"What
Do You Believe Is True Even Though You Cannot Prove It?"
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PHILIP
W. ANDERSON
Physicist
and Nobel laureate, Princeton University
Is
string theory a futile exercise as physics,
as I believe it to be? It is an interesting
mathematical specialty and has produced and
will produce mathematics useful in other contexts,
but it seems no more vital as mathematics than
other areas of very abstract or specialized
math, and doesn't on that basis justify the
incredible amount of effort expended on it.
My belief is based on the fact that string theory
is the first science in hundreds of years to
be pursued in pre-Baconian fashion, without
any adequate experimental guidance. It proposes
that Nature is the way we would like it to be
rather than the way we see it to be; and it
is improbable that Nature thinks the same way
we do.
The sad thing is that, as several young would-be
theorists have explained to me, it is so highly
developed that it is a full-time job just to
keep up with it. That means that other avenues
are not being explored by the bright, imaginative
young people, and that alternative career paths
are blocked. |
STEPHEN
KOSSLYN
Psychologist,
Harvard University; Author, Wet
Mind
Mental
processes: An out-of-body existence?
These
days, it seems obvious that the mind arises
from the b rain (not the heart, liver, or some
other organ). In fact, I personally have gone
so far as to claim that "the mind is what
the brain does." But this notion does not
preclude an unconventional idea: Your mind may
arise not simply from your own brain, but in
part from the brains of other people.
Let me explain. This idea rests on three key
observations.
The
first is that our brains are limited, and so
we use crutches to supplement and extend our
abilities. For example, try to multiply 756
by 312 in your head. Difficult, right? You would
be happier with a pencil and piece of paper—or,
better yet, an electronic calculator. These
devices serve as prosthetic systems, making
up for cognitive deficiencies (just as a wooden
leg would make up for a physical deficiency).
The second observation is that the major prosthetic
system we use is other people. We set up what
I call "Social Prosthetic Systems"
(SPSs), in which we rely on others to extend
our reasoning abilities and to help us regulate
and constructively employ our emotions. A good
marriage may arise in part because two people
can serve as effective SPSs for each other.
The third observation is that a key element
of serving as a SPS is learning how best to
help someone. Others who function as your SPSs
adapt to your particular needs, desires and
predilections. And the act of learning changes
the brain. By becoming your SPS, a person literally
lends you part of his or her brain!
In short, parts of other people's brains come
to serve as extensions of your own brain. And
if the mind is "what the brain does,"
then your mind in fact arises from the activity
of not only your own brain, but those of your
SPSs.
There are many implications of these ideas,
ranging from reasons why we behave in certain
ways toward others to foundations of ethics
and even to religion. In fact, one could even
argue that when your body dies, part of your
mind may survive. But before getting into such
dark and dusty corners, it would be nice to
have firm footing—to collect evidence
that these speculations are in fact worth taking
seriously.
|
JOSEPH
LEDOUX
Neuroscientist,
New York University; Author, The
Synaptic Self
For
me, this is an easy question. I believe that
animals have feelings and other states of consciousness,
but neither I, nor anyone else, has been able
to prove it. We can't even prove that other
people are conscious, much less other animals.
In the case of other people, though, we at least
can have a little confidence since all people
have brains with the same basic configurations.
But as soon as we turn to other species and
start asking questions about feelings, and consciousness
in general, we are in risky territory because
the hardware is different.
When
a rat is in danger, it does things that many
other animals do. That is, it either freezes,
runs away or fights back. People pretty much
do the same things. Some scientists say that
because a rat and a person act the same in similar
situations, they have the same kinds of subjective
experiences. I don't think we can really say
this.
There
are two aspects of brain hardware that make
it difficult for us to generalize from our personal
subjective experiences to the experiences of
other animals. One is the fact that the circuits
most often associated with human consciousness
involve the lateral prefrontal cortex (via its
role in working memory and executive control
functions). This broad zone is much more highly
developed in people than in other primates,
and whether it exists at all in non-primates
is questionable. So certainly for those aspects
of consciousness that depend on the prefrontal
cortex, including aspects that allow us to know
who we are and to make plans and decisions,
there is reason to believe that even other primates
might be different than people. The other aspect
of the brain that differs dramatically is that
humans have natural language. Because so much
of human experience is tied up with language,
consciousness is often said to depend on language.
If so, then most other animals are ruled out
of the consciousness game. But even if consciousness
doesn't depend on language, language certainly
changes consciousness so that whatever consciousness
another animal has it is likely to differ from
most of our states of consciousness.
For
these reasons, I think it is hard to know what
consciousness might be like in another animal.
If we can't measure it (because it is internal
and subjective) and can't use our own experience
to frame questions about it (because the hardware
that makes it possible is different), it become
difficult to study.
Most
of what I have said applies mainly to the content
of conscious experience. But there is another
aspect of consciousness that is less problematic
scientifically. It is possible to study the
processes that make consciousness possible even
if we can't study the content of consciousness
in other animals. This is exactly what is done
in studies of working memory in non-human primates.
One approach by that has had some success in
the area of conscious content in non-human primates
has focused on a limited kind of consciousness,
visual awareness. But this approach, by Koch
and Crick, mainly gets at the neural correlates
of consciousness rather than the causal mechanisms.
The correlates and the mechanisms may be the
same, but they may not. Interestingly, this
approach also emphasizes the importance of prefrontal
cortex in making visual awareness possible.
So
what about feelings? My view is that a feeling
is what happens when an emotion system, like
the fear system, is active in a brain that can
be aware of its own activities. That is, what
we call "fear" is the mental state
that we are in when the activity of the defense
system of the brain (or the consequences of
its activity, such as bodily responses) is what
is occupying working memory. Viewed this way,
feelings are strongly tied to those areas of
the cortex that are fairly unique to primates
and especially well developed in people. When
you add natural language to the brain, in addition
to getting fairly basic feelings you also get
fine gradations due to the ability to use words
and grammar to discriminate and categorize states
and to attribute them not just to ourselves
but to others.
There
are other views about feelings. Damasio argues
that feelings are due to more primitive activity
in body sensing areas of the cortex and brainstem.
Pankseep has a similar view, though he focuses
more on the brainstem. Because this network
has not changed much in the course of human
evolution, it could therefore be involved in
feelings that are shared across species. I don't
object to this on theoretical grounds, but I
don't think it can be proven because feelings
can't be measured in other animals. Pankseep
argues that if it looks like fear in rats and
people, it probably feels like fear in both
species. But how do you know that rats and people
feel the same when they behave the same? A cockroach
will escape from danger--does it, too, feel
fear as it runs away? I don't think behavioral
similarity is sufficient grounds for proving
experiential similarity. Neural similarity helps—rats
and people have similar brainstems, and a roach
doesn't even have a brain. But is the brainstem
responsible for feelings? Even if it were proven
in people, how would you prove it in a rat?
So
now we're back where we started. I think rats
and other mammals, and maybe even roaches (who
knows?), have feelings. But I don't know how
to prove it. And because I have reason to think
that their feelings might be different than
ours, I prefer to study emotional behavior in
rats rather than emotional feelings. I study
rats because you can make progress at the neural
level, provided that the thing you measure is
the same in rats and people. I wouldn't study
language and consciousness in rats, so I don't
study feelings either, because I don't know
that they exist. I may be accused of being short-sighted
for this, but I'd rather make progress on something
I can study in rats than beat my head against
the consciousness wall in these creatures.
There's
lots to learn about emotion through rats that
can help people with emotional disorders. And
there's lots we can learn about feelings from
studying humans, especially now that we have
powerful function imaging techniques. I'm not
a radical behaviorist. I'm just a practical
emotionalist. |
NEIL
GERSHENFELD
Physicist,
MIT; Author, When Things Start to Think
What
do you believe is true even though you cannot
prove it?
Progress.
The enterprise that employs me, seeking to understand
and apply insight into how the world works,
is ultimately based on the belief that this
is a good thing to do. But it's something of
a leap of faith to believe that that will leave
the world a better place—the evidence
to date is mixed for technical advances monotonically
mapping onto human advances.
Naturally,
this question has a technical spin for me. My
current passion is the creation of tools for
personal fabrication based on additive digital
assembly, so that the uses of advanced technologies
can be defined by their users. It's still no
more than an assumption that that will lead
to more good things than bad things being made,
but, like the accumulated experience that democracy
works better than monarchy, I have more faith
in a future based on widespread access to the
means for invention than one based on technocracy. |
LAWRENCE
KRAUSS
Physicist,
Case Western Reserve University; Author, Atom
I
believe our universe is not unique. As science
has evolved, our place within the universe has
continued to diminish in significance.
First it was felt that the Earth was the center of the universe,
then that our Sun was the center, and so on.
Ultimately we now realize that we are located
at the edge of a random galaxy that is itself
located nowhere special in a large, potentially
infinite universe full of other galaxies. Moreover,
we now know that even the stars and visible
galaxies themselves are but an insignificant
bit of visible pollution in a universe that
is otherwise dominated by 'stuff' that doesn't
shine.
Dark matter dominates the masses of galaxies and clusters by a
factor of 10 compared to normal matter. And
now we have discovered that even matter itself
is almost insignificant. Instead empty space
itself contains more than twice as much energy
as that associated with all matter, including
dark matter, in the universe. Further, as we
ponder the origin of our universe, and the nature
of the strange dark energy that dominates it,
every plausible theory that I know of suggests
that the Big Bang that created our visible universe
was not unique. There are likely to be a large,
and possibly infinite number of other universes
out there, some of which may be experiencing
Big Bangs at the current moment, and some of
which may have already collapsed inward into
Big Crunches. From a philosophical perspective
this may be satisfying to some, who find a universe
with a definite beginning but no definite end
dissatisfying. In this case, in the 'metaverse',
or 'multiverse' things may seem much more uniform
in time.
At every instant there may be many universes being born, and
others dying. But philosophy aside, the existence
of many different causally disconnected universes—regions
with which we will never ever be able to have
direct communication, and thus which will forever
be out of reach of direct empirical verification—may
have significant impacts on our understanding
of our own universe. Their existence may help
explain why our own universe has certain otherwise
unexpected features, because in a metaverse
with a possibly infinite number of different
universes, which may themselves vary in their
fundamental features, it could be that life
like our own would evolve in only universes
with a special set of characteristics.
Whether or not this anthropic type of argument is necessary to
understand our universe—and I personally
hope it isn't—I nevertheless find it satisfying
to think that it is likely that not only are
we not located in a particularly special place
in our universe, but that our universe itself
may be relatively insignificant on a larger
cosmic scale. It represents perhaps the ultimate
Copernican Revolution. |
WILLIAM
CALVIN
Neurobiologist,
University of Washington; Author, A Brief History
of the Mind
Dan
Dennett has it right in his comments below when he puts
the emphasis on acquiring language, not having language,
as a precondition for our kind of consciousness. For
what it's worth, I have some (likely unproveable) beliefs
about why the preschooler's acquisition of a structured
language is so important for all the rest of her higher
intellectual function. Besides syntax, intellect includes
structured stuff such as multistage contingent planning,
chains of logic, games with arbitrary rules, and our
passion for discovering "how things hang together."
Many animals have some version of a critical period
for tuning up sensory perception. Humans also seem to
have one for structured language, judging from the experience
with the deaf children of hearing parents who are not
exposed to a rich sign language during the preschool
years. Oliver Sacks in "Seeing Voices" described an
11-year-old boy who had been thought to be retarded
but proved to be merely deaf. After a year of ASL instruction,
Sacks interviewed him:
"Joseph
saw, distinguished, categorized, used; he had no problems
with perceptual categorization or generalization,
but he could not, it seemed, go much beyond this,
hold abstract ideas in mind, reflect, play, plan.
He seemed completely literal—unable to juggle
images or hypotheses or possibilities, unable to enter
an imaginative or figurative realm.... He seemed,
like an animal, or an infant, to be stuck in the present,
to be confined to literal and immediate perception..."
In
the first year, an infant is busy creating categories
for the speech sounds she hears. By the second year,
the toddler is busy picking up new words, each composed
of a series of those phoneme building blocks. In the
third year, she starts picking up on those typical combinations
of words that we call grammar or syntax. She soon graduates
to speaking long structured sentences. In the fourth
year, she infers a patterning to the sentences and starts
demanding proper endings for her bedtime stories. It
is pyramiding, using the building blocks at the immediately
subjacent level. Four levels in four years!
These years see a lot of softwiring via the pruning
and enhancement of the prenatal connections between
cortical neurons, partly on the basis of how useful
a connection has been so far in life. Some such connections
help you assemble a novel combination of words, check
them for nonsense via some sort of quality control,
and then—mirabile dictu—speak a sentence
you've never uttered before. Some must be in workspaces
that could plan not only sentences but an agenda for
the weekend or a chain of logic or check out a chess
move before you make it—even be tickled by structured
music with its multiple interwoven melodies.
Then
tuning up the workspace for structured language in the
preschool years would likely carry over to those other
structured aspects of intellect. That's why I like the
emphasis on acquiring language as a precondition for
consciousness: tuning up to sentence structure might
make the child better able to perform at nonlanguage
tasks which also need some structuring. Improve one,
improve them all?
Is
that what boosts our cleverness and intelligence? Is
"our kind of consciousness" nothing but structured
intellect with good quality control? Can't prove it,
but it sure looks like a good candidate. |
DANIEL
C. DENNETT
Philosopher,
Tufts University Author, Freedom
Evolves
I
believe, but cannot yet prove, that acquiring a human
language (an oral or sign language) is a necessary
precondition for consciousness–in the strong
sense of there being a subject, an I, a 'something it
is like something to be.' It would follow that non-human
animals and pre-linguistic children, although they can
be sensitive, alert, responsive to pain and suffering,
and cognitively competent in many remarkable ways–including
ways that exceed normal adult human competence–are
not really conscious (in this strong sense): there is
no organized subject (yet) to be the enjoyer
or sufferer, no owner of the experiences
as contrasted with a mere cerebral locus of
effects.
This
assertion is shocking to many people, who fear that
it would demote animals and pre-linguistic children
from moral protection, but this would not follow. Whose
pain is the pain occurring in the newborn infant? There
is not yet anybody whose pain it is, but that
fact would not license us to inflict painful stimuli
on babies or animals any more than we are licensed to
abuse the living bodies of people in comas who are definitely
not conscious. If selfhood develops gradually, then
certain types of events only gradually become experiences,
and there will be no sharp line between unconscious
pains (if we may call them that) and conscious pains,
and both will merit moral attention. (And, of course,
the truth of the empirical hypothesis is in any case
strictly independent of its ethical implications, whatever
they are. Those who shun the hypothesis on purely moral
grounds are letting wishful thinking overrule a properly
inquisitive scientific attitude. I am happy to give
animals and small children "the benefit of the
doubt" for moral purposes, but not for scientific
purposes. Those who are shocked by my hypothesis should
pause, if they can bear it, to notice that it is as
just as difficult to prove its denial as its assertion.
But it can, I think, be proven eventually. Here's what
it will take, one way or the other:
(1)
a well-confirmed model of the functional architecture
of adult human consciousness, showing how long-distance
pathways of re-entrant or reverberant interactions
have to be laid down and sustained
by the sorts of self-stimulation cascades that entrain
language use;
(2)
an interpretation of the dynamics of the model that
explains why, absent these well-traveled pathways
of neural micro habit, there is no functional unity
to the nervous system–no unity to distinguish
an I from a we (or a multitude)
as the candidate subject(s) subserved by that nervous
system;
(3)
a host of further experimental work demonstrating
the importance of what Thomas Metzinger calls the
phenomenal model of the intentionality relation (PMIR)
in enabling the sorts of experiences we consider central
to our own adult consciousness. This work will demonstrate
that animal cleverness never requires the abilities
thus identified in humans, and that animals are in
fact incapable of appreciating many things we normally
take for granted as aspects of our conscious experience.
This
is an empirical hypothesis, and it could just as well
be proven false. It could be proven false by showing
that in fact the necessary pathways functionally uniting
the relevant brain systems (in the ways I claim are
required for consciousness) are already provided in
normal infant or fetal development, and are in fact
present in, say, all mammalian nervous systems of a
certain maturity. I doubt that this is true because
it seems clear to me that evolution has already demonstrated
that remarkable varieties of adaptive coordination can
be accomplished without such hyper-unifying meta-systems,
by colonies of social insects, for instance. What is
it like to be an ant colony? Nothing, I submit, and
I think most would agree intuitively. What is it like
to be a brace of oxen? Nothing (even if it is like something
to be a single ox). But then we have to take seriously
the extent to which animals–not just insect colonies
and reptiles, but rabbits, whales, and, yes, bats and
chimpanzees–can get by with somewhat disunified
brains.
Evolution
will not have provided for the further abilities where
they were not necessary for members of these species
to accomplish the tasks their lives actually pose them.
If animals were like the imaginary creatures in the
fictions of Beatrix Potter or Walt Disney, they would
have to be conscious pretty much the way we are. But
animals are more different from us than we usually imagine,
enticed as we are by these charming anthropomorphic
fictions. We need these abilities to become
persons, communicating individuals capable of asking
and answering, requesting and forbidding and promising
(and lying). But we don't need to be born with these
abilities, since normal rearing will entrain the requisite
neural dispositions. Human subjectivity, I am proposing,
is thus a remarkable byproduct of human language, and
no version of it should be extrapolated to any
other species by default, any more than we should assume
that the rudimentary communication systems of other
species have verbs and nouns, prepositions and tenses.
Finally,
since there is often misunderstanding on this score,
I am not saying that all human consciousness consists
in talking to oneself silently, although a
great deal of it does. I am saying that the ability
to talk to yourself silently, as it develops, also brings
along with it the abilities to review, to muse, to rehearse,
recollect, and in general engage the contents
of events in one's nervous system that would otherwise
have their effects in a purely "ballistic"
fashion, leaving no memories in their wake, and hence
contributing to one's guidance in ways that are well
described as unconscious. If a nervous system can come
to sustain all these abilities without having language
then I am wrong. |
GEORGE
B. DYSON
Science
Historian; Author, Project
Orion
Interspecies
coevolution of languages on the Northwest Coast.
During
the years I spent kayaking along the coast of British
Columbia and Southeast Alaska, I observed that the local
raven populations spoke in distinct dialects, corresponding
surprisingly closely to the geographic divisions between
the indigenous human language groups. Ravens from Kwakiutl,
Tsimshian, Haida, or Tlingit territory sounded different,
especially in their characteristic "tok" and
"tlik."
I
believe this correspondence between human language and
raven language is more than coincidence, though this
would be difficult to prove. |
DANIEL
GILBERT
Psychologist,
Harvard University
In
the not too distant future, we will be able to construct
artificial systems that give every appearance of consciousness—systems
that act like us in every way. These systems will talk,
walk, wink, lie, and appear distressed by close elections.
They will swear up and down that they are conscious
and they will demand their civil rights. But we will
have no way
to know whether their behavior is more than a clever
trick—more than the pecking of a pigeon that has
been trained to type "I am, I am!"
We
take each other's consciousness on faith because we
must, but after two thousand years of worrying about
this issue, no one has ever devised a definitive test
of its existence. Most cognitive scientists believe
that consciousness is a phenomenon that emerges from
the complex interaction of decidedly nonconscious parts
(neurons), but even when we finally understand the nature
of that complex interaction, we still won't be able
to prove that it produces the phenomenon in question.
And yet, I haven't the slightest doubt that everyone
I know has an inner life, a subjective experience, a
sense of self, that is very much like mine.
What
do I believe is true but cannot prove? The answer is:
You! |
MARC
D. HAUSER
Psychologist,
Harvard University: Author, Wild
Minds
What
makes humans uniquely smart?
Here's
my best guess: we alone evolved a simple computational
trick with far reaching implications for every aspect
of our life, from language and mathematics to art, music
and morality. The trick: the capacity to take as input
any set of discrete entities and recombine them into
an infinite variety of meaningful expressions.
Thus,
we take meaningless phonemes and combine them into words,
words into phrases, and phrases into Shakespeare. We
take meaningless strokes of paint and combine them into
shapes, shapes into flowers, and flowers into Matisse's
water lilies. And we take meaningless actions and combine
them into action sequences, sequences into events, and
events into homicide and heroic rescues.
I'll
go one step further: I bet that when we discover life
on other planets, that although the materials may be
different for running the computation, that they will
create open ended systems of expression by means of
the same trick, thereby giving birth to the process
of universal computation. |
NICHOLAS
HUMPHREY
Psychologist,
London School of Economics; Author, The
Mind Made Flesh
I
believe that human consciousness is a conjuring trick,
designed to fool us into thinking we are in the presence
of an inexplicable mystery. Who is the conjuror and
why is s/he doing it? The conjuror is natural selection,
and the purpose has been to bolster human self-confidence
and self-importance—so as to increase the value
we each place on our own and others' lives.
If
this is right, it provides a simple explanation for
why we, as scientists or laymen, find the "hard
problem" of consciousness just so hard. Nature
has meant it to be hard. Indeed "mysterian"
philosophers—from Colin McGinn to the Pope—who
bow down before the apparent miracle and declare that
it's impossible in principle to understand how consciousness
could arise in a material brain, are responding exactly
as Nature hoped they would, with shock and awe.
Can
I prove it? It's difficult to prove any adaptationist
account of why humans experience things the way they
do. But here there is an added catch. The Catch-22 is
that, just to the extent that Nature has succeeded in
putting consciousness beyond the reach of rational explanation,
she must have undermined the very possibility of showing
that this is what she's done.
But
nothing's perfect. There may be a loophole. While it
may seem—and even be—impossible for us to
explain how a brain process could have the quality of
consciousness, it may not be at all impossible to explain
how a brain process could (be designed to) give
rise to the impression of having this quality.
(Consider: we could never explain why 2 + 2 = 5, but
we might relatively easily be able to explain why someone
should be under the illusion that 2 + 2 = 5).
Do
I want to prove it? That's a difficult one. If the belief
that consciousness is a mystery is a source of human
hope, there may be a real danger that exposing the trick
could send us all to hell. |
HOWARD
GARDNER
Psychologist,
Harvard University; Author, Changing Minds
The
Brain Basis of Talent
I
believe that human talents are based on distinct
patterns of brain connectivity. These patterns
can be observed as the individual encounters and
ultimately masters an organized activity or domain
in his/her culture.
Consider three competing accounts:
#1 Talent is a question of practice. We could
all become Mozarts or Einsteins if we persevered.
#2 Talents are fungible. A person who is good
in one thing could be good in everything.
#3 The basis of talents is genetic. While true,
this account misleadingly implies that a person
with a "musical gene" will necessarily
evince her musicianship, just as she evinces
her eye color or, less happily, Huntington's
disease.
My
Account: The most apt analogy is language learning.
Nearly all of us can easily master natural languages
in the first years of life. We might say that
nearly all of us are talented speakers. An analogous
process occurs with respect to various talents,
with two differences:
1.
There is greater genetic variance in the potential
to evince talent in areas like music, chess,
golf, mathematics, leadership, written (as opposed
to oral) language, etc.
2. Compared to language, the set of relevant
activities is more variable within and across
cultures. Consider the set of games. A person
who masters chess easily in culture l, would
not necessarily master poker or 'go' in culture
2.
As
we attempt to master an activity, neural connections
of varying degrees of utility or disutility form.
Certain of us have nervous systems that are predisposed
to develop quickly along the lines needed to master
specific activities (chess) or classes of activities
(mathematics) that happen to be available in one
or more cultures. Accordingly, assuming such exposure,
we will appear talented and become experts quickly.
The rest of us can still achieve some expertise,
but it will take longer, require more effective
teaching, and draw on intellectual faculties and
brain networks that the talented person does not
have to use.
This hypothesis is currently being tested by Ellen
Winner and Gottfried Schlaug. These investigators
are imaging the brains of young students before
they begin music lessons and for several years
thereafter. They also are imaging control groups
and administering control (non-music) tasks. After
several years of music lessons, judges will determine
which students have musical "talent."
The researchers will document the brains of musically
talented children before training, and how these
brains develop.
If
Account #1 is true, hours of practice will explain
all. If #2 is true, those best at music should
excel at all activities. If #3 is true, individual
brain differences should be observable from the
start. If my account is true, the most talented
students will be distinguished not by differences
observable prior to training but rather by
the ways in which their neural connections alter
during the first years of training. |
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