiently complex brain not only can perceive and categorize but it can verbalize what it has categorized. Like you, it can talk about flowers and gardens and motorcycle roars, and it can talk about itself, saying where it is and where it is not, it can describe its present and past experiences and its goals and beliefs and confusions… What more could you want? Why is that not what you call “experience”?

SL #642: Words, words, words! The point is that experience involves more than mere words — it involves feelings. Any experiencer worthy of the term has to see that brilliant purple color of the flower and feel it as such, not merely drone the sound “purple” like an automated voice in a telephone menu tree. Seeing a vivid purple takes place below the level of words or ideas or symbols — it is more primordial. It’s an experience directly felt by an experiencer. That’s the difference between true consciousness and mere “artificial signaling” as in a mechanical-sounding telephone menu tree.

SL #641: Would you say nonverbal animals enjoy such “primordial” experiences? Do cows savor the deep purple of a flower just as intensely as you do? And do mosquitoes? If you say “yes”, doesn’t that come dangerously close to suggesting that cows and mosquitoes have just as much consciousness as you do?

SL #642: Mosquito brains are far less complex than mine, so they can’t have the same kinds of rich experiences as I do.

SL #641: Now wait a minute. You can’t have it both ways. A moment ago, you were insisting that brain complexity doesn’t make any difference — that if a brain lacks that special je ne sais quoi that separates things that feel from things that don’t feel, then it’s not a locus of consciousness. But now you’re saying that the complexity of the brain in question does make a difference.

SL #642: Well, I guess it has to, to some extent. A mosquito doesn’t have the equipment to appreciate a purple flower in the way I do. But maybe a cow does, or at least it comes closer. But complexity alone does not account for the presence of feeling and experience in brains.

SL #641: Let’s consider a bit more deeply this notion of experiencing and feeling the world outside. If you were to stare at a big broad sheet of pure, uniform purple, your favorite shade ever, entirely filling your visual field, would you experience the same rush as when you see that color in the petals of a flower blooming in a garden?

SL #642: I doubt it. Part of what makes my experience of a purple flower so intense is all the subtle shades I see on each petal, the delicate way each petal is curved, and the way the petals all swirl together around a glowing center made of dozens of tiny dots…

SL #641: Not to mention the way the flower is poised on a branch, and the branch is part of a bush, and the bush is just one of many in a brightly colored garden…

SL #642: Are you intimating that I don’t enjoy the purple for its own sake, but only because of the way it’s embedded in a vast scene? This goes too far. The surroundings may enhance my experience, but I love that rich velvety purple purely for itself, independently of anything else.

SL #641: Why then do you describe it with the word “velvety”? Do flies or dogs experience purple flowers as “velvety”? Isn’t that word a reference to velvet? Doesn’t it mean that your visual experience calls up deeply buried memories, perhaps tactile memories from childhood, of running your fingers along a purple cushion made of velvet? Or maybe you’re unconsciously reminded of a dark-colored wine you once drank whose label described it as “velvety”. How can you claim your experience of purple is “independent of anything else in the world”?

SL #642: All I’m trying to say is that there are basic, primordial experiences out of which larger experiences are built, and that even the primordial ones are radically, qualitatively different from what goes on in simple physical systems like ropes dangling in breezes and floats bobbing in toilets. A dangling rope doesn’t feel anything when a breeze impinges on it. There’s no feeling in there, there’s no here there. But when I see purple or taste chocolate, that’s a sensual experience I’m having, and it’s from millions of such sensual experiences that my mental life is built up. There’s a big mystery here, in this breach.

SL #641: It sounds attractive, but unfortunately I think you’ve got it all backwards. Those little sensual experiences are to the grand pattern of your mental life as the letters in a novel are to the novel’s plot and characters — irrelevant, arbitrary tokens, rather than carriers of meaning. There is no meaning to the letter “b”, and yet out of it and the other letters of the alphabet, put together in complex sequences, comes all the richness and humanity in a novel or a story.

SL #642: That’s the wrong level to talk about a story. Writers choose words, not letters, and words are of course imbued with meaning. Put together a lot of those tiny meanings and you get one big meaning-rich thing. Similarly, life is made out of many tiny sensual experiences, chained together to make one huge sensuo-emotional experience.

SL #641: Hold on a minute. No isolated word has depth and power. When embedded in a complex context, a word may have great power, but in isolation it does not. It’s an illusion to attribute power to the word itself, and it’s a greater illusion to attribute power to the letters constituting the word.

SL #642: I agree that letters have no power or meaning. But words, yes! They are the atoms of meaning out of which larger structures of meaning are built. You can’t get big meanings from atoms that are meaningless!

SL #641: Oh, really? I thought you just conceded that exactly this happens in the case of words and letters. But all right — let’s move on from that example. Would you say that music has meaning?

SL #642: Music is among the most meaningful things I know.

SL #641: And yet, are individual notes meaningful to you? For instance, do you feel attraction or repulsion, beauty or ugliness, when you hear middle C?

SL #642: I hope not! No more than when I see the isolated letter “C”.

SL #641: Is there any isolated note that on its own attracts or repels you?

SL #642: No. An isolated note doesn’t carry musical meaning. Anyone who claimed to be moved by a single note would be putting on airs.

SL #641: Yet when you hear a piece of music you like or hate, you certainly are attracted or repelled. Where does that feeling come from, given that no note in it has any intrinsic attraction or repulsion for you?

SL #642: It depends on how they are arranged in larger structures. A melody is attractive because of some kind of “logic” it possesses. Some other melody could be repulsive because it lacks logic, or because its logic is too simplistic or childish.

SL #641: That certainly sounds like a response to pattern, not like raw sensation. A piece of music can have great emotional meaning despite being made of tiny atoms of sound that have no emotional meaning. What matters, therefore, is the pattern of organization, not the nature of the constituents. This brings us back to your puzzlement about the difference between experiencers such as you and me, and non-experiencers such as dangling ropes and plastic floats. To you, this crucial difference must originate in some special ingredient, some tangible thing or substance, which experiencers have in their makeup, and which non-experiencers lack. Is that right?

SL #642: Something like that has to be the case.

SL #641: Then let’s call this special ingredient that allows experiencers to come into existence “feelium”. Unfortunately, no one has ever found a single atom or molecule of feelium, and I suspect that even if we did find a mysterious substance present in all higher animals but not in lower ones, let alone in mere machines, you would start wondering how it could be that any mere substance, inanimate and insensate on its own, could give rise to sensation.

SL #642: Feelium, if it existed, would probably be more like electricity than like atoms or molecules. Or maybe it would be like fire or radioactivity — in any case, something that seems living, something that by its very nature dances in crazy ways — not just inert stuff.

SL #641: When you painted a picture of the earth before life evolved, it had volcanoes, thunder and lightning, electricity, fire, light, and sound — even the sun, that great big ball of nuclear fusion. And yet you weren’t willing to imagine that the presence of such phenomena, in any combination or permutation, could ever give rise to an experiencer. Yet just now, in talking about the mysterious soul-creating essence I called “feelium”, you used the word “dance”, as in the phrase “dancing symbols”. Are you perhaps unwittingly changing your tune?

SL #642: Well, I can imagine a sparkling, firelike “dance” as being what distinguishes experiencers from non-experiencers. It’s even somehow appealing to me to think that the dancing of feelium, if it turned out to exist, might be able to explain the difference between experiencers and non-experiencers. But even if we came to understand the physics of how feelium produces experience, something crucial would still be missing. Suppose that the world were populated by experiencers defined by some kind of pattern involving feelium. Let’s even suppose that the pattern at the core of each experiencer were a strange loop, as you postulate. So now, because of this elusive but wonderful physical pattern executed at least partially in feelium, there are lots of “lights on” scattered around in special spots here and there in the universe. The sticking point remains: Which one of them is me? What makes one of them different from all of the others? What is the source of “I”-ness?

SL #641: Why do you say you would be different from the others? Each one would cry out that it was different. You’d all be mouthing just the same thoughts. In that sense, you would all be indistinguishable!

SL #642: I think you’re teasing me. You know perfectly well that I’m not the same as anyone else. My inner fire is here, not anywhere else. I want to know what singles out this particular fire from all the others.

SL #641: It’s as I said before: you’re a satellite to your brain. Like a fireplace, a particular brain is in a particular spot. And wherever it happens to be, its resident strange loop calls that place “here”. What’s so mysterious about that?

SL #642: You’re not answering my question. I don’t think you’re even hearing my question.

SL #641: Oh, sure — I hear you. I here, you there!

SL #642: Ouch. Now just listen for a moment. My question is very straightforward. Anybody can understand it (except maybe you). Why am I in this brain? Why didn’t I wind up in some other brain? Why didn’t I wind up in your brain, for instance?

SL #641: Because your “I” was not an a priori well-defined thing that was predestined to jump, full-fledged and sharp, into some just-created empty physical vessel at some particular instant. Nor did your “I” suddenly spring into existence, wholly unanticipated but in full bloom. Rather, your “I” was the slowly emerging outcome of a million unpredictable events that befell a particular body and the brain housed in it. Your “I” is the self-reinforcing structure that gradually came to exist not only in that brain, but thanks to that brain. It couldn’t have come to exist in this brain, because this brain went through different experiences that led to a different human being.

SL #642: But why couldn’t I have had those experiences as easily as you?

SL #641: Careful now! Each “I” is defined as a result of its experiences, and not vice versa! To think the reverse is a very tempting, seductive trap to fall into. You keep on revealing your tacit assumption that any “I”, despite having grown up inside one particular brain, isn’t deeply rooted in that brain — that the same “I” could just as easily have grown up in and been attached to any other brain; that there is no deeper a connection between a given “I” and a given brain than the connection between a given canary and a given cage. You can just swap them arbitrarily.

SL #642: You’re still missing my point. Instead of asking why I ended up in this brain, I’m asking why I started out in that random brain, and not in some other one. There’s no reason that it had to be that one.

SL #641: No, you’re the one who’s missing the point. The key point, uncomfortable for you though it will be, is that no one started out in that brain — no one at all. It was just as uninhabited as a swinging rope or a whirlpool. But unlike those physical systems, it could perceive and evolve in sophistication, and so, as weeks, months, and years passed, there gradually came to be someone in there. But that personal identity didn’t suddenly appear full-blown; rather, it slowly coalesced and came into focus, like a cloud in the sky or condensation on a windowpane.

SL #642: But who was that person destined to be? Why couldn’t it have been someone else?

SL #641: I’m coming to that. What slowly came to pervade that brain was a complicated set of mental tendencies and verbal habits that are now insistently repeating this question, “Why am I here and not there?” As you may notice, this brain here (mine, that is) doesn’t make its mouth ask that question over and over again. My brain is very different from your brain.

SL #642: Are you telling me that it doesn’t make sense to ask the question, “Why am I here and not there?”

SL #641: Yes, I’m saying that, among other things. What makes all of this so counterintuitive — verging on the incomprehensible, at times — is that your brain (like mine, like everyone’s) has told itself a million times a self-reinforcing story whose central player is called “I”, and one of the most crucial aspects of this “I”, an aspect that is truly a sine qua non for “I”-ness, is that it fluently flits into other brains, at least partially. Out of intimacy, out of empathy, out of friendship, and out of relatedness (as well as for other reasons), your brain’s “I” continually makes darting little forays into other brains, seeing things to some extent from their point of view, and thus convincing itself that it could easily be housed in them. And then, quite naturally, it starts wondering why it isn’t housed in them.

SL #642: Well, of course it would ask itself that. What more natural thing to wonder about?

SL #641: And one piece of the answer is that to a small extent, your “I” is housed in other brains. Yes, your “I” is housed a little bit in my frustratingly dense and pigheaded brain, and vice versa. But despite that blurry spillover that turns the strict city-limits version of You into Greater Metropolitan You, your “I” is still very localized. Your “I” is certainly not uniformly spread out among all the brains on the surface of the earth — no more so than the great metropolitan sprawl of Mexico City possesses suburbs in Madagascar! But there is another piece of the answer to your question “Why am I here and not there?”, and it is going to trouble you. It is that your “I” isn’t housed anywhere. SL #642: Come again? This doesn’t sound like your usual line.

SL #641: Well, it’s just another way of looking at these things. Earlier, I described your “I” as a self-reinforcing structure and a self-reinforcing story, but now I’ll risk annoying you by calling it a self-reinforcing myth.

SL #642: A myth?! I’m certainly not a myth, and I’m here to tell you so.

SL #641: Hold your horses for a moment. Think of the illusion of the solid marble in the box of envelopes. Were I to insist that that box of envelopes had a genuine marble in it, you’d say I had fallen hook, line, and sinker for a tactile illusion, wouldn’t you?

SL #642: I would indeed, although the feeling that something solid is in there is not an illusion.

SL #641: Agreed. So my claim is that your brain (like mine and like everyone else’s) has, out of absolute necessity, invented something it calls an “I”, but that that thing is as real (or rather, as unreal) as is that “marble” in that box of envelopes. In that sense, your brain has tricked itself. The “I” — yours, mine, everyone’s — is a tremendously effective illusion, and falling for it has fantastic survival value. Our “I” ’s are self-reinforcing illusions that are an inevitable by-product of strange loops, which are themselves an inevitable by-product of symbol-possessing brains that guide bodies through the dangerous straits and treacherous waters of life.

SL #642: You’re telling me there is not really any “I”. Yet my brain tells me just as assuredly that there is an “I”. Then you tell me that this is just my brain pulling a trick on me. But excuse me — pulling a trick on whom? You’ve just told me that this me doesn’t exist, so who is my brain pulling a trick on? And — pardon me once again — how can I even call it “my brain” if there is no me for it to belong to?

SL #641: The problem is that in a sense, an “I” is something created out of nothing. And since making something out of nothing is never possible, the alleged something turns out to be an illusion, in the end, but a very powerful one, like the marble among the envelopes. However, the “I” is an illusion far more entrenched and recalcitrant than the marble illusion, because in the case of “I”, there is no simple revelatory act corresponding to turning the box upside down and shaking it, then peering in between the envelopes and finding nothing solid and spherical in there. We don’t have access to the inner workings of our brains. And so the only perspective we have on our “I”-ness marble comes from the counterpart to squeezing all the envelopes at once, and that perspective says it’s real!

SL #642: If that’s the only possible perspective, then what would ever give us even the slightest sense that we might be lending credence to a myth?

SL #641: One thing that gives many people a sneaking suspicion that something about this “I” notion might be mythical is precisely what you’ve been troubled about all through our discussion — namely, there seems to be something incompatible between the hard laws of physics and the existence of vague, shadowy things called “I” ’s. How could experiencers come to exist in a world where there are just inanimate things moving around? It seems as if perception, sensation, and experience are something extra, above and beyond physics.

SL #642: Unless, of course, there’s feelium, but that’s not by any means clear. In any case, I agree that conflicts with physics give a hint that this “I” notion is very elusive and cries out for an explanation.

SL #641: A second hint that something needs revision has to do with what we perceive as causing what. In our everyday life, we take it for granted that an “I” can cause things, can push things around. If I decide to drive to the grocery store, my one-ton automobile winds up taking me there and bringing me back. Now that seems pretty peculiar in the world of physics, where everything comes about solely as a result of how particles interact. How does the particle story leave room for a shadowy, ethereal “I” to cause a heavy car to move somewhere? This, too, casts a bit of doubt on the reality of the notion of “I”.

SL #642: Perhaps — but if so, it’s very very slight.

SL #641: No matter. That extremely slight doubt flies in the face of what we all take for granted ever since our earliest childhood, which is that “I” ’s do exist — and in most people, the latter belief simply wins out, hands down. The battle is never even engaged, in most people’s minds. On the other hand, for a few people the battle starts to rage: physics versus “I”. And various escape hatches have been proposed, including the notion that consciousness is a novel kind of quantum phenomenon, or the idea that consciousness resides uniformly in all matter, and so on. My proposal for a truce to end this battle is to see the “I” as a hallucination perceived by a hallucination, which sounds pretty strange, or perhaps even stranger: the “I” as a hallucination hallucinated by a hallucination.

SL #642: That sounds way beyond strange. That sounds crazy.

SL #641: Perhaps, but like many strange fruits of modern science, it can sound crazy yet be right. At one time it sounded crazy to say that the earth moved and the sun was still, since it was patently obvious that it was the other way around. Today we can see it either way, depending on circumstances. When we’re in an everyday frame of mind, we say, “The sun is setting”, and when we’re in a scientific frame of mind we remember that the earth is merely turning. We are flexible creatures, able to shift point of view according to circumstance.

SL #642: And so, in your view, should we also be able to shift points of view concerning the existence of an “I”?

SL #641: Definitely. My claim that an “I” is a hallucination perceived by a hallucination is somewhat like the heliocentric viewpoint — it can yield new insights but it’s very counterintuitive, and it’s hardly conducive to easy communication with other human beings, who all believe in their “I” ’s with indomitable fervor. We explain our own behavior, and that of others, through the positing of our own “I” and its analogues in other people. This naïve viewpoint allows us to talk about the world of people in terms that make perfect sense to people.

SL #642: Naïve?! I notice that you haven’t stopped saying “I”! You’ve probably said it a hundred times in the last five minutes!

SL #641: To be sure. You’re absolutely right. This “I” is a necessary, indispensable concept to all of us, even if it’s an illusion, like thinking that the sun is circling the earth because it rises, moves across the sky, and sets. It’s only when our naïve viewpoint about “I” bangs up against the world of physics that it runs into all sorts of difficulties. It’s at that point that those of us who are scientifically inclined realize that there has to be some other story to be told about it. But believing in the easy story about “I” is a million times more important to most of us than figuring out a scientific explanation for “I”, so the upshot is that there’s no contest. The “I” myth wins hands down, without a debate ever taking place — even in the minds of the majority of scientifically inclined people!

SL #642: How can that be?

SL #641: I surmise it’s for two reasons. One is that the “I” myth is infinitely more central to our belief systems than is the “sun circling the earth” myth, and the other is that any scientific alternative to it is far subtler and more disorienting than the shift to heliocentrism was. And so the “I” myth is much harder to dislodge from our minds than the “sun circling the earth” myth. Deconstructing the “I” holds about as much appeal for a typical adult as deconstructing Santa Claus would hold for a typical toddler. Actually, giving up Santa Claus is trivial compared to giving up “I”. Ceasing to believe altogether in the “I” is in fact impossible, because it is indispensable for survival. Like it or not, we humans are stuck for good with this myth.

.SL #642: Why do you keep on saying the “I” is just a myth or a hallucination or an illusion, just like that blasted non-marble? I’m tired of your trotting out your tired old marble metaphor. I want to know what’s hallucinated.

SL #641: All right, let’s put the marble metaphor to bed for a while. The basic idea is that the dance of symbols in a brain is itself perceived by symbols, and that step extends the dance, and so round and round it goes. That, in a nutshell, is what consciousness is. But if you recall, symbols are simply large phenomena made out of nonsymbolic neural activity, so you can shift viewpoint and get rid of the language of symbols entirely, in which case the “I” disintegrates. It just poofs out of existence, so there’s no room left for downward causality.

SL #642: What does that mean, more specifically?

SL #641: It means that in the new picture there are no desires, beliefs, character traits, senses of humor, ideas, memories, or anything mentalistic; just itty-bitty physical events (particle collisions, in essence) are left. One can do likewise in the careenium, where you can shift points of view, either looking at things at the level of simmballs or looking at things at the level of simms. At the former level, the simms are totally unseen, and at the latter level, the simmballs are totally unseen. These rival viewpoints really are extreme opposites, like the heliocentric and geocentric views.

SL #642: All of this I see, but why do you keep implying that one of these views is an illusion, and the other one is the truth? You always give primacy to the particle viewpoint, the lower-level microscopic viewpoint. Why are you so prejudiced? Why don’t you simply see two equally good rival views that we can oscillate between as we find appropriate, in somewhat the way that physicists can oscillate between thermodynamics and statistical mechanics when they deal with gases?

SL #641: Because, most unfortunately, the non-particle view involves several types of magical thinking. It entails making a division of the world into two radically different kinds of entities (experiencers and non-experiencers), it involves two radically different kinds of causality (downward and upward), it involves immaterial souls that pop into being out of nowhere and at some point are suddenly extinguished, and on and on.

SL #642: You are so bloody inconsistent! You liked the explanation of the falling domino that invoked the primeness of 641! You preferred it! You kept on saying it was the real reason the domino didn’t fall, and that the other explanation was myopic and hopelessly useless.

SL #641: Touché! I admit that my stance has a definite ironic tinge to it. Sometimes the strict scientific viewpoint is hopelessly useless, even if it’s correct. That’s a dilemma. As I said, the human condition is, by its very nature, one of believing in a myth. And we’re permanently trapped in that condition, which makes life rather interesting.

SL #642: Taoism and Zen long ago sensed this paradoxical state of affairs and made it a point to try to dismantle or deconstruct or simply get rid of the “I”.

SL #641: That sounds like a noble goal, but it’s doomed to failure. Just as we need our eyes in order to see, we need our “I” ’s in order to be! We humans are beings whose fate it is to be able to perceive abstractions, and to be driven to do so. We are beings that spend their lives sorting the world into an ever-growing hierarchy of patterns, all represented by symbols in our brains. We constantly come up with new symbols by putting together previous symbols in new kinds of structures, nearly ad infinitum. Moreover, being macroscopic, we can’t see way down to the level where physical causality happens, so in compensation, we find all sorts of marvelously efficient shorthand ways of describing what goes on, because the world, though it’s pretty crazy and chaotic, is nonetheless filled with regularities that can be counted on most of the time.

SL #642: What kinds of regularities are you talking about?

SL #641: Oh, for example, swings on a playground will swing in a very predictable way when you push them, even though the detailed motions of their chains and seats are way beyond our ability to predict. But we don’t care in the least about that level of detail. We feel we know extremely well how swings move. Similarly, shopping carts go pretty much where you want them to when you push them, even if their wobbly wheels, rather predictably, lend them an amusing trace of unpredictability. And someone ambling down the sidewalk in your direction may make some slightly unpredictable motions, but you can count on them not turning into a giant and gobbling you up. These sorts of regularity are what we all know intimately and take for granted, and they are amazingly remote from the level of particle collisions. The most efficient and irresistible shorthand of all is that of imputing abstract desires and beliefs to certain “privileged” entities (those with minds — animals and people), and of wrapping all of those things together in one single, supposedly indivisible unity that represents the “central essence” of such an entity.

SL #642: You mean that entity’s “soul”?

SL #641: Pretty much. Or if you don’t want to use that word, then it’s the way that you presume that that thing feels inside — its inner viewpoint, let’s say. And then, to cap it all off, since each perceiver is always swimming in its own activities and their countless consequences, it can’t keep itself from fabricating a particularly intricate tale about its own soul, its own central essence. That tale is no different in kind from the tales it makes up for the other mind-owning entities that it sees — it’s just far more detailed. Moreover, the story of an “I” is a tale about a central essence that never disappears from view (in contrast to “you” ’s and “she” ’s and “he” ’s, which tend to come into view for a scene or two and then go off stage).

SL #642: So it’s the fact that the system can watch itself that dooms it to this illusion.

SL #641: Not just that it can watch itself, but that it does watch itself, and does so all the time. That, plus the crucial fact that it has no choice but to radically simplify everything. Our categories are vast simplifications of patterns in the world, but the well-chosen categories are enormously efficient in allowing us to fathom and anticipate the behavior of the world around us.

SL #642: And why can’t we get rid of our hallucinations? Why can’t we attain that pure and selfless “I”-less state that the Zen people would aim for?

SL #641: We can try all we want, and it is an interesting exercise for a short while, but we can’t turn off our perception machinery and still survive in the world. We can’t make ourselves not perceive things like trees, flowers, dogs, and other people. We can play the game, can tell ourselves we’ve succeeded, can claim that we have “unperceived” them, but that’s just plain self-fooling. The fact is, we are macroscopic creatures, and so our perception and our categories are enormously coarse-grained relative to the fabric at which the true causality of the universe resides. We’re stuck at the level of radical simplification, for better or for worse.

SL #642: Is that a tragedy? You make it sound like a sad fate.

SL #641: Not at all — it’s our glory! It’s only those who take Zen and the Tao very seriously who consider this to be a condition to be fought against tooth and nail. They resent words, they resent breaking the world up into discrete chunks and giving them names. And so they give you recipes — such as their droll koans — to try to combat this universal built-in drive to use words. I myself have no desire to fight against the use of words in understanding the world’s mysteries — quite the reverse! But I admit that using words has one very major drawback.

SL #642: What is that?

SL #641: It is that we have to live with paradox, and live with it in the most intimate fashion. And the word “I” epitomizes all of that.

SL #642: I don’t see anything in the least paradoxical about the word “I”. In fact, I see no analogy at all between the commonplace, straightforward, down-to-earth notion of “I” and the esoteric, almost ungraspably elusive notion of a Gödelian strange loop.

SL #641: Well, consider this. On the one hand, “I” is an expression denoting a set of very high abstractions: a life story, a set of tastes, a bundle of hopes and fears, some talents and lacunas, a certain degree of wittiness, some other degree of absent-mindedness, and on and on. And yet on the other hand, “I” is an expression denoting a physical object made of trillions of cells, each of which is doing its own thing without the slightest regard for the supposed “whole” of which it is but an infinitesimal part. Put another way, “I” refers at one and the same time to a highly tangible and palpable biological substrate and also to a highly intangible and abstract psychological pattern. When you say “I am hungry”, which one of these levels are you referring to? And to which one are you referring when you declare, “I am happy”? And when you confess, “I can’t remember our old phone number”? And when you exult, “I love skiing”? And when you yawn, “I am sleepy”?

SL #642: Yes, now that you mention it, I do agree that what “I” stands for is a little hard to pin down. Sometimes its referent is concrete and physical, sometimes it’s abstract and mental. And yet when you come down to it, “I” is always both concrete and abstract at the same time.

SL #641: It is just one thing described in two phenomenally different ways, and that’s just the same as Gödel’s sentence. That’s why it is valid to say that it is both about numbers and about itself. Likewise, “I” is both about a myriad of separate physical objects and also about one abstract pattern — the very pattern causing the word to be said!

SL #642: It seems that this little pronoun is the nexus of all that makes our human existence mysterious and mystical. It’s so different from anything else around. The intrinsically self-pointing loop that the pronoun “I” involves — its indexicality, as philosophers would call it — is quintessentially different from all other structures in the universe.

SL #641: I don’t quite agree with that. Or rather, I don’t agree with it at all. The pronoun “I” doesn’t involve a stronger or deeper or more mysterious self-reference than the self-reference at the core of Gödel’s construction. Quite the contrary. It’s just that Gödel spelled out what “I” really means. He revealed that behind the scenes of so-called “indexicals”, there are merely codes and correspondences depending on stable, reliable systems of analogies. The thing we call “I” comes from that referential stability, and that’s all. There’s nothing more mystical about “I” than about any other word that refers. If anything, it is language that is so different from other structures in the universe.

SL #642: So for you, “I” is not mystical? Being is not mysterious?

SL #641: I didn’t say that. Being feels very mysterious to me, because, like everyone else, I’m finite and don’t have the ability to see deeply enough into my substrate to make my “I” poof out of existence. If I did, I guess life would be very uninteresting.

SL #642: I should think so!

SL #641: When we do look down at our fine-grained substrates through scientific experiments, we find small miracles just as Gödelian as is “I”.

SL #642: Ah, yes, to be sure — little microgödelinos! But… such as?

SL #641: I mean the self-reproduction of the double helix of DNA. The mechanism behind it all involves just the same abstract ideas as are implicated in Gödel’s type of self-reference. This is what John von Neumann unwittingly revealed when he designed a self-reproducing machine in the early 1950’s, and it had exactly the same abstract structure as Gödel’s self-referential trick did.

SL #642: Are you saying microgödelinos are self-replicating machines?

SL #641: Yes! It’s a subtle but beautiful analogy. The analogue of the Gödel number k is a particular blueprint. The “parent” machine examines this blueprint and follows its instructions exactly — that is, it builds what the blueprint depicts. To do that, it has to know what icons stand for what objects — a Gödelian kind of code, or mapping. The newly-built object is a machine that lacks one crucial part. To fill this lacuna, the parent machine then copies the blueprint and sticks the copy (which is the key missing part) into the new machine, and voilà! — the new composite object is a “child” machine, identical to its parent.

SL #642: This reminds me of the Morton Salt logo. Would the “child machine” lacking the crucial part be like the “umbrella girl” standing there empty-handed? And the blueprint would be a little blue salt box?

SL #641: Right! Hand her the little blue box, and she’s off to the races! Infinity, ho! And amazingly, only a few years later molecular biologists found that von Neumann’s Gödelian mechanism was the same trick Nature had discovered for making self-reproducing physical entities. DNA is the blueprint, of course. It all hinges on the existence of stable mappings (in this case, the mapping called the “genetic code”) and the meanings that come from them. And look where that led — to all of life, as far as it has come, and wherever it’s still heading! Infinity, ho!

SL #642: So you claim that the sense of being a unique living thing, reflected in the magical indexicality of the elusive word “I”, is not a profound phenomenon, but just a mundane consequence of mappings?

SL #641: I don’t think I said that! The sense of being alive and being a unique link in the infinite chain certainly is profound. It’s just that it doesn’t transcend physical law. To the contrary, it is a profound exploitation of physical law — hardly mundane! On the other hand, the all-too-common desire to mystify the pronoun “I”, as if it concealed a deeper mystery than other words do, truly muddies up the picture. The sole root of all these strange phenomena is perception, bringing symbols and meanings into physical systems. To perceive is to make a fantastic jump from William James’ “blooming, buzzing confusion” to an abstract, symbolic level. And then, when perception twists back and focuses on itself, as it inevitably will, you get rich, magical-seeming consequences. Magical-seeming, mind you, but not truly magical. You get a level-crossing feedback loop whose apparent solidity dominates the reality of everything else in the world. This “I”, this unreal but unutterably stubborn marble in the mind, this “Epi” phenomenon, simply takes over, anointing itself as Reality Number One, and from there on out it won’t go away, no matter what words are spoken.

SL #642: So the “I” is all too marbelous — too marbelous for words?

SL #641: What?! I thought you thought my “I” idea was for the birds.

SL #642: It’s true, I did, but I think I’m catching your drift. Perhaps I’m coming around a little bit. Your strange-loop view of an “I” is close to paradoxical, and yet not quite. It’s like Escher’s Drawing Hands — paradoxical when you’re sucked into the drawing by its wondrous realism, yet the paradox dissolves when you step back and see it from outside. Then it’s just another drawing! Most intriguing. It’s all too much, and just too very Berry… to ever be in Russell’s Dictionary.

SL #641: Ah, music to my ears! I’m so delighted you find a bit of merit in my ideas. As you know, they are only metaphors, but they help me to make some sense of the great puzzle of being alive and, as you kept on stressing, the great puzzle of being here. I thank you for the splendid opportunity of exchanging views on such subtle matters.

SL #642: The pleasure, I assure you, was all mine. And I shall await our next meeting with alacrity, celerity, assiduity, vim, vigor, vitality, savoir-faire, and undue velocity. Adieu till then, and cheerio!

[Exeunt.]