We can never attain a fully objective view of reality because we remain trapped in the prison of our subjectivity.’
PRISONS THAT HAVE NO BARS By Jennifer Thomson Literary reviewer.
Marcus Aurelius once said , “everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.”
But what happens to the “truth” is partly explained by some of the amazing work being undertaken by our neuroscientists such as Stanhope University. The University recently held an exhibition which I attended as a literary science reviewer, and their experiments using the most incredible space-like technology literally and metaphorically blew me away.
But if as they, say the brain is a melting pot consisting of 80 billion neurons, let me share with you a recent story that would make the most cynical person in the world question the worth of this incredible number.
Last year in March, I had a spinal fusion surgery on my lower back. Just two months later, while I was driving to work, some hooligan slammed his car into mine when I stopped suddenly at a red light.
Even now, as I am recalling this anecdote in print, I can still feel my spine tingling and my anger brightening my face. Words fail to describe my horror as I hobbled out of the car to inspect.
You can imagine someone just having a major surgery and then hobbling out of his car to inspect the rear damage and to shake his finger at the perpetrator.
You can imagine my horror even more, when this “perpetrator” starts shaking his finger at me, and accusing me of speeding through a yellow light and recklessly slamming on the brakes in the middle of an intersection. I did nothing f the sort, but this “hooligan” is determined to pursue me. When he eventually caught up, he was shaking his finger at me so aggressively, nodding his head as if I was the culprit. Perhaps it was an easy way to excuse his traffic misdemeanor but he was acting as if he were the victim.
The more I try to calm myself down, the more frustrated I get. As I seek to replay the sequence as clearly as I can, I;m worried that I might be forgetting some important detail.
But my tired, pain-weary body will not let me forget.
I can constantly see that hooligan every time I step into my car and drive down Lichen Street. He is there in my dreams, at the red light – at the intersection of past and present. I want to get out of my car and confront him, but he has slammed shut his window and is contemptuously smirking at me. His facial expression appears to show no remorse. My fury escalates yet little is done by me to confront this reckless hooligan.
But “hooligan”. I’m not sure where I got this word from. He was actually a suit-attired businessman with a fancy hat. If my eye sight proves to be correct, his suit appeared to be made from Italian leather. He had a gold rolex watch attached to his left wrist. He had a golden ring on his marriage finger. His car was a Mercedes. Where on earth could I have thought of such a word from? Hooligan? Really?
I started having mind flashes to Desmond Tutu (former Archbishop of South Africa): “Language creates the reality it describes.” How apt!
Am I myself a victim of the prison of subjectivity?
Who is the actual victim in this case?
Memories just like dreams can be incredibly vivid even when not linked to sensory inputs. That tells us that our brain, in the absence of any outside input, can generate a movie and a narrative of our past that appears totally realistic. It may only appear to be so for us. What we may think is absolutely fixed in time and place may give rise to numerous different interpretations and the same degree of certainty in someone else’s mind. After all, anything that is subjective is open to interpretation.
Kaspar Meyer, cognitive neuroscientist at the University of Southern California (Los Angeles) reminds us that the brain is not a stimulus driven robot that directly translates the outer world into a conscious experience. What we’re conscious of is what our brain makes us be conscious of. While images we experience may be influenced to a certain degree by information that’s incoming, we need to get away from the idea that they reflect exactly what’s out there. In absence of incoming signals, bits of memories tucked away can be enough for a brain to get started with. That ability is on display every time someone imagines anything or dreams. (In effect, the brain becomes a tablet, transcribing and recording our experiences; interpreting everything that is happening to us; and it becomes more sophisticated as it writes the story of our past.)
Most of my reviews focus on the similarities between our contemporary crop of novelists and the latest neuro-theories. There is a great deal of synergy between these two fields, particularly if you consider the our prison-like conditions of subjectivity/ the variety of reasons for individual differences.
In the United Kingdom, Julian Barnes, the author of The sense of an Ending, Ian McEwan, Enduring Love and Michael Frayn, Spies, continue to imagine worlds that are constantly shifting and changing according to the paradox of memory (as they seek to rewrite past narratives). The more we remember, the more we seem to forget. Or the more we seek to control our memories, the less control we have. Or the perspectives of the young and the old narrators, or of the protagonist and novelist, are so blurred that, at times, it becomes difficult to distinguish between them.
Frayn suggests that what we remember is always at the expense of those details we forget. By using two narrators separated by the vast difference of time and knowledge he shows how memories impact upon our understanding of ourselves and of our world so that often we become two very different people. And as two very different people with realities that cannot be taken for granted… that are subject to indefinite interpretation… As the older … “or is memory being overwritten by hindsight again”.
For example, the young narrator clearly attempts to spin the course of events in his favour and sees everything from his naïve, troubled and inexperienced perspective. Although he believes he is a follower, he nevertheless places himself firmly in the centre of the action. He is usually the instigator which is why he sees himself as failing quite miserably and betraying his country. But is there any truth in these distortions?
A concern of the mature narrator is to ascertain how the young Stephen felt and why he acted in often contradictory or fanciful ways. He wonders whether the mature narrator constantly overwrites or reinterprets his experiences. Frayn’s old man is aware of the perspective of time which influences his relationship with his younger self, which he often depicts as a different individual. Does that mean two prisons?
What does he overlook? Stephen seems to minimize the fact that he was used by a pawn by Mrs Hayward in her quest to look after Uncle Peter. He forgets that Keith was caught up in the family rivalry that doomed him to a different role in the unfolding events and that Keith ¬was often under a tight rein by his father. And Stephen perhaps forgets the most important thing of all: that they are just playing “silly childish games”.
Likewise, McEwan’s narrator, Joe Rose, recognizes that consciousness of self leads to a split narrator. The “I” becomes both first and third persons. “I acted, and saw myself act. I had my thoughts, and I saw them drift across a screen.” He investigates his appropriate and inappropriate responses both from within and almost as a critical onlooker judging his responses: both with different impressions and perspectives .
But really, we are only fooling ourselves if we think that our’s is the only definitive standpoint; what do we actually remember and how much trust can we place in our memories? Perhaps if we consider a range of perspectives we might try to get a grasp of the multi-faceted nature of reality.
Often the more certain we think we are, the less control we have. Sometimes we may be acting defensively; or in contradictory ways.
For one fleeting moment, I do remember a flicker of a yellow light, but when that “hooligan” emerged shaking their fist at me, when I had never had a car accident before, and when I was struggling to gain traction because of my back, I was determined that I would not let him get the better of me. He couldn’t prove it anyway!
Could our prison or our mind-set be constantly reacting to others?
Just as my anxieties and anger are a constant reflex action to “hooligan” drivers who slam into cars at red lights.
Just as my back ache and nightmares are a response to the physical pain and trauma of the accident, which seems to be getting worse – not better.
Thus, our memories, experiences and attitudes are integral to the way we construct our realities and hence personal differences. The term “construction” is eminently fashionable. Just pick up any contemporary novelist and you’ll realize that they are reminding us of this point on nearly every second page. They are familiar with the work being carried out by our neuroscientists. They remind us that reality is a construction made up of intersecting factors, and not the least how our mind functions and processes our realities. Often as a result of a variety of complicated and contradictory factors.