Consciousness and Subjectivity

According to some, consciousness is the heart of the mind-body problem—specifically the “what-it’s-likeness” of consciousness.[1] This is held to be explained by the fact that we can’t grasp the nature of a conscious state, like a bat’s echolocation experience, except by sharing it, whereas the same thing is not true of the bat’s brain considered as a physical system. Consciousness is “subjective” while brains are “objective”—that is, we can only grasp the former by reference to our own “point of view”, but the latter can be grasped from any point of view. Call this the “subjectivity argument”. I am not here concerned to evaluate this argument; I wish only to point out that it isn’t specifically about consciousness. For the same argument can be given about the unconscious mind: it too possesses subjectivity in the sense defined. Can I grasp the unconscious or preconscious echolocating mind of the bat? Well, how do I grasp the unconscious visual mind in another human? Presumably on the basis of a comparison with my own visual mind, conscious or unconscious: I know what that is and the unconscious visual mind resembles it in important respects (both are visual). But I can’t do that with respect to the bat’s unconscious echolocating mind, because it isn’t like anything in my own mind (allegedly). Yet I can grasp the nature of the brain states that underlie it. So, the nature of these unconscious mental states cannot be reduced to the underlying physical states.

The argument is exactly the same in the unconscious case as in the conscious case; therefore, the mind-body problem is not specifically about consciousness. The unconscious perceptual mind is as subjective as the conscious perceptual mind—that is, only graspable on the basis of knowledge of one’s own mind. Subjectivity in this sense is the root of the mind-body problem, not consciousness as such, according to the subjectivity argument. If there is anything specific about consciousness that is problematic, it hasn’t been captured by the subjectivity account of the problem. Compare the intentionality account of the mind-body problem: this is what generates the problem. Suppose we then said that consciousness is intentional, so that it is consciousness that is at the heart of the mind-body problem. But this is to overlook the fact that the unconscious mind is also intentional: if intentionality is the problem, and the unconscious is intentional too, then the problem has nothing to do with consciousness as such; it isn’t exclusively about consciousness or what-it’s-likeness. Subjectivity is like intentionality in this argument; it isn’t a feature only of the conscious mind. These arguments may well pose problems for reductive physicalism, but they have nothing to do with consciousness as such, since they carry over to the unconscious. The only way to avoid this conclusion is to claim that there is no unconscious mind or that it isn’t subjective (or intentional) or that it is really a species of consciousness (the conscious unconscious). None of these seems very plausible and are clearly ad hoc.

It is the same with the knowledge argument. Mary comes out of her black-and-white room and subliminally sees something red; she thereby learns something new, perhaps unconsciously; therefore, seeing something red can’t be a physical state of her brain. This argument may or may not be a good one, but it clearly has nothing to do with consciousness specifically; it merely says that seeing red, consciously or unconsciously, can’t be reducible to a brain state. True, consciousness also has this problem, but it doesn’t have it uniquely or exclusively. If there is a problem specifically about consciousness, then we have failed to capture it in the subjectivity argument or the intentionality argument or the knowledge argument. So, what is the problem about consciousness in particular? It’s hard to say, though we clearly have a powerful intuition that there is something special about consciousness in this regard: what-it’s-likeness seems physically elusive, a phenomenon of a different order. But we have a hard time articulating what the problem precisely is—beyond formulations that apply equally to the unconscious mind. That is, we can’t really state what the mind-body problem of consciousness actually is, as distinct from the more general problem of the mind as a whole.

This is especially clear with respect to the modal argument: we can conceive of possible worlds in which conscious sensations are pulled apart from their actual physical correlates, so that the two cannot be identical; but we can do the same for unconscious sensations too, if there are any. A subliminal perception of red is as contingently connected to the brain as a conscious perception of red. Consciousness is playing no role in this argument, even though we might have a strong intuition that conscious mental states are particularly independent modally of the brain. But it does seem quite clear that we do have modal intuitions to the effect that unconscious mental states are only contingently connected to their actual-world physical correlates. The modal argument was never really about consciousness as such. So far as we can tell, consciousness plays no essential role in the standard anti-materialist arguments, even though it is touted as central and pivotal in the mind-body problem. Here is yet another puzzle of consciousness: how is it that it has such a powerful tendency to elicit anti-materialist sentiment? Is it that we just have no other viable way to think about the mind in general, erroneous as that way may be?[2]

[1] I am referring, of course, to Thomas Nagel’s famous (but widely misunderstood) paper “What is it Like to be a Bat?”. But I wish to avoid exegetical issues about this paper and deal with the core of the argument itself, as it is commonly understood. I don’t actually think there is much controversy about the structure of the argument among careful students of the paper in question. I have written extensively about this paper elsewhere.

[2] It is quite surprising to me that the mind-body problem hasn’t led to actual insanity in the case of susceptible individuals. It is just so infuriating, so maddening, so demoralizing. It makes a mockery of human intelligence. Mysterianism seems like the best way to avoid the insanity.

Paradiddles

I was watching a video the other day of Ginger Baker, the famous British drummer. He was emphasizing the importance of the paradiddle, which I have neglected in my drumming life. I started practicing it again so as to become proficient in it. It is quite demanding mentally and physically: your hands have to be quick, and your brain has to retain the correct sequence of strokes (alternate double hits—you can look it up). It takes time to master. You can do it on any surface with bare hands just to get it down. I got the idea of doing paradiddles with the feet on the bass drum, which requires two foot pedals. Now that is hard, especially with the left foot—the muscle in your lower leg gets quickly fatigued—but it is quite satisfying to perform. Consulting YouTube, I found that it is a recognized technique in some drumming circles, at which some drummers are expert (I didn’t see Ginger doing it). Then it occurred to me that it would be possible to do finger paradiddles on guitar as an exercise to improve finger dexterity, so I tried that. I have become an all-round paradiddler. But I wasn’t prepared for the use of the paradiddle at the dentist. Yesterday, at my regular cleaning appointment, I started tapping my fingers on the chair as the hygienist worked on my gums and teeth—never a fun experience. I stared doing paradiddles to pass the time, but then I noticed that the activity was taking my attention away from my mouth, which really helped. It reduced the unpleasantness by a good 50%. Pain feeds off attention So, I recommend doing paradiddles at the dentist. This is my contribution to patient wellness at the dentist, a boon to mankind.

I have also been learning some new songs, particularly “Hanky-Panky” and “I Think We’re Alone Now” by none other than Tommy James and the Shandells. These were also going through my head at the dentist. I sing them both several times a day. Of course, like every other civilized person, I am well acquainted with this group’s rousing (and rowdy) “Mony Mony”, one of the greatest rock songs of all time, and I sing it frequently. But the other two songs are also excellent in their way and well worth a listen. “Hanky-Panky” just repeats the line “My baby does the hanky-panky” over and over again to a twelve-bar chord progression, interrupted only by a kind of middle-eight about seeing a pretty girl in the street. “I Think We’re Alone Now” is unashamedly adolescent and is mainly about having sex when you have nowhere to do it because you are a teenager. They are pure rock-pop, not a trace of Bob Dylan or even the Beatles—completely unsophisticated. But quite thrilling musically and enjoyable to belt out. Philosophical they are not.

Lesson: life isn’t all about philosophy; it also involves paradiddles and panky.[1]

[1] I did actually sing the hanky-panky song to two middle-aged Cuban guys, one of whom was here to fix my refrigerator and other (a chef) I was playing table tennis with. They grooved to it.

You can see my new interview with Smith and Solomon on Youtube. There is hope for young people yet.

John Bond

James Bond died in 1966 when his helicopter crashed over Marrakesh on a dangerous mission. His left eyebrow went up slightly as the aircraft began its rapid descent, and he had only seconds in which to kiss goodbye the beautiful woman with whom he was conducting romantic espionage. He was 52 years old and already a legend. 007 was no more. His license to kill had been revoked by death. He left behind him a son, James Bond Jr, whose idea of the good life departed somewhat from that of his famous father: he went into the British civil service and had a quiet (but distinguished) career as a diplomat, mainly doing paperwork. He retired to the Cotswolds and spent his time working on his tennis game and stamp collecting. He was handsome and capable (school boxing champion) but he had no desire to follow in his father’s footsteps in the spying racket. People generally called him Jim. He himself bore a son, John Bond, whose name was chosen to accentuate his ordinariness as compared to his grandfather, the dashing spy James Bond. There were two siblings, Sally Bond and Jeffrey Bond, who also were nothing special, but perfectly nice people (granddaddy James not so much). There was even a Bert Bond somewhere in the family. John Bond, too, was not fired with espionage enthusiasm, though he was also handsome and capable (academically and athletically). Some say he was even handsomer than his grandfather and an inch or two taller; he had a softer edge and was not much given to assassination. Yet he possessed a certain swagger, presence, charisma—so much so that he went into acting. In fact, he was quite the film star: suave leading man, velvety voice, photogenic to a fault. He was a student of both psychology and music, appearing in both capacities on TV. He was widely known to be related to the late great Commander James Bond. John Bond had a certain glamor, a certain aura; he was the apple of his grandfather’s eye. Also, he was a good son to James Bond the younger. There were no flies on Bond, John Bond.

It was not amazing, then, that he was slated to play his grandfather in a big budget movie, titled Live Another Life. John Bond the actor was to be James Bond the spy. He certainly looked the part—lean and athletic-looking, dark lustrous hair, splendid in a Savile Row suit. He was cast opposite the ravishing Sandra Rosselini starring as the indispensable Bond Girl. He had the acting chops and the screen magic. But did he have the dangerous allure of James Bond himself? How would he perform in the assassination scenes and other bits of bloodiness? Could he find his ruthless inner killer? He himself had his doubts—he really didn’t care much for killing people. But he was an actor; he could act the part. Yet something curious began to happen: John Bond began slowly turning into a replica of James Bond. He came to relish acting out all the violence and callousness. He surprised Sandra in the sex scenes in which a certain “sadistic brutality” (her words) showed itself. The film producers loved it: the look on John Bond’s face as he gunned down the arch villain at close range and then bedded the voluptuous Sandra. Truth to tell, he felt like another man entirely—nothing like his own gentle father, but very reminiscent of James Bond senior. When during filming he uttered the immortal words “Bond, James Bond” he felt a wave of cool excitement surge through his body; he wasn’t just the affable and innocuous John Bond everyone knew and loved. An element of fear crept in; he could be quite cutting in his quips about other actors, though witty as hell. Some said his genes were serving him well in the role. In short, he thoroughly enjoyed himself. He would practice that swivel with a gun in his hand in front of the mirror; and he became uncomfortably flirtatious with the female actors and sundry others. Once or twice, he caught himself giving his real name as James Bond.

Anyway, the film was duly released and instantly became a major box-office hit. Moviegoers loved John Bond as James Bond (it even rubbed off a bit on Sally Bond and Jeffrey Bond). A sequel was planned, and then another. It was felt that nobody except John Bond could really play James Bond. He himself took on some of the attributes of his grandfather in daily life: a laconic wittiness verging on the corny, an aloof remoteness, a soft spot for his charlady, a fussiness about his food and drink, a winning smile tinged with viciousness. The James Bond theme twanged constantly in his head. John Bond is James Bond.[1]

[1] Other actors tried to play him in subsequent years, after John Bond retired from the part, shifting into more avuncular roles. But they lacked the icy whimsical bloodlust of the earlier Bonds. They just didn’t have it in them. They were either too nice or two cartoonishly nasty. It takes a Bond to know a Bond.