Travels in Wonderland
As we have often done, the two of us were having breakfast on Saturday at our favorite morning place on Williamson (āWillyā) Street in Madison, Wisconsin. It was the middle of March several years ago. Our conversation went something like this, although we wonāt swear we can remember it now, word for word.
āBut, Pop, do you think I should trust him?ā
āHow should I know, Gabe? Isnāt this the question we all struggle with every time we have to work with anybody to get something done?ā
āWhat do you mean?ā
āWell, letās face it: we may be the smartest animals in the world, but evolution hasnāt made us mind-readers. Like every other creature on Earth, however intelligent or not, all that any of us can do when we want to know for sure if others are telling us the truth is watch and listen to them. We can try to make an educated guess about what they are really thinking and intending to do. But thatās as far as it goes.ā
āYeah, I agree. But I think thereās more to it than that.ā
āI think you just lost me, Gabe.ā
āDonāt you recall that last week, you were telling me how hard it is, even for someone like you, who trained as an anthropologist, to feel confident that they have learned enough about the ways of people born and raised in another society to start seeing the world the way they do?ā
āI stand by that.ā
āYou quoted what one of your professors back in graduate school said about what anthropologists do to decide if they should trust their insights into how other people see the world. They ask themselves two questions. Can you finally explain things and events the way they do? Can you act in ways those people see as right and proper?ā
āYes, that was Ward Goodenough at the University of Pennsylvania, and yes, thatās basically what he saidā (Goodenough 1967; Terrell 2000).
āO.K., then hereās my point. If trusting other people is not about the truth of what they are thinking and saying, but instead only about whether we believe what they are saying and doing, what about ourselves? Should we even trust what our own brains are telling us?ā (Carruthers 2017).
āWell, we know Freud didnāt seem to think so. Yet maybe the better question is can we trust ourselves? Is there anything about human nature and the brain that we should be worried about?ā
That was back then. This is now. Both of us have since learned that the right answer to this last question is decidedly āyes.ā We have written this book because the more we explored this timeless question, the more we saw that there are indeed good reasons not to trust even what your own brain is telling you about the world around you and about your travels through it from birth to death.
One reason is obvious once you hear it.
We All Live in a Yellow Submarine
A scull is a type of oar used to propel a boat through the water. The same word can also mean the boat itself, either a rowing boat designed for one person or a light racing boat, or shell, with one, two, or four rowers, each with two oars, one in each hand. Alternatively, of course, a skull is the bony casing surrounding the brain that guides its owner through life.
Although these two wordsāscull and skullāsound the same while obviously meaning two quite different things, we find it hard not to think of them both when we are thinking about what it means to be human. We have come to see the human skull, the cranium, as like a classic Old Town 3-person touring canoe, or perhaps the gondola of a hot air balloon floating through the air a thousand feet off the ground. Or more realistically, not as a touring canoe or a balloonās basket but rather as a small yellow submarine with a crew of three inside named Sherlock, George, and Alice (we will have more to say about these three before we end this chapter).
Why a submarine? Because this select crew of three is hidden away and largely cut off from the world. Locked inside the confines of the human skull, they can only learn about what is happening outside their submarine from what is being piped in through their bodyās senses, serving, figuratively speaking, as their periscope, sonar equipment, and radio transceiver.
Why are we telling you this? Because we are willing to bet you have never thought about your brain this way. We want to change that. Why? Because this is a book about human nature and the brain. History shows that what humans are likeāor should be likeāas a species has always been controversial. At times, disagreements about human nature have developed into deadly conflicts, lynchings, and tragic episodes of mass genocide. We do not think we need to argue that the human brain has more than a little to do with what makes us not only one of the Earthās most successful species but perhaps also one of its most deadly. But what exactly is it about that juicy mass of brain tissue up there on top of our shoulders that lets us behave in such conflicting ways? And more to the point, why are the two of us so convinced that you should not trust even what your own brain is telling you?
There is nothing new about asking what it means to be human. Consider the Ancient Greek aphorism γνῶθι ĻεαĻ
ĻĻν, āKnow thyself.ā This sounds like wise advice, but what, pray tell, is a self? How do you get to know it?
Similarly, in 1637, the great French philosopher RenĆ© Descartes famously observed je pense, donc je suis, āI think, therefore I amā (Birhane 2017). This is one of the foundational ideas of modern Western philosophy, although it is usually rendered not in French but rather in Latin as cogito, ergo sum. It is comforting to be told in any language that we actually exist, and we are not merely a figment of someone elseās frenzied imagination. Yet what does this famous Frenchmanās observation tell us? Arenāt we left wondering what it means to think?
Scientists in recent decades have constructed laboratory machines that are nearly magical in how well they help us see past all the flesh and bone tissues surrounding the living human brain to discover what is happening physiologically therein when someone is asleep, awake, or daydreaming. These machines are a lot better than prying open a skull to take a look inside (Godwin et al. 2017), but it is not enough to see what is going on up there, however you decide to do it. The challenge lies in making sense of what you are seeing.1
Questions and concerns such as these are what got both of us engaged in writing this book. We are convinced that nobody can understand how and why we behave the way we do as individuals and societies without knowing how the human brain works. Furthermore, nobody can understand how their brain works without also understanding how humans evolved biologically to become a strikingly social species (most species on earth are not social at all beyond getting together at least long enough to reproduce and, if need be, raise their young). Finally, and most important, nobody can understand why we humans are so often our own worst enemies without also understanding how evolution has inadvertently set out a dangerous trap that all of us can easily fall into.
What trap is this? Evolution has given us the brain power to see in our mindās eye what may be āout there in the real worldā at any given moment of the day or night that we need to be aware of. We are also smart enough to imagine what we could create out there if we put our talents and social skills as human beings together to reshape the world to suit our individual and collective needs and whims. This rosy picture, however, hides a trap: a substantial Catch-22 to all this evolved human cleverness.
Whatās the catch? Endowing us with the talentsāand hence, the freedomāto remake the world around us in the way we want it to be has also made it possible for each of us to overreach, stumble, ignore the warning signs of pending troubles, and ultimately fail. Furthermore, our biologically evolved ability to imagine in our mindās eye what is not yet out there in the world but could be there if we made it happen means that evolution has also given us the ability to argue and even fight with one another, not only about how things could be but also about how they should be. Human history is full of arguments of this destructive kind, some of which have been deadly indeed. Arguments not about what is but about what ought to be.
There is a saying in Latin, dating back at least to the mid-seventeenth century, that by now may sound clichĆ©d but is true, nonetheless. Scientia potentia est, āknowledge is power.ā The chances are good that nobody in their right mind easily accepts the possibly disturbing fact that their brain is so well sealed within a hard bony vault called the skull that they have no direct knowledge of the outside world. Yet, however hard this is to believe, what each of us knows about the world around us gets into our brain solely and simply in the form of electrical impulses filtering in through our bodily senses, those neural pathways that are popularly, although somewhat inaccurately, said to be five in number: sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch (Reber et al. 2017). Or, said more graphically perhaps, like that crew of three traveling within our imaginary yellow submarine, the human brain learns about the outside world through impulses that have to be converted into useful information before they can be of any true value.
How this happensāhow the brain transforms impulses into meaningful informationāis still mostly a mystery even nowadays, despite the substantial advances that have been made in recent years in our scientific understanding of how the brain works as a biologically constructed thinking machine (Lupyan and Clark 2015). This is not, however, a book about the intricacies of modern neuroscience and its technological wizardry. Instead, we want to put on the table three basic propositions about what it means to be human. We will be using these propositions in the chapters ahead to explore both the strengths and the dangers of how the human brain engages with the world around us and with others of our kind.
First proposition. The most fundamental of our three propositions follows directly from our saying that the human skull is like a yellow submarine (or the small gondola of a hot air balloon). This first proposition may come across to you as little more than good old-fashioned common sense (Kandel 2019; Simon 1986).
We live in two different worlds at the same time.
One of these is the world outside of us that is tangible, risky, and demanding. The other world exists only in the brainās private kingdom between our ears. This is a place where we spend much of our time, awake or asleep. Here, we form our opinions, however wise or silly. Reach conclusions sound or foolish. Imagine even impossible things and events. Decide on what, if any, actions to take that may knowingly or not impinge upon our safety, sanity, and survival.
Second proposition. The late Nobel Laureate Herbert A. Simon made major contributions to an astonishing range of academic fields, including economics, management theory, artificial intelligence (AI), cognitive science, and philosophy. Half a century ago, he wrote insightfully about how the world we humans live in āis much more a man-made, or artificial, world than it is a natural worldā (Simon 1969, 3). To use our own words rather than his, what all of us see around us may not be a figment of the human imagination, but it is largely a product of our own fertile imaginations, nonetheless. An obvious example would be what the island of Manhattan at the heart of New York City is like today and what it was like back in 1626, when, according to legend and maybe history, too, the Dutchman Peter Minuit purchased this now famous piece of real estate for 60 guilders worth of trade ...