...he podido convencerme a mi mismo de que, en cuanto a sus efectos sobre el preso y sus resultados para la sociedad en general, las mejores prisiones reformadas -sean o no celulares- son tan malas, o aún peores, que las sucias cárceles antiguas. Ellas no mejoran al preso; por el contrario, en la inmensa y abrumadora mayoría de casos, ejercen sobre ellos los efectos más lamentables. El ladrón, el estafador y el granuja que han pasado algunos años en un penal, salen de él más dispuestos que nunca a continuar por el mismo camino, hallándose mejor preparados para ello, habiendo aprendido a hacerlo mejor, estando más enconados contra la sociedad y encontrando una justificación más sólida de su rebeldía contra sus leyes y costumbres, razón por la cual tienen, necesaria e inevitablemente, que caer cada vez más hondo en la sima de los actos antisociales que por primera vez le llevaron ante los jueces.
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta Filosofía. Mostrar todas las entradas
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5.7.12
18.3.12
Consciousness, lost and found/Slowpoke
HOT, COLD, SUN, RAIN
Practical Spirituality, Irregular Philosophy, and Personal Civics
Consciousness, Lost and Found
by sl0wpoke
People say consciousness is a problem. The origin of the problem, as posed to philosophy and science, is actually quite straightforward. We live at a point in history where no facet of the universe seems to lie beyond the reach of scientific explanation, including consciousness itself. There is something about the subjective experience of consciousness, however, that makes these explanations deeply unsatisfying. Satisfactory explanations are thus pursued through various alternative theories of mind that are difficult to ground in the scientific tradition, and the problem thus arises.
What is truly odd, however, is that even though there are two sides to the debate over the problem, only one side seems to view the problem as problematic. Mechanists, such as Dennett, argue straightforwardly and forcefully that every aspect of consciousness can be grounded in an empirically observable phenomenon, given sufficient time and scientific resources. Proponents of the irreducibility of consciousness, such as Chalmers and Searle, argue that consciousness is the root of all immediate experiences and understandings, which are by their very nature a priori irreducible. Most of the debate seems to focus upon the problem of whether physical things, as we know them, are adequate to account for the complex and varied phenomena of consciousness. The mechanists seem to overlook the admittedly difficult-to-discern motivations that makes the anti-reductionists resist reductionist explanations so strenuously, while the anti-reductionists seem oblivious to the fact that their defenses are essentially nothing more than alternative reductionist explanations based on a non-standard metaphysics.
The debate between these two views evokes very strong reactions, and there seems to be little possibility of philosophically reconciling the two. The progress of scientific explanations of the mind suggests that they may prevail in the long run, but the persistence of anti-reductionist accountings of consciousness also seems to suggest that the anti-reductionist program has an effectively infinite space into which to retreat. (There are, it seems, always new places to which to re-locate spirits and essences.) This kind of impasse, when it appears, is often symptomatic of a fundamental difference of values, but it is deeply troubling to think that the physical or non-physical nature of consciousness should come down to a value judgment. Such a judgment would present a very unappealing choice indeed, between either a disingenuous escape into self-directed self-delusion, or a grim nihilism alienated from the very substance of the most vivid and immediate features of personal experience.
The choice, however, between a physical and a non-physical consciousness is a false one. The real question should not be what consciousness is made of, but in what sense we should think of consciousness as real.
The problem of the problem.
For thinkers like Dennett, consciousness is not a problem at all. Everything that consciousness does can be accounted for, in principle, by a biological mechanism, and the realization of this possibility is enough to make the problem vanish. Dennett’s audaciously titled “Consciousness Explained” (1991) is a meticulous, powerful, and extremely persuasive argument to exactly this effect, and I will proceed from the assumption that Dennet’s argument therein is correct. In this admirable work of philosophy, Dennett skillfully deconstructs the classical arguments against a purely physical basis for consciousness, revealing that the disassembly of their pretenses leaves little more than very subtly concealed, baseless assumptions. There is, however, an important philosophical wrinkle that even Dennett does not seem to notice, and that seems to pass by uncommented elsewhere: the very fact that anti-reductionist theories of consciousness can be engaged so effectively by a mechanist argument implies that these anti-reductionist theories are, in fact, mechanist theories in disguise.
The apotheosis of this kind of mechanism masquerading as idealism is Chalmers’ proposal for a “nonreductive explanation” of consciousness. Chalmers suggests that consciousness ought to be considered as something of an elemental physical force, comparable to gravity or electromagnetism. Certainly, the idea of an as-yet undefined physical force does make consciousness a problem, and the simultaneous elusiveness and irreducibility of this sort of ‘mind-force’ makes the problem hard. Dennett dismisses this proposal by incisively and very correctly pointing out that positing such irreducibility is completely unnecessary from a scientific perspective. If, the argument goes, all the functions and behaviors of consciousness can be elucidated in terms of physical processes, then consciousness itself has been elucidated in terms of physical processes. Beneath this argument is a fundamentally philosophical proposition: a thing is exactly the sum of its distinguishing features. This basic proposition is significant because it can be located not just in mechanist arguments, but also, perhaps surprisingly, in anti-reductionist arguments such as Searle’s “Chinese Room” and the substance of subjective experience posited in the philosophical literature under the name of ‘qualia’. Where anti-reductionists thus part ways with the mechanists is in the sorts of things they consider “distinguishing features”: anti-reductionists consider subjectivity itself, or else some hidden force, to be an irreducible, distinguishing feature, while mechanists do not.
Anti-Reductionists seem unwilling to abandon scientific explanation, but just as unwilling to abandon their assertion that consciousness itself is lodged in an elusive substance or force that is fundamentally distinct from any other kind of physical thing. This conflict is the real heart of the problem of consciousness, but the passion it generates is much more than sentimental attachment to an illogical idea. What anti-reductionists really yearn for is a consciousness as real as the other objects of scientific study.
The real and its discontents.
It deserves to be asked why the idea of an irreducible consciousness is so strongly appealing. Certainly, the anti-reductionist view presents a zoo of logical contradictions, but these contradictions nonetheless seem to be grasping strenuously at something. Dennett seems content to dismiss the anti-reductionist furor as a misguided attachment, but such dismissals do not make for a very satisfying explanation of their motive or persistence. The anti-reductionists are struggling to express something problematic in the language of science. The problem may lie with the thing being expressed, but it may just as easily lie with the language in which it is being expressed.
Science today has established itself as the powerful and very successful arbiter truth. As such, Science has become the language of truth. Inhabitants of the modern world are at great pains to argue otherwise. Every language, however, is haunted by some unutterable. The undesired consequence of the triumph of Science is that some features of human experience are not easily articulated in the language of Science, which places them dangerously near to the realm of the unreal. The subjective experience of consciousness is just such a disturbingly inexpressible thing. While prior eras of thought could attribute this most basic and immediate phenomenon to ‘spirit’ or ‘God’, the language of Science has no words for such things. The reduction of consciousness itself to simpler terms is not problematic for the language of Science, but it nonetheless represents a radical shift of worldview.
Science works in such a way that its objects of concern are public and universal. A scientifically recognizable phenomenon must be something that can be demonstrated to others in a reproducible way. This principle lies at the heart of all empiricism: real things are distinguished from unreal things (lies, hoaxes, delusions, hallucinations, flights of fancy, semantic confusions) by an experiment that situates them within the structure of already agreed-upon things. The power and utility of empiricism is quite evident, and I don’t think it needs discussion here. The modern ethos very often, however, goes beyond a mere acknowledgment of empiricism, assuming instead something much stronger: empirically real is absolutely real.
The reason that I agree with Dennett’s arguments is that consciousness does have behaviors and functions whose underlying mechanisms are, in principle, scientifically demonstrable. What the arguments of Dennett and other mechanists overlook, however, is that consciousness also has fundamentally private aspects that cannot be experimentally reproduced in the empirical sense. The anti-reductionists are mistaken to conflate these private aspects of consciousness with empirically describable features, but they are right in their intuition that some part of this bigger picture eludes even the most thorough empirical reduction. The brute fact is that there is, by definition, nothing objectively or publicly demonstrable about subjective experience. (This fact is what motivates the well-known philosophical problem of how we, as conscious beings, know that other beings are conscious.) If we adopt the view that, with no exceptions, everything real is scientifically describable, then it must be that subjectivity is not real.
Consciousness, according to the mechanist account, is scientifically describable because it can be fully characterized in terms of empirically observable features. Taking this thesis as given, a number of difficult philosophical questions clear right up. For example, the problem how one conscious being can tell if another being is also conscious is fully resolved because, in principle, one such being can go down a list of features to look for, attempt to locate them all, and reach a logical conclusion. Disturbingly, however, new and equally difficult philosophical questions appear in some unexpected places. It may be one thing, in the mechanist scheme, for you to determine whether or not I am conscious, but how can you determine whether or not you yourself are conscious? If you’re reading this sentence right now you probably see nothing particularly problematic in the judgment that you are conscious. It’s just obvious. That, however, is exactly the problem. The fact that you are conscious is so blatantly manifest that it seems to need no explanation at all.
To claim something as ‘obvious’ is not generally regarded to be a scientific explanation. Nonetheless, I find it nothing short of incredible that you, the reader, would regard your own consciousness as nothing less than obvious. Let’s suppose, however, that you really aren’t satisfied with this obvious fact: you want a real, scientific explanation. The good news is that, according to the mechanist perspective, an explanation is available or will be forthcoming in the near future. It is instructive, however, to apply Occam’s Razor at this juncture, and to ask what we actually gain by theory that over-explains the already obvious.
The mechanist state, and the zombie apartheid.
In “Consciousness Explained”, Dennett draws a fascinating connection between social justice and the idea that consciousness is fully empirical. This connection occurs in the context of a deconstruction of Chalmers’ strange philosophical device of the “zombie”, a being that is functionally indistinct from conscious beings but somehow is not itself conscious. Dennett mercilessly excoriates Chalmers’ apparent return to the strange idea of “indiscernible identicals”, and compares the arguments necessary to assert the unconsciousness of a philosophical zombie to those arguments made against the humanity of oppressed people in racist or classist societies. This line of argument is quite convincing; arbitrary and insubstantial distinctions between humans are indeed at the heart of racism and classism. If consciousness is just some undetectable, undefinable essence that can nonetheless be somehow discriminated, the door is opened to all kinds of blatant prejudice. It is interesting to ask, however, whether a radically empiricist accounting of consciousness is capable to producing its own kind of dystopias.
Suppose that you are not satisfied with the obviousness of your own consciousness; you demand scientific verification. True scientific verification, however, is not something that you can do yourself. Evidence for your own consciousness must be reproducible outside of your own personal experience of the situation, and it must be possible for others to view the results and agree on them. Taking this as given, you assemble your friends and conduct a scrupulously careful and well-designed experiment to test whether or not you are conscious. Much to your surprise, however, your friends view the results and come to the unanimous conclusion that you are not actually conscious all; feelings to the contrary must have been just an anomaly stirred up by some unusual external sources of interference. You dispute the results, and so the experiment is repeated again, and then again. Each time, the conclusion reached is the same. Your friends must conclude that, charming character though you are, you’re just not conscious.
It’s one thing to be judged unconscious by a few friends who are nonetheless quite fond of you. What if, on the other hand, the matter of the population of unconscious persons was taken up by the state? Might the state might judge the population of unconscious people to be a nuisance, like stray animals? What if the state even regarded them as a danger, considering their obvious proclivity for mistakes and their almost certain lack of any kind of moral agency? Any well organized society would certainly have a corps of professionals charged with monitoring and evaluating the consciousness of its citizens, and something would certainly need to be done with all of the unconscious people dwelling uncomfortably close to the conscious. Perhaps they could just be imprisoned, or, in a society wishing for a more flattering veneer of compassion, indefinitely institutionalized? If appearances were no object, perhaps the state could simply have unconscious people executed? Everyone has to make a few sacrifices, after all, to maintain a well-ordered society. If you yourself were judged unconscious by such a menacingly state-appointed panel of physicians, surely you would appeal desperately for the truth of your own consciousness, no matter how scientific the refutations presented.
I should be clear, at this juncture, that I do not mean to suggest that mechanist theories of consciousness bear any such authoritarian intent, nor do I mean to suggest that their necessary consequence is a dystopian state in which otherwise upstanding people are coldly adjudicated to be subhuman. What the fable of the zombie apartheid exhibits, however, is a world to which has been dealt a crushing blow to the sanctity of private mental life and to the traditional idea of individual agency. In such a world, your most immediate experiences are nothing but a hollow illusion acted out by incomprehensible, alien forces beyond your understanding and control. In such a world, each one of us turns out, under the gaze of science, not to be quite who we thought we were. Certainly, there is a very real loss in this outcome, and it is this loss that the anti-reductionists surely must sense, and it must be the horror they feel at this sensation that motivates them to struggle so fiercely against reductionist explanation.
The problem with anti-reductionists arguments is that, no matter how clever, they are doomed perpetually to retreat ever-further out of the reach of ever-newer scientific developments. The failure of an anti-reductionist explanation of consciousness is inevitable. The demise of subjective, conscious experience, however, is not.
An explanation of the explanation of consciousness.
The mechanist position proceeds from the very reasonable assertion that things are nothing other than their distinguishing features. If science can reduce those distinguishing features to physical processes, than those things are also physical processes. The fact that such a reduction is emotionally disturbing to behold is not sufficient reason to reject the deduction; it is certainly not an excuse for attempts to escape into pseudoscientific fantasy. Even so, there is something fundamentally different in the reduction of consciousness to physical processes; it appears to radically undermine the worth and veracity of subjective experience by reducing it to things that we can never quite see or fully understand. If we can’t trust our own subjective experience, what can we trust?
One argument is that the remedy lies in the internalization of the facts of natural science as it is understood today. If only we really convincingly saw ourselves as physical processes, the argument goes, there would be nothing disturbing or frightening about reducing consciousness to these very same processes. There is some truth to this view of things, but the truth is not quite a complete one — at least, not if science is to successfully stand in for religion, as it seems it is being called upon to do in this scenario. The lack is well-illustrated by a small thought experiment. Suppose you very successfully convince yourself of the truth that even your most intimate conscious experiences, from which are woven your very identity as a human being, are nothing other than the interplay of physical forces X, Y, and Z. You take X, Y, and Z to be almost sort of personal totems; they are the real truth of your being, even if you aren’t always able to perceive their activity. One day, a startling scientific breakthrough is announced: the theories of forces X, Y, and Z are proven to be completely wrong, and must be replaced by A, B, and C, which are strange and radically different. From the perspective of science, this is completely unproblematic; theories come and go. For individuals, though, theories of self do not come so cheaply; the new development results in a necessary trauma, as you really honestly and sincerely saw X, Y, and Z as your true self, and it turns out that you were mistaken all along. Science, by its very construction, must reject any theory that is convincingly contradicted by observation, and it is of the strongest necessity that there is no telling which theories may be discarded, or what may replace them. Humans, however, rely very crucially upon persistent, relatively unchanging ideas about themselves in which to ground their identity and orient themselves in the world. The prospect of an existence in which our most basic views of ourselves and of the world are ceaselessly rent asunder and reassembled can only be described as hellish. Such a metaphysical suffering may be manageable, but it is certainly not pleasant.
Consciousness is a special kind of problem because it represents the first and most basic fact of existence. Conscious experience is the means by which we build all of our internal models of the world. Without these world-models, we’re hopelessly adrift and helpless. If consciousness itself is just another kind of model, upon which the others are based, the picture of reality begins to look very tenuous indeed. Our models are based on consciousness, and consciousness is based, it would seem, upon a world that lies forever beyond our grasp. Doesn’t all this follow from a reductionist account of consciousness? No, actually. It doesn’t follow at all.
Ontology and metaphysics matter very much at junctures such as this one because they illuminate the foundational assumptions underlying arguments that might otherwise dazzle us with their vivid complexity. There is an irreducibly metaphysical axiom at the heart of all the despair over the reduction of consciousness to physics, and this axiom deserves a close examination. The axiom is this: there is a real world of objects that are outside of, and fundamentally separate from, subjective experience. That is not a scientific deduction. It is not even an obvious fact. It is a pure decision. If this decision is reversed, if we reject the idea of a universal, objective reality, then all the existential horror evaporates.
It will be immediately objected that such a rejection is solipsistic and fundamentally incompatible with scientific thought. This objection holds no water. The idea of a universal, objective reality is only necessary in order to prevent circular definitions. It is not at all clear why circular definitions should be everywhere forbidden, or whether their exclusion may actually prevent the description of very real and very important phenomena. It is true that circularity may introduce paradox, but no matter how confounding or strange paradox may be, there is no universally recognizable principle dictating that paradoxical statements may not be true or meaningful. While arguments to the contrary are delivered very passionately, they are nonetheless at great pains to justify themselves as anything more than axiomatic insistence.
Circularity immediately eludes the alienation of reductionist explanation by way of a beautifully simple argument. Suppose that you grasp that your consciousness is reducible to basic physical processes X, Y, and Z. What makes the reality of physical processes X, Y, and Z apparent is their empirical demonstration. Empirical demonstration is founded upon direct observation, that is, seeing for one’s self. Seeing for one’s self is conscious event. Therefore, processes X, Y, and Z depend upon your consciousness just as much as your consciousness depends upon X, Y, and Z. Since this is so, there is no reason to privilege your understanding of X, Y, and Z as “more true” or “more real” than your own subjective experience. Ergo, your conscious experience is exactly as real as it was before you conceived of it in terms of physical processes.
The mechanist solution to the problem of consciousness could avoid all the humanistic grief it causes if only it would forgo the insistence on having the last word. Consciousness is such that, properly speaking, there can be no last word.
The monstrosity of Hofstadter.
Of all the authors I know, Douglas Hofstadter comes closest to grasping these facts directly. Hofstadter is a truly unique thinker, in that he admits the mechanistic explanation of consciousness, while still acknowledging the irreducibility of the subject. What’s more, Hofstadter even seems to understand the deep relevance of circularity and self-reference to the problem of consciousness. Hofstadter’s magnum opus, “Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid” (often referenced as “GEB” for short), is a vast, playfully brilliant, and strikingly original exegesis of the complex and strangely consciousness-like behaviors of self-reference as it appears in art, music, symbolic logic and other kinds of abstract systems. GEB stands alone as a truly unique work of literature and philosophy, and is well-deserving of its status as a modern classic. Even so, GEB is more poesis than analysis. Well aware of this fact, Hofstadter published “I Am A Strange Loop” (“Strange Loop” for short) in 2007, nearly three decades after the original publication of GEB, as an attempt to refine and more directly articulate the core philosophical ideas of GEB as they pertain to the problems of consciousness. While I have tremendous respect for Hofstadter as a thinker, and tremendous admiration for his intellectual works, I must humbly insist that there is more to say on the matter, and that it ties directly to the problem of an external, substantive reality.
Hofstadter clearly recognizes the importance of circularity in the development of a phenomenon like consciousness, and he even hints at something like irreducibility in his references to formal undecidability in symbolic logics, but he seems unable to break free of the idea of an external reality. While this inability in no way hampers the theoretical development, it nonetheless tinges the exposition with a faint but ineffable tone of sadness. Hofstadter himself makes this tension evident in the “teleportation to mars” scenario, which appears late in “Strange Loop”, and which I’ve discussed elsewhere. To briefly recapitulate, Hofstadter sketches a hypothetical future in which human teleportation is possible, but only in a purely “informational sense” that does not actually relocate the teleported subject, but merely reproduces a perfect copy of it elsewhere in space. Hofstadter then posits a variation on the scenario, wherein the teleportation procedure results in the death of the original subject, e.g. teleportation from Earth to Mars produces an identical subject on Mars, but results in the death of the subject on Earth. As Hofstadter tells it, this scenario reads like a tragedy of subjectivity: even though the self on Earth knows objectively that a perfect copy with all its distinguishing features lives on elsewhere, it still cannot help but feel sorrow and fear at the prospect of its own inevitable demise. The conclusion, although Hofstadter doesn’t seem to state it directly, is that objectified knowledge of the self is not a substitute for subjective experience of the self. Reflected into the problem of consciousness, a reduction of consciousness to objective terms cannot replace the subjective experience of those very terms. Hofstadter’s teleportation story is a vivid, and beautifully sensitive portrayal of exactly what kind of loss the passage from subjectivity to objectivity presents. In the telling of this story, Hofstadter directly reveals the agony of the problem of consciousness: it is none other than the agony of a world divided into internal and external parts.
It’s important not to get lost in mysticism if we’re to understand why the problem really is bound up in the internal-external division. The best way to do so is to deconstruct Hofstadter’s teleportation tale a bit further. I’ll do this by making explicit the assumption of a substantive external reality, from which a reductio ad absurdum appears. The argument is as follows: Suppose that you are the subject on Earth, who is doomed to die as a result of the teleportation procedure. Suppose also that there is a substantive external reality that exists independently of your subjective experience. Since external reality is independent of your subjectivity, it must be that only the objective changes to your circumstances (i.e. the corporeal facts of your death) will have observable effects in the real world, while the subjective changes to your circumstance (i.e. whatever your experience of death and thereafter happens to be) should make no difference. (Interestingly, this is the source of the bleakness perceived by some in the prospect of soullessness: it makes no difference to the world whether or not your subjective self is snuffed out.) Your dual self, on Mars, is a perfect copy of the you (subject and object) on Earth, and so should be functionally indistinct from the self on Earth in all situations. Quantifying over “all situations”, however, is an extremely strong generalization. “All situations”, however, is also unavoidable if the self on Mars is to be considered truly indistinguishable from the self on Earth. Since all situations must be considered, let’s consider the specific situation of how the self on Mars reacts, in terms of its objectively observable behavior, to the death of the self on Earth. Denote by S the situation in which the self on Mars is aware of the demise of the self on Earth. Denote by R the reaction of the self on Mars to the death of the self on Earth, and put aside its details beyond the requirement that it consists of some empirically discernible event. Would the reaction of the self on Earth in situation S be identical to R?
If the reaction is not identical then we’ve already derived an absurdity; the self on Mars was assumed to be a perfect reproduction, and could not be if its functional behavior differed in any way. Suppose, then, that the self on Earth would react with R in situation S. This supposition, however, presents a difficulty, because it is not clear who the subject is in the definition of S. That is, it is not clear who occupies the place of the self on Earth in: “the situation in which the self on Mars is aware of the demise of the self on Earth.” Perhaps S is obtained by the self on Earth imagining what would happen, and concluding that its reaction would be R — but an exercise of subjectivity (i.e. imagination) would be necessary in order to produce this conclusion, which would make the indistinguishability of the two selves, which has been taken as an objective fact, contingent upon an exercise of subjectivity! Perhaps it is instead the case that S is obtained by direct observation of some other objective event, i.e. perhaps the self on Earth had been produced by a prior teleportation, providing the opportunity to observe its particular reaction in that prior situation. It has already been assumed that both the self on Earth and the self on Mars react with R when contemplating the death of their predecessor-selves as a result of the teleportation procedure. The rub, however, is that the observation of R for the self on Earth was obtained by an earlier, identical teleportation procedure which, itself, produced an identical copy of the subject. If the definition of “indistinguishable reactions” is to have any veridical force, then it must be that that the situations that produced those reactions are also identical. In particular, the earlier teleportation procedure from which was obtained the observation that Earth-self’s reaction was R must also have produced an functionally identical copy. More to the point, Earth-self had a predecessor-self that also would have reacted with R! But how can this be empirically determined? Either there must be an infinite regress of observations of prior-selves, which would seem to be impossible, or there must be a prior-self whose reaction differed. If, however, some prior self failed to react with R, it must be that the teleportation procedure does not produce an identical copy, which contradicts the original assumptions — reductio ad absurdum.
The preceding argument may seem rather long, but I feel it is important to firmly ground the seemingly-mystical rejection of an external reality on a logical premise. Hofstadter’s tragedy of the subject is not mere sentimentalism, but an incisive demonstration of a logical contradiction subtly introduced by the conjunction of reductionist explanation and the assumption of substantive, external reality. It is even more illustrative, I think, to show what happens to Hofstadter’s tale when the assumption of an external reality is removed.
Reintroduce all the assumptions of Hofstadter’s original teleportation scenario, and also explicitly assume that there is no substantive, external reality that is separable from subjective experience. A direct consequence of this new assumption (or rather, the negation of the old assumption) is that life decidedly does not go on as normal for the self on Mars; this self, in all its distinguishing features, only represents a substantive object insofar as its characteristics are subjectively experienced by the self on Earth. There is no puzzle about whether it is possible for me to subjectively die on Earth while objectively surviving on Mars, for the simple reason that it is not possible to cleave one from the other. If subjectivity vanishes, then for all meaningful epistemological purposes so do all the things it experiences — the whole universe as you know it is kaput! But isn’t that just solipsism? Weirdly, no, it is not. The foundation of solipsism is the idea that only knowledge of one’s own mind is sure, and at no point did I promise or assert sure knowledge of your mind or its subjective experiences. What many people find disturbing about reductionist explanations of consciousness is that they undercut even the certainty of knowledge about one’s own mind, since mind would thus apparently be at the mercy of physical forces that are alien to direct experience. But what, then, is left if neither external nor internal knowledge is sure? Does everything really just disappear with the subject?
The answer is that nothing actually disappears at all. The assertion I’ve been driving at all along is that the subject depends on the object, and the object depends on the subject. If one vanishes, then it follows logically that other should vanish with it. The subtlety is that it really doesn’t mean anything to say that “the subject vanishes” or “the object vanishes”, since both of these tacitly presume an observer (God? The Universal Hive-Mind? The Laplacian Demon? The Leviathan of State?) before whom they appeared in the first place. Bluntly, there is no reason whatsoever to presume such an observer. (This should not necessarily be read as a declaration of atheism, but I do not wish to pursue theological matters here.) Yes, if the subject disappeared, then so would the object. Following exactly the same reasoning, the disappearance of the object should also herald the disappearance of the subject. This means, in particular, that a subject without any objective formations is just as much an absurdity as an object with no subjective content. Nothing can disappear with subjectivity or objectivity for the straightforward reason that appearance and disappearance are themselves subjective or objective functions. The very act of inquiring after what happens with the expiration of subjectivity is itself a subjective act — we are already talking about not an absolute truth, but the subjectivity of subjectivity. The result of such puzzling appears to be none other than Hofstadter’s ‘strange loop’. What is different is that there is no longer anything either inside of or outside of the loop. What is interesting is that the absence of any such thing, inside or outside, is decidedly not strange.
Consciousness is not the problem.
I assert that what I’ve developed in the above is wholly compatible with mechanist explanations of consciousness; at no point have I required any functions of the mind that are beyond the grasp of scientific explanation. What is different is that reductionist theories no longer have the last word on what is real or unreal; a loop in the reasoning has been closed, with the result that some decided-upon facts will become undecidable. Science has robbed subjective experience of its privilege as the final word on matters of truth, but acknowledgment of the subjective roots of empiricism rob it of the very same privilege The casualty of this exchange is the aesthetic appeal of a “ground truth” or a “hard foundation” from which all other truths can be systematically derived. Truth no longer comes about as a procedural matter of fact, but as a contingency of the situation itself. Some modern thinkers (Alain Badiou, in particular) seem to be already aware of this dynamic, but their work is, to the best of my knowledge, concerned with deep theoretical work in ontology and metaphysics, and has yet to be applied to the purportedly thorny problem of consciousness, which sits awkwardly at the boundary between physics and metaphysics.
The question remains: Why introduce all this extra confusion, when we could be contented with an exhaustively reductionist theory of everything, with objectivity situated firmly at the foundation of the universe? The answer, I think, is that such a universe is fundamentally alienated and bleak. I firmly believe that we should not look askance at facts just because they are unpleasant, but it is important to recognize that foundational world views are not facts — they are choices. The situation of basic views as choices, rather than self-evident facts (whatever those are), does not mean that all are morally equal. Some views are inconsistent with themselves. Some views are too impoverished or simplistic to account for the inscrutable breadth and depth of human experience. Some views are so severe and rigid that they sacrifice truth in the name of their own symbolic order and internal stability. Some views are so fantastical and diffuse as to be totally vacuous. The choice among these is certainly not easy, and there may be no reliable criteria for doing so — especially considering that new ideas are arising all the time. It is important, however, to understand that a picture of the world that makes you unhappy may not be necessary. You should not carelessly replace it with a flattering self-delusion, but neither should you grimly bear its awful weight. A persistent feeling of despair or emptiness is itself nothing other than the sign of a deep contradiction in your view of your self and your world — such contradictions can be, and must be resolved. As much as I agree with Dennett and the many others who have destroyed and discredited the strange and whimsical theories of the anti-reductionists, I also feel very strongly the urgency that drives the anti-reductionists to such baroque flights of intellectual fancy: if the world of subjective experience is smashed to lifeless atoms, then something important really is lost. There is a beauty and dignity to human experience that, no matter how well-analyzed by scientific explanation, is not and cannot be reducible to scientific terms. The tension between the status of the human being and the progress of science has become almost unbearably strong in our lifetimes, and it is important that we find a reconciliation. Such a tension is not bearable forever.
The good news is that the war between science and humanity must not be borne forever. If only we stop clinging to some very old but wholly unjustified habits of thought, the conflict disappears. In the end, nothing could be more scientific than to reject an assumption that has outlived its usefulness, and nothing could be more human than to rejoice at the freedom it brings.
Further reading.
David Chalmers. “Facing Up to the Problem of Consciousness”. 1995. Available here.
Daniel Dennett. “Facing Backward on the Problem of Consciousness”. 1995. Availablehere.
Daniel Dennett. Consciousness Explained. 1991.
Douglas Hofstadter. I Am A Strange Loop. 2007.
weedypersistence.wordpress.com
Walking/Henry David Thoreau
Part 1 of 3
"The length of his walk uniformly made the length of his writing. If shut up in the house, he did not write at all." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
I WISH TO SPEAK a word for nature, for absolute Freedom and Wildness, as contrasted with a freedom and Culture merely civil, — to regard man as an inhabitant, or a part and parcel of Nature, rather than a member of society. I wish to make an extreme statement, if so I may make a emphatic one, for there are enough champions of civilization; the minister, and the school-committee, and every one of you will take care of that.[2] I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering; which word is beautifully derived "from idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la sainte terre" — to the holy land, till the children exclaimed, "There goes a sainte-terrer", a saunterer — a holy-lander. They who never go to the holy land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds, but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from sans terre, without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all, but the Saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea. But I prefer the first, which indeed is the most probable derivation. For every walk is a sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit (1) in us, to go forth and reconquer this holy land from the hands of the Infidels.
[3] It is true, we are but faint hearted crusaders, even the walkers, now-a-days, who undertake no persevering never ending enterprises. Our expeditions are but tours and come round again at evening to the old hearth side from which we set out. Half the walk is but retracing our steps. We should go forth on the shortest walk, perchance, in the spirit of undying adventure, never to return; prepared to send back our embalmed hearts (2) only, as relics to our desolate kingdoms. If you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends,(3) and never see them again; if you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man; then you are ready for a walk.
[4] To come down to my own experience, my companion and I, for I sometimes have a companion, take pleasure in fancying ourselves knights of a new, or rather an old, order — not Equestrians or Chevaliers, not Ritters or Riders,(4) but Walkers, a still more ancient and honorable class, I trust. The chivalric and heroic spirit which once belonged to the rider seems now to reside in — or perchance to have subsided into the Walker — not the Knight but Walker Errant. He is a sort of fourth estate — outside to Church and State and People.
[5] We have felt that we almost alone hereabouts practised this noble art; though, to tell the truth, at least, if their own assertions are to be received, most of my townsmen would fain walk sometimes, as I do, but they cannot. No wealth can buy the requisite leisure, freedom, and independence, which are the capital in this profession. It comes only by the grace of God. It requires a direct dispensation from heaven to become a walker. You must be born into the family of the Walkers. Ambulator nascitur, non fit. Some of my townsmen, it is true, can remember, and have described to me some walks which they took ten years ago, in which they were so blessed as to lose themselves for half an hour in the woods, but I know very well that they have confined themselves to the highway ever since, whatever pretensions they may make to belong to this select class. No doubt, they were elevated for a moment as by the reminiscence of a previous state of existence, when even they were foresters and outlaws.
"When he came to grene wode,
In a mery mornynge,
There he herde the notes small,
Of byrdes mery syngynge.
"It is ferre gone, sayd Robyn,
That I was last here,
Me lyste a lytell for to shote,
At the donne dere."(5)
[6] I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits unless I spend four hours a day at least — and it is commonly more than that — sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields absoutely free from all wordly engagements. You may safely say a penny for your thoughts, or a thousand pounds. When sometimes I am reminded that the mechanics and shop-keepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them — as if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon — I think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago.
[7] I who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring some rust, and when sometimes I have stolen forth for a walk at the eleventh hour of four o’clock in the afternoon, too late to redeem the day, when the shades of night were already beginning to be mingled with the day-light — have felt as if I had committed some sin to be atoned for, I confess that I am astonished at the power of endurance — to say nothing of the moral insensibility of my neighbors who confine themselves to shops and offices the whole day for weeks and months, aye and years almost together. I know not what manner of stuff they are of — sitting there now at three o’clock in the afternoon, as if it were three o’clock in the morning. Buonaparte (6) may talk of the three o’clock in the morning courage, but it is nothing to the courage which can sit down cheerfully at this hour in the afternoon over against one’s self whom you have known all the morning, to starve out a garrison to whom you are bound by such strong ties of sympathy. I wonder that about these times, or say between four and five o’clock in the afternoon, too late for the morning papers and too early for the evening ones, there is not a general explosion heard up and down the street, scattering a legion of antiquated and house-bred notions and whims to the four winds for an airing — and so the evil cure itself.
[8] How womankind, who are confined to the house still more than men, stand it I do not know; but I have ground to suspect that most of them do not stand it at all. When, early in a summer afternoon, we have been shaking the dust of the village from the skirts of our garments — making haste past those houses with purely Doric (7) or Gothic (8) fronts, which have such an air of repose about them, my companion whispers that probably about these times their occupants are all gone to bed! Then it is that I appreciate the beauty and the glory of architecture, which itself never turns in, but forever stands out and erect, keeping watch over the slumberers.
[9] No doubt temperament, and above all age, have a good deal to do with it. As a man grows older his ability to sit still and follow in-door occupations increases. He grows vespertinal (9) in his habits, as the evening of life approaches, till at last he comes forth only just before sundown, and gets all the walk that he requires in half an hour.
[10] But the walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking exercise, as it is called, as the sick take medicine at stated hours — as the swinging of dumb-bells or chairs; but is itself the enterprise and adventure of the day. If you would get exercise go in search of the springs of life. Think of a man’s swinging dumb-bells for his health, when those springs are bubbling up in far off pastures unsought by him.
[11] Moreover, you must walk like a camel which is said to be the only beast which ruminates when walking. When a traveller asked Wordsworth’s (10) servant to show him her master’s study, she answered "Here is his library, but his study is out of doors."
[12] Living much out of doors, in the sun and wind, will no doubt produce a certain roughness of character — will cause a thicker cuticle to grow over some of the finer qualities of our nature, as on the face and hands, or as severe manual labor robs the hands of some of their delicacy of touch. So staying in the house on the other hand may produce a softness and smoothness, not to say thinness of skin, accompanied by an increased sensibility to certain impressions. Perhaps we should be more susceptible to some influences important to our intellectual and moral growth, if the sun had shone and the wind blown on us a little less; and no doubt it is a nice matter to proportion rightly the thick and thin skin. But methinks that is a scurf that will fall off fast enough — that the natural remedy is to be found in the proportion which the night bears to the day, the winter to the summer, thought to experience. There will be so much the more air and sunshine in our thoughts. The callous palms of the laborer are conversant with finer tissues of self-respect and heroism whose touch thrills the heart, than the languid fingers of idleness. That is mere sentimentality that lies abed by day and thinks itself white, far from the tan and callus of experience.
[13] When we walk we naturally go to the fields and woods; what would become of us if we walked only in a garden or a mall? Even some sects of philosophers have felt the necessity of importing the woods to themselves since they did not go to the woods, "They planted groves and walks of Platans" where they took subdiales ambulationes in porticoes open to the air. Of course, it is of no use to direct our steps to the woods, if they do not carry us thither. I am alarmed when it happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit. In my afternoon walk I would fain forget all my morning occupations, and my obligations to society. But it sometimes happens that I cannot easily shake off the village. The thought of some work will run in my head, and I am not where my body is; I am out of my senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses. What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods? I suspect myself, and cannot help a shudder, when I find myself so implicated even in what are called good works — for this may sometimes happen.
[14] My vicinity affords many good walks, and though I have walked almost every day for so many years, and sometimes for several days together, I have not yet exhausted them. An absoutely new prospect is a great happiness, and I can still get this any afternoon. Two or three hours’ walking will carry me to as strange a country as I expect ever to see. A single farm-house which I had not seen before is sometimes as good as the dominions of the king of Dahomey.(11) There is in fact a sort of harmony discoverable between the capabilities of the landscape within a circle of ten miles’ radius, or the limits of an afternoon walk, and the three-score-years and ten of human life. It will never become quite familiar to you.
[15] Now a days, almost all man’s improvements, so called, as the building of houses, and the cutting down of the forest, and of all large trees, simply deform the landscape, and make it more and more tame and cheap.
[16] A people who would begin by burning the fences and let the forest stand! I saw the fences half consumed, their ends lost in the middle of the prairie, and and some worldly miser with a surveyor looking after his bounds, while heaven had taken place around him, and he did not see the angels going to and fro, but was looking for an old post-hole in the midst of paradise. I looked again and saw him standing in the middle of a boggy Stygian (12) fen surrounded by devils, and he had found his bounds without a doubt, three little stones where a stake had been driven, and looking nearer I saw that the Prince of Darkness was his surveyor.
[17] I can easily walk ten, fifteen, twenty, any number of miles, commencing at my own door, without going by any house, without crossing a road except where the fox and the mink do. First along by the river, and then the brook, and then the meadow and the wood-side. There are square miles in my vicinity which have no inhabitant. From many a hill I can see civilization and the abodes of man afar. The farmers and their works are scarcely more obvious than woodchucks and their burrows. Man and his affairs, church and state — and school, trade and commerce, and manufactuures and agriculture, — even politics, the most alarming of them all — I am pleased to see how little space they occupy in the landscape. Politics is but a narrow field, and that still narrower highway yonder leads to it. I sometimes direct the traveller thither. If you would go to the political world, follow the great road, — follow that market man, keep his dust in your eyes, and it will lead you straight to it — for it too has its place merely, and does not occupy all space. I pass from it as from a bean field into the forest, and it is forgotten. In one half hour I can walk off to some portion of the earth’s surface where a man does not stand from one year’s end to another and there consequently politics are not, for they are but as the cigar smoke of a man.
[18] The village is the place to which the roads tend, a sort of expansion of the highway as a lake of a river. It is the body of which roads are the arms and legs; a trivial or quadrivial place, the thoroughfare and ordinary of travellers. The word is from the Latin villa, which together with via, a way, or more anciently ved and vella, Varro (13) derives from veho to carry, because the villa is the place to and from which things are carried. They who got their living by teaming were saidvellaturam facere. Hence too apparently the Latin word vilis and our vile; also villain. This suggests what kind of degeneracy villagers are liable to. They are way-worn by the travel that goes by and over them, without travelling themselves.
[19] Some do not walk at all, others walk in the high-ways; a few walk across lots. Roads are made for horses and men of business. I do not travel in them much comparatively, because I am not in a hurry to get to any tavern, or grocery, or livery stable, or depot to which they lead. I am a good horse to travel but not from choice a roadster. The landscape painter uses the figures of men to mark a road. He would not make that use of my figure. I walk out into a nature such as the old prophets and poets Menu,(14)Moses, Homer,(15) Chaucer, walked in. You may name it America, but it is not America. Neither Americus Vespucius,(16) nor Columbus, nor the rest were the discoverers of it. There is a truer account of it in Mythology than in any history of America so called that I have seen.
[20] However, there are a few old roads that may be trodden with profit, as if they led somewhere now that they are nearly discontinued. There is the Old Marlboro Road, which does not go to Marlboro now methinks, unless that is Marlboro where it carries me. I am the bolder to speak of it here, because I presume that there are one or two such roads in every town.
The Old Marlboro Road[21] At present, in this vicinity, the best part of the land is not private property; the landscape is not owned, and the walker enjoys comparative freedom. But possibly the day will come when it will be partitioned off into so-called pleasure grounds, in which a few will take a narrow and exclusive pleasure only, — when fences shall be multiplied, and man traps and other engines invented to confine men to the public road; and walking over the surface of God’s earth, shall be construed to mean trespassing on some gentleman’s grounds. To enjoy a thing exclusively is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it. Let us improve our opportunities then before the evil days come.
Where they once dug for money
But never found any;
Where sometimes Martial Miles
Singly files,
And Elijah Wood,
I fear for no good.
No other man
Save Elisha Dugan —
O man of wild habits,
Partridges and rabbits,
Who hast no cares
Only to set snares,
Who liv’st all alone,
Close to the bone;
And where life is sweetest
Constantly eatest.
When the spring stirs my blood
With the instinct to travel,
I can get enough gravel
On the Old Marlboro Road.
Nobody repairs it,
For nobody wears it;
It is a living way,
As the christians say,
Not many there be
Who enter therein,
Only the guests of the
Irishman Quin.
What is it, what is it
But a direction out there,
And the bare possibility
Of going somewhere?
Great guide boards of stone
But travellers none.
Cenotaphs (17) of the towns
Named on their crowns.
It is worth going to see
What you might be.
What king
Did the thing,
I am still wondering —
Set up how or when,
By what select men,
Gourgas or Lee,
Clark or Darby?
They’re a great endeavor
To be something forever.
Blank tablets of stone,
Where a traveller might groan,
And in one sentence
Grave all that is known.
Which another might read,
In his extreme need,
I know one or two
Lines that would do,
Literature that might stand
All over the land,
Which a man could remember
Till next December,
And read again in the spring,
After the thawing.
You leave your abode,
You may go round the world
By the old Marlboro Road.
Notes
1. Peter the Hermit, (1050?-1115) French preacher, associated with the earliest Crusades, his actual role in them is unknown - back
2. Occasional medieval practice: if a warrior fell on foreign soil, and he was royalty and merited such treatment, his heart might be removed, preserved, and sent home for burial - back
3. "everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields, for my sake, will receive a hundredfold, and will inherit eternal life" - Matthew 19:29 - back
4. orders of knights on horseback - back
5. Gest of Robyn Hode, anonymous English poem, first printed ca. 1500 - back
6. Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821) French general & emperor - back
7. Classical style of columns used by the Greeks & Romans - back
8. 12th century French architecture, popular in Europe through 16th century - back
9. pertains to or occurs in the evening, animals who appear in the evening - back
10. William Wordsworth (1770-1850) English poet - back
11. native kingdom, later called Benin, in French West Africa, Nigeria - back
12. pertains to the mythological River Styx, which borders Hades - back
13. Marcus Terrentius Varro (116-27? B.C.) Roman author - back
14. variation of Manu; Hindu progenitor of and lawgiver to the human race - back
15. Homer, 8th cent. B.C. Greek epic poet, author of Iliad and Odyssey - back
16. America is named for Italian explorer Americus Vespucius (1451-1512) - back
17. memorial monuments not located where the deceased is buried - back
Part 2 of 3
[1] What is it that makes it so hard sometimes to determine whither we will walk? I believe that there is a subtile magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. It is not indifferent to us which way we walk. There is a right way; but we are very liable from heedlessness and stupidity to take the wrong one. We would fain take that walk, never yet taken by us through this actual world, which is perfectly symbolical of the path which we love to travel in the interior and ideal world; and sometimes, no doubt, we find it difficult to choose our direction, because it does not yet exist distinctly in our idea.
[2] When I go out of the house for a walk, uncertain as yet whither I will bend my steps, and submit myself to my instinct to decide for me, I find, strange and whimsical as it may seem, that I finally and inevitably settle south-west, toward some particular wood or meadow or deserted pasture or hill in that direction. My needle is slow to settle — varies a few degrees, and does not always point due south-west, it is true, and it has good authority for this variation, but it always settles between west and south-south-west. The future lies that way to me, and the earth seems more unexhausted and richer on that side. The outline which would bound my walks, would be, not a circle, but a parabola, or rather like one of those cometary orbits, which have been thought to be non-returning curves, in this case opening westward, in which my house occupies the place of the sun. I turn round and round irresolute sometimes for a quarter of an hour, until I decide for the thousandth time, that I will walk into the south-west or west. Eastward I go only by force; but westward I go free. Thither no business leads me. It is hard for me to believe that I shall find fair landscapes, or sufficient Wildness and Freedon behind the eastern horizon. I am not excited by the prospect of a walk thither; but I believe that the forest which I see in the western horizon stretches uninterruptedly towards the setting sun, and that there are no towns nor cities in it of enough consequence to disturb me. Let me live where I will, on this side is the city, on that the wilderness, and ever I am leaving the city more and more, and withdrawing into the wilderness. I should not lay so much stress on this fact, if I did not believe that something like this is the prevailing tendency of my countrymen. I must walk toward Oregon, and not toward Europe. And that way the nation is moving, and I may say that mankind progress from east to west. Within a few years we have witnessed the phenomenon of a south-eastward migration, in the settlement of Australia; but this affects us as a retrograde movement, and, judging from the moral and physical character of the first generation of Australians,(1) has not yet proved a successful experiment. The eastern Tartars(2) think that there is nothing west beyond Thibet.(3) "The World ends there", say they, "beyond there is nothing but a shoreless sea." It is unmitigated East where they live.
[3] We go eastward to realize history, and study the works of art and literature, retracing the steps of the race, — we go westward as into the future, with a spirit of enterprise and adventure. The Atlantic is a Lethean stream, in our passage over which we have had an opportunity to forget the old world and its institutions. If we do not succeed this time, there is perhaps one more chance for the race left before it arrives on the banks of the Styx;(4) and that is in the Lethe (5) of the Pacific, which is three times as wide.
[4] I know not how significant it is, or how far it is an evidence of singularity, that an individual should thus consent in his pettiest walk, with the general movement of the race; but I know that something akin to the migratory instinct in birds and quadrupeds, — which, in some instances, is known to have affected the squirrel tribe, impelling them to a general and mysterious movement, in which they were seen, say some, crossing the broadest rivers, each on its particular chip, with its tail raised for a sail, and bridging narrower streams with their dead, — that something like thefuror which affects the domestic cattle in the spring, and which is referred to a worm in their tails, — affects both nations and individuals, either perennially or from time to time. Not a flock of wild geese cackles over our town but it to some extent unsettles the value of real estate here, and if I were a broker I should probably take that disturbance into account. —
"Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken strange strondes."(6)
[5] Every sunset which I witness inspires me with the desire to go to a west as distant and as fair as that into which the Sun goes down. He appears to migrate westward daily and tempt us to follow him. He is the Great Western Pioneer whom the nations follow. We dream all night of those mountain ridges in the horizon, though they may be of vapor only, which were last gilded by his rays. The island of Atlantis,(7) and the islands and gardens of the Hesperides,(8) a sort of terrestrial paradise, appear to have been the Great West of the ancients, enveloped in mystery and poetry. Who has not seen in imagination, when looking into the sunset sky, the gardens of the Hesperides, and the foundation of all those fables?
[6] Columbus felt the westward tendency more strongly than any before. He obeyed it, and found a New World for Castile and Leon.(9) The herd of men in those days scented fresh pastures from afar. —
"And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new."(10)
[7] Where on the Globe can there be found an area of equal extent with that occupied by the bulk of our states, so fertile and so rich and varied in its productions, and at the same time so habitable by the European, as this is? Michaux (11) who knew but part of them, says that "the species of large trees are much more numerous in North America than in Europe: in the United States there are more than 140 species that exceed thirty feet in height; in France there are but thirty that attain this size." Later botanists more than confirm his observations. Humboldt (12) came to America to realize his youthful dreams of a tropical vegetation, and he beheld it in its greatest perfection in the primitive forests of the Amazon, the most gigantic wilderness on the earth, which he has so eloquently described. The geographer Guyot,(13) himself a European, goes farther — farther than I am ready to follow him, yet not when he says, "As the plant is made for the animal, as the vegetable world is made for the animal world, America is made for the man of the Old World."
[8] "The man of the Old World sets out upon his way. Leaving the highlands of Asia, he descends from station to station, towards Europe. Each of his steps is marked by a new civilization superior to the preceding, by a greater power of development. Arrived at the Atlantic, he pauses on the shore of this unknown Ocean, the bounds of which he knows not, and turns upon his foot prints for an instant." When he has exhausted the rich soil of Europe and reinvigorated himself — "Then recommences his adventurous career westward as in the earliest ages." — So far Guyot.
[9] From this western impulse coming in contact with the barrier of the Atlantic sprang the commerce and enterprise of modern times. The younger Michaux, in his "Travels West of the Alleghanies in 1802," says that the common inquiry in the newly settled West was — "'From what part of the world have you come?' As if these vast and fertile regions would naturally be the place of meeting and common country of all the inhabitants of the globe."
[10] To use an obsolete Latin word, I might say Ex oriente lux; ex occidente FRUX. From the East light; from the West fruit.
[11] Sir Francis Head, an English traveller, and a Governor-General of Canada, tells us that "in both the northern and southern hemispheres of the new world, Nature has not only outlined her works on a larger scale, but has painted the whole picture with brighter and more costly colors than she used in delineating and in beautifying the old world." "The heavens of America appear infinitely higher — the sky is bluer — the air is fresher — the cold is intenser — the moon looks larger — the stars are brighter — the thunder is louder — the lightning is vivider — the wind is stronger — the rain is heavier — the mountains are higher — the rivers larger — the forests bigger — the plains broader." This statement will do at least to set against Buffon's (14) account of this part of the world and its productions.
[12] Linnæus (15) said long ago Nescio quæ facies læta, glabra plantis Americanis. I know not what there is of joyous and smooth in the aspect of Amercian plants; and I think that in this country there are no, or at most, very few, Africanæ bestiæ, African beasts, as the Romans called them, and that in this respect also it is peculiarly fitted for the habitation of man. We are told that within three miles of the center of the East Indian city of Singapore some of the inhabitants are annually carried off by tigers; — but the traveller can lie down in the woods at night almost anywhere in North America without fear of wild beasts.
[13] These are encouraging testimonies. If the moon looks larger here than in Europe, probably the sun looks larger also. If the heavens of America appear infinitely higher, the stars brighter, I trust that these facts are symbolical of the height to which the philosophy and poetry and religion of her inhabitants may one day soar. At length perchance the immaterial heaven will appear as much higher to the American mind, and the intimations that star it as much brighter. For I believe that climate does thus react on man — as there is something in the mountain air that feeds the spirit and inspires. Will not man grow to greater perfection intellectually as well as physically under these influences? Or is it unimportant how many foggy days there are in his life? I trust that we shall be more imaginative; that our thoughts will be clearer, fresher and more ethereal, as our sky — our understanding more comprehensive and broader, like our plains — our intellect generally on a grander scale, like our thunder and lightning, our rivers and mountains and forests, — and our hearts shall even correspond in breadth and depth and grandeur to our inland seas. Perchance there will appear to the traveller something, he knows not what, of læta and glabra — of joyous and serene, in our very faces. Else, to what end does the world go on, and why was America discovered?
[14] To Americans I hardly need to say —
"Westward the star of empire takes its way."
As a true patriot I should be ashamed to think that Adam in paradise was more favorably situated on the whole than the backwoodsman in this country.
[15] Our sympathies in Massachusetts are not confined to New England, though we may be estranged from the south, we sympathize with the west. There is the home of the younger sons, as among the Scandinavians they took to the sea for their inheritance. It is too late to be studying Hebrew; it is more important to understand even the slang of to-day.
[16] Some months ago I went to see a panorama (16) of the Rhine. It was like a dream of the Middle Ages. I floated down its historic stream in something more than imagination, under bridges built by the Romans, and repaired by later heroes, past cities and castles whose very names were music to my ears, and each of which was the subject of a legend. There were Ehrenbreitstein and Rolandseck and Coblentz,(17) which I knew only in history. They were ruins that interested me chiefly. There seemed to come up from its waters and its vine — clad hills and valleys a hushed music as of crusaders departing for the Holy Land. I floated along under the spell of enchantment, as if I had been transported to a heroic age, and breathed an atmosphere of chivalry.
[17] Soon after I went to see a panorama of the Mississippi, and as I worked my way up the stream in the light of to-day, — and saw the steam-boats wooding up — counted the rising cities, gazed on the fresh ruins of Nauvoo — beheld the Indians moving west across the stream, and, as before I had looked up the Moselle, now looked up the Ohio and the Missouri, and heard the legends of Dubuque (18) and of Wenona's Cliff — still thinking more of the future than of the past or present — I saw that this was a Rhine stream of a different kind; that the foundations of castles were yet to be laid, and the famous bridges were yet to be thrown over the stream; and I felt thatthis was the Heroic Age itself though we know it not, for the hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men.
[18] The West of which I speak is but another name for the Wild; and what I have been preparing to say is, that in Wildness is the preservation of the world. Every tree sends its fibres forth in search of the Wild. The cities import it at any price. Men plow and sail for it. From the forest and wilderness come the tonics and barks which brace mankind. Our ancestors were savages. The story of Romulus and Remus (19) being suckled by a wolf is not a meaningless fable. The founders of every state which has risen to eminence, have drawn their nourishment and vigor from a similar wild source. It is because the children of the empire were not suckled by the wolf that they were conquered and displaced by the children of the northern forests who were.
[19] I believe in the forest, and in the meadow, and in the night in which the corn grows. We require an infusion of hemlock spruce or Arbor vitæ in our tea. There is a difference between eating and drinking for strength and from mere gluttony. The Hottentots (20) eagerly devour the marrow of the Koodoo and other antelopes raw, as a matter of course. Some of our northern Indians eat raw the marrow of the Arctic reindeer, as well as various other parts, including the summits of the antlers as long as they are soft. And herein perchance they have stolen a march on the cooks of Paris. They get what usually goes to feed the fire. This is probably better than stall-fed beef and slaughter-house pork to make a man of. Give me a Wildness whose glance no civilization can endure, — as if we lived on the marrow of koodoos devoured raw.
There are some intervals which border the strain of the wood-thrush, to which I would migrate — wild lands where no settler has squatted; to which, methinks, I am already acclimated.
[21] The African hunter Gordon-Cumming (21) tells us that the skin of the Eland, as well as that of most other antelopes just killed, emits the most delicious perfume of trees and grass. I would have every man so much a wild antelope, so much a part and parcel of Nature, that his very person should thus sweetly advertise our senses of his presence, and remind us of those parts of nature which he most haunts. I feel no disposition to be satirical when the trapper's coat emits the odor of musquash (22) even; it is a sweeter scent to me than that which commonly exhales from the merchant's or the scholar's garments. When I go into their wardrobes and handle their vestments, I am reminded of no grassy plains and flowery meads which they have frequented, but of dusty merchants' exchanges and libraries rather.
[22] A tanned skin is something more than respectable, and perhaps olive is a fitter color than white for a man — a denizen of the woods. "The pale white man!" I do not wonder that the African pitied him. Darwin (23) the naturalist says "A white man bathing by the side of a Tahitian was like a plant bleached by the gardener's art compared with a fine, dark green one growing vigorously in the open fields."
[23] Ben Jonson exclaims,(24) —
"How near to good is what is fair!"
So I would say —
How near to good is what is wild!
Life consists with Wildness. The most alive is the wildest. Not yet subdued to man, its presence refreshes him. One who pressed forward incessantly and never rested from his labors, who grew fast and made infinite demands on life, would always find himself in a new country or wilderness, and surrounded by the raw material of life. He would be climbing over the prostrate stems of primitive forest trees.
[24] Hope and the future for me are not in lawns and cultivated fields, not in towns and cities, but in the impervious and quaking swamps. When, formerly, I have analysed my partiality for some farm which I had contemplated purchasing, I have frequently found that I was attracted solely by a few square rods of impermeable and unfathomable bog — a natural sink in one corner of it. That was the jewel which dazzled me. I derive more of my subsistence from the swamps which surround my native town than from the cultivated gardens in the village. There are no richer parterres to my eyes than the dense beds of dwarf andromeda (Cassandra calyculata) which cover these tender places on the earth's surface. Botany cannot go further than tell me the names of the shrubs which grow there — the high-blueberry, panicled andromeda, — lamb-kill, azalea — and rhodora — all standing in the quaking sphagnum. I often think that I would like to have my house front on this mass of dull red bushes, omitting other flower plots and borders, transplanted spruce and trim box, even gravelled walks — to have this fertile spot under my windows, not a few imported barrow-fuls of soil only, to cover the sand which was thrown out in digging the cellar. Why not put my house — my parlor — behind this plot instead of behind that meagre assemblage of curiosities — that poor apology for a Nature and art, which I call my front yard? It is an effort to clear up and make a decent appearance when the carpenter and mason have departed, though done as much for the passer by as the dweller within. The most tasteful front-yard fence was never an agreeable object of study to me; the most elaborate ornaments, acorn tops, or what not, soon wearied and disgusted me. Bring your sills up to the very edge of the swamp then, (though it may not be the best place for a dry cellar,) so that there be no access on that side to citizens. Front-yards are not made to walk in, but, at most, through, and you could go in the back way.
[25] Yes; though you may think me perverse, if it were proposed to me to dwell in the neighborhood of the most beautiful garden that ever human art contrived, or else of a dismal swamp, I should certainly decide for the swamp. How vain then have been all your labors, citizens, for me!
[26] My spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness. Give me the Ocean, the desert, or the wilderness. In the desert a pure air and solitude compensate for want of moisture and fertility. The traveller Burton (25) says of it "Your morale improves: you become frank and cordial, hospitable and single-minded. . . . In the desert spirituous liquors excite only disgust. There is a keen enjoyment in a mere animal existence." They who have been travelling long on the steppes of Tartary, say "On reëntering cultivated lands, the agitation, perplexity and turmoil of civilization oppressed and suffocated us; the air seemed to fail us, and we felt every moment as if about to die of asphyxia." When I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable, and, to the citizen, most dismal swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place — a sanctum sanctorum. There is the strength — the marrow of Nature. The wild wood covers the virgin mould, — and the same soil is good for men and for trees. A man's health requires as many acres of meadow to his prospect as his farm does loads of muck. There are the strong meats on which he feeds. A town is saved, not more by the righteous men in it, than by the woods and swamps that surround it. A township where one primitive forest waves above, while another primitive forest rots below-such a town is fitted to raise not only corn and potatoes, but poets and philosophers for the coming ages. In such a soil grew Homer (26) and Confucius (27) and the rest, and out of such a wilderness comes the reformer eating locusts and wild honey.(28)
[27] To preserve wild animals, implies generally the creation of a forest for them to dwell in or resort to. So is it with man. A hundred years ago they sold bark in our streets peeled from our own woods. In the very aspect of those primitive and rugged trees, there was methinks a tanning principle which hardened and consolidated the fibres of men's thoughts. Ah! already I shudder for these comparatively degenerate days of my native village, when you cannot collect a load of bark of good thickness — and we no longer produce tar and turpentine.
[28] The civilized nations-Greece, Rome, England, are sustained by the primitive forests which anciently rotted where they stand. They survive as long as the soil is not exhausted. Alas for human culture! little is to be expected of a nation when the vegetable mould is exhausted, and it is compelled to make manure of the bones of its fathers. There the poet sustains himself merely by his own superfluous fat, and the philosopher comes down on to his marrow bones.
[29] It is said to be the task of the American, "to work the virgin soil," and that "Agriculture here already assumes proportions unknown everywhere else." I think that The farmer displaces the Indian even because he redeems the meadow, and so makes himself stronger and in some respects more natural. I was surveying for a man the other day a single straight line one hundred and thirty-two rods (29) long through a swamp, at whose entrance might have been written the words which Dante (30) read over the entrance to the Infernal regions — Leave all hope ye that enter-that is of ever getting out again; where at one time I saw my employer actually up to his neck and swimming for his life in his property, though it was still winter. He had another similar swamp which I could not survey at all because it was completely under water, and nevertheless, with regard to a third swamp which I did survey from a distance, he remarked to me, true to his instincts, that he would not part with it for any consideration, on account of the mud which it contained. And that man intends to put a girdling ditch round the whole in the course of forty months, and so redeem it by the magic of his spade. I refer to him only as the type of a class.
[30] The weapons with which we have gained our most important victories, which should be handed down as heirlooms from father to son, are not the sword and the lance, but the bush-whack — the turf-cutter, the spade, and the bog-hoe, rusted with the blood of many a meadow, and begrimed with the dust of many a hard-fought field. The very winds blew the Indian's corn-field into the meadow, and pointed out the way which he had not the skill to follow. He had no better implement with which to intrench himself in the land than a clam-shell. But the farmer is armed with plow and spade.
[31] In Literature, it is only the wild that attracts us. Dullness is but another name for tameness. It is the uncivilized free and wild thinking in Hamlet and the Iliad, in all the scriptures and mythologies, not learned in the Schools, that delights us. As the wild duck is more swift and beautiful than the tame, so is the wild-the mallard-thought, which, 'mid falling dews wings its way above the fens. A truly good book is something as natural, and as unexpectedly and unaccountably fair and perfect, as a wild flower discovered on the prairies of the west, or in the jungles of the east. Genius is a light which makes the darkness visible, like the lightning's flash, which perchance shatters the temple of knowledge itself-and not a taper lighted at the hearth-stone of the race which pales before the light of common day.
[32] English literature from the days of the minstrels to the Lake Poets-Chaucer and Spenser and Milton, and even Shakspeare included, breathes no quite fresh and in this sense wild strain. It is an essentially tame and civilized literature reflecting Greece and Rome. Her wilderness is a green-wood — her wild man a Robinhood. There is plenty of genial love of nature, but not so much of Nature herself. Her chronicles inform us when her wild animals, but not when the wild man in her, became extinct.
[33] The science of Humboldt is one thing, poetry is another thing. The poet to-day, notwithstanding all the discoveries of science, and the accumulated learning of mankind, enjoys no advantage over Homer.
[34] Where is the literature which gives expression to Nature? He would be a poet who could impress the winds and streams into his service, to speak for him; who nailed words to their primitive senses, as farmers drive down stakes in the spring which the frost has heaved; who derived his words as often as he used them — transplanted them to his page with earth adhering to their roots; — whose words were so true, and fresh, and natural that they would appear to expand like the buds at the approach of spring, though they lay half smothered between two musty leaves in a library, — aye, to bloom and bear fruit there after their kind annually for the faithful reader, in sympathy with surrounding Nature.
[35] I do not know of any poetry to quote which adequately expresses this yearning for the Wild. Approached from this side the best poetry is tame. I do not know where to find in any literature, ancient or modern, any account which contents me, of that Nature with which even I am acquainted. You will perceive that I demand something which no Augustan nor Elizabethan age — which no culture, in short, can give. Mythology comes nearer to it than anything. How much more fertile a nature at least has Grecian mythology its root in than English Literature! Mythology is the crop which the old world bore before its soil was exhausted, before the fancy and imagination were affected with blight; — and which it still bears wherever its pristine vigor is unabated. All other literatures endure only as the elms which overshadow our houses, but this is like the great Dragon tree of the Western isles, as old as mankind, and whether that does or not, will endure as long; for the decay of other literatures makes the soil in which it thrives.
[36] The West is preparing to add its fables to those of the east. The valleys of the Ganges, the Nile, and the Rhine, having yielded their crop, it remains to be seen what the valleys of the Amazon, the Plate, the Orinoco — the St. Lawrence and the Mississippi will produce. Perchance, when in the course of ages, American Liberty has become a fiction of the past, — as it is to some extent a fiction of the present, — the poets of the world will be inspired by American Mythology.
[37] The wildest dreams of wild men, even, are not the less true, though they may not recommend themselves to the sense which is most common among Englishmen and Americans to-day. It is not every truth that recommends itself to the common sense. Nature has a place for the wild clematis as well as for the cabbage. Some expressions of truth are reminiscent, — others merely sensible, as the phrase is — others prophetic. Some forms of disease even may prophesy forms of health. The geologist has discovered that the figures of serpents, griffins, flying dragons, and other fanciful embellishments of heraldry, have their prototypes in the forms of fossil species which were extinct before man was created, and hence "indicate a faint and shadowy knowledge of a previous state of organic existence." The Hindoos dreamed that the earth rested on an elephant, and the elephant on a tortoise, and the tortoise on a serpent; and though it may be an unimportant coincidence, it will not be out of place here to state, that a fossil tortoise has lately been discovered in Asia large enough to support an elephant. I confess that I am partial to these wild fancies, which transcend the order of time and development. They are the sublimest recreation of the intellect. The partridge loves peas, but not those that go with her into the pot.
[38] In short, all good things are wild and free. There is something in a strain of music, whether produced by an instrument or by the human voice — take the sound of a bugle in a summer night, for instance, — which by its wildness, to speak without satire, reminds me of the cries emitted by wild beasts in their native forests. It is so much of their wildness as I can understand. Give me for my friends and neighbors wild men, not tame ones. The wildness of the savage is but a faint symbol of the awful ferity with which good men and lovers meet.
[39] I love even to see the domestic animals reassert their native rights — any evidence that they have not wholly lost their original wild habits and vigor; as when my neighbor's cow breaks out of her pasture early in the Spring and boldly swims the river, a cold grey tide, twenty-five or thirty rods wide,(31) swollen by the melted snow. It is the Buffalo crossing the Mississippi. This exploit confers some dignity on the herd in my eyes — already dignified. The seeds of instinct are preserved under the thick hides of cattle and horses, like seeds in the bowels of the earth, an indefinite period.
[40] Any sportiveness in cattle is unexpected. I saw one day a herd of a dozen bullocks and cows running about and frisking in unwieldly sport, like huge rats, even like kittens. They shook their heads, raised their tails, and rushed up and down a hill, and I perceived by their horns, as well as by their activity, their relation to the deer tribe. But, alas! a sudden loud whoa! would have damped their ardor at once, reduced them from venison to beef, and stiffened their sides and sinews like the locomotive. Who but the Evil One has cried "Whoa!" to mankind? Indeed, the life of cattle, like that of many men, is but a sort of locomotiveness, they move a side at a time, and Man by his machinery is meeting the horse and ox half way. Whatever part the whip has touched is thenceforth palsied. Who would ever think of a side of any of the supple cat tribe, as we speak of a side of beef?
[41] I rejoice that horses and steers have to be broken before they can be made the slaves of men, and that men themselves have some wild oats still left to sow before they become submissive members of society. Undoubtedly, all men are not equally fit subjects for civilization, and because the majority, like dogs and sheep are tame by inherited dispositon, is no reason why the others should have their natures broken that they may be reduced to the same level. Men are in the main alike, but they were made several in order that they might be various. If a low use is to be served, one man will do nearly or quite as well as another; if a high one, individual excellence is to be regarded. Any man can stop a hole to keep the wind away, but no other man could serve so rare a use as the author of this illustration did. Confucius says "The skins of the tiger and the leopard when they are tanned, are as the skins of the dog and the sheep tanned." But it is not the part of a true culture to tame tigers, any more than it is to make sheep ferocious, and tanning their skins for shoes is not the best use to which they can be put.
Notes1. early Australians included English & Irish felons deported as punishment - back
2. descendents of those led by Ghengis Khan in the Middle Ages, now in parts of eastern Europe and western Asia, to the west of Tibet - back
3. a variation of Tibet - back
4. in Greek mythology, chief river of the lower world - back
5. river in Hades whose water caused amnesia in those who drank it - back
6. from Chaucer's "The Prologue to Canterbury Tales." - back
7. mythical island city in the Atlantic Ocean, west of Gibraltar - back
8. in classical mythology, nymphs who protected a garden with golden apples - back
9. Columbus sailed for Isabella, Queen of Castile and Leon - back
10. from Lycidas by English poet John Milton (1608-1674) - back
11. Andre Michaux (1747-1802) French botanist, explored eastern U.S. - back
12. Alexander von Humboldt (1769-1859) German naturalist, explored and described South and Central America from 1799 to 1804 - back
13. Arnold Henry Guyot (1807-1884) Swiss geographer - back
14. Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon (1707-1788) French naturalist - back
15. Carolus Linnaeus (1707-1778) created system for naming and classifying organisms - back
16. pictorial representation shown in progressive segments - back
17. attractions along the Rhine River - back
18. city on the Mississippi River in eastern Iowa - back
19. in Roman legend, sons of Mars, suckled by a wolf; Romulus founded Rome - back
20. people of southern Africa, in HDT's time the term implied savage & wild - back
21. Roualeyn Gordon-Cumming (1820-1866) English author, wrote about African hunting - back
22. muskrat - back
23. Charles Darwin (1809-1882), developed theory of evolution. Thoreau was very interested in Darwin's work - back
24. Ben Jonson (1573?-1637) English dramatist - back
25. Legendary Greek poet, 8th or 7th century BC, traditionally the author of the Iliad and theOdyssey. It's not known if Homer was single a historical individual. - back
26. Conficius (1551-1479 B.C.) Chinese philosopher - back
27. Sir Richard Francis Burton (1821-1890) English explorer, soldier, writer, ethnologist, linguist, and diplomat, known for his travels in Asia and Africa - back
28. St. John the Baptist, as described in Matthew 3:3-4 - back
29. a rod is 16.5 feet, 132 rods is 2178 feet or .41 miles - back
30. Dante Alighieri (1265-1321) Italian poet, author of The Divine Comedy - back
Part 3 of 3
[1] When looking over a list of men’s names in a foreign language, as of military officers or of authors who have written on a particular subject, I am reminded once more that there is nothing in a name. The name Menschikoff, for instance, has nothing in it to my ears more human than a whisker, and it may belong to a rat. As the names of the Poles and Russians are to us, so are ours to them. It is as if they had been named by the child’s rigmarole — Iery-wiery ichery van, tittle-tol-tan. I see in my mind a herd of wild creatures swarming over the earth, and to each the herdsman has affixed some barbarous sound in his own dialect. The names of men are of course as cheap and meaningless as Bose and Tray, the names of dogs.
[2] Methinks it would be some advantage to philosophy if men were named merely in the gross as they are known. It would be necessary only to know the genus, and perhaps the race or variety, to know the individual. We are not prepared to believe that every private soldier in a Roman army had a name of his own — because we have not supposed that he had a character of his own. At present our only true names are nick-names. I knew a boy who from his peculiar energy was called "Buster" by his playmates, and this rightly supplanted his Christian name. Some travellers tell us that an Indian had no name given him at first, but earned it, and his name was his fame; and among some tribes he acquired a new name with every new exploit. It is pitiful when a man bears a name for convenience merely, who has earned neither name nor fame.
[3] I will not allow mere names to make distinctions for me, but still see men in herds for all them. A familiar name cannot make a man less strange to me. It may be given to a savage who retains in secret his own wild title earned in the woods. We have a wild savage in us, and a savage name is perchance somewhere recorded as ours. I see that my neighbor, who bears the familiar epithet William, or Edwin, takes it off with his jacket. It does not adhere to him when asleep or in anger, or aroused by any passion or inspiration. I seem to hear pronounced by some of his kin at such a time, his original wild name in some jaw-breaking or else melodious tongue.
[4] Here is this vast, savage, howling Mother of ours, Nature lying all around, with such beauty, and such affection for her children, as the leopard, — and yet we are so early weaned from her breast to society — to that culture which is exclusively an interaction of man on man, — a sort of breeding in and in, which produces at most a merely English nobility, a civilization destined to have a speedy limit.
[5] In society, in the best institutions of men it is easy to detect a certain precocity. When we should still be growing children, we are already little men. Give mea culture which imports much muck from the meadows, and deepens the soil, not that which trusts to heating manures, and improved implements and modes of culture only.
[6] Many a poor sore-eyed student that I have heard of, would grow faster both intellectually and physically, if, instead of sitting up so very late, he honestly slumbered a fool’s allowance.
[7] There may be an excess even of informing light. Niepce,(1) a Frenchman, discovered "actinism," that power in the sun’s rays which produces a chemical effect; that granite rocks, and stone structures, and statues of metal "are all alike destructively acted upon during the hours of sunshine, and but for provisions of nature no less wonderful, would soon perish under the delicate touch of the most subtile of the agencies of the universe." But he observed "that those bodies which underwent this change during the day-light possessed the power of restoring themselves to their original conditions during the hours of night, when this excitment was no longer influencing them." Hence it has been inferred that "The hours of darkness are as necessary to the inorganic creation, as we know night and sleep are to the organic kingdom." Not even does the moon shine every night, but gives place to darkness.
[7] There may be an excess even of informing light. Niepce,(1) a Frenchman, discovered "actinism," that power in the sun’s rays which produces a chemical effect; that granite rocks, and stone structures, and statues of metal "are all alike destructively acted upon during the hours of sunshine, and but for provisions of nature no less wonderful, would soon perish under the delicate touch of the most subtile of the agencies of the universe." But he observed "that those bodies which underwent this change during the day-light possessed the power of restoring themselves to their original conditions during the hours of night, when this excitment was no longer influencing them." Hence it has been inferred that "The hours of darkness are as necessary to the inorganic creation, as we know night and sleep are to the organic kingdom." Not even does the moon shine every night, but gives place to darkness.
[8] I would not have every man nor every part of a man cultivated, any more than I would have very acre of earth cultivated; part will be tillage, but the greater part will be meadow and forest, not only serving an immediate use, but preparing a mould against a distant future, by the annual decay of the vegetation which it supports.
[9] There are other letters for the child to learn than those which Cadmus (2) invented. The Spaniards have a good term to express this wild and dusky knowledge — Gramatica parda — tawny grammar — a kind of mother wit derived from that same leopard to which I have referred.
[10] We have heard of a Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.(3) It is said that Knowledge is power; and the like. Methinks there is equal need of a Society for the Diffusion of Useful Ignorance, what we will call Beautiful Knowledge, a knowledge useful in a higher sense; for what is most of our boasted so — called knowledge but a conceit that we know something, which robs us of the advantage of our actual ignorance? What we call knowledge is often our positive ignorance; ignorance our negative knowledge. By long years of patient industry and reading of the newspapers, — for what are the libraries of science but files of newspapers? — a man accumulates a myriad facts, lays them up in his memory, and then when in some spring of his life he saunters abroad into the great Fields of thought, he as it were goes to grass like a horse, and leaves all his harness behind in the stable. I would say to the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, sometimes — Go to grass. You have eaten hay long enough. The Spring has come with its green crop. The very cows are driven to their country pastures before the end of May; though I have heard of one unnatural farmer who kept his cow in the barn and fed her on hay all the year round. So, frequently the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge treats its cattle.
[9] There are other letters for the child to learn than those which Cadmus (2) invented. The Spaniards have a good term to express this wild and dusky knowledge — Gramatica parda — tawny grammar — a kind of mother wit derived from that same leopard to which I have referred.
[10] We have heard of a Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.(3) It is said that Knowledge is power; and the like. Methinks there is equal need of a Society for the Diffusion of Useful Ignorance, what we will call Beautiful Knowledge, a knowledge useful in a higher sense; for what is most of our boasted so — called knowledge but a conceit that we know something, which robs us of the advantage of our actual ignorance? What we call knowledge is often our positive ignorance; ignorance our negative knowledge. By long years of patient industry and reading of the newspapers, — for what are the libraries of science but files of newspapers? — a man accumulates a myriad facts, lays them up in his memory, and then when in some spring of his life he saunters abroad into the great Fields of thought, he as it were goes to grass like a horse, and leaves all his harness behind in the stable. I would say to the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, sometimes — Go to grass. You have eaten hay long enough. The Spring has come with its green crop. The very cows are driven to their country pastures before the end of May; though I have heard of one unnatural farmer who kept his cow in the barn and fed her on hay all the year round. So, frequently the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge treats its cattle.
[11] A man’s ignorance sometimes is not only useful, but beautiful, while his knowledge, so called, is oftentimes worse than useless beside being ugly. Which is the best man to deal with, he who knows nothing about a subject, and what is extremely rare, knows that he knows nothing, — or he who really knows something about it, but thinks that he knows all?
[12] My desire for knowledge is intermittent; but my desire to bathe my head in atmospheres unknown to my feet is perennial and constant. The highest that we can attain to is not Knowledge, but Sympathy with Intelligence. I do not know that this higher knowledge amounts to anything more definite than a novel and grand surprise on a sudden revelation of the insufficiency of all that we called Knowledge before — a discovery that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy. It is the lighting up of the mist by the sun. Man cannot know in any higher sense than this, any more than he can look serenely and with impunity in the face of the sun: [original text in Greek] "You will not perceive that as perceiving a particular thing," say the Chaldean Oracles.(4)
[13] There is something servile in the habit of seeking after a law which we may obey. We may study the laws of matter at and for our convenience, but a sucessful life knows no law. It is an unfortunate discovery certainly, that of a law which binds us where we did not know before that we were bound. Live free, Child of the Mist — and with respect to knowledge we are all children of the mist. The man who takes the liberty to live is superior to all the laws both of heaven and earth, by virtue of his relation to the Law-maker. "That is active duty," says the Vishnu Purana,(5)"which is not for our bondage; that is knowledge which is for our liberation; all other duty is good only unto weariness; all other knowledge, is only the cleverness of an artist."
[14] It is remarkable how few events or crises there are in our histories; how little exercised we have been in our minds; how few experiences we have had. I would fain be assured that I am growing apace and rankly, though my very growth disturb this dull equanimity, — though it be with struggle through long dark muggy nights or seasons of gloom. It would be well if all our lives were a divine tragedy even, instead of this trivial comedy or farce. Christ, Dante, Bunyan,(6) and others, appear to have been exercised in their minds more than we; — they were subjected to a kind of culture such as our district schools and colleges do not contemplate. Even Mahomet,(7) though Christians may scream at his name, had a good deal more to live for, aye and to die for than they have commonly.
[15] When, at rare intervals, some thought visits one, as perchance he is walking on a railroad, then indeed the cars go by without his hearing them. But soon, by some inexorable law our life goes by and the cars return. —
"Gentle breeze that wanderest unseen,
And bendest the thistles round Loira of storms
Traveller of the windy glens,
Why hast thou left my ear so soon?"
And bendest the thistles round Loira of storms
Traveller of the windy glens,
Why hast thou left my ear so soon?"
[16] While almost all men feel an attraction drawing them to Society, few are attracted strongly to Nature. In their relation to Nature men appear to me for the most part, notwithstanding their arts, lower than the animals. It is not often a beautiful relation, as in the case of the animals. How little appreciation of the beauty of the landscape there is among us! We have to be told that the Greeks called the world Kosmos [original text in Greek] Beauty — or Order, but we do not see clearly why they did so, and we esteem it at best only a curious philological fact.
[17] For my part, I feel, that with regard to Nature, I live a sort of border life, on the confines of a world, into which I make occasional and transient forays only, and my patriotism and allegiance to the state into whose territories I seem to retreat are those of a moss-trooper.(8) Unto a life which I call natural I would gladly follow even a will o’ the wisp through bogs and sloughs unimaginable, but no moon nor fire-fly has shown me the cause-way to it. Nature is a personality so vast and universal that we have never seen one of her features. The Walker in the familiar fields which stretch around my native town, sometimes finds himself in another land than is described in their owners’ deeds, As it were in some far away field on the confines of the actual Concord, where her jurisdiction ceases, and the idea which the word Concord suggests ceases to be suggested. These farms which I have myself surveyed, these bounds which I have set up appear dimly still as through a mist; but they have no chemistry to fix them; they fade from the surface of the glass; and the picture which the painter painted stands out dimly from beneath. The world with which we are commonly acquainted leaves no trace, and it will have no anniversary.
[17] For my part, I feel, that with regard to Nature, I live a sort of border life, on the confines of a world, into which I make occasional and transient forays only, and my patriotism and allegiance to the state into whose territories I seem to retreat are those of a moss-trooper.(8) Unto a life which I call natural I would gladly follow even a will o’ the wisp through bogs and sloughs unimaginable, but no moon nor fire-fly has shown me the cause-way to it. Nature is a personality so vast and universal that we have never seen one of her features. The Walker in the familiar fields which stretch around my native town, sometimes finds himself in another land than is described in their owners’ deeds, As it were in some far away field on the confines of the actual Concord, where her jurisdiction ceases, and the idea which the word Concord suggests ceases to be suggested. These farms which I have myself surveyed, these bounds which I have set up appear dimly still as through a mist; but they have no chemistry to fix them; they fade from the surface of the glass; and the picture which the painter painted stands out dimly from beneath. The world with which we are commonly acquainted leaves no trace, and it will have no anniversary.
[18] I took a walk on Spaulding’s Farm the other afternoon. I saw the setting sun lighting up the opposite side of a stately pine-wood. Its golden rays straggled into the aisles of the wood as into some noble hall. I was impressed as if some ancient and altogether admirable and shining family had seated there in that part of the land called Concord, unknown to me; to whom the Sun was servant; who had not gone into society in the village; who had not been called on. I saw their park, their pleasure ground, beyond through the wood, in Spaulding’s cranberry meadow. The pines furnished them with gables as they grew. Their house was not obvious to vision; the trees grew through it. I do not know whether I heard the sounds of a suppressed hilarity or not. They seemed to recline on the sunbeams. They have sons and daughters. They are quite well. The farmer’s cart path which leads directly through their hall does not in the least put them out, — as the muddy bottom of a pool is sometimes seen through the reflected skies. They never heard of Spaulding, and do not know that he is their neighbor, — notwithstanding that I heard him whistle as he drove his team through the house. Nothing can equal the serenity of their lives. Their coat of arms is simply a lichen. I saw it painted on the pines and oaks. Their attics were in the tops of the trees. They are of no politics. There was no noise of labor. I did not perceive that they were weaving or spinning.(9) Yet I did detect, when the wind lulled and hearing was done away, the finest imaginable sweet musical hum, — as of a distant hive in May, which perchance was the sound of their thinking. They had no idle thoughts, and no one without could see their work, for their industry was not as in knots and excrescences embayed.
[19] But I find it difficult to remember them. They fade irrevocably out of my mind even now that I speak and endeavor to recall them, and recollect myself. It is only after a long and serious effort to recollect my best thoughts that I become again aware of their cohabitancy. If it were not for such families as this I think I should move out of Concord.
[20] We are accustomed to say in New England that few and fewer pigeons visit us every year. Our forests furnish no mast for them. So, it would seem, few and fewer thoughts visit each growing man from year to year, for the grove in our minds is laid waste, — sold to feed unnecessary fires of ambition, or sent to mill, and there is scarcely a twig left for them to perch on. They no longer build nor breed with us. In some more genial season, perchance, a faint shadow flits across the landscape of the mind, cast by the wings of some thought in its vernal or autumnal migration, but looking up, we are unable to detect the substance of the thought itself. Our winged thoughts are turned to poultry. They no longer soar, and they attain only to a Shanghai and Cochin China(10)grandeur. Those gra-a-ate thoughts — those gra-a-ate men — you hear of.
[21] We hug the earth — how rarely we mount! Methinks we might elevate ourselves a little more. We might climb a tree at least. I found my account in climbing a tree once. It was a tall white pine on the top of a hill, and though I got well pitched I was well payed for it, for I discovered new mountains in the horizon which I had never seen before, — so much more of the earth and the heavens. I might have walked about the foot of the tree for three score years and ten, and yet I certainly should never have seen them. But, above all, I discovered around me, — it was near the end of June, on the ends of the topmost branches only, a few minute and delicate red cone-like blossoms, the fertile flower of the white pine looking heavenward. I carried straightway to the village the topmost spire, and showed it to stranger jurymen who walked the streets, — for it was court week — and to farmers and lumber dealers, and wood-choppers and hunters, and not one had ever seen the like before, but they wondered as at a star dropped down! Tell of ancient architects finishing their works on the tops of columns as perfectly as on the lower and more visible parts! Nature has from the first expanded the minute blossoms of the forest only toward the heavens, above men’s heads and unobserved by them. We see only the flowers that are under our feet in the meadows. The pines have developed their delicate blossoms on the highest twigs of the wood every summer for ages, as well over the heads of Nature’s red children, as of her white ones. Yet scarcely a farmer or hunter in the land has ever seen them.
[22] Above all, we cannot afford not to live in the present. He is blessed over all mortals who loses no moment of the passing life in remembering the past. Unless our philosophy hears the cock crow in every barn-yard within our horizon, it is belated. That sound commonly reminds us that we are growing rusty and antique in our employments and habits of thought. His philosophy comes down to a more recent time than ours. There is something suggested by it not in Plato (11) nor the New Testament. It is a newer testament — the Gospel according to this moment. He has not fallen astern; he has got up early, and kept up early, and to be where he is, is to be in season, in the foremost rank of time. It is an expression of the health and soundness of Nature, a brag for all the world — healthiness as of a spring burst forth — a new fountain of the Muses,(12) to celebrate this last instant of time. Where he lives no fugitive slave laws are passed. Who has not betrayed his master many times since last he heard that note?
[23] The merit of this bird’s strain is in its freedom from all plaintiveness. The singer can easily move us to tears or to laughter, but where is he who can excite in us a pure morning joy? When, in doleful dumps, breaking the awful stillness of our wooden side-walk on a Sunday — or perchance a watcher in the house of mourning — I hear a cockerel crow far or near, I think to myself there is one of us well at any rate, and with a sudden gush return to my senses.
[24] We had a remarkable sunset one day last November. I was walking in a meadow the source of a small brook, when the sun at last, just before setting, after a cold grey day, reached a clear stratum in the horizon, and the softest brightest morning sun-light fell on the dry grass and on the stems of the trees in the opposite horizon, and on the leaves of the shrub-oaks on the hill-side, while our shadows stretched long over the meadow eastward, as if we were the only motes in its beams. It was such a light as we could not have imagined a moment before, and the air also was so warm and serene that nothing was wanting to make a paradise of that meadow. When we reflected that this was not a solitary phenomenon, never to happen again, but that it would happen forever and ever an infinite number of evenings, and cheer and reassure the latest child that walked there, it was more glorious still.
[25] The sun sets on some retired meadow, where no house is visible, with all the glory and splendor that it lavishes on cities, and perchance, as it has never set before, — where there is but a solitary marsh hawk to have his wings guilded by it, or only a musquash looks out from his cabin, and there is some little black-veined brook in the midst of the marsh, just beginning to meander, winding slowly round a decaying stump. We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright — I thought I had never bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The west side of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of elysium,(13) and the sun on our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman, driving us home at evening.
[26] So we saunter toward the Holy Land; till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, so warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in Autumn.
1. Niepce, Joseph Nicéphore (1765–1833) French chemist, created the first photograph in 1827 - back
2. In Greek mythology, Cadmus introduced the alphabet to Greece - back
3. Organizations founded in London in 1826, and Boston in 1829. Both organizations were formed to publish works that could be used for self-education. - back
4. The Chaldæan Oracles, believed to have come from Chaldea (Babylon), are attributed the Persian prophet Zoroaster, ca. 600 B.C., also known as Zarathustra, who may have been more than one man - back
5. Indian Sanskrit scripture - back
6. John Bunyan (1628-1688) English author of The Pilgrim's Progress - back
7. Mohammed or Muhammed (570-632) Arab prophet who founded Islam - back
8. 17th century maurauders who hid in the bogs along the border of England and Scotland - back
9. "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin", Matthew 6-28 - back
10. Shanghai is in China, and Cochin China is the southern part of Vietnam. In Thoreau's time, the French took over southern Vietnam and Saigon in 1858, and three southern Vietnamese provinces in 1862. - back
11. Plato (427?-347 B.C.) Greek philosopher - back
12. in Greek mythology, goddesses who preside over the arts and sciences - back
13. in Greek mythology, home of the good after death - back
2. In Greek mythology, Cadmus introduced the alphabet to Greece - back
3. Organizations founded in London in 1826, and Boston in 1829. Both organizations were formed to publish works that could be used for self-education. - back
4. The Chaldæan Oracles, believed to have come from Chaldea (Babylon), are attributed the Persian prophet Zoroaster, ca. 600 B.C., also known as Zarathustra, who may have been more than one man - back
5. Indian Sanskrit scripture - back
6. John Bunyan (1628-1688) English author of The Pilgrim's Progress - back
7. Mohammed or Muhammed (570-632) Arab prophet who founded Islam - back
8. 17th century maurauders who hid in the bogs along the border of England and Scotland - back
9. "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin", Matthew 6-28 - back
10. Shanghai is in China, and Cochin China is the southern part of Vietnam. In Thoreau's time, the French took over southern Vietnam and Saigon in 1858, and three southern Vietnamese provinces in 1862. - back
11. Plato (427?-347 B.C.) Greek philosopher - back
12. in Greek mythology, goddesses who preside over the arts and sciences - back
13. in Greek mythology, home of the good after death - back
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