DEL I
Talmidh: Hvordan vinder jeg indsigt?
Rabh: Hvorfor spørger du mig om det?
Talmidh: Man har ladet mig vide at du besidder en sådan.
Rabh: Jeg er ikke ganske sikker på, at jeg forstår, i hvilket ærinde du kommer til mig. Jeg må altså først bede dig om at besvare nogle enkle spørgsmål, hvis du ikke har noget imod det?
Talmidh: Nej, naturligvis ikke.
Rabh: Allerførst må du isge mig, hvad du mener med indsigt, eftersom det åbenbart er det, du kræver af mig. Jeg ser, at dette spørgsmål virker overraskende på dig, og jeg vil derfor prøve at lede dig lidt på vej. Du ville vel ikke undre dig, hvis jeg spurgte dig, hvad det er, du ønsker at opnå indsigt i eller kundskab om?
Talmidh: Nej. Og jeg ville sikkert svare “om verden” eller “om livet”.
Rabh: Det tænkte jeg nok. Du ville sikkert også give mig ret i, at der i dit spørgsmål ligger, at kundskab og verden er to forskellige ting?
Jeg kan se jeg har forvirret dig, og må derfor hellere forklare, hvad jeg mener med mit spørgsmål. Lad mig derfor prøve at beskrive, hvad du mener, når du taler om at erhverve kundskab om verden. Derefter kan du fortælle mig, om jeg har forstået dig rigtigt.
Talmidh: Ja, det er nok en god idé.
Rabh: Nuvel, keg vil da sige, at det forekommer mig, at du mener, at det med disse ting forholder sig, ligesom når en maler frembringer et portræt. Jeg vil endvidere foreslå, at du mener, at et sådant portræt kan være mere eller mindre vellignende, alt efter kunstnerens evner.
Jeg må altså forstå det således, at du forlanger af mig, at jeg skal male et vellignende portræt af verden til dig. Dog mener du ikke, jeg skal frembringe dette billede for dine øjne, men at jeg skal vække det for din tanke med mine ord.
Talmidh: Det er ganske rigtigt.
Rabh: Men sig mig nu, hvordan kan du vide, i hvilken grad det billede, jeg på denne måde skaber, ligner den verden, det er et billede af? Hvis al kundskab, som du siger, er et billede af verden, hvordan skal vi da komme til kundskab om, hvorvidt det ligner eller ej? Alt, vi i givet fald kunne sammenligne vores billede med, ville jo være et andet billede.
Talmidh: Hvis jeg forstår dig ret, siger du altså, at det ikke er muligt at opnå kundskab?
Rabh: Det kunne jeg måske føle mig fristet til at sige, hvis det ikke var, fordi vi begge til daglig oplever, at folk der opfører sig tåbeligt på grund af uvidenhed, kommer galt af sted. Det kunne altså synes, som om der findes noget sådant som kundskab, som det endvidere er gavnligt for et menneske at tilegne sig, men at vi ikke ganske har forstået dennes natur. Men her bliver jeg nok igen nødt til at forklare, hvad jeg mener. Forestil dig en gartner, der hemmeligt elsker sit herskabs unge datter. En dag hører han af en af pigerne, at den unge kvinde også elsker den fattige gartner, og om natten har sneget sig ud i haven og der efterladt et budskab til ham. Ganske uvidende om, at der blot er tale om en spøg, begynder han straks at gennemsøge bedene, men finder naturligvis ingenting. Han tænker da, at hans elskede af frygt for opdagelse ikke har vovet at efterlade et brev, som en anden kunne finde, og som ad den vej kunne falde i hænderne på forældrene. Han begynder efterfølgende at undersøge de former, blomsterne i bedene og bladene på træerne synes at dannw, idet han tænker, at disse kunne være opstået ved, at hans elskede havde plukket nogle og ladet andre stå. Imens han er optaget af alt dette forsømmer han sit arbejde og bliver afskediget af familien. Endelig forlyder det, at han er blevet gal, at han om natten klatrer over muren og graver haven op. Men hvori består hans galskab? Skønt han er gartner, glemmer han, at blomster blot er blomster, og at blade blot er blade, og at der altså ikke skjuler sig noget budskab i nogle af delene. Nok havde han været bedre faren ved blot at gøre, hvad hans fader gjorde før ham! Dog kunne det velsagtens være gået værre. Gartneren kunne jo nemlig have overtalt resten af tyendet til at at deltage i eftersøgningen af det skjulte budskab. Det ville sikkert have undret herskabet, men da de kendte disse folk som fornuftige og pålidelige, ville de måske selv med tiden have forsøgt sig, bistået af deres lydige datter. Endelig ville den pige som var årsag til hele miseren, holde det for utænkeligt, at hendes herskabs vældige sysler, skulle have noget med hende at gøre. Også hun vil snart gøre sig til, at at det mystiske budskab skulle blive kendt
Talmidh: Men ville alle disse ikke på et tidspunkt opgive en eftersøgning, som dog måtte være ganke frugtesløs?
Rabh: Jo, ganske givet. Anderledes forholder set sig imidlertid med en bonde, der pløjer sin mark i forventning om at finde en skjult guldskat. I dette tilfælde vil hans galskab jo nemlig ikke afholde ham fra at udføre sit arbejde, men tværtimod bidrage til, at han får det gjort. Vi begyndte jo med at medgive, at det er muligt at opføre sig klogt og tåbeligt, og som du ved, mener folk, at denne klogskab og tåbelighed hænger sammen med, om malerens portræt portræt ligner, og om vi er i stand til at tyde budskabet i haven. Og det har de naturligvis på en måde ret i, eftersom den dovne bonde ikke vil få pløjet, hvis han ikke tænkte på guldskatten i marken, og hans familie i dette tilfælde ville sulte.
Talmidh: Du påstår altså, at denne opfattelse, skønt den deles af alle i landet, er fejlagtig?
Rabh: Det kommer an på, hvad du mener, når du kalder den fejlagtig. Lad mig altså spørge dig, om du mener, at det er rigtigt, at man ikke bør stjæle og myrde?
Talmidh: Javist.
Rabh: Lad mig derefter spørge dig, om du mener, at det er rigtigt i nogen anden forstand, end at landets borgere er blevet enige om, at det forholder sig således?
Talmidh: Nej, det har du ret i. Men forstår jeg dig ret, når jeg mener, at det, du påstår, er, at der ikke er nogen verden at opnå kundskab om, men kun denne kundskab, at den med andre ord er et billede, der ikke afbilder noget?
Rabh: Hvilken egenskab skulle vi tilkende en sådan verden, som ikke netop er en egenskab ved billedet, som nødvendigvis er alt, hvad vi ser?
Talmidh: Det forstår jeg, men det forekommer mig dog alligevel, at der sikkert må være en mængde indsigelser imod en så indlysende sandhed, siden den ikke for længst er blevet accepteret, og jeg tror da også straks, jeg kan komme i tanker om et par stykker.
Rabh: Lad høre!
Talmidh: Så vil jeg først så vidt muligt gentage, hvad du har sagt mig, for at vi begge kan være sikre på, at jeg har forstået dig rigtigt.
Rabh: Udmærket.
Talmidh: Nuvel, det forekommer mig altså, at du siger, at dette træ ikke befinder sig noget andet sted end i min tanke?
Rabh: Jeg er nødt til at korrigere dig på dette punkt, også selv om det måske ikke vil forekomme dig, at min korrektion gør den store forskel. Når du siger “tanke”, forekommer det mig således, at du bruger dette ord som en modsætning til noget andet, men da det, vi påstår, netop er, at der ikke er noget “uden for” denne tanke, bliver denne brug af ordet, som du sikkert kan indse, ganske meningsløs. Det er, som hvis du ville hævde, at den verden, vi lever i, er blændværk.
Talmidh: Det kunne jeg let komme til, hvis jeg skulle karakterisere dit synspunkt.
Rabh: Det tænkte jeg nok. På den anden side vil du nok give mig ret i, at det er ganske meningsløst, at tale om, at noget er blændværk, hvis der ikke er noget, der i samme forstand er virkeligt. Du vil altså se, at jeg på ingen påstår, at intet er virkeligt eller sandt, men kun, at intet er virkeligt eller sandt i den forstand, at det står i et mystisk forhold til noget principielt uerkendeligt.
Talmidh: Javel, men det forekommer mig dog alligevel, at du siger, at intet er virkeligt eller sandt under henvisning til noget, vi ikke oplever.
Rabh: Det har du ret i.
Talmidh: Hvis jeg altså har forstået dig ret, siger du, at træet ikke er til i nogen anden forstand end den, at vi erfarer det.
Rabh: Korrekt igen.
Talmidh: Men så er du jo heller ikke til i nogen anden forstand end den, at jeg erfarer dig, og du ville jo kunne sige det samme om mig. Men hvem er det så, der gør den erfaring, der ifølge din filosofi er den eneste virkelighed?
Rabh: Her må jeg atter korrigere dig. Træet er kun virkeligt i den forstand, at vi erfarer det. Eller sagt på anden måde: Den individuelle iagttagelse, du bruger som argument, eksisterer ikke, og hvis du overvejer sagen, vil du sikkert indse, hvorfor det forholder sig således. Vi ville jo nemlig ikke meningsfuldt kunne påstå, at det var forkert at stjæle, hvis vi ikke var istand til at tilvejebringe den enighed, som var en forudsætning for en sådan påstand. Som du snart vil erkende, bygger alle dine indsigelser imod min filosofi på, at du ikke har forstået den og således været i stand til at indgå på dens præmisser. Hvis jeg forsøger at forklare dig, at folk på teatret ikke virkelig dør, vil det jo heller ikke hjælpe dig stort, at henvise til, at i den sidste akt af det og det stykke dør den og den person. Du har således accepteret, at den måde, hvorpå vi afgør, om noget er virkeligt, er at spørge en anden, om han erfarer det samme – ja, selv vise mænd, der mener at udgrunde naturen, holder dette for eneste kriterium. På den anden side forsøger du at snige din overtro om en virkelighed, ind ad bagvejen, ved at tale om en iagttagelse, der ikke bygger på en sådan enighed. Inden du er i stand til at kritisere min mening, må du altså først gøre sig klart, hvad du selv mener. Hvis du således mener, at der kun kan blive tale om virkelighed, i det øjeblik den erfares af andre, kan du ikke meningsfuldt tale om, hvad et menneske erfarer. Hvis du derimod ønsker at fragå denne opfattelse af, hvad det vil sige, at noget er virkeligt, tvinges du til at påstå at der ikke er nogen mulighed for at kritisere nogen påstand, i hviket tilfælde også din egen påstand bliver meningsløs.
Talmidh: Du har naturligvis ret. Jeg indser nu, at den påstand, jeg mente at se som en konsekvens af din filosofi, i virkeligheden er en følge af min egen. Men skønt jeg indser alt dette, forekommer det mig stadig så besynderligt, at jeg har venskeligt ved at se, hvordan jeg skal forstå det. Det forekommer mig nemlig, at jeg, hvis du forlod mig, stadig ville se træet, og endvidere, at jeg har set et træ længe før jeg havde mulighed for at tale med nogen om det?
Rabh: Sådan kan det meget vel forekomme dig, eftersom du, når du mener at se tilbage på den tid, hvor du endnu ikke kunne tale, benytter dig af de begreber, som du først langt senere erhvervede. Hvis du, når du ser op i himlen, mener at se et mørkt tæppe gennemskinnet af et bagvedliggende lys, og jeg derefter fortæller dig, at stjerner har deres eget lys, tror du da, at du derefter vil kunne se dem på nogen anden måde? Og hvis du tænker tilbage på en nat, inden dette skete, hvad tror du da, at du vil huske, mine eller dine stjerner? Hvad din første indvending angår, skal du tænke på hvad vi sagde om teateret. Alle de begreber, du benytter dig af, hører jo nemlig til det stykke, som opføres. Hvad vil det sige, at jeg “forlader dig”, hvis ikke, at personer rejser til fjerne lande, når de går ud i kulissen, eller at den person, der, idet han ser ud i den, beskriver et rytterslag, betragter dette.
Talmidh: Du har naturligvis ret, men ikke desto mindre forekommer det hele mig dog temmelig underligt.
Rabh: Det forstår jeg. Når et barn første gang får at vide, at den faste jord, det står på, er hvirvlende kugle, vel dets første reaktion også uværgerligt være, at dette umuligt kan passe. Også blandt voksne mennesker er der sådanne børn, der, stillet over for fornuftsgrunde, som de ikke er i stand til at imødegå og derfor vælger ikke at give agt på, fremturer i deres vildfarelse. En klog mand afholder sig fra at indlade sig i ordstrid med sådanne, derimod svarer han gerne på indvendinger, der røber at spørgeren ønsker at forstå. De første skal du kende på deres vrede latter, de sidste på deres ydmyge videbegær. Ingen kan nemlig opnå kundskab, hvis han ikke først indser, at han mangler den.
Talmidh: Alt dette indser jeg klart og vil ved at gennemtænke mine indvendinger forsøge at gennemskue disse, for således at opdage, om de er veritable eller blot skriver sig fra en manglende forståelse af det, jeg mener at kritisere. På endnu et punkt behøver jeg dog din hjælp, idet min anden indvending imod din filosofi forekommer mig så uomgængelig, at jeg ikke ser hvordan jeg skulle kunne forlige mig med den.
Rabh: Udmærket.
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Ovenstående er et uddrag fra Erwin Neutzsky-Wulffs seneste roman 'Hjernen'og kan købes her
Viser opslag med etiketten erkendelsesteori. Vis alle opslag
Viser opslag med etiketten erkendelsesteori. Vis alle opslag
fredag den 11. januar 2008
tirsdag den 8. januar 2008
Virkeligheden er en kollektiv hallucination
A central rule of large-scale organization goes like this: the greater the spryness of a massive enterprise, the more internal communication it takes to support the teamwork of the parts. For example, in all but the simplest plants and animals only 5% of DNA is dedicated to DNA's "real job," manufacturing proteins. The remaining 95% is preoccupied with organization and administration, supervising the maintenance of bodily procedures, or even merely interpreting the corporate rule book "printed" in a string of genes.
In an effective learning machine, the connections between internal elements far outnumber windows to the outside world. Take the cerebral cortex, roughly 80% of whose nerves connect with each other, not with sensory input from the eyes or ears. No wonder in human society individuals spend most of their time communicating with each other, not exploring beasts and plants which could make an untraditional dish. This cabling for "bureaucratic maintenance" has a far greater impact on what we "see" and "hear" than most psychological researchers suspect. For it puts us in the hands of a conformity enforcer whose power and subtlety are almost beyond belief.
In our previous episode we mentioned that the brain's emotional center — the limbic system — decides which swatches of experience to "notice" and store in memory. Memory is the core of what we call reality. Think about it for a second. What do you actually hear and see right now? This article. The walls and furnishings of the room in which you sit. Perhaps some music or some background noise. Yet you know sure as you were born that there's a broader world outside those walls. You are certain that your home, if you are away from it, is still there. You can sense each room, remember where most of your things are placed. You know the building where you work — its colors, layout, and the feel of it. Then there are the companions who enrich your life — family, the folks at the office, neighbors, friends, and even people you are fond of whom you haven't talked to in a year or more — few of whom, if any, are in the room with you. You also know we sit on a planet called the earth, circling an incandescent ball of sun, buried in one of many galaxies. At this instant, reading by yourself, where do these realities reside? Inside your mind. Memory in a very real sense is reality. What the limbic system decides to "see" and store away becomes an interior universe pretending to stretch so far outside that it can brush the edges of infinity.
We are accustomed to use our eyes only with the memory of what other people before us have thought about the object we are looking at. Guy de Maupassant
The limbic system is more than an emotive sifter of the relevant from the inconsequent. It is an intense monitor of others, using its social fixations to retool your perceptions and your memories. In short, the limbic system makes each of us a plug-in of the crowd.
Elizabeth Loftus, one of the world's premier memory researchers, is among the few who know how powerfully the group shapes what we think we know. In the late 1970s, Loftus performed a series of key experiments. In a typical example, she showed college students a moving picture of a traffic accident, then asked after the film, "How fast was the white sports car going when it passed the barn while traveling along the country road." Several days later when witnesses to the film were quizzed about what they'd seen, 17% were sure they'd spied a barn, though there weren't any buildings in the film at all. In a related experiment subjects were shown a collision between a bicycle and an auto driven by a brunette, then afterwards heard questions about the "blond" at the steering wheel. Not only did they remember the non-existent blond vividly, but when they were shown the sequence a second time, they had a hard time believing that it was the same incident they now recalled so graphically. One subject said, "It's really strange because I still have the blond girl's face in my mind and it doesn't correspond to her [pointing to the woman on the videotape]...It was really weird." In visual memory, Loftus concluded that hints leaked to us by fellow humans are more important than the scene whose details actually reach our eyes.
Though it got little public attention until the debates about "recovered" memories of sexual abuse in the early and mid 1990s, this avenue of research had begun at least two generations ago. It was 1956 when Solomon Asch published a classic series of experiments in which he and his colleagues showed cards with lines of different lengths to clusters of their students. Two lines were exactly the same size and two were clearly not — the mavericks stuck out like basketball players at a convention for the vertically handicapped. During a typical experimental run, the researchers asked nine volunteers to claim that two badly mismatched lines were actually the same, and that the actual twin was a total misfit. Now came the nefarious part. The researchers ushered a naive student into the room with the collaborators and gave him the impression that the crowd already there knew just as little as he did about what was going on. Then a white-coated psychologist passed the cards around. One by one he asked the pre-drilled shills to announce out loud which lines were alike. Each dutifully declared that two terribly unlike lines were perfect twins. By the time the scientist prodded the unsuspecting newcomer to pronounce judgement, he usually went along with the bogus acclamation of the crowd. Asch ran the experiment over and over again. When he quizzed his victims of peer pressure, it turned out that many had done far more than simply go along to get along. They had actually shaped their perceptions to agree, not with the reality in front of them, but with the consensus of the multitude.
To polish off the mass delusion, many of those whose perception had NOT been skewed became collaborators in the praise of the emperor's new clothes. Some did it out of self-doubt. They were convinced that the facts their eyes reported were wrong, the herd was right, and that an optical illusion had tricked them into seeing things. Still others realized with total clarity which lines were duplicates, but lacked the nerve to utter an unpopular opinion. Conformity enforcers had rearranged everything from visual processing to open speech, and had revealed a mechanism which can wrap and seal a crowd into a false belief.
Another experiment indicates just how deeply social suggestion can penetrate the neural mesh through which we think we see hard-and-solid facts. Students with normal color vision were shown blue slides. But one stooge in the room declared the slides were green. Only 32% of the students ended up going along with the vocal but misguided proponent of green vision. Later, however, the subjects were taken aside, shown blue-green slides and asked to rate them for blueness or greenness. Even the students who had refused to see green where there was none in the original experiment showed that the insistent greenies in the room had colored their perceptions. They rated the new slides more green than they would have otherwise. More to the point, when asked to describe the color of the afterimage they saw, the subjects often reported it was red-purple — the hue of an afterimage left by the color green. The words of one determined speaker had penetrated the most intimate sanctums of the eye and brain.
But this is just the iceberg's tip. Social experience literally shapes cerebral morphology. It guides the wiring of the brain through the most intensely formative years of human life, determining, among other things, which of the thinking organ's sections will be enlarged, and which will shrink.
An infant's brain is sculpted by the culture into which the child is born. Six-month olds can distinguish or produce every sound in virtually every human language. But within a mere four months, nearly two thirds of this capacity has been sliced away. The slashing of ability is accompanied by ruthless alterations in cerebral tissue. Brain cells are measured against the requirements of the physical and interpersonal environment. The 50% of neurons found useful thrive. The 50% which remain unexercised are literally forced to die. Thus the floor plan underlying the mind is crafted on-site to fit an existing framework of community.
When barely out of the womb, babies are already riveted on a major source of social cues. Newborns to four-month-olds would rather look at faces than at almost anything else. Rensselaer Polytechnic's Linnda Caporael points out what she calls "micro-coordination", in which a baby imitates its mother's facial expression, and the mother, in turn, imitates the baby's. Since psychologist Paul Ekman, as we'll see later in more detail, has demonstrated that the faces we make recast our moods, the baby is learning how to yoke its emotions to those of a social team. Emotions, as we've already seen, craft our vision of reality. There are other signs that babies synchronize their feelings to those of others around them at an astonishingly early age. Empathy — one of those things which bind us together intimately — comes to us early. Children less than a year old who see another child hurt show all the signs of undergoing the same pain.
After all, what is reality anyway? Nothin' but a collective hunch. Lily Tomlin
Cramming themselves further into a common perceptual mold, animal and human infants entrain themselves to see what others see. A four-month old human will swivel to look at an object his parent is staring at. A baby chimp will do the same. By their first birthday, infants have extended their input-gathering to their peers. When they notice that another child's eyes have fixated on an object, they swivel around to focus on that thing themselves. If they don't see what's so interesting, they look back to check the direction of the other child's gaze and make sure they've got it right. When one of the babies points to an item that has caught her fancy, other children look to see just what it is.
One year olds show other ways in which they soak up social pressure. Put a cup and something unfamiliar in front of them and their natural tendency will be to check out the novel object. But repeat the word "cup" and the infant will dutifully rivet its gaze on the drinking vessel. Children go along with the herd even in their tastes in food. when researchers put two-to-five-year olds at a table for several days with other kids who loved the edibles they loathed, the children with the dislike did a 180 degree turn and became zestful eaters of the item they'd formerly disdained. The preference was still going strong weeks after the peer pressure had stopped.
At six, children are obsessed with being accepted by the group and become incredibly sensitive to violations of group norms. They've been gripped by yet another conformity enforcer which structures their perceptions to coincide with those around them.
Even rhythm draws humans together in the subtlest of ways. William Condon of Pennsylvania's Western State Psychiatric Institute analyzed films of adult conversations and noticed a peculiar process at work. Unconsciously, the conversationalists began to coordinate their finger movements, eye blinks and nods. Electroencephalography showed something even more astonishing — their brain waves were moving together. Newborn babies already show this synchrony — in fact, an American infant still fresh from the womb will just as happily match its body movements to the speech of someone speaking Chinese as to someone speaking English. As time proceeds, these unnoticed synchronies draw larger and larger groups together. A student working under the direction of anthropologist Edward T. Hall hid in an abandoned car and filmed children romping in a school playground at lunch hour. Screaming, laughing, running and jumping, each seemed superficially to be doing his or her own thing. But careful analysis revealed that the group was moving to a unified rhythm. One little girl, far more active than the rest, covered the entire schoolyard in her play. Hall and his student realized that without knowing it, she was "the director" and "the orchestrator." Eventually, the researchers found a tune that fit the silent cadence. When they played it and rolled the film, it looked exactly as if each kid were dancing to the melody. But there had been no music playing in the schoolyard. Said Hall, "Without knowing it, they were all moving to a beat they generated themselves." William Condon was led to conclude that it doesn't make sense to view humans as "isolated entities." And Edward Hall took this inference a step further: "an unconscious undercurrent of synchronized movement tied the group together" into what he called a "shared organizational form."
No wonder input from the herd so strongly colors the ways in which we see our world. Students at MIT were given a bio of a guest lecturer. One group's background sheet described the speaker as cold, the other group's handout praised him for his warmth. Both groups sat together as they watched the lecturer give his presentation. But those who'd read the bio saying he was cold treated him as distant and aloof. Those who'd been tipped off that he was warm, rated him as friendly and approachable. In judging a fellow human being, students replaced external fact with input they'd been given socially.
The cues rerouting herd perception come in many forms. Sociologists Janet Lynne Enke and Donna Eder discovered that in gossip, one person opens with a negative comment on someone outside the group. How the rest of the gang goes on the issue depends entirely on the second opinion expressed. If the second prattler agrees that the outsider is disgusting, virtually everyone will chime in with a sound-alike opinion. If, on the other hand, the second commentator objects that the outsider has positive qualities, the group is far less likely to descend like a flock of harpies tearing the stranger's reputation limb from limb.
Crowds of silent voices whisper in our ears, transforming the nature of what we see and hear. The strangest come from choruses of the dead — cultural predecessors whose legacy has a dramatic effect on our vision of reality. Take the impact of gender stereotypes — notions developed over hundreds of generations, contributed to, embellished and passed on by literally billions of people during the long human march through time. In one study, parents were asked to give their impression of their brand new babies. Infant boys and girls are completely indistinguishable aside from the buds of reproductive equipment between their legs. Their size, texture, and the way in which newborns of opposite sex act are the same. Yet parents consistently described girls as softer, smaller and less attentive than boys. The crowds within us resculpt our gender verdicts over and over again. Two groups of experimental subjects were asked to grade the same paper. One was told the author was John McKay. The other was told the paper's writer was Joan McKay. Even female students evaluating the paper gave it higher marks if they thought was from a male.
The ultimate repository of herd influence is language — a device that not only condenses the influence of those with whom we share a common vocabulary, but sums up the perceptual approach of swarms who have passed on. Every word we use carries within it the experience of generation after generation of men, families, tribes, and nations, including their insights, value judgements, ignorance, and spiritual beliefs.
Experiments show that people from all cultures can see subtle differences between colors placed next to each other. But only those societies equipped with names for numerous shades can spot the difference when the two swatches of color are apart. At the turn of the century, The Chukchee had very few terms for visual hues. If you asked them to sort colored yarns, they did a poor job of it. But they had over 24 terms for patterns of reindeer hide, and could classify reindeer far better than the average European scientist, whose vocabulary didn't supply him with appropriate tools.
Physiologist/ornithologist Jared Diamond, in New Guinea, saw to his dismay that despite all his university studies of nature, the natives were far better at distinguishing bird species than he was. Diamond had a set of scientific criteria taught in the zoology classes back home. The natives possessed something better: names for each animal variety, and a set of associations describing characteristics Diamond had never been taught to differentiate — everything from a bird's peculiarities of deportment to its taste when grilled over a flame. Diamond had binoculars and state-of-the-art taxonomy. But the New Guineans laughed at his incompetence. They were equipped with a vocabulary each word of which compacted the experience of armies of bird-hunting ancestors.
Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute's Linnda Caporael points out that even when we see someone perform an action in an unusual way, we rapidly forget the unaccustomed subtleties and reshape our recalled vision so that it corresponds to the patterns dictated by language-borne conventionality. A perfect example comes from 19th century America, where sibling rivalry was present in fact, but according to theory didn't exist. The experts were blind to its presence, as shown by its utter absence from family manuals. In the expert and popular view, all that existed between brothers and sisters was love. But letters from middle class girls exposed unacknowledged cattiness and jealousy.
Sibling rivalry didn't begin to creep from the darkness of perceptual invisibility until 1893, when future Columbia University professor of political and social ethics Felix Adler hinted at the nameless notion in his manual for the Moral Instruction of Children. During the 1920s, the concept of jealousy between boys and girls finally shouldered its way robustly into the repertoire of conscious concepts, appearing in two widely quoted government publications and becoming the focus of a 1926 Child Study Association of America crusade. It was only at this point that experts finally coined the term "sibling rivalry." The formerly non-existent demon was blamed for adult misery, failing marriages, crime, homosexuality, and God knows what all else. By the 1940s, nearly every child-raising guide had extensive sections on this ex-nonentity. Parents writing to major magazines spotted the previously unseeable emotion almost everywhere.
The stored experience language carries can tweak the difference between life and death. It's been reported that one unnamed tribe used to lose starving mothers, fathers and children by the droves each time famine struck, despite the fact that a river flowed near them filled with fish. The problem: they didn't define fish as food. We could easily suffer the same fate if stranded in their wilderness, simply because our culture tells us that a rich source of nutrients is inedible too — insects.
The influence of the mob of those who've gone before and those who stand around us now can be mind-boggling. During the middle ages when universities first arose, a local barber/surgeon was called into the lecture chamber year after year to dissect a corpse for medical students gathered from the width and breadth of Europe. A scholar on a raised platform discoursed about the revelations unfolding before the students' eyes. The learned doctor would invariably describe a network of cranial blood vessels that were nowhere to be found. He'd report a shape for the liver radically different from the form of the organ sliding around on the surgeon's blood-stained hands. He'd verbally portray jaw joints which had no relation to those being displayed on the trestle below him. But he never changed his narrative to fit the actualities. Nor did the students or the surgeon ever stop to correct the book-steeped authority. Why? The scholar was reciting the "facts" as found in volumes over 1,000 years old — the works of the Roman master Galen, founder of "modern" medicine.
Alas, Galen had drawn his conclusions, not from dissecting humans, but from probing the bodies of pigs and monkeys. Pigs and monkeys do have the strange features Galen described. Humans, however, do not. But that didn't stop the medieval professors from seeing what wasn't there. For no more were they ruggedly individualistic observers than are you and I. Their sensory pathways echoed with voices gathered for a millennium, the murmurings of a mob composed of both the living and the dead. The world experts of those days and ours conjured up assemblies of mirage. Like ours, their perceptual faculties were unrecognized extensions of a collective brain.
Fra Howard Bloom's "Reality is a shared hallucination"
Den oprindelig tekst med kildehenvisninger
In an effective learning machine, the connections between internal elements far outnumber windows to the outside world. Take the cerebral cortex, roughly 80% of whose nerves connect with each other, not with sensory input from the eyes or ears. No wonder in human society individuals spend most of their time communicating with each other, not exploring beasts and plants which could make an untraditional dish. This cabling for "bureaucratic maintenance" has a far greater impact on what we "see" and "hear" than most psychological researchers suspect. For it puts us in the hands of a conformity enforcer whose power and subtlety are almost beyond belief.
In our previous episode we mentioned that the brain's emotional center — the limbic system — decides which swatches of experience to "notice" and store in memory. Memory is the core of what we call reality. Think about it for a second. What do you actually hear and see right now? This article. The walls and furnishings of the room in which you sit. Perhaps some music or some background noise. Yet you know sure as you were born that there's a broader world outside those walls. You are certain that your home, if you are away from it, is still there. You can sense each room, remember where most of your things are placed. You know the building where you work — its colors, layout, and the feel of it. Then there are the companions who enrich your life — family, the folks at the office, neighbors, friends, and even people you are fond of whom you haven't talked to in a year or more — few of whom, if any, are in the room with you. You also know we sit on a planet called the earth, circling an incandescent ball of sun, buried in one of many galaxies. At this instant, reading by yourself, where do these realities reside? Inside your mind. Memory in a very real sense is reality. What the limbic system decides to "see" and store away becomes an interior universe pretending to stretch so far outside that it can brush the edges of infinity.
We are accustomed to use our eyes only with the memory of what other people before us have thought about the object we are looking at. Guy de Maupassant
The limbic system is more than an emotive sifter of the relevant from the inconsequent. It is an intense monitor of others, using its social fixations to retool your perceptions and your memories. In short, the limbic system makes each of us a plug-in of the crowd.
Elizabeth Loftus, one of the world's premier memory researchers, is among the few who know how powerfully the group shapes what we think we know. In the late 1970s, Loftus performed a series of key experiments. In a typical example, she showed college students a moving picture of a traffic accident, then asked after the film, "How fast was the white sports car going when it passed the barn while traveling along the country road." Several days later when witnesses to the film were quizzed about what they'd seen, 17% were sure they'd spied a barn, though there weren't any buildings in the film at all. In a related experiment subjects were shown a collision between a bicycle and an auto driven by a brunette, then afterwards heard questions about the "blond" at the steering wheel. Not only did they remember the non-existent blond vividly, but when they were shown the sequence a second time, they had a hard time believing that it was the same incident they now recalled so graphically. One subject said, "It's really strange because I still have the blond girl's face in my mind and it doesn't correspond to her [pointing to the woman on the videotape]...It was really weird." In visual memory, Loftus concluded that hints leaked to us by fellow humans are more important than the scene whose details actually reach our eyes.
Though it got little public attention until the debates about "recovered" memories of sexual abuse in the early and mid 1990s, this avenue of research had begun at least two generations ago. It was 1956 when Solomon Asch published a classic series of experiments in which he and his colleagues showed cards with lines of different lengths to clusters of their students. Two lines were exactly the same size and two were clearly not — the mavericks stuck out like basketball players at a convention for the vertically handicapped. During a typical experimental run, the researchers asked nine volunteers to claim that two badly mismatched lines were actually the same, and that the actual twin was a total misfit. Now came the nefarious part. The researchers ushered a naive student into the room with the collaborators and gave him the impression that the crowd already there knew just as little as he did about what was going on. Then a white-coated psychologist passed the cards around. One by one he asked the pre-drilled shills to announce out loud which lines were alike. Each dutifully declared that two terribly unlike lines were perfect twins. By the time the scientist prodded the unsuspecting newcomer to pronounce judgement, he usually went along with the bogus acclamation of the crowd. Asch ran the experiment over and over again. When he quizzed his victims of peer pressure, it turned out that many had done far more than simply go along to get along. They had actually shaped their perceptions to agree, not with the reality in front of them, but with the consensus of the multitude.
To polish off the mass delusion, many of those whose perception had NOT been skewed became collaborators in the praise of the emperor's new clothes. Some did it out of self-doubt. They were convinced that the facts their eyes reported were wrong, the herd was right, and that an optical illusion had tricked them into seeing things. Still others realized with total clarity which lines were duplicates, but lacked the nerve to utter an unpopular opinion. Conformity enforcers had rearranged everything from visual processing to open speech, and had revealed a mechanism which can wrap and seal a crowd into a false belief.
Another experiment indicates just how deeply social suggestion can penetrate the neural mesh through which we think we see hard-and-solid facts. Students with normal color vision were shown blue slides. But one stooge in the room declared the slides were green. Only 32% of the students ended up going along with the vocal but misguided proponent of green vision. Later, however, the subjects were taken aside, shown blue-green slides and asked to rate them for blueness or greenness. Even the students who had refused to see green where there was none in the original experiment showed that the insistent greenies in the room had colored their perceptions. They rated the new slides more green than they would have otherwise. More to the point, when asked to describe the color of the afterimage they saw, the subjects often reported it was red-purple — the hue of an afterimage left by the color green. The words of one determined speaker had penetrated the most intimate sanctums of the eye and brain.
But this is just the iceberg's tip. Social experience literally shapes cerebral morphology. It guides the wiring of the brain through the most intensely formative years of human life, determining, among other things, which of the thinking organ's sections will be enlarged, and which will shrink.
An infant's brain is sculpted by the culture into which the child is born. Six-month olds can distinguish or produce every sound in virtually every human language. But within a mere four months, nearly two thirds of this capacity has been sliced away. The slashing of ability is accompanied by ruthless alterations in cerebral tissue. Brain cells are measured against the requirements of the physical and interpersonal environment. The 50% of neurons found useful thrive. The 50% which remain unexercised are literally forced to die. Thus the floor plan underlying the mind is crafted on-site to fit an existing framework of community.
When barely out of the womb, babies are already riveted on a major source of social cues. Newborns to four-month-olds would rather look at faces than at almost anything else. Rensselaer Polytechnic's Linnda Caporael points out what she calls "micro-coordination", in which a baby imitates its mother's facial expression, and the mother, in turn, imitates the baby's. Since psychologist Paul Ekman, as we'll see later in more detail, has demonstrated that the faces we make recast our moods, the baby is learning how to yoke its emotions to those of a social team. Emotions, as we've already seen, craft our vision of reality. There are other signs that babies synchronize their feelings to those of others around them at an astonishingly early age. Empathy — one of those things which bind us together intimately — comes to us early. Children less than a year old who see another child hurt show all the signs of undergoing the same pain.
After all, what is reality anyway? Nothin' but a collective hunch. Lily Tomlin
Cramming themselves further into a common perceptual mold, animal and human infants entrain themselves to see what others see. A four-month old human will swivel to look at an object his parent is staring at. A baby chimp will do the same. By their first birthday, infants have extended their input-gathering to their peers. When they notice that another child's eyes have fixated on an object, they swivel around to focus on that thing themselves. If they don't see what's so interesting, they look back to check the direction of the other child's gaze and make sure they've got it right. When one of the babies points to an item that has caught her fancy, other children look to see just what it is.
One year olds show other ways in which they soak up social pressure. Put a cup and something unfamiliar in front of them and their natural tendency will be to check out the novel object. But repeat the word "cup" and the infant will dutifully rivet its gaze on the drinking vessel. Children go along with the herd even in their tastes in food. when researchers put two-to-five-year olds at a table for several days with other kids who loved the edibles they loathed, the children with the dislike did a 180 degree turn and became zestful eaters of the item they'd formerly disdained. The preference was still going strong weeks after the peer pressure had stopped.
At six, children are obsessed with being accepted by the group and become incredibly sensitive to violations of group norms. They've been gripped by yet another conformity enforcer which structures their perceptions to coincide with those around them.
Even rhythm draws humans together in the subtlest of ways. William Condon of Pennsylvania's Western State Psychiatric Institute analyzed films of adult conversations and noticed a peculiar process at work. Unconsciously, the conversationalists began to coordinate their finger movements, eye blinks and nods. Electroencephalography showed something even more astonishing — their brain waves were moving together. Newborn babies already show this synchrony — in fact, an American infant still fresh from the womb will just as happily match its body movements to the speech of someone speaking Chinese as to someone speaking English. As time proceeds, these unnoticed synchronies draw larger and larger groups together. A student working under the direction of anthropologist Edward T. Hall hid in an abandoned car and filmed children romping in a school playground at lunch hour. Screaming, laughing, running and jumping, each seemed superficially to be doing his or her own thing. But careful analysis revealed that the group was moving to a unified rhythm. One little girl, far more active than the rest, covered the entire schoolyard in her play. Hall and his student realized that without knowing it, she was "the director" and "the orchestrator." Eventually, the researchers found a tune that fit the silent cadence. When they played it and rolled the film, it looked exactly as if each kid were dancing to the melody. But there had been no music playing in the schoolyard. Said Hall, "Without knowing it, they were all moving to a beat they generated themselves." William Condon was led to conclude that it doesn't make sense to view humans as "isolated entities." And Edward Hall took this inference a step further: "an unconscious undercurrent of synchronized movement tied the group together" into what he called a "shared organizational form."
No wonder input from the herd so strongly colors the ways in which we see our world. Students at MIT were given a bio of a guest lecturer. One group's background sheet described the speaker as cold, the other group's handout praised him for his warmth. Both groups sat together as they watched the lecturer give his presentation. But those who'd read the bio saying he was cold treated him as distant and aloof. Those who'd been tipped off that he was warm, rated him as friendly and approachable. In judging a fellow human being, students replaced external fact with input they'd been given socially.
The cues rerouting herd perception come in many forms. Sociologists Janet Lynne Enke and Donna Eder discovered that in gossip, one person opens with a negative comment on someone outside the group. How the rest of the gang goes on the issue depends entirely on the second opinion expressed. If the second prattler agrees that the outsider is disgusting, virtually everyone will chime in with a sound-alike opinion. If, on the other hand, the second commentator objects that the outsider has positive qualities, the group is far less likely to descend like a flock of harpies tearing the stranger's reputation limb from limb.
Crowds of silent voices whisper in our ears, transforming the nature of what we see and hear. The strangest come from choruses of the dead — cultural predecessors whose legacy has a dramatic effect on our vision of reality. Take the impact of gender stereotypes — notions developed over hundreds of generations, contributed to, embellished and passed on by literally billions of people during the long human march through time. In one study, parents were asked to give their impression of their brand new babies. Infant boys and girls are completely indistinguishable aside from the buds of reproductive equipment between their legs. Their size, texture, and the way in which newborns of opposite sex act are the same. Yet parents consistently described girls as softer, smaller and less attentive than boys. The crowds within us resculpt our gender verdicts over and over again. Two groups of experimental subjects were asked to grade the same paper. One was told the author was John McKay. The other was told the paper's writer was Joan McKay. Even female students evaluating the paper gave it higher marks if they thought was from a male.
The ultimate repository of herd influence is language — a device that not only condenses the influence of those with whom we share a common vocabulary, but sums up the perceptual approach of swarms who have passed on. Every word we use carries within it the experience of generation after generation of men, families, tribes, and nations, including their insights, value judgements, ignorance, and spiritual beliefs.
Experiments show that people from all cultures can see subtle differences between colors placed next to each other. But only those societies equipped with names for numerous shades can spot the difference when the two swatches of color are apart. At the turn of the century, The Chukchee had very few terms for visual hues. If you asked them to sort colored yarns, they did a poor job of it. But they had over 24 terms for patterns of reindeer hide, and could classify reindeer far better than the average European scientist, whose vocabulary didn't supply him with appropriate tools.
Physiologist/ornithologist Jared Diamond, in New Guinea, saw to his dismay that despite all his university studies of nature, the natives were far better at distinguishing bird species than he was. Diamond had a set of scientific criteria taught in the zoology classes back home. The natives possessed something better: names for each animal variety, and a set of associations describing characteristics Diamond had never been taught to differentiate — everything from a bird's peculiarities of deportment to its taste when grilled over a flame. Diamond had binoculars and state-of-the-art taxonomy. But the New Guineans laughed at his incompetence. They were equipped with a vocabulary each word of which compacted the experience of armies of bird-hunting ancestors.
Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute's Linnda Caporael points out that even when we see someone perform an action in an unusual way, we rapidly forget the unaccustomed subtleties and reshape our recalled vision so that it corresponds to the patterns dictated by language-borne conventionality. A perfect example comes from 19th century America, where sibling rivalry was present in fact, but according to theory didn't exist. The experts were blind to its presence, as shown by its utter absence from family manuals. In the expert and popular view, all that existed between brothers and sisters was love. But letters from middle class girls exposed unacknowledged cattiness and jealousy.
Sibling rivalry didn't begin to creep from the darkness of perceptual invisibility until 1893, when future Columbia University professor of political and social ethics Felix Adler hinted at the nameless notion in his manual for the Moral Instruction of Children. During the 1920s, the concept of jealousy between boys and girls finally shouldered its way robustly into the repertoire of conscious concepts, appearing in two widely quoted government publications and becoming the focus of a 1926 Child Study Association of America crusade. It was only at this point that experts finally coined the term "sibling rivalry." The formerly non-existent demon was blamed for adult misery, failing marriages, crime, homosexuality, and God knows what all else. By the 1940s, nearly every child-raising guide had extensive sections on this ex-nonentity. Parents writing to major magazines spotted the previously unseeable emotion almost everywhere.
The stored experience language carries can tweak the difference between life and death. It's been reported that one unnamed tribe used to lose starving mothers, fathers and children by the droves each time famine struck, despite the fact that a river flowed near them filled with fish. The problem: they didn't define fish as food. We could easily suffer the same fate if stranded in their wilderness, simply because our culture tells us that a rich source of nutrients is inedible too — insects.
The influence of the mob of those who've gone before and those who stand around us now can be mind-boggling. During the middle ages when universities first arose, a local barber/surgeon was called into the lecture chamber year after year to dissect a corpse for medical students gathered from the width and breadth of Europe. A scholar on a raised platform discoursed about the revelations unfolding before the students' eyes. The learned doctor would invariably describe a network of cranial blood vessels that were nowhere to be found. He'd report a shape for the liver radically different from the form of the organ sliding around on the surgeon's blood-stained hands. He'd verbally portray jaw joints which had no relation to those being displayed on the trestle below him. But he never changed his narrative to fit the actualities. Nor did the students or the surgeon ever stop to correct the book-steeped authority. Why? The scholar was reciting the "facts" as found in volumes over 1,000 years old — the works of the Roman master Galen, founder of "modern" medicine.
Alas, Galen had drawn his conclusions, not from dissecting humans, but from probing the bodies of pigs and monkeys. Pigs and monkeys do have the strange features Galen described. Humans, however, do not. But that didn't stop the medieval professors from seeing what wasn't there. For no more were they ruggedly individualistic observers than are you and I. Their sensory pathways echoed with voices gathered for a millennium, the murmurings of a mob composed of both the living and the dead. The world experts of those days and ours conjured up assemblies of mirage. Like ours, their perceptual faculties were unrecognized extensions of a collective brain.
Fra Howard Bloom's "Reality is a shared hallucination"
Den oprindelig tekst med kildehenvisninger
onsdag den 2. januar 2008
Den ydre verden.
“Jeg har flere gange hørt dig sige, at den ydre verden i ne hvis forstand ikke eksisterer. Hvad mener du egentlig med det?”
“Ideen om den ydre verden hviler på en række fordomme. Den ydre verden eksisterer ikke, i den forstand, at vi kan tale om en ydre verden adskilt fra vore modeller af hvorledes denne ydre verden er beskaffen. Vi kan ikke tale om en ydre verden løsrevet fra vore modeller af den, og disse modeller er ikke verden, men derimod forsøg på at repræsentere egenskaber ved verden som den forekommer for os. Kortet er ikke landskabet og menuen ikke retterne den beskriver. En vase kan for mig synes at have en fast form, men formens fasthed er ikke en egenskab ved vasen, men derimod et produkt af hvorledes mit nervesystem er konstitueret.”
“Det er simpelthen for langt ude, for det du siger er, at hvis jeg stikker dig en lussing, vil den smerte du føler altså ikke være et produkt af fastheden af min håndflade, men udelukkende et produkt af din følesans?”
“Ja!”
“Det lyder ret underligt. Ville det ikke være mere meningsfuldt at sige, at smerten du føler efter at have fået en flad, er et produkt af dit nervesystems reaktion mod en udefrakommende belastning? Denne belastning er så heftig, at en advarsel fra dit nervesystem tilkendegiver, via en udskillelse af adrenalin, at du nu står i en situation, hvor dine to primale valgmuligheder er enten kamp eller flugt? For dig er min håndflades fasthed vel ganske virkelig idet du tydeligt mærker den smerte dens fasthed forårsager når den rammer din kind?”
“Det er netop pointen, smerten er virkelig for mig, da jeg er et subjekt med en velfungerende følesans. Havde jeg ikke været i besiddelse af en følesans grundet en lammelse i min kind, ville jeg ikke mærke nogen smerte, ej heller din hånds fasthed. Din håndflades fasthed er udelukkende en tolkning, om end en for nervesystemet praktisk tolkning, der, som du selv er inde på, kan betyde forskellen mellem kamp eller flugt, men det gør ikke, at min oplevelse af din håndflades fasthed er et produkt af en egenskab ved din håndflade. Den er derimod et produkt af mit nervesystems måde at fortolke udefrakommende stimuli på.”
“Jeg tror godt jeg ved hvor du forsøger at tage den hen, men det forekommer mig stadigvæk at være nonsens. Selvfølgelig besidder min håndflade ikke nogen fasthed anskuet gennem fysikerens briller, da den ikke besidder nogen fasthed på atomart niveau, men for dig er dens fasthed vel ganske virkelig idet du tydeligt mærker den smerter den forårsager.”
“Jeg er glad for at du bringer fysikken på banen her, for det jeg forsøger at forklare hænger sammen med de erfaringer man har gjort sig indenfor den del af fysikken der kaldes kvantemekanikken.”
“kvantemekanikken? Ja, undskyld, men fysik har aldrig været min stærke side, Hvad går det i korte træk ud på?”
“Til én med få forudsætninger kan man lidt simpelt sige, at det kvantemekanikken lærer os er, at verden som vi iagttager den er virkelig, men samtidig relativeres denne virkelighed af; 1) gennem hvilket instrument vi anskuer den, 2) hvor det instrument befinder sig i tid og rum, samt 3) hvem der iagttager gennem dette instrument. Det instrument vi i hverdagen bruger til at iagttage verden med er vores nervesystem, og derfor er vores iagttagelser af denne verden også begrænsede til den kapacitet for iagttagelse vores nervesystem rummer.”
“Men nu taler du om nervesystemet og dets fortolkninger af udefrakommende stimuli. Hvordan kan du tale om sådanne, såfremt den ydre verden ikke eksisterer.”
“Nu misforstår du vist hvad jeg prøvede at sige. Der er ikke tale om solipsisme, om end verden i nogle henseender med rette kan betegnes som værende af samme stof som vore drømme. Det vi må gøre os klart er hvad vi mener, når vi bruger ordet ‘verden’. For hvad er verden? Hvis vi siger at verden er summen af fænomener som de forekommer for os, dvs. som de kan repræsenteres af os gennem alle modeller vi på nuværende tidspunkt kan inddrage for at meddele os til hinanden, har vi så dermed sagt noget om verden som den er?”
“Det er jeg ikke sikker på at jeg forstår. Jeg antager at svaret på dit spørgsmål er ‘nej’, men jeg er ikke sikker på hvorfor. Kunne du prøve at uddybe?”
“Ja selvfølgelig. Pointen er, at hvis vi siger at ‘verden’ er summen af fænomener som de forekommer for os, og som vi meningsfuldt kan meddele hinanden om gennem de modeller vi gør brug af til at beskrive disse fænomener, så har vi selvfølgelig sagt noget om disse fænomener. Dette er ofte ekstremt fordelagtigt, idet disse beskrivelser og modeller af fænomenernes beskaffenhed ofte tillader os at prognosticere et givent resultat med stor nøjagtighed, men egentlig har vi ikke sagt så meget om verden, som vi har sagt om den menneskelige erkendelses præmisser. Den ydre verden som den forekommer for os, og som vi kan meddele hinanden om, er egentlig ikke nogen ydre verden, men derimod en projektion af vore forestillinger om hvad denne ydre ‘verden’ er.
“Så græsset er ikke grønt?”
“Både jo og nej, for græsset forekommer os at være grønt, men det at du og jeg kan blive enige om at græsset er grønt, beror på at vi begge har omfavnet en konsensus der gør, at vi sprogligt har vænnet os til, at kalde en bestemt farve for grøn. Denne konsensus beror ikke på en egenskab ved græsset, men på vores sproglige fællesgrund. I nogle kulturer ville det ikke være meningsfuldt at sige at græsset er grønt, ja det ville endda være umuligt, da ingen sådan farve eksisterer som begreb for denne kultur. Bellona-folket på øen Bellona opererer slet ikke med overkategorien farve på samme måde som mennesker i Danmark gør det, men skelner derimod kun mellem gul, rød og sort. Dette formulerede Robert Anton Wilson med spørgsmålet: “Who is the master who makes the grass green?”
“Ja ifølge dig ville denne mester vel være sproget, men det kan jeg ikke få til at passe, for hvis vore iagttagelser beror på vores sprog, ville det vel betyde, at jeg ikke kan iagttage noget jeg ikke har begreb om, som eksempelvis folkene på øen Bellona, der ikke ser farven grøn.”
“Nu er det jo ikke sådan at de intet ser fordi de ikke kender til en betegnelse for en gruppe farvenuancer som vi i vores kulturkreds har valgt at betegne grønne farver, men jeg forstår godt din vildfarelse og vil derfor prøve at illustrere min pointe yderligere.
Forestil dig at du er på vej ind i regnskoven i Amazonas. Du har selv intet kendskab til regnskovens dyr og planteliv, men du er sammen med en botaniker og en stifinder, der er den lokale indfødte stammes medicinmand. Du og botanikeren vil sandsynligvis se de samme træer og planter, formmæssigt, men botanikeren vil samtidig se langt mere end du, da han har et stort begrebsapparat som han kan gøre brug af. Hans model er simpelthen mere raffineret end din, hvorfor den giver plads til en lang række overvejelser omkring de fænomener i møder på jeres vej, som din mere begrænsede model ikke giver plads til. For den lokale medicinmand er i imidlertid begge børn, for han iagttager regnskovens dyr og planteliv gennem en mere omfattende model, da han eksempelvis ved hvilke plantesafter han skal tage i brug, hvis han ønsker at udvirke et givent medicinsk resultat. Hans model er altså bedre end både din og botanikerens i den forstand, at den inkluderer et bredere meningsspektrum. Præmisserne for hans erkendelse af regnskovens mangfoldige fænomener er langt bedre end jeres, da hele hans verdensanskuelse er blevet konceptualiseret i dette miljø.”
“Så den ydre verden eksisterer altså kun for os i det omfang vi kan begrebsliggøre den. Er det sådan det skal forstås?”
“Well, den ydre verden som den forekommer for os, og os er her det centrale ord, afhænger i høj grad af hvilken fællessproglig referenceramme vi har. Du og medicinmanden fra Amazonas har i mange henseender ingen ydre verden til fælles, idet han ikke meningsfuldt kan repræsentere hans model af verden til dig, da hans model beror på helt andre konsensi end din. I har begge fem sanser til fælles, men hans sanser er muligvis langt mere fintunede end dine, da disse har udviklet gennem talrige generationer for at optimere vilkårene for hans overlevelse. Endvidere har i ingen fælles kulturgrund overhovedet. Det Overnaturlige vil ikke for ham, som for dig, være noget fremmed, men derimod sandsynligvis være særdeles tilstedeværende, og det i en sådan grad, at det slet ikke ville være meningsfuldt for ham at differentiere mellem naturlige fænomener og overnaturlige fænomener. For ham vil regnskoven være besjælet”
“Ideen om den ydre verden hviler på en række fordomme. Den ydre verden eksisterer ikke, i den forstand, at vi kan tale om en ydre verden adskilt fra vore modeller af hvorledes denne ydre verden er beskaffen. Vi kan ikke tale om en ydre verden løsrevet fra vore modeller af den, og disse modeller er ikke verden, men derimod forsøg på at repræsentere egenskaber ved verden som den forekommer for os. Kortet er ikke landskabet og menuen ikke retterne den beskriver. En vase kan for mig synes at have en fast form, men formens fasthed er ikke en egenskab ved vasen, men derimod et produkt af hvorledes mit nervesystem er konstitueret.”
“Det er simpelthen for langt ude, for det du siger er, at hvis jeg stikker dig en lussing, vil den smerte du føler altså ikke være et produkt af fastheden af min håndflade, men udelukkende et produkt af din følesans?”
“Ja!”
“Det lyder ret underligt. Ville det ikke være mere meningsfuldt at sige, at smerten du føler efter at have fået en flad, er et produkt af dit nervesystems reaktion mod en udefrakommende belastning? Denne belastning er så heftig, at en advarsel fra dit nervesystem tilkendegiver, via en udskillelse af adrenalin, at du nu står i en situation, hvor dine to primale valgmuligheder er enten kamp eller flugt? For dig er min håndflades fasthed vel ganske virkelig idet du tydeligt mærker den smerte dens fasthed forårsager når den rammer din kind?”
“Det er netop pointen, smerten er virkelig for mig, da jeg er et subjekt med en velfungerende følesans. Havde jeg ikke været i besiddelse af en følesans grundet en lammelse i min kind, ville jeg ikke mærke nogen smerte, ej heller din hånds fasthed. Din håndflades fasthed er udelukkende en tolkning, om end en for nervesystemet praktisk tolkning, der, som du selv er inde på, kan betyde forskellen mellem kamp eller flugt, men det gør ikke, at min oplevelse af din håndflades fasthed er et produkt af en egenskab ved din håndflade. Den er derimod et produkt af mit nervesystems måde at fortolke udefrakommende stimuli på.”
“Jeg tror godt jeg ved hvor du forsøger at tage den hen, men det forekommer mig stadigvæk at være nonsens. Selvfølgelig besidder min håndflade ikke nogen fasthed anskuet gennem fysikerens briller, da den ikke besidder nogen fasthed på atomart niveau, men for dig er dens fasthed vel ganske virkelig idet du tydeligt mærker den smerter den forårsager.”
“Jeg er glad for at du bringer fysikken på banen her, for det jeg forsøger at forklare hænger sammen med de erfaringer man har gjort sig indenfor den del af fysikken der kaldes kvantemekanikken.”
“kvantemekanikken? Ja, undskyld, men fysik har aldrig været min stærke side, Hvad går det i korte træk ud på?”
“Til én med få forudsætninger kan man lidt simpelt sige, at det kvantemekanikken lærer os er, at verden som vi iagttager den er virkelig, men samtidig relativeres denne virkelighed af; 1) gennem hvilket instrument vi anskuer den, 2) hvor det instrument befinder sig i tid og rum, samt 3) hvem der iagttager gennem dette instrument. Det instrument vi i hverdagen bruger til at iagttage verden med er vores nervesystem, og derfor er vores iagttagelser af denne verden også begrænsede til den kapacitet for iagttagelse vores nervesystem rummer.”
“Men nu taler du om nervesystemet og dets fortolkninger af udefrakommende stimuli. Hvordan kan du tale om sådanne, såfremt den ydre verden ikke eksisterer.”
“Nu misforstår du vist hvad jeg prøvede at sige. Der er ikke tale om solipsisme, om end verden i nogle henseender med rette kan betegnes som værende af samme stof som vore drømme. Det vi må gøre os klart er hvad vi mener, når vi bruger ordet ‘verden’. For hvad er verden? Hvis vi siger at verden er summen af fænomener som de forekommer for os, dvs. som de kan repræsenteres af os gennem alle modeller vi på nuværende tidspunkt kan inddrage for at meddele os til hinanden, har vi så dermed sagt noget om verden som den er?”
“Det er jeg ikke sikker på at jeg forstår. Jeg antager at svaret på dit spørgsmål er ‘nej’, men jeg er ikke sikker på hvorfor. Kunne du prøve at uddybe?”
“Ja selvfølgelig. Pointen er, at hvis vi siger at ‘verden’ er summen af fænomener som de forekommer for os, og som vi meningsfuldt kan meddele hinanden om gennem de modeller vi gør brug af til at beskrive disse fænomener, så har vi selvfølgelig sagt noget om disse fænomener. Dette er ofte ekstremt fordelagtigt, idet disse beskrivelser og modeller af fænomenernes beskaffenhed ofte tillader os at prognosticere et givent resultat med stor nøjagtighed, men egentlig har vi ikke sagt så meget om verden, som vi har sagt om den menneskelige erkendelses præmisser. Den ydre verden som den forekommer for os, og som vi kan meddele hinanden om, er egentlig ikke nogen ydre verden, men derimod en projektion af vore forestillinger om hvad denne ydre ‘verden’ er.
“Så græsset er ikke grønt?”
“Både jo og nej, for græsset forekommer os at være grønt, men det at du og jeg kan blive enige om at græsset er grønt, beror på at vi begge har omfavnet en konsensus der gør, at vi sprogligt har vænnet os til, at kalde en bestemt farve for grøn. Denne konsensus beror ikke på en egenskab ved græsset, men på vores sproglige fællesgrund. I nogle kulturer ville det ikke være meningsfuldt at sige at græsset er grønt, ja det ville endda være umuligt, da ingen sådan farve eksisterer som begreb for denne kultur. Bellona-folket på øen Bellona opererer slet ikke med overkategorien farve på samme måde som mennesker i Danmark gør det, men skelner derimod kun mellem gul, rød og sort. Dette formulerede Robert Anton Wilson med spørgsmålet: “Who is the master who makes the grass green?”
“Ja ifølge dig ville denne mester vel være sproget, men det kan jeg ikke få til at passe, for hvis vore iagttagelser beror på vores sprog, ville det vel betyde, at jeg ikke kan iagttage noget jeg ikke har begreb om, som eksempelvis folkene på øen Bellona, der ikke ser farven grøn.”
“Nu er det jo ikke sådan at de intet ser fordi de ikke kender til en betegnelse for en gruppe farvenuancer som vi i vores kulturkreds har valgt at betegne grønne farver, men jeg forstår godt din vildfarelse og vil derfor prøve at illustrere min pointe yderligere.
Forestil dig at du er på vej ind i regnskoven i Amazonas. Du har selv intet kendskab til regnskovens dyr og planteliv, men du er sammen med en botaniker og en stifinder, der er den lokale indfødte stammes medicinmand. Du og botanikeren vil sandsynligvis se de samme træer og planter, formmæssigt, men botanikeren vil samtidig se langt mere end du, da han har et stort begrebsapparat som han kan gøre brug af. Hans model er simpelthen mere raffineret end din, hvorfor den giver plads til en lang række overvejelser omkring de fænomener i møder på jeres vej, som din mere begrænsede model ikke giver plads til. For den lokale medicinmand er i imidlertid begge børn, for han iagttager regnskovens dyr og planteliv gennem en mere omfattende model, da han eksempelvis ved hvilke plantesafter han skal tage i brug, hvis han ønsker at udvirke et givent medicinsk resultat. Hans model er altså bedre end både din og botanikerens i den forstand, at den inkluderer et bredere meningsspektrum. Præmisserne for hans erkendelse af regnskovens mangfoldige fænomener er langt bedre end jeres, da hele hans verdensanskuelse er blevet konceptualiseret i dette miljø.”
“Så den ydre verden eksisterer altså kun for os i det omfang vi kan begrebsliggøre den. Er det sådan det skal forstås?”
“Well, den ydre verden som den forekommer for os, og os er her det centrale ord, afhænger i høj grad af hvilken fællessproglig referenceramme vi har. Du og medicinmanden fra Amazonas har i mange henseender ingen ydre verden til fælles, idet han ikke meningsfuldt kan repræsentere hans model af verden til dig, da hans model beror på helt andre konsensi end din. I har begge fem sanser til fælles, men hans sanser er muligvis langt mere fintunede end dine, da disse har udviklet gennem talrige generationer for at optimere vilkårene for hans overlevelse. Endvidere har i ingen fælles kulturgrund overhovedet. Det Overnaturlige vil ikke for ham, som for dig, være noget fremmed, men derimod sandsynligvis være særdeles tilstedeværende, og det i en sådan grad, at det slet ikke ville være meningsfuldt for ham at differentiere mellem naturlige fænomener og overnaturlige fænomener. For ham vil regnskoven være besjælet”
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