|obverse Chapter 19·||Turning Signs (Contents)||References||SourceNet|
This webpage is the current version of rePatch ·19 (the reverse side of Chapter 1·) of Turning Signs, as of 11 August 2017. Each point is independent but some terms are hyperlinked to their definitions or to related contexts elsewhere. Tip: You can also search this page or the whole netbook or the gnoxic blog for any term.
We all need diversion to clean out the clutter of habits that cling to daily life. Or rather, we need ways to shuffle off the coil of distractions that cling to us. Entertainment is one way of turning ourselves over to new patterns, new messages. It can even improve our practice just by interrupting it. “The pause that refreshes” is a phenomenon detectable even down to the neuronal level (Austin 1998, Chapter 83). At the basic level, a pause of the right length in any routine or procedure will generally refresh the routine. (This is one of the uses of the useless.) But entertainment can also be used to “kill time,” or to drown out messages not wanted by the owners of the mainstream media. This has turned out to be a more effective means of ‘thought control’ than overt censorship (Herman and Chomsky 1988).
Another word for it is amusement, from the old French word amuser, meaning to cause someone to muser, ‘to stare stupidly’ (OED). The usual sense of the word in the 17th-18th century was ‘to divert the attention of anyone from the facts at issue; to beguile, delude, cheat, deceive … to divert in order to gain or waste time.’
As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.Thoreau's contemporary Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote in 1835 of the ‘peculiar weariness and depression of spirits which is felt after a day wasted in turning over a magazine or other light miscellany, different from the state of the mind after severe study; because there has been no excitement, no difficulties to be overcome, but the spirits have evaporated insensibly’ (American Notebooks, 11).— Thoreau, Walden
After a century and a half of technological development had vastly increased the addictive power of entertainment, Gregory Bateson took this observation a bit further:
… in art, as opposed to entertainment, it is always uphill in a certain sense, so the effort precedes the reward rather than the reward being spooned out. One of the things that is important in depression is not to get caught in the notion that entertainment will relieve it. It will, you know, briefly, but it will not banish it. As reassurance is the food of anxiety, so entertainment is the food of depression.Chögyam Trungpa said much the same about what he called ‘the art of the setting sun’:— Bateson and Bateson (1987, 132)
We have a lot of examples of setting-sun art. Some of them are based on the principle of entertainment. Since you feel so uncheerful and solemn, you try to create artificial humor, manufactured wit. But that tends to bring a tremendous sense of depression, actually. There might be a comic relief effect for a few seconds, but apart from that there is a constant black cloud, the black air of tormenting depression. As a consequence, if you are rich, you try to spend more money to cheer yourself up – but you find that the more you do, the less it helps. There is no respect for life in the setting-sun world.— Trungpa (1999, 29)
Life-respecting art, on the other hand (Trungpa's ‘art of the Great Eastern Sun’) furnishes us with experiences that renew and reshape the patterns of our perceptions and conceptions. So the question to ask of every recreational experience is: Does it make a difference? Is it transformative or addictive? We ask this of the experience of reading the artistic sign, which depends on the interbeing of reader, text and context – although we sometimes pretend that the text is responsible, as when we say This story is interesting or This story is boring. Any text, regardless of its origin, can become a turning sign if it is consecrated in the act of reading to the transformation and recreation of life. The spiritual life is the one which takes re-creation seriously, and takes the serious joyfully.
When you read pulp fiction, or pulp fact such as ‘the news,’ you expect it all to fit comfortably into the framework of your familiar description of the world – the usual disasters, crimes, conflicts, maneuvers, gestures on the public stage and other external events. In other words you don't expect it to call for deep attention or to transform your life; that is not what ‘entertainment’ is for. But something may reach you through these media nevertheless, precisely because you are uncritically and unintentionally open to it while you submit to being entertained. You never know where the next revelation may come from, and it may be all the more effective for coming when you least expect it. It's just a matter of shifting into deep reading mode when you hear the wake-up call.
For to perceive, the beholder must create his own experience. And his creation must include relations comparable to those which the original producer underwent. They are not the same in any literal sense. But with the perceiver, as with the artist, there must be an ordering of the elements of the whole that is in form, although not in details, the same as the process of organization the creator of the work consciously experienced. Without an act of recreation the object is not perceived as a work of art.Dewey contrasts this act of ‘recreation’ with the ‘recognition’ which dismisses the object perceived as something already known and not worthy of the more active attention it would take to learn something new about it. Regarding the work of art as a sign, its object is the ‘form’ in which the ‘elements of the whole’ are ordered. Its interpretant, as the recreation of the beholder, is another sign of that object, though it will differ in other respects from the creator's experience.— Dewey 1934, 56
All natural classification is then essentially, we may almost say, an attempt to find out the true genesis of the objects classified. But by genesis must be understood, not the efficient action which produces the whole by producing the parts, but the final action which produces the parts because they are needed to make the whole. Genesis is production from ideas. It may be difficult to understand how this is true in the biological world, though there is proof enough that it is so. But in regard to science it is a proposition easily enough intelligible. A science is defined by its problem; and its problem is clearly formulated on the basis of abstracter science.In biology, the genetic ‘idea’ is more recently called the genotype, and we now have a better understanding of its role in producing organisms classified by phenotype. But many biologists still do not see these as types in the Peircean sense, which here he calls ‘ideas’:— Peirce, CP 1.227 (1902)
All classification, whether artificial or natural, is the arrangement of objects according to ideas. A natural classification is the arrangement of them according to those ideas from which their existence results. No greater merit can a taxonomist have than that of having his eyes open to the ideas in nature; no more deplorable blindness can afflict him than that of not seeing that there are ideas in nature which determine the existence of objects.— Peirce, CP 1.231 (1902)
Manifold appearances and myriad forms, and all spoken words, each should be turned and returned to oneself and made to turn freely.— Pai Chang, cited in Blue Cliff Record Case 39 (Cleary and Cleary 1977, 241)
An obsolete meaning given in the Oxford English Dictionary: ‘Leisure for, or devoted to, some special purpose; hence, occupation, business.’ Vocation?
The English word was used in 1450 to translate the Latin phrase Dei vacationem: ‘Put the vacacion of god before all other thinges.’
Remembering is the re-presentation of past forms. Embodiment of forms is actual (present) practice. Imagination is the practice of future forms, the play of possibilities.
Authentic art expresses the truth of the time, while science aims at a final truth which can never be fully expressed.
… signs are alive and all selves, human and nonhuman, are semiotic. What a self is, in the most minimal sense, is a locus—however ephemeral—for sign interpretation. That is, it is a locus for the production of a novel sign (termed an “interpretant”) that also stands in continuity with those signs that have come before it. Selves, human or nonhuman, simple or complex, are waypoints in a semiotic process. They are outcomes of semiosis as well as the starting points for new sign interpretation whose outcome will be a future self. Selves don’t exist firmly in the present; they are “just coming into life in the flow of time” (Peirce, CP 5.421) by virtue of their dependence on future loci of interpretance—future semiotic selves—that will come to interpret them.All semiosis, then, creates future. This is something distinctive about self. Being a semiotic self—whether human or nonhuman—involves what Peirce calls “being in futuro” (CP 2.86). That is, in the realm of selves, as opposed to in the inanimate world, it is not just the past that comes to affect the present. The future, as I discussed in this chapter’s introduction, as it is re-presented, also comes to affect the present (CP 1.325; see also CP 6.127 and 6.70), and this is central to what a self is. The future, and how it is brought into the present, is not reducible to the cause-and-effect dynamic by which the past affects the present. Signs, as “guesses,” re-present a future possible, and through this mediation they bring the future to bear on the present. The future’s influence on the present has its own kind of reality (see CP 8.330). And it is one that makes selves what they are as unique entities in the world.— Kohn 2013, 206-7
A practical attitude of mind concerns itself primarily with the living future, and pays no regard to the dead past or even the present except so far as it may indicate what the future will be. Thus, the pragmaticist is obliged to hold that whatever means anything means that something will happen (provided certain conditions are fulfilled), and to hold that the future alone has primary reality.— Peirce, CP 8.194 (c.1904)
No Evangelist has the slightest interest in writing a biography of Jesus. The Jesus about whom a biography can be written is dead and gone, and survives only as Antichrist. The Evangelists tell us not how Christ came, but how he comes: they are concerned not with a vanished past but with the imagination's ‘Eternal Now.’ The timid will protest that we are here in danger of dissolving the reality of Christianity into a vaporous allegory; Blake's answer is that the core of reality is mental and present, not physical and past. Past events do not necessarily dissolve in time, but their existence in the eternal present depends on imaginative recreation.— Northrop Frye (1947, 343)
A pretty wild play of the imagination is, it cannot be doubted, an inevitable and probably even a useful prelude to science proper.— Peirce, CP 1.235 (1902)
Blake: The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. Peirce:
Conservatism—in the sense of a dread of consequences—is altogether out of place in science—which has on the contrary always been forwarded by radicals and radicalism, in the sense of the eagerness to carry consequences to their extremes. Not the radicalism that is cocksure, however, but the radicalism that tries experiments.Gregory Bateson observed that for the members of a typical culture,CP 1.148 (c.1897)
Their ideas about nature, however fantastic, are supported by their social system; conversely, the social system is supported by their ideas of nature. It thus becomes very difficult for the people, so doubly guided, to change their view either of nature or of the social system. For the benefits of stability, they pay the price of rigidity, living, as all human beings must, in an enormously complex network of mutually supporting presuppositions. The converse of this statement is that change will require various sorts of relaxation or contradiction within the system of presuppositions.— Bateson (1979, 158-9)
Tolerance for creative minds as potentially prophetic, even without ready-made standards and certainly without any belief in their infallibility, seems to be a mark of the most mature societies. In the modern world, therefore, what corresponds to prophetic authority is the growth of what we called earlier a cultural pluralism, where, for example, a scientist or historian or artist may find that his subject has its own inner authority, that he makes discoveries within it that may conflict with social concern, and that he owes a loyalty to that authority even in the face of social opposition.On that last point, Peirce was more vociferous, especially when it comes to philosophical investigations:— Northrop Frye (1982, 128)
In philosophy, touching as it does upon matters which are, and ought to be, sacred to us, the investigator who does not stand aloof from all intent to make practical applications will not only obstruct the advance of the pure science, but, what is infinitely worse, he will endanger his own moral integrity and that of his readers.Once again creative tention keeps the meaning cycle turning.CP 1.619, RLT 107 (1898)
However, when the sacred text also takes on a more-than-human authority in the external guidance system – an authority beyond that of its human author – it takes on a role in the social hierarchy that removes its meaning from the sphere of human experience. This blocks the way of inquiry into its meaning, its truth and its guidance. What could have been a medium of dialogue becomes an instrument of domination when a priestly class take upon themselves the superhuman authority now hidden (they claim) behind the text – hidden to all but themselves, that is. This robs the rest of us of opportunities for self-control, as we are reduced to obedience instead: the Eternal Author becomes ‘a tyrant crowned,’ as Blake observed. This is the genesis of the ‘mystery religions’ against which Blake waged a lifelong struggle. It is also the cause of conflict between the Prophet and the Priest: the Prophet speaks from the human experience of Eternity, while the Priest speaks for a remote and inhuman God, ‘old Nobodaddy’ as Blake called him. Blake's inscription to Milton is appropriate here: ‘Would to God that all the Lords people were Prophets’ (Numbers 11:29).
Today we could read this practice as metaphorically affirming the semiotic nature of the universe. As Peirce put it, matter is ‘effete mind’ – a portion of original Minding which has fallen so far into habitual patterns that its original spontaneity is almost completely exhausted. Human conscious mentality, with its symbolic media and extensions enabling foresight, planning and conscious decision-making, is a specific refinement in concentrated form of more universal (larger-scale, slower, vaguer) mental processes such as evolution (Bateson 1979) or development (Salthe 1993). The cosmic mind impersonates itself in each of us, and we return the favor by personifying it as God, who is Author of the universe just as we author our own conceptions. The danger here is that we may wrap ourselves up in our own creations, be they conceptual or technological, and thus cut ourselves off from the more-than-human reality around us. The glories of the biosphere itself may come to seem a mere distraction, which we shut out with an artificial cocoon – an ‘Abominable Corruption’ of our nature, as Thomas Traherne put it (First Century, 31).
Leaving the cocoon is becoming homeless in the sense honored by religious traditions (especially Buddhism: see Snyder 1990, 103 ff.) – leaving behind the temptations and complications of social life, especially urban life, and thus becoming free to venture into the more-than-human world. ‘“Homeless” is here coming to mean “being at home in the whole universe”’ (Snyder 1990, 104).
Can such a metamorphosis take place at the higher scale of a human community itself? David Korten, in his 2006 book on The Great Turning, argues that it can, developing the same metaphor in more detail:
The caterpillar is a voracious consumer that devotes its life to gorging itself on nature’s bounty. When it has had its fill, it fastens itself to a convenient twig and encloses itself in a chrysalis. Once snug inside, crisis strikes as the structures of its cellular tissue begin to dissolve into an organic soup.One of the two sources Korten credits for this metaphor, Elisabet Sahtouris, speaks of ‘imaginal discs’ rather than ‘buds’ and credits the transformation story to Norie Huddle (Sahtouris 1999). She introduces the metaphor by pointing out the flaw in the notion of a ‘turning point’: ‘Many people wonder how long we have to turn things around. It is really not a question of some critical turning point, but of nurturing more viable systems even as the old ones decay.’ The critical point for you is always here in your current practice.Yet guided by some deep inner wisdom, a number of organizer cells begin to rush around gathering other cells to form imaginal buds, new and initially independent multicellular structures that begin to give form to the organs of a new creature. Correctly perceiving a threat to the old order, but misdiagnosing the source, the caterpillar’s still intact immune system attributes the threat to the imaginal buds and attacks them as alien intruders.The imaginal buds prevail by linking up with one another in a cooperative effort that brings forth a new being of great beauty, wondrous possibilities, and little identifiable resemblance to its progenitor. In its rebirth, the monarch butterfly lives lightly on the earth, serves the regeneration of life as a pollinator, and is capable of migrating for thousands of miles to experience life’s possibilities in ways the earthbound caterpillar could not imagine.— Korten (2006, 74-5)
I never understand anything until I have written about it.— Horace Walpole
Another kind of artist might say ‘I haven't really seen anything until I have drawn it.’ For writers, Annie Dillard offers a more detailed view of the process in The Writing Life (1989). Eugene Gendlin's focusing is a technique for dipping into the ‘implicit intricacy’ which is the creative source of understanding, as illustrated in Chapter 4 by the experience of writing a poem. From this point of view, Walpole's observation is that writing is a way of exploring the implicit intricacy by trying to make it explicit – even though simplexity (Chapter 11) guarantees that consciousness can never match the intricacy of the unconscious processes which it aims to explicate. The drawing is always simpler than its subject. Ray Jackendoff puts the point in linguistic terms:
Language use continually involves unconscious processes, both prior to and during conscious phases. So, although some unconscious processes (such as sensory processing) must precede awareness, not all do. In addition, unconscious representations if anything must be more highly articulated than those that appear in consciousness, not more ‘primitive’: compare the elaboration of unconscious linguistic structure with the degree of awareness one has of this structure.We use our knowledge of the language – or any semiotic system – without being conscious of that knowledge; and by using it, we become better acquainted with the intricacy of the objects of our signs, we understand them better, even though the symbols we generate do not contain that acquaintance. At best they can give us hints for consciously directing our attention.— Jackendoff (1994, 90)
When a man desires ardently to know the truth, his first effort will be to imagine what that truth can be. He cannot prosecute his pursuit long without finding that imagination unbridled is sure to carry him off the track. Yet nevertheless, it remains true that there is, after all, nothing but imagination that can ever supply him an inkling of the truth. He can stare stupidly at phenomena; but in the absence of imagination they will not connect themselves together in any rational way.— Peirce (CP 1.46, c. 1896)
Peirce in Chapter 19:
The work of the poet or novelist is not so utterly different from that of the scientific man. The artist introduces a fiction; but it is not an arbitrary one; it exhibits affinities to which the mind accords a certain approval in pronouncing them beautiful, which if it is not exactly the same as saying that the synthesis is true, is something of the same general kind.EP1:261
Northrop Frye (1947, 88):
No work of art claims to be more than one of an infinity of mental syntheses. It includes no solid body of impersonal truth; it suspends judgment on the inherent truth of all creeds and regards all explanatory and dogmatic systems as art-forms.Frye's ‘work of art’ appears to have its own point of view (which is not necessarily that of the artist or the reader). Since it is a symbol, we surmise that the life of a symbol endows it with a point of view. Frye's expression of that view is a scientific one, insofar as he is trying to tell the truth about art; and Peirce's assertion that the mind's ‘approval’ is the common factor in beauty and truth can be regarded as a work of art.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeA comment by Arthur Koestler:
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
Beauty is a function of truth, truth a function of beauty. They can be separated by analysis, but in the lived experience of the creative act—and of its re-creative echo in the beholder—they are inseparable as thought is inseparable from emotion.Say the purpose of consciousness is to reform habits. And what's the purpose of habits? To sustain viability. And what's the purpose of viability, i.e. of life? To actualize the possibility of purpose, of attention and intention, to inform the time. To take the meaning cycle for a spin.— Koestler (1964, 331)
How are ‘rest’ and ‘relaxation’ related to the creative side of ‘recreation’? Psychologically, through the sorting-out of experiential traces that goes on during sleep, the ‘incubation’ period which Koestler identified as a precondition for the ‘act of creation’ or discovery. The waking version is something like Peirce's musement.
Creative people have a gnose for unrealized but real possibilities. Or for unrecognized realities.
The moment a new word of Torah originates from the mouth of a human being, that word ascends and presents herself before the blessed Holy One, who lifts that word, kisses her, and adorns her with seventy crowns—engraved and inscribed. But an innovated word of wisdom …The term ‘innovation’ here is not meant to suggest fanciful or frivolous interpretations; rather, the true student of Torah will imitate the procedure of the blessed Holy One in creating the world: ‘He gazed upon her [Torah] once, twice, three and four times, then spoke, creating through her’ (Zohar 1.5a).
The word flies, ascending and descending, and is transformed into a heaven. So each and every word of wisdom is transformed into a heaven, existing enduringly in the presence of the Ancient of Days. He calls them new heavens, newly created heavens, hidden mysteries of supernal wisdom. As for all other innovated words of Torah, they stand before the blessed Holy One, then ascend and are transformed into earths of the living (Psalms 116:9). Then they descend, crowning themselves upon one earth, which is renewed and transformed into a new earth through that renewed word of Torah. Concerning this is written: As the new heavens and new earth that I am making endure before Me.… (Isaiah 66:22). The verse does not read I have made, but rather I am making, for he makes them continually out of those innovations and mysteries of Torah.— Zohar 1.4b-5a (Pritzker edition)
Die Welt ist alles, was der Fall ist. [The world is all that is the case.]— Wittgenstein (Tractatus 1)
Creation itself was the fall, a burst into the thorny beauty of the real.— Annie Dillard (1974, 209)
Original sin was committed by God. It is simply the act of creation.— theological axiom of Finnegans Wake, as summarized by Atherton (1959), 53
O foenix culprit! Ex nickylow malo comes mickelmassed bonum.— Finnegans Wake, 23
And why not let matters rest there? For this way of talking surely says everything we want to say, and everything that can be said. But we wish to say that it can also be put differently; and that is important.— Wittgenstein (1930, 84)
You are an ocean of knowledge hidden in a dew drop, a world concealed in [a few feet] of body.… So man is in form a branch of the world, but in attribute the world's foundation.… Whatever appears within him is His reflection, like the moon in a stream.… The Prophet said, ‘He who knows himself knows his Lord.’Or as Dogen put it, ‘all the myriad phenomena in the entire universe are nothing other than this one mind, with everything included and interconnected.’ Uchiyama Roshi comments that ‘I always translate this one mind as life … In Buddhism, mind nature (essence) is never understood as psychological mind. Mind nature is undivided life as a whole, the whole world in which we are living’ (Okumura and Leighton 1997, 182). Readers of the whole of Turning Signs will recognize that C.S. Peirce also used the term ‘mind’ (and ‘thought’ as well) in a similar non-psychological sense.— Rumi (Chittick 1983, 64-5)
The inscription on the bath-tub of King T'ang read, ‘If you can renovate yourself one day, then you can do so every day, and keep doing so day after day.’ In the ‘Announcement of K'ang,’ it is said, ‘Arouse people to become new.’ The Book of Odes says, ‘Although Chou is an ancient state, the mandate it has received from Heaven is new.’ Therefore, the superior man tries at all times to do his utmost [in renovating himself and others].(Chan 1963, 87)
Even the most conservative guidance systems require constant renewal; a wholly predictable life is hardly sustainable by human beings. This is the price we pay for being adaptive systems: in order to realize our nature, we require a constant infusion of new circumstances to which we can adapt, or else new ways of adapting (even though the old ways serve their purpose well enough). For us, it seems, a life submerged in routine amounts to death. Not every change is an improvement, but every improvement is first of all a change, motivated by dissatisfaction with the status quo. As Polanyi (1962, 18) puts it, ‘time and again men have become exasperated with the loose ends of current thought and have changed over to another system, heedless of similar deficiencies within that new system.’ N.O. Brown's last book, Apocalypse and/or Metamorphosis, begins with the following inscription:
And be not conformed to this world [be nonconformists]; but be ye transformed [metamorphose yourselves] by the renewing of your mind.— Brown's translation [with his glosses] of Romans 12.2
Just as recreation is creative, renovation is innovative. In their study of conceptual blending, Fauconnier and Turner (2002, 299) focus on the specifically human aspect of this: ‘in double-scope networks we see the new and fascinating phenomenon of innovation, which is unique to cognitively modern human beings.’ ‘Modern’ here applies to an evolutionary time scale, not to the scale on which we see human history, where centuries and even decades are distinct. But evolution is itself a story about the constant (though irregular) generation of new life forms. What then is so new about the ‘phenomemon of innovation’? Apparently Fauconnier and Turner are referring to deliberate innovation. Only ‘cognitively modern’ humans can consider possibilities before they are realized and tested for their viability, and can carry out the testing consciously, deliberately. Cognitive innovations are like the seeds of newly renovated habits, which have to be consciously selected and ‘cultivated’ in order to grow.
The Great Learning also prescribes that ‘From the Son of Heaven down to the common people, all must regard cultivation of the personal life as the root or foundation’ (Chan, 87) – presumably the ‘foundation’ of social life and good government. As Polanyi (1962) might have put it: all knowledge of any value to society is personal knowledge.
We shape our tools and thereafter our tools shape us.— Marshall McLuhan
Every time we introduce a new tool, it always leads to new and unexpected discoveries, because Nature's imagination is richer than ours.— Freeman Dyson, ‘The Scientist as Rebel’, in Cornwell (ed.), Nature's Imagination
The process of natural design, it seems, will routinely outrun the imaginings of human theorists.— Clark 1997, 97
After the initial basis of a rational life, with a civilized language, has been laid, all productive thought has proceeded either by the poetic insight of artists, or by the imaginative elaboration of schemes of thought capable of utilization as logical premises. In some measure or other, progress is always a transcendence of what is obvious.— Whitehead (1929, 9)
‘Productive thought’ then is bound to be imaginative. But it is an imaginative response to (or reading of) actual experience – not imaginary experience – that is most productive, in science, art and religion.
Our conceptual imagination, like its artistic counterpart, draws inspiration from contacts with experience. And like the works of imaginative art, the constructions of mathematics will tend therefore to disclose those hidden principles of the experienced world of which some scattered traces had first stimulated the imaginative process by which these constructions were conceived.— Polanyi (1962, 46)
… a fact or datum, by itself, is essentially meaningless; it is only the interpretation assigned to it that has significance. Thus, for example, one can literally see the rotation of the earth on any starry night; it has always been patently visible, but for millennia human beings did not know how to understand or interpret what they were seeing. Examples of such misinterpretation, which have retarded the development of science by centuries, can be multiplied without end in the history of science; in all these cases, it was the absence, not of data, but of imagination that created difficulty.Robert Rosen's point is clear: neither science nor understanding in general can proceed without the element of imagination, or interpretation. It is part of the loop (cycle, recursive process, hermeneutic circle, ..... ) which constitutes practice as opposed to undirected activity: perception guides imagination, imagination guides modeling, modelling guides expectation, expectation guides movement, movement guides perception, and the closure of the whole loop guides the bodymind on its way in the world.— Rosen (1991, 17)
Action can be guided by a much shorter circuit, such as a reflex arc, but we don't generally speak of such actions as guided, or even as acts. The attempt to reduce all mentality to ‘reflexes,’ and the behaviorist campaign to banish mind and consciousness from our models of ourselves, appear ludicrous to us now – yet it dominated psychology (at least in the US) through most of the 20th century (see Baars 2003).
But Rosen's comments (above) also invite some questions. In what sense can you ‘literally see the rotation of the earth’ on a starry night? What you can detect visually on a single night – if you are more patient than most people, and far enough from urban light pollution to see the stars at all – is that the whole field of stars revolves around a central point, which in the northern hemisphere is approximately Polaris, the North Star. You could infer from this that you are standing on a planet which is revolving – and then the apparent motion of the stars is visible as the rotation of the earth. If you make a different inference – like the one implied by the words sunrise and sunset, that the sun is moving around your standpoint – then what you ‘literally’ see at night is the turning of the stars, not the rotation of the earth. Even this turning is much too slow for human vision to track in ‘real time’; we have to call upon memory in order to ‘see’ the movement of the stars. Between literal and figurative, or between reading and interpretation, the line is often difficult to draw.
And what of the ‘difficulty’ which Rosen blames on the absence of imagination? Was the development of science really ‘retarded’ before science confirmed for us all that we stood upon a turning planet? Or is this like saying that the development of a human embryo is ‘retarded’ before the eyes are functional or the fingers articulated? Perhaps we cannot say; all we can do is live the time by our tacit models, and meanwhile carry them forward through constant renovation.
A road is made by people walking on it; things are so because they are called so.— Chuangtse 2 (Watson 1968, 40)
The chaotic background murmur and crackle of neurons firing, cells doing what they muddily must to stay alive, organizes itself into definite rhythmic patterns, and lo, forms emerge and begin to branch. Presence parts from itself and proliferates as the branches take names. But a metaphor reverses the process by unmaking a familiar distinction, revealing a richer and stranger relationship. By thus renewing our vision, metaphors ‘literally create new objects’ (Jaynes 1976, 50) – immediate objects. Naming is creation, metaphor recreation. “A road” is a metaphor: a road is made by people walking on it; things are so because they are called so.
Things derive their being and nature by mutual dependence and are nothing in themselves.
The cosmogonic cycle is presented with astonishing consistency in the sacred writings of all the continents, and it gives to the adventure of the hero a new and interesting turn; for now it appears that the perilous journey was a labor not of attainment but of reattainment, not discovery but rediscovery. The godly powers sought and dangerously won are revealed to have been within the heart of the hero all the time. He is ‘the king's son’ who has come to know who he is and therewith has entered into the exercise of his proper power—‘God's son,’ who has learned to know how much that title means. From this point of view the hero is symbolical of that divine creative and redemptive image which is hidden within us all, only waiting to be known and rendered into life.
The two—the hero and his ultimate god, the seeker and the found—are thus understood as the outside and inside of a single, self-mirrored mystery, which is identical with the mystery of the manifest world. The great deed of the supreme hero is to come to the knowledge of this unity in multiplicity and then to make it known.— Joseph Campbell (1949, 39-40)
The God who manifests Himself is the God who expresses himself. The God who has ‘called’ His powers to reveal themselves named them, and, it could be said, called Himself also by appropriate names. The process by which the power of emanation manifests itself from concealment into revelation is paralleled by the manifestation of divine speech from its inner essence in thought, through sound that as yet cannot be heard, into the articulation of speech.— Gershom Scholem (1974, 99)
Christopher Bamford, in his introduction to Corbin (1998, xxxviii), quotes Hamann:
We are all capable of being prophets. All the phenomena of nature are dreams, riddles, visions, which have their significance, their secret meaning. The book of nature and the book of history are nothing but ciphers, hidden signs, which need the same key as unlocks Holy Scripture, and this is the point of its inspiration. …Then he quotes Corbin's comment on this:
To speak is to translate … from angelic tongue into human tongue, that is to say, thoughts into words, things into names, images into signs …
We must understand this act of translation as the absolutely primal act, not as the decipherment of an already given and imposed text, but as the very apparition of things, their revelation by their being named … Here hermeneutical technique is sketched out, the communion of the literal sense and the internal sense in a single meaning: the prophetic sense.
This ‘primal act’ also appears to be the ‘turning inside-out’ of the world (liii). ‘The world is not simply given, but given to be transformed, to be led back and interiorized’ (Bamford, liv). This transformation is accomplished through intimacy with an ‘invisible Guide’ (lviii). Corbin discovered all this by ‘rememorating texts long forgotten as if they had been written for him alone’ (Bamford, lv) – turning words into scripture.
Bernard Baars uses the term imagery in reference to ‘internal’ images:
In this book we use the word ‘imagery’ very broadly, to mean all of those quasi-perceptual conscious experiences we can have in the absence of an external stimulus.These ‘experiences’ (we might call them ‘inner objects’) are ‘quasi-perceptual’ in that they typically resemble the objects of sense experience, but without the vivid quality which those objects have for us. (When they are as vivid as an external object would be, but we know by other means that there's no such object out there, we call them hallucinations or ‘visions.’) Some inner objects are imagined, some are remembered, some are ‘felt senses,’ some are logical possibilities. The ‘imagery’ representing these objects tends to be ‘quasi-perceptual’ due to the innate (or, if you prefer, developmental) bias of a brain which has evolved to guide a body through interactions with an environment external to it. We need the senses to deal with that world, so we can hardly help drawing upon them to shape or inform the experience of our inner being, or our interbeing, and the way we communicate such experience to others.— Baars (1997, 174)
When we use language to communicate, we do our best to choose terms whose reference is determined by prior consensus. The connection between a word like ‘door’ and a type of sense experience is made very early in language development and is confirmed so frequently in social interaction that it becomes automatic in every child's formative years. Consequently when we try to communicate experiences which cannot be pointed to (in the way we can point to an object in the visual field), we naturally draw upon the consensual language connected with our common grounding in sense experience. This motivates the way we direct attention, and therefore the way we frame and make sense of ‘inner’ experiences – including our ‘insights’ into the real relations between things. It takes imagination to develop a consensus on the form reality takes.
The true insight in regard to the imagination— an insight that Kant and Schiller glimpse, an insight that Peirce begins to develop, an insight that Tucker unpacks to an impressive degree— is that the imagination is to be associated with a cognitive process laden with feeling and meaning. It is a process that at once reflects an activity and a genuine receptivity. This active receptivity develops over time in order to bring about a harmonious relation between a particular organism and the world. The process of the imagination is one that cannot be described exhaustively or determinately. It is embodied and develops spontaneously but, at the same time, is constrained and guided by past developments. It is a process that provides an effective bridge or interface between an organism, its embodied history, and novel environmental conditions. It is a process that “handles” the new possibilities that the world affords.These points come to light in the details of Tucker’s account. Depending on environmental circumstances, the neural traffic flows predominantly in one of two directions. Tucker explains that when memory or habit dominates a situation, the activation pattern radiates from the limbic system toward the sensory modalities. When novel sensations occur, however, the activation patterns reverse, proceeding from the somatic-sensory shell toward the visceral core, where it acquires meaning and associations. This is a temporal process in which new environmental stimulation continually affects, adjusts, and renews the structured activation patterns that form the physiological basis of human habit and conceptualization. Tucker develops an interesting metaphor when he writes, “it is like the mind breathes. In then out— weaving a confluence of distributed representations, weaving visceral meaning with external reality.” This process of weaving generates new patterns by returning to the latent patterns in our neural architecture and re-turning these patterns in novel ways.— Kaag 2014, Kindle Locations 3268-3282; quote near the end is from p. 166 of Tucker, Mind from Body: Neural Structures of Experience (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007).
For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back …
And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge (Mitchell 1982, 91)
If we turn from the creation of a poem to the creation of the cosmos, turning the act of creation inside out (as it were), we get the concept of cosmic memory or karma. This is epitomized in Bhagavad-Gita 8.3, as translated by Gandhi (1926/2000, 136-7): ‘The Supreme, the Imperishable is Brahman. Its manifestation is adhyatma. The creative process whereby all beings are created is called karma.’ Gandhi's comment on this verse personalizes the process into an act: ‘Creating all beings and keeping them in existence is an act of renunciation and is known as karma.’ In the act of creation, Brahman renounces His Supremacy and Imperishability.
This seems to resonate with the Joycean idea that creation was the fall and the sin of the All-Father. Joyce would not have described creation as an act of renunciation, but Alan Watts (1966) comes close in his version of the Vedic story: the One Subject of experience disguises himself as myriad sentient beings, each of which forgets his identity with the cosmos and takes his individual role to be his real self. The object of this differentiation game is to remember the cosmic self – which cannot be truly remembered (experienced) unless it has been forgotten! So here too we have the One renouncing its omniscience in order to rediscover it. The equivalent in the Joycean myth is the felix culpa, ‘fortunate fall’ or ‘happy fault.’
I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of my covenant between me and the earth.… the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth.There can be no rainbow without the rain (as well as the sun), no covenant (and no Ark) without the Flood. The bow is the sign of creative tention (Chapter 3).— Genesis 9.13-15 (KJV)
As often in psychology, it is anomalous cases which give us the crucial clues to the laws behind familiar phenomena. Neurologist V.S. Ramachandran cites the case of a woman born with no arms, who nevertheless experienced arms all her life, often gesturing with them as she talked (Ramachandran and Blakeslee 1998) – just as amputees usually experience ‘phantom limbs,’ except that her physical limbs had never existed. Her arms were mythic: she could not show them to anyone, yet she could not deny their existence. Possibly the brain is ‘wired’ to complete the human body image internally even when parts are missing from the external body. And possibly these mythic images are not limited to the body image but extend to our model of the world beyond the body, including basic features of the Umwelt common to the species.
It is also likely that we ‘fill in’ our fragmentary knowledge of the world just as the visual system ‘fills in’ the blind spot, automatically and unconsciously. This ‘filling in’ process could be what is referred to as anima mundi or the ‘collective unconscious’ of Jung – though there is nothing supernatural or ‘paranormal’ about it, unless we are using an artificially mechanistic model of the ‘natural’ or the ‘normal.’ It's all part of our habitual sense-making process – which is eminently fallible, as abduction always is. Hirstein (2005, 175) remarks that confabulation and ‘filling in’ of memories may arise from this same process in the brain. It may also “run away” to produce what we call apophenia.
Ulanowicz observes that systems ‘can create too much structure and thereby become “brittle.” Thus, efficiency can become the road to senescence and catastrophe.’
So long as the magnitudes of perturbations remain within certain bounds, however, and occur on a more-or-less regular basis, ecosystems will develop. That is, their ascendencies tend to increase through the pruning of their less efficient, less cooperative elements. But when a system is confronted by a novel or extremely infrequent challenge, something that under normal circumstances had been a liability suddenly takes on a potential for strength-in-reserve. It is from the reservoir of sundry and unfit processes that comprise its overhead that the system draws to create an adaptive response to the new threat.At the psychological level, Arthur Koestler pointed out that ‘displacement of attention,’ which is often a factor in humour, can also be a factor in art and discovery, when the attention is displaced ‘from a dominant to a previously neglected aspect of the whole, showing it in a new light’ (Koestler 1964, 77). A similar role is played by the ‘slipnet’ in the computer models of human analogy-making devised by Douglas Hofstadter and associates (Chapter 11).This glimpse into the origins of creativity in the natural world highlights an often unappreciated facet of human creativity. We correctly assume that to be creative a person requires a given amount of the right mental ‘machinery’ or intellectual capacity – but it happens all too often that the brightest individuals are not that creative. Many (I am prone to argue all) acts of human creation involve mistakes, chance happenings, or misconceptions that occur at or prior to the moment of creativity.— Ulanowicz (1997, 92-93)
And God made the beasts of the earth according to their kinds and the cattle according to their kinds, and everything that creeps along the ground according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.Genesis 1:25
If the Creator could follow up an act of creation by observing ‘that it was good,’ then it must have been possible for it to be not good. (Who knows how many drafts of the universe God might have produced and rejected?)
The evolutionary process is no different: ‘speciation, like other creative work, involves a variety-generating process followed by a choosing mechanism’ (Odum 2007, 240).
And among His Signs is the creation of the heavens and the earth, and the living creatures that He has scattered through them: and He has power to gather them together when He wills.To ‘gather them together’ is to un-differentiate them, i.e. to uncreate them. On the other hand, the scattering is only through physical spacetime. In eternal meaning space, the myriad beings together now constitute the Living One, the buddha-nature, the Universe of Firstness. And since the world is inside out, each individual is a recreation of that singularity. ‘The entire universe suffers the pangs of a new creation in and through a person's existence’ (Kim 1975, 172, after Dogen).— Qur'án 42.29 (Yusuf Ali)
All the world's a stage, and we all play our parts – this is the presentation of self in everyday life (Goffman 1959). Children learn to do this by ‘implicitly modeling the larger social structure’ in their play (Donald 1991, 174). Science too is a special kind of performance learned by emulation of mentors (Polanyi 1962). Prophecy and martyrdom have performance elements (Lawson 1998). From Huizinga's Homo Ludens to Wittgenstein's ‘language games,’ we clarify the deep structures of cultural forms by abstracting performances from those concerns which insist on ‘taking them seriously’ – which means subordinating them to extraneous purposes – and playing with forms that really matter.
Life is a game whose purpose is to discover the rules, which rules are always changing and always undiscoverable. For purposes of recreation, renewal and discovery, we play games of which the objects and rules are well and explicitly defined. Within these self-imposed limits, consensus is not a distant or unattainable goal but a present, pragmatic reality. Even competitive games are unplayable unless the opponents collaborate on applying the rules and pursuing the object of the game. True, like any artistic endeavor, such games can be used for entertainment, or used for external ends like fame or gain. But a game in its purity encloses its purpose and object: it is useless as the universe. To play with perfect concentration is to realize the use of the useless (Chuang Tzu).
Taking scripture seriously, dedicating and consecrating yourself as Ideal Reader, means committing yourself to play with the terms of the text until they tell the whole truth in which your whole life and practice can play a part.
All that part of the understanding of the Sign which the Interpreting Mind has needed collateral observation for is outside the Interpretant. I do not mean by “collateral observation” acquaintance with the system of signs. What is so gathered is not COLLATERAL. It is on the contrary the prerequisite for getting any idea signified by the sign. But by collateral observation, I mean previous acquaintance with what the sign denotes. Thus if the Sign be the sentence “Hamlet was mad,” to understand what this means one must know that men are sometimes in that strange state; one must have seen madmen or read about them; and it will be all the better if one specifically knows (and need not be driven to presume) what Shakespeare's notion of insanity was. All that is collateral observation and is no part of the Interpretant. But to put together the different subjects as the sign represents them as related,—that is the main of the Interpretant-forming.EP2:493-4 (1909)
As a matter of fact, Shakespeare's Hamlet exists as a play as long as performances occur in theatres, recordings or memories, or copies of the text exist in print. It is also a fact that Hamlet is Prince of Denmark in the fictional universe of that play. Whether any of the events in that play took place in the past is irrelevant to those facts. Strictly speaking, a fiction can neither tell the truth nor lie about what actually happened in the past, because the historical universe is not the object of that sign. Yet a fiction can sometimes have a greater effect on the future of the real world than many a factual text; and that effect is due to the real power of symbols as legisigns to determine actual events as dynamic interpretants.
The same is true of scriptures, although those who read them as scriptures do not usually think of them as fictions. What kind of collateral observation does it take to acquaint us with what is denoted by an expression like “the Will of God,” or divine “judgment” as to what is right or wrong? We have collateral experience of ourselves willing and judging, and we know that our own intentions and judgments (including perceptual judgments) are constrained by the form of our embodiment. If those constraints do not apply to God, what collateral observation could acquaint us with what is denoted by an expression like “the Will of God”? The religious interpreter of such a Sign is indeed driven to presume what God's notions of good and bad are (or in a different religious context, what “enlightenment” is like for a buddha).
This kind of presumption, which is essentially what we call faith, can only be invested in an imaginative creation which is a symbol very like a metaphor. Its interpretant is the religious practice of the interpreter, formed by putting together ‘the different subjects as the sign represents them as related.’ (Or ‘the different objects,’ since Peirce remarks in the same place that ‘Subject and Object are the same thing except for trifling distinctions.’) These objects, together with their relations, often constitute ‘the environing universe’ (EP2:341) in which that practice is performed.
We know the meaning of the Sign only by its fruits in practice. These are determined, at least partially, by the interpreter's presumptions about the creator's intentions; but those presumptions, along with any collateral observations furnishing the believer's acquaintance with the Objects, are ‘outside the Interpretant.’ Our understanding of the Sign's meaning therefore depends, more crucially than usual, on our ‘acquaintance with the system of signs’ inside the Interpretant – which is, in practice, inseparable from the interpreter's guidance system. That too we know by its fruits, not by its presumptions – and certainly not by our own presumptions.
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