Where do you begin? Where do you end?

Human physiology and psychology is endlessly fascinating. We hold the notion that there’s a clean distinction between the mind and the body, when no such division seems to exist while at the same time we hold some fairly fuzzy notions about selfhood and how we think it’s tangled up with aspects of the body that aren’t really all that relevant.

There’s the mind, the brain and the body. The mind, it is believed, is something that the brain does. It might not be – it might be something else. Our best approximations at this stage can’t really prove that either way. We’re still working on that.

We’re not actually sure what intelligence or self-awareness are – not to the point where we can even recognize them if they’re presented to us. So, let’s leave most of those fuzzy bits behind and look at the two things you’re most familiar with.  Your own sense of self, and your own body.

Your brain is a part of your body. It’s more than a life-support arrangement. It’s more than a simple symbiosis. Your brain, even if it were provided with all the life-support it needs, is simply incomplete without the rest of the body. There are continuous biochemical and bioelectric cycles which rely on both parts to… well, cycle. I’m not just talking about the difference between living tissue and dead tissue. This is the difference between the things operating properly and not.

It’s a funny old relationship, these two segments of the body. You choose what to eat and drink, how its prepared, when it happens. You make decisions about what goes into your body. Your body in turn breaks that stuff down and reassembles it into chemicals that become neurotransmitters that both define and guide how your brain operates and communicates among its parts – how it makes its choices, how it weighs them up, how that whole mind thing happens … if it actually happens.

Brain, and body. A happy unity, not a thinking thing in the cockpit of a flesh-robot.

Or is it?

Think about yourself. Your sense of who you are. Your own self.

Time for a manicure. Does the trimming of your fingernails change who you are? How about your hair?

You skin your knee, or break a leg. Does that alter you as an individual? Change who you are?

Lose a finger. A hand. A foot. A leg. Both legs.

Have you become a different person? Or are you still yourself?

The colour of your skin changes. How about now?

Your ovaries/testes are removed, maybe your reproductive organs entirely. Did you stop being a man or a woman, or is the sense of that gender something that happens in your head. Does the gender and sexual orientation you have even have anything to do with that plumbing down there?

You’ve read about multiple amputees, people whose hair has fallen out, or suddenly grown out of control all over. People whose bodies have changed so much, yet they are still themselves. The only person who changed when their bodies did is you.

You reacted differently to the man in the eye-patch, as opposed to the one without. You looked away from the woman in the wheelchair, and eyed the one on her feet.

Take away as much of your body as is possible and still have it continue to work … and you are still you. Wear an eye-patch down the street, though, and everyone treats you differently. If anything about us changes from the diminishment of our bodies, it is that we grow stronger – and that we react in turn to the changed ways in which others react to us.

“Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt.”

Kafka had this one straight in The Metamorphosis. Gregor Samsa is changed, yes, and retains his sense of self. Kafka could, however, just have altered Samsa’s race or gender, rather than his species and still had analogous difficulties, but changing his species throws the allegory of Samsa into stark relief.

Ultimately, you have multiple identities. The person you appear to be to your husband is far different to the person that you appear to be to a friend or to your boss, and your own sense of self differs from all of these second- and third-party perceptions. Each identity is as valid as the others to its observers.

You’re a multiplicity of identities, a jewel that shows different facets from different angles, now beautiful and now ugly.

We do not, and cannot know our composite selves, as our own internal viewpoints are as limiting as those outside of ourselves. We don’t even know where we begin and end. Some might dream of taking one small piece and preserving it, immortalized in some other form forever. But that can only ever be the palest reflection of our composite existence.

Human physiology and psychology is endlessly fascinating. We hold the notion that there’s a clean distinction between the mind and the body, when no such division seems to exist while at the same time we hold some fairly fuzzy notions about selfhood and how we think it’s tangled up with aspects of the body that aren’t really all that relevant. There’s the mind, the brain and the body. The mind, it is believed, is something that the brain does. It might not be – it might be something else. Our best approximations at this stage can’t really prove that either way. We’re still working on that. We’re not actually sure what intelligence or self-awareness are – not to the point where we can even recognize them if they’re presented to us. So, let’s leave most of those fuzzy bits behind and look at the two things you’re most familiar with.  Your own sense of self, and your own body. Your brain is a part of your body. It’s more than a life-support arrangement. It’s more than a simple symbiosis. Your brain, even if it were provided with all the life-support it needs, is simply incomplete without the rest of the body. There are continuous biochemical and bioelectric cycles which rely on both parts to… well, cycle. I’m not just talking about the difference between living tissue and dead tissue. This is the difference between the things operating properly and not. It’s a funny old relationship, these two segments of the body. You choose what to eat and drink, how its prepared, when it happens. You make decisions about what goes into your body. Your body in turn breaks that stuff down and reassembles it into chemicals that become neurotransmitters that both define and guide how your brain operates and communicates among its parts – how it makes its choices, how it weighs them up, how that whole mind thing happens … if it actually happens. Brain, and body. A happy unity, not a thinking thing in the cockpit of a flesh-robot. Or is it? Think about yourself. Your sense of who you are. Your own self. Time for a manicure. Does the trimming of your fingernails change who you are? How about your hair? You skin your knee, or break a leg. Does that alter you as an individual? Change who you are? Lose a finger. A hand. A foot. A leg. Both legs. Have you become a different person? Or are you still yourself? The colour of your skin changes. How about now? Your ovaries/testes are removed, maybe your reproductive organs entirely. Did you stop being a man or a woman, or is the sense of that gender something that happens in your head. Does the gender and sexual orientation you have even have anything to do with that plumbing down there? You’ve read about multiple amputees, people whose hair has fallen out, or suddenly grown out of control all over. People whose bodies have changed so much, yet they are still themselves. The only person who changed when their bodies did is you. You reacted differently to the man in the eye-patch, as opposed to the one without. You looked away from the woman in the wheelchair, and eyed the one on her feet. Take away as much of your body as is possible and still have it continue to work … and you are still you. Wear an eye-patch down the street, though, and everyone treats you differently. If anything about us changes from the diminishment of our bodies, it is that we grow stronger – and that we react in turn to the changed ways in which others react to us. “Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt.” Kafka had this one straight in The Metamorphosis. Gregor Samsa is changed, yes, and retains his sense of self. Kafka could, however, just have altered Samsa’s race or gender, rather than his species and still had analogous difficulties, but changing his species throws the allegory of Samsa into stark relief. Ultimately, you have multiple identities. The person you appear to be to your husband is far different to the person that you appear to be to a friend or to your boss, and your own sense of self differs from all of these second- and third-party perceptions. Each identity is as valid as the others to its observers. You’re a multiplicity of identities, a jewel that shows different facets from different angles, now beautiful and now ugly. We do not, and cannot know our composite selves, as our own internal viewpoints are as limiting as those outside of ourselves. We don’t even know where we begin and end. Some might dream of taking one small piece and preserving it, immortalized in some other form forever. But that can only ever be the palest reflection of our composite existence.

This entry was posted on Monday, 24th August, 2009. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

Possibly related posts