and body on which it rests. This is unfortunate because while the modern conscious self is solitary, a candle in the night, the earlier evolutionary strata that continue to comprise the bulk of our being are ecological, connected, ‘at home’. The surface of our skin and the end of our driveway are not the limits of our personal terrain; they form our connection, our joints, the points at which each ‘member’ of the human race is connected to the wider body of nature and society. If we do not ‘re-member’ ourselves, we must continually strive to forge links of love (or, in desperation, domination) that are caricatures of what, in the mystery, is already, still, in place.
In the last three centuries, we have completed a complicated process of evolution, each individual step of which has helped us to survive, but which eventually has led us to lose our understanding of mystery, and with it our sense of wholeness, belonging and reverence. Consciousness has become the adopted seat of our identity. People nowadays do not just think a lot; they think that who they are is someone who is doing a lot of thinking. Cogito, ergo sum. We think that, if we do not notice something, it has no effect on us. We think that our deepest interests are served by pursuing those things that we are aware of wanting. We think that, if only we could figure things out carefully enough, most of life’s difficulties could be smoothed out. We take our perceptions for granted, and think that what we think matters frightfully.
We have been taught by Descartes and his heirs to be ignorant of those aspects of human life that are not easily available to conscious inspection. We inhabit a world made up of consciousness, and what cannot enter into that world is None of My Business. How the blood gets round the body, by what alchemy a cauliflower is transmuted into human flesh and bone: these may be miracles – they can intrigue me, as a Black Hole or a Desert Orchid may intrigue me – but I feel a bystander, not a participant. I do not, except rarely (on occasions such as this), even become aware of not being aware of the millions of processes that sustain me and comprise me. We do not even bother to think of such things as unconscious.
And when we do think of ‘the unconscious’ we have been taught by Freud to associate it with the murky bits of the mind; those aspects of emotion and personality from which we shy away in fright or revulsion. The unconscious is ‘The Little Shop of Horrors’; it is ‘Where the Wild Things Are’. It is the cellar in which we put everything about ourselves that we have (or had) good reason to forget. It is selfish, infantile and embarrassing. It wants to shout ‘I’M BORED’, ‘LET’S FUCK’ or ‘DON’T HURT ME’. If ‘I’, the conscious censor, were to let it, it might even erupt with hate or lust or sheer energy that would make me, the conscious me, think I was mad.
Creatures of Belief
Because we are creatures of belief, what we believe – without knowing that we believe it – about our minds determines the reality we inhabit. It determines what we allow ourselves to see. It determines the goals we must pursue. It determines the laws we pass and the motorways we build and the forests we fell and the restaurants we frequent. Even the countryside, throughout vast areas of the world, is a monument to mind: a representation not only of what generations have believed in and lived for, but of the view they have had of themselves – of their emotions, memories, thoughts and identities. Our ‘folk psychology’, woven out of landscape, language and a million subliminal events, forms the invisible filter through which we have to look as we look inward.
We do not see this filter because we see through it. It is the unacknowledged background against which our mental life stands out in relief. We say ‘You make me mad’, without ever pausing to inspect the theory of emotion which this dubious claim demands. We say ‘I’m sorry – I wasn’t myself’, without noticing what a curious view of personality is being implied. We say ‘I changed my mind’, without wondering who exactly it is that changed what (or what it was that changed whom). We try in our courts to decide whether a mass murderer is mad, only rarely doubting the sanity of the question itself.
The See-Through Mind
The cornerstone of contemporary folk psychology is the assumption that the mind is see-through: that when we look inward, through the window of introspection, we see what is there. We imagine the mind to be like a clock in a glass case, with all its important workings available for inspection by its one privileged owner. We think we know ourselves already, or could know ourselves if we chose, if not completely, then at least intimately and directly. This is the cardinal misconception, and its appreciation forms the starting point for the exposé with which this book is concerned.
Contrary to popular opinion, the human mind is a closed book. The room behind the eyes is forever dark. No access is possible, either by thinking or via the senses – for thoughts and experiences are the produce of this obscure factory, not glimpses of its operation. As with the manufacture of Cointreau or Tabasco, what goes on behind the scenes is a jealously guarded trade secret. All we get to do is taste the concoction; to the world of the concocter we are not privy at all. In the mind feelings are fabricated, thoughts are marshalled, perceptual pictures are painted. But of the painter and the engineer we have no idea.
Or rather, we can only have ideas. We think we are looking at ourselves through transparent windows. We think that consciousness gives us privileged access to our process and our nature: that the dark-room of the mind is light and airy, and our natural home. We think that the stories it tells about itself are true. Yet we are not looking through clear glass. We are looking at a screen on which some rather special products of the mind’s activity are back-projected. Behind the screen there is a director producing a constant stream of interwoven films, one of which – one recurring theme – concerns the work of a director making a constant stream of interwoven films. As in Frederico Fellini’s masterpiece 8 1/2, we are not seeing the director at work, but only the director’s partial and fictionalized view of a hypothetical director at work. We are invited to believe that the fictional and factual Fellinis are one and the same. But we have no right to do so, and we can never know the degree to which they really correspond—for the real Fellini remains always beyond the filmgoers’ ken.
If the images that the mind created of itself were truthful – if the pictures projected onto the blind showed what we would actually see if the blind were raised – then nothing would be lost by mistaking one for the other. If appearance matches reality, the distinction becomes unimportant, indeed loses its meaning. But if the mind dissembles, then the consequences of buying its pronouncements may be more interesting, perhaps more serious. If the mind tells you that you are 5 feet 3 inches tall, and take a 14 inch collar, when you are really 6 foot and a 16, then you are going to bang your head on a lot of lintels, and buy a lot of clothes that leave you with cold ankles and restricted breathing. Like the man suffering from a perpetual headache, the only doctor who is going to be able to help you is the one who persuades you to buy bigger shirts.
Inside the dark-room, inscrutable though it is, are collected all the data and beliefs that give life its meaning and construct its purpose. Buried there are the files that tell us how to be happy, who and what to care about, when to react and when to keep still; the programs that enable us to understand language, to record the past, to spin fantasies, and to tell the ‘real’ from the ‘imaginary’. Manifesting indirectly, in attractions and expectations, spontaneous allegiances and solitary dreams, there are the casts of mind that tell us how to recognize a human being who will take care of us, or give us sexual pleasure; how to feel when Arsenal lose the Cup (‘Ecstatic’, ‘Destroyed’, ‘What’s “arsenal”? What “cup”?’) And somewhere right at the centre of operations is the unarticulated specification of what it means to be a person: what kind of a being is a human being. From the frisson of an impulse buy, to the image of a Good Death, all is fashioned by the back-room boys and girls of the human mind.
Reasonable Doubt
There are three potential sources of information which could give us cause to doubt this picture: everyday experience, the reports of the mystics, and science. What about the many occasions on which we have suddenly ‘come to’, and realized that we have been carrying out complicated tasks requiring accurate perception, subtle