One of the curious patterns in history is the change in metaphors people use to describe and explain mental operations, i.e. thinking. It’s tricky because metaphors are always an implicit "this" is like "that" in a way that may help or hinder true understanding.
Nobody knows what the first metaphors for mind were, but it seems likely the forces of nature are near the top. Remnants of the ancient conceptions of the four elements linger in the language in phrases such as "fiery nature", "a phlegmatic air" and "an earthy sort". Weather is another likely source, particularly for the emotions. And the unearthly concept of spirit, whether as overt ectoplasm or submerged in metaphor, is undoubtedly in the mix as well.
Nineteenth century thinkers, influenced most likely by the geologist Charles Lyell who made the first definitive steps toward establishing the age of the planet in his book Principles of Geology, had a penchant for conceiving mental processes in terms of layers of different materials -- ego, superego, with somewhere underneath a fiery molten core of an id.
By the early twentieth century the telephone switching office was in vogue. People spoke of "gigantic looms of connections," imagining racks of telephone relays clacking away making and breaking circuits.
Later in the twentieth century, the metaphor began to shift to "thinking machines" and, as the personal computer proliferated, shifted to software. In his novel Accelerando, Charles Stross makes the explicit equation: "The soul is software."
What will the next mind metaphor be?
We are at a moment in history when the precise relationship between mind and body is still unresolved. When some brilliant synthesist assembles a functional general theory of cognition, explaining the genetics of memory, the networks of perception and mysteries of dreams, the dominant metaphor will again no doubt change. By then the range of objects to metaphor will have grown and so the new metaphor seems doubly unpredictable.
[Looming behind this progression is the possibility of artificial intelligence, which may or may not be similar and which we may or may not understand.]
It might be useful to consider the mind as portrayed in the earliest human writings for which we have reliable translations, Homer’s Iliad. Julian Jaynes [in his book The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind] considers this question at length and comes to the remarkable conclusion that, "There is in general no consciousness in the Iliad...no words for consciousness or mental acts." Does this not seem amazing, incredible even? It gives one the uneasy sense of having intruded upon some great blind spot.
I would draw a parallel to the mention by Harold A. Innis who [in his book Empire and Communications] remarks that in the library of clay tablets collected by the Mitannian prince Nigmed around 1500 BC, "None of the literature was concerned with the experiences of individuals."
This strikes me as equally odd. Do you think you could write a book, let alone collect a whole library, nowadays without referencing "the experiences of individuals"?
Indeed if the original human experience of the gods was as exteriorizations of human thought as Jaynes suggests, it means there is something much more mysterious and magical in thinking than we imagine.
I am reminded of the observation by Marshal McLuhan [in his book Understanding Media] of how the meaning of the myth of Narcissus has changed over time. In our time, we are familiar with the idea of some self-involved person, in love with themself. The classic image is that of a youth gazing longingly at their reflection in the water. The surprising juxtaposition is that in the original sense, Narcissus did not recognize his reflection as himself.
How much of our experience is an unwitting reflection of ourselves as mind metaphor?
As we gradually wrap more and more of humanity in an electronic web, what new metaphors shall we generate to understand, explain and describe our exteriorized electronic mind?
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