The varying manifestations of the numinous mind are, I think, inextricably bound to some form of religious life, or at very least derived from religious origins. Noumena are objects of faith in that they represent a world in which one invests their faith, the other worlds in which all things divine, holy, sacred (and so forth) reside and through which religious life is orchestrated. People pray to other-worldly figures, behave according to sacred-profane taboos, adhere to superstitious principles which seem irrational and unfounded outside of the religious context—even today, the numinous mind is all-pervasive in its varying forms (walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, etc.).
Speculation as to the origins of the numinous mind, namely what it is, how it came about, what it meant for the human species, and so forth, will be briefly discussed and critically evaluated in this essay. Numinous figures such as the shaman and mystic will also be referenced in order to understand the impact their practices have had on the evolution of communities and human life. Altered states of consciousness, including psychotropic induction, ritual dancing and posture, will also be explored so as we can determine what these practices and their effects may have meant to primitive communities, and what they mean to humans today.
Before commencing the discussion, I think comprehending the nature of the numinous mind can be aided by the distinction which Kant makes between phenomena and noumena: the former opposes the latter, which derives from empirical experience, but manifests as “an emanation of the necessarily non-encounterable thing-in-itself” (Mulhall 1996, p. 25). Put more simply, the numinous is that which is behind empirical experience, which we cannot experience directly due to its nature, but which is inextricably linked to phenomena. This distinction is, I think, exemplified in the practices that are going to be discussed and explored here.
Oubre (1997, p. 111) defines the numinous mind as signaling “a collective projection of the unconscious, an emergent property of mind or consciousness as it achieves increasingly greater capacities for abstraction.” She goes on to note particular individuals who acted as culture-accelerating agents via their societal roles, assisting in the mind expansion of other members of the group (Oubre 1997, p. 111-12).
In its primitive origins, the numinous mind served as the seat of abstract thought, whereby the sacred could be reached and potentially have an effect upon the profane. Note Oubre’s use of the word “unconscious”: what is contacted by the numinous mind is not, she argues, a part of the conscious mind, but rather an “other world” in which spirits, demons, and other numinous forces, all of which are outside of direct human control, reside. In a way redolent of Jungian collective psychology, the taming of these forces could very well have corresponded to the quelling of individual or community conflict in primitive peoples; thus, in addressing and successfully neutralising these forces, the most efficiently organised religious societies could have benefited from their beliefs in very profound ways—namely, in providing them with social cohesion. This would accord with Durkheim’s contention that religion (and assumedly the numinous mind) cannot be an erroneous phenomenon; it has proved efficacious in integrating individuals into a community and thus, in a sense, must be “grounded in and express the real” (Durkheim 1995, p. 2). Despite a high level of contention, the beneficence of religion throughout the history of the human race can hardly be denied: it is the failure to consider the diverse and dynamic forms of religion that leads to a general censoring of “religion” in modern anti-religious groups. From a general failure to appreciate this diversity, an ignorant approach will necessarily follow.
The shaman (and proto-mystic) has “a longer history than do any other spiritual figures in the human lineage” (Oubre 1997, p. 112-13) and is found in the vast majority of primitive cultures, “from the Australian aborigines to the Jivaro Indians of central Ecuador and Peru to the Yakut tribes of Siberia”, the latter of which is where shamanism is known to have originated (McKenna & McKenna 1975, p. 9).
The figure of the shaman has been variously described as a visionary, capable of entering other-worldly realms of experience (Drury 1982, p. 2), as a “great master of ecstasy” (Eliade 1964, p. 4) and, intriguingly, even as harbouring symptoms comparable to those of the modern day schizophrenic (McKenna & McKenna 1975, p. 19). These varying takes on the shaman are but a few, and obviously overlap in describing the function of this spiritual leader. The fact that he has been compared to modern day schizophrenics is particularly notable, as it seems to have important implications regarding the status of the more “magical” numinous elements in modernity. What were once regarded as imperative spiritual practices, used for medicine, healing, hunting and many other communal needs, are now interpreted as the symptoms of mental illness. This type of temporal distinction could, I think, be applied to more than just this particular manifestation of the numinous—the same comparison could be made with the ritual use of hallucinogenics and as they were used in the nineteen-sixties, or the way that certain superstitions remain prominent among many non-religious people, despite their often having no rational grounds for believing in it.
Comparative analyses aside, clearly we have quite an important spiritual figure in the shaman, one who confers with forces that most cannot access directly and through which he gains wide-ranging knowledge which can be shared with or bestowed upon the community. This is a prime example of the numinous mind at work—perhaps the numinous mind in its most stripped down, undiffused form. What the shaman practices can be seen in its collective form in modern-day world religions, albeit in a far more diffused, less magic-based, and indirect way; there is contact with the sacred realm from the profane realm (often through a mediator in monotheistic traditions), which can be seen (if we consider Oubre’s mention of the projection of a collective “unconscious” above) as contact with the unknown parts of the self or community. This is, perhaps, where religion becomes so efficient in binding people together.
The collective numinous mind can be seen to have created as well as balanced the sacred-profane divide, utilising it as a source of communal nourishment – but has it done any more than just consolidate groups of people? Has the numinous mind, as Oubre suggests, contributed to “the biological evolution of the human brain” (Oubre 1997, p. 13)? This is, of course, not something that can be easily proved, if it all. However, like any evolutionary theory, I think its plausibility needs to be considered in light of any supporting evidence.
The relationship between the capabilities of consciousness and the biological bases of such capabilities is integral to this line of argument. Oubre (1997, p. 113) argues that in proto-humans, symbolic thought created an augmented intelligence, which required the refinement of the central nervous system, as well as encephalisation. The phenomena associated with numinous thought could thus have contributed to human biological evolution.
In any argument of this kind, we get stuck in a “what came first” cul-de-sac: did humans acquire symbolic thought through biological evolution, or was biological evolution a product of symbolic thought? For example, human speech is clearly advantageous for human communication and progress (and, it has been argued, literally shapes our experience of the world), but whether the physical capability to make guttural sounds, produce noises and eventually words, was developed first, or whether the physiology evolved in response to human efforts to articulate themselves aurally, seems incredibly difficult to determine (not researched for this article).
Another possible group of evolutionary contributors involved in Oubre’s evolution of the numinous mind are psychotropic drugs: an important facilitator, it has been argued, in bringing about the varying potentials of symbolic thought, which in turn could have contributed to numinous development. I do not think the role of these agents as catalysts can be overlooked, especially considering their prominent shamanic and ritualistic use. Anyone who has taken a drug of any kind – especially “mind-altering” or “consciousness-expanding” drugs (psychedelics/hallucinogenics) – has most likely experienced unpredictable thoughts, ideas and imaginings. These are elements which are, generally speaking, not reproducible in normal experience – they form new experiences of consciousness, reality, etc., the origins of which is debatable (much like dreams). Obviously, such experiences vary according to the substance taken and the subjectivity of the taker – this cannot be overemphasised.
Drury (1982, p. 10) observes the frequent usage of psychotropic drugs in shamanism, with naturally occurring psychedelics such as datura, peyote and psilocybin mushrooms being used to gain access to other realms. He goes on to note the interesting fact that common themes have emerged from various yage (ayahuasca) experiences in South America, namely: aerial flight, dizziness, visions of ornate cities and the experience of the soul flying into the participant.
The power of such drugs need not be described further; such experiences appear to be creatively limitless and vastly interpretable. This is a clear point of interest in the development of the numinous mind, particularly in evolutionary terms. Oubre (1997, p. 148) brings to light the fact that early humans ingested hallucinogens both as a religious practice as well as inadvertently, and argues that these “surrealistic and visually heightened experiences in turn would have enhanced their perceptual acuity, thereby rendering them especially susceptible to noetic or inner symbols” (Oubre 1997, p. 150). This is supported by Terence McKenna’s bold (but nonetheless considerable) “Stoned Ape” theory, whereby our primate ancestors gained access to the numen via the ingestion of psilocybin mushrooms (Oubre 1997, p. 149).
An important supporting observation to these ideas is the use of medicinal plants by both early humans and primates. Oubre (1997, p. 148) refers to the ingestion of datura by baboons in order to rid themselves of parasites. This tells us that hallucinogenic effects were most likely experienced not only by early humans, but also by pre-humans. This supports the correlation between numinous thought and biological evolution in that there are clear evocations of symbolic thought in the primitive shaman, which are arguably enhanced by the ingestion of psychedelics; if pre-humans also had these experiences, whatever symbolic thought they already possessed – even if it was barely existent – would be drastically affected by this expansion of consciousness. Evidence exists that suggests that some animals may even be drawn to altered states, such as birds flocking to consume intoxicating berries (Oubre 1997, p. 152); this, in turn, suggests that pre-humans could have been drawn to the transcendental experience and thus, one could reason that this experience must have had some evolutionary benefit. Representational imagery and symbolic thought inherent in hallucinations may have facilitated hominid understanding of the physical world and it could be argued that the propensity to achieve these experiences is innate (Oubre 1997, p. 153). The prominence of alcohol, cigarettes, caffeine, cocoa and other drugs in modernity is an obvious piece of supporting evidence for this argument, as well as the psychedelic explosion of the nineteen-sixties and the modern revival in ethno-botanical interest.
Other methods to achieve such altered states may have also played a role in neural evolution, such as meditation, chanting, drumming, dancing, prayer, contemplation, and so forth (Oubre 1997, p. 150) – all methods which are, interestingly, still prominent today (and legal, unlike many psychotropic drugs), but which are notably less efficient than psychotropics. We have here an array of perceptual alterations, each induced to achieve transcendence of regular consciousness and each still practiced in the modern era – some of which are still strongly related to religion in its varying forms. I think there is an undeniable link between the two and that, in some ways, religion and altered states are interchangeable in their functions. Each can be experienced as either escapism, or a retreat from the world and projection into a different, “better” world (note the many “world-rejecting” religions). Again, both can serve to bring people together, forming cohesive societies and communities. Perhaps most importantly, religion and transcendence, in its many forms, do not look like becoming extinct anytime soon, again bringing to mind Durkheim’s argument.
In the religious experience we have an abundance of symbolism and a strong link to a religion’s respective numinous/sacred worldview. The relevance that the evolution of the numinous mind has to religious thought is that without it, religion would simply not exist; its development allowed for symbolic paradigms which earlier on may have been quite primitive and “uncivilised”, but which grew into socially effective belief systems, capable of envisaging all-powerful beings and forces. I think there is a strong argument to suggest that psychotropic drugs, ritual dancing and chanting, and the practice of shamanism could have – and most likely did have – profound effects for the evolution of the species; defining these effects has been one of the challenges of this essay. The re-birth of mind-expansion and orgiastic/ecstatic states in the sixties seems to have been an attempt to reintroduce “spirituality” into an increasingly “godless” world, where the numinous connection to the unconscious had begun to fade. It could be argued that with the advent of globalisation, the immense technological advancements of the twenty-first century (global intercommunication, portable interconnectedness, etc.) and the debatable corruption of many main-stream, world religious groups, today’s world is that godless world, a world in which “we have stripped all things of their mystery and numinosity; (where) nothing is holy any longer” (Jung 1964, p. 84). However, the numinous mind seems to be persisting in its various forms, its function proving necessary even in today’s vastly superficial, increasingly westernised world.
Bibliography
Drury, N 1982, The Shaman and the Magician: Journeys between the worlds, Penguin Books Australia, Camberwell, VIC
Jung, CG 1964, Man and His Symbols, Dell Publishing, New York
McKenna, D & McKenna, T 1975, The Invisible Landscape: Mind, Hallucinogens and the I Ching, HarperCollins, New York
Mulhall, S 1996, Heidegger and Being and Time, Routledge, London and New York
Oubré, AY 1997, Instinct and Revelation: Reflections on the Origins of Numinous Perception, Gordon and Breach Publishers, Amsterdam
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sunday, November 14, 2010
American Psycho: A Bloody Satisfying Challenge...
"Life remained a blank canvas, a cliche, a soap opera. I felt lethal, on the verge of frenzy. My nightly bloodlust overflowed into my days and I had to leave the city. My mask of sanity was a victim of impending slippage..." (p. 268)
Penned by Bret Easton Elis in 1991, American Psycho is notorious for being highly confrontational in matters regarding, amongst other things, sex, sexism, sadism, materialism, necrophilia and mutilation. As alluring as the R18+ classification and shrink-wrapped packaging are, the reader must be warned that due to the obsessive-compulsive nature of its protagonist, combined with a first-person perspective, the book is riddled with arduous detail. Though this accentuates the "action" scenes and definitely has its purpose in the story, it can be tiring to work through. Again, the ambiguity of the story can prove frustrating, at times leaving the reader in the lurch regarding certain plot details (note, however, that this is very likely an intentional feature).
Regardless of these potential barriers, I think the novel pays off and touches on some important social, sexual and even political issues. The potential for interpretation is, I think, an admirable feature of the novel. In reading it, an open attitude towards the conventionally "perverse" behaviour depicted is necessary to grasp the underlying themes and rich subtext of American Psycho.
Briefly: the novel follows the life of Patrick Bateman, a Wall Street "yuppie" of the nineteen-nineties whose relatively-latent sadistic impulses and megalomaniacal tendencies grow more and more pervasive over a number of years, eventually reaching a crescendo of outrageous proportions. Amidst Bateman's failing attempts to suppress this aspect of his being, we are introduced to a world of immense superficiality and materialism, with the protagonist's extensive social group portrayed as, among other things, utterly misogynistic, ignorant, promiscuous, apathetic, sadistic, materialistic and, to use a contemporary derogatory term, "precious".
Though we are constantly questioning whether what is happening is real or whether it is part of Bateman's acute insanity, the superficiality of his immediate social group is accentuated in such a way that suggests satire, rather than delusion; the characters are, at times, comedic in how emphatically involved they are with themselves and their own egotistical and trivial matters. Bateman himself seems to be inextricably bound to this world, while at the same time cognizant and even abhorrent of its countless malignant features (which may be seen as a powerful contributor to his complex inner conflict).
The sheer immensity of Bateman's feelings of isolation, alongside his attitude toward seemingly impenetrable others, cannot, however, be overlooked: "This is true: the world is better off with some people gone. Our lives are not all interconnected. That theory is a crock. Some people truly do not need to be here" (p. 217). We see no sympathy in his dealings with those he murders; they exist in order to alleviate Patrick Bateman's bloodlust, to soothe something deeply psychological within him that proves, time and time again, to be utterly overpowering. Yet as clear as all this may seem, the question of whether Bateman is merely fantasising the entire time lingers throughout the book; there is unequivocal evidence, in fact, suggesting that none of the murders Bateman attributes to himself have actually occurred. This begs the question: if he is merely fantasising, what does this tell us about his condition, about the world he lives in and its effect on the individuals that dwell within it? It seems that a world in which Bateman's wealthy business associates have no qualms about teasingly holding bills over homeless people's heads, just out of their reach, is simply not enough for our protagonist, irrespective of whether his actions are fantastical or real. There is a further longing, a further expression of hate that bleeds out exponentially as the novel progresses.
Recalling that Bateman is an active agent in the world around him (exemplified, for example, by the intense jealousy he feels at having his new business card upstaged by associates, or his immense protectiveness of the music he enjoys), which he seems to despise, the question of whether he is indeed hating on himself, or more specifically his lack of self or identity, seems relatively plausible: "It's as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there is...no...key" (p. 253).
A notable leitmotif in the novel is the idea of mis-identification, or perhaps more specifically, interchange-ability of identity. Characters (most often, Bateman himself) are perpetually mis-identified; it is as though the likeness of the demographic, or class portrayed causes personalities to literally slide into one another. Bateman seems to feel utterly transparent to those around him, even at times evoking a strange, counterintuitive sympathy from the reader. He repeatedly tries to confide in those "closest" to him about his vicious alter-ego, even at times explicitly stating his murderous deeds; but due to their self-involvement, or lack of attention, they fail to "hear" him.
I think this is a pivotal aspect of Bateman: he cries out to the world around him, figuratively screams into the faces of those who are supposed to care, but no one hears; they are too involved in either themselves, their plans, concerns, etc. Whatever it is that stirs inside this man, be it the Id or simply raw sadism: the world does not hear his call; and in this sense, there is no Patrick Bateman - he is as generic as the next person.
At a point in the novel, he describes his reality as though it were "happening the way it occurs in movies"; he finds himself "visualising things falling somehow into the shape of events on a screen" (p. 254). Here, one cannot help but think of the omnipotence of the camera in film; the absolute freedom the director has to create a reality which is almost euphoric in its selectivity, choosing what is to be seen and creating an impossible consciousness, a god-like method of viewing the world, flashing from one thing to another, selecting what is wanted and excluding what is not. Bateman, as a figure seemingly with no identity, is constantly creating his reality, picking and choosing what is to happen, yet inevitably hindered by agents external to his sphere of control. By literally or figuratively bringing people under his inescapable hegemony, that is, through deforming, murdering, and sexually assaulting his victims (both living and dead, in all cases), he seems to be finding an outlet for what is essentially a lack of entire control, the latter being practically impossible, but notably possible through fantasy. This gives new meaning to Bateman's allusion to screen: the reality a film creates is never representative of what is realistically possible, but rather is dictated by the director's will - it is a fantastical perspective. What Bateman sees is similarly cut and pasted into existence, raising the question of Bateman's reality to the point of utter ambiguity.
To conclude, I will quickly compare my thoughts on the contrast between the novel and the film adaptation. For those who, like myself, saw the film version of Elis' novel first, I think it is necessary to note the contrast between the two formats. The novel is necessarily far denser than the film, causing the film to be (retrospectively) lacking in my opinion. Whereas in the novel we have endless chaos, leaving endless potential for speculation regarding the nature of the narrator's reality, the film attempts to enforce some sort of order (though admittedly not much) onto the sea of psychotic episodes, social situations, personal insights, etc., that make up Patrick Bateman's life.
In reading the book, I saw his reality as almost undoubtedly questionable and ambiguous; there was less urge to actually know whether what was happening was real or not, and more intrigue into the powerful ideas being expressed about human nature, materialism and so forth.
Necessarily, the film adaptation was forced to compress these ideas by selecting certain passages, particularly salient scenes, which would suit the screen and create an audience accessibility beyond that which the density of the novel provides in its raw form. Despite the setbacks this brings about, I think the film was extremely well directed and cast (Christian Bale depicts Pat Bateman's psychotic behaviour brilliantly). Overall, however, I do not think the film does justice to the complexity of the novel. Whether this is a necessary feature in any film adaptation of a novel is, however, completely up for debate, though I'm sure the nature of the story being told is a vital factor in determining how a given book is adapted.
Overall (generalisation): a book which the reader will have to work through, but which will also pay off. The themes are relevant to the modern age, which appears to be slipping further and further into materialism, and arguably individual isolation, egoism, etc. The notion of suppressed urges was prominent throughout the 20th century, and I do not think the 21st is any exception; the abusive, sado-masochistic aspects of modern pornography and sexuality in general seem to provide evidence for this, alongside the ever-increasing forms and incidences of violence emerging on both a local and global scale. The questions Elis raises, I think, will be relevant as long as civilisation it is generally defined remains the dominant realm of human life.
Easton Elis, B, American Psycho, Picador, 1991
Penned by Bret Easton Elis in 1991, American Psycho is notorious for being highly confrontational in matters regarding, amongst other things, sex, sexism, sadism, materialism, necrophilia and mutilation. As alluring as the R18+ classification and shrink-wrapped packaging are, the reader must be warned that due to the obsessive-compulsive nature of its protagonist, combined with a first-person perspective, the book is riddled with arduous detail. Though this accentuates the "action" scenes and definitely has its purpose in the story, it can be tiring to work through. Again, the ambiguity of the story can prove frustrating, at times leaving the reader in the lurch regarding certain plot details (note, however, that this is very likely an intentional feature).
Regardless of these potential barriers, I think the novel pays off and touches on some important social, sexual and even political issues. The potential for interpretation is, I think, an admirable feature of the novel. In reading it, an open attitude towards the conventionally "perverse" behaviour depicted is necessary to grasp the underlying themes and rich subtext of American Psycho.
Briefly: the novel follows the life of Patrick Bateman, a Wall Street "yuppie" of the nineteen-nineties whose relatively-latent sadistic impulses and megalomaniacal tendencies grow more and more pervasive over a number of years, eventually reaching a crescendo of outrageous proportions. Amidst Bateman's failing attempts to suppress this aspect of his being, we are introduced to a world of immense superficiality and materialism, with the protagonist's extensive social group portrayed as, among other things, utterly misogynistic, ignorant, promiscuous, apathetic, sadistic, materialistic and, to use a contemporary derogatory term, "precious".
Though we are constantly questioning whether what is happening is real or whether it is part of Bateman's acute insanity, the superficiality of his immediate social group is accentuated in such a way that suggests satire, rather than delusion; the characters are, at times, comedic in how emphatically involved they are with themselves and their own egotistical and trivial matters. Bateman himself seems to be inextricably bound to this world, while at the same time cognizant and even abhorrent of its countless malignant features (which may be seen as a powerful contributor to his complex inner conflict).
The sheer immensity of Bateman's feelings of isolation, alongside his attitude toward seemingly impenetrable others, cannot, however, be overlooked: "This is true: the world is better off with some people gone. Our lives are not all interconnected. That theory is a crock. Some people truly do not need to be here" (p. 217). We see no sympathy in his dealings with those he murders; they exist in order to alleviate Patrick Bateman's bloodlust, to soothe something deeply psychological within him that proves, time and time again, to be utterly overpowering. Yet as clear as all this may seem, the question of whether Bateman is merely fantasising the entire time lingers throughout the book; there is unequivocal evidence, in fact, suggesting that none of the murders Bateman attributes to himself have actually occurred. This begs the question: if he is merely fantasising, what does this tell us about his condition, about the world he lives in and its effect on the individuals that dwell within it? It seems that a world in which Bateman's wealthy business associates have no qualms about teasingly holding bills over homeless people's heads, just out of their reach, is simply not enough for our protagonist, irrespective of whether his actions are fantastical or real. There is a further longing, a further expression of hate that bleeds out exponentially as the novel progresses.
Recalling that Bateman is an active agent in the world around him (exemplified, for example, by the intense jealousy he feels at having his new business card upstaged by associates, or his immense protectiveness of the music he enjoys), which he seems to despise, the question of whether he is indeed hating on himself, or more specifically his lack of self or identity, seems relatively plausible: "It's as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there is...no...key" (p. 253).
A notable leitmotif in the novel is the idea of mis-identification, or perhaps more specifically, interchange-ability of identity. Characters (most often, Bateman himself) are perpetually mis-identified; it is as though the likeness of the demographic, or class portrayed causes personalities to literally slide into one another. Bateman seems to feel utterly transparent to those around him, even at times evoking a strange, counterintuitive sympathy from the reader. He repeatedly tries to confide in those "closest" to him about his vicious alter-ego, even at times explicitly stating his murderous deeds; but due to their self-involvement, or lack of attention, they fail to "hear" him.
I think this is a pivotal aspect of Bateman: he cries out to the world around him, figuratively screams into the faces of those who are supposed to care, but no one hears; they are too involved in either themselves, their plans, concerns, etc. Whatever it is that stirs inside this man, be it the Id or simply raw sadism: the world does not hear his call; and in this sense, there is no Patrick Bateman - he is as generic as the next person.
At a point in the novel, he describes his reality as though it were "happening the way it occurs in movies"; he finds himself "visualising things falling somehow into the shape of events on a screen" (p. 254). Here, one cannot help but think of the omnipotence of the camera in film; the absolute freedom the director has to create a reality which is almost euphoric in its selectivity, choosing what is to be seen and creating an impossible consciousness, a god-like method of viewing the world, flashing from one thing to another, selecting what is wanted and excluding what is not. Bateman, as a figure seemingly with no identity, is constantly creating his reality, picking and choosing what is to happen, yet inevitably hindered by agents external to his sphere of control. By literally or figuratively bringing people under his inescapable hegemony, that is, through deforming, murdering, and sexually assaulting his victims (both living and dead, in all cases), he seems to be finding an outlet for what is essentially a lack of entire control, the latter being practically impossible, but notably possible through fantasy. This gives new meaning to Bateman's allusion to screen: the reality a film creates is never representative of what is realistically possible, but rather is dictated by the director's will - it is a fantastical perspective. What Bateman sees is similarly cut and pasted into existence, raising the question of Bateman's reality to the point of utter ambiguity.
To conclude, I will quickly compare my thoughts on the contrast between the novel and the film adaptation. For those who, like myself, saw the film version of Elis' novel first, I think it is necessary to note the contrast between the two formats. The novel is necessarily far denser than the film, causing the film to be (retrospectively) lacking in my opinion. Whereas in the novel we have endless chaos, leaving endless potential for speculation regarding the nature of the narrator's reality, the film attempts to enforce some sort of order (though admittedly not much) onto the sea of psychotic episodes, social situations, personal insights, etc., that make up Patrick Bateman's life.
In reading the book, I saw his reality as almost undoubtedly questionable and ambiguous; there was less urge to actually know whether what was happening was real or not, and more intrigue into the powerful ideas being expressed about human nature, materialism and so forth.
Necessarily, the film adaptation was forced to compress these ideas by selecting certain passages, particularly salient scenes, which would suit the screen and create an audience accessibility beyond that which the density of the novel provides in its raw form. Despite the setbacks this brings about, I think the film was extremely well directed and cast (Christian Bale depicts Pat Bateman's psychotic behaviour brilliantly). Overall, however, I do not think the film does justice to the complexity of the novel. Whether this is a necessary feature in any film adaptation of a novel is, however, completely up for debate, though I'm sure the nature of the story being told is a vital factor in determining how a given book is adapted.
Overall (generalisation): a book which the reader will have to work through, but which will also pay off. The themes are relevant to the modern age, which appears to be slipping further and further into materialism, and arguably individual isolation, egoism, etc. The notion of suppressed urges was prominent throughout the 20th century, and I do not think the 21st is any exception; the abusive, sado-masochistic aspects of modern pornography and sexuality in general seem to provide evidence for this, alongside the ever-increasing forms and incidences of violence emerging on both a local and global scale. The questions Elis raises, I think, will be relevant as long as civilisation it is generally defined remains the dominant realm of human life.
Easton Elis, B, American Psycho, Picador, 1991
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Emerald Bun Newspaper, reporting...
DOG SAVES LIFE: CLOSE CALL FOR LUCKY NAN
Chris Emmerson
November 6, 2010
A seventy-five year old woman was lucky to escape certain death last week when she was allegedly set upon by an agitated flock of birds outside her Del Grandeur home.
Nancy Reich was making her way to the mailbox when the incident occurred, early last Monday morning. Luckily for Nancy, grandmother to fifteen children, the door to her home was left slightly ajar. It was this twist of fate that allowed Spoof, Nancy's courageous two-year-old fox terrier, to follow her into the soon-to-be war zone.
Nancy was attacked as she approached the mid-point between her front door and mailbox,, the birds allegedly "emerging from fiery pits in the ground nearby." Due to her severe lack of agility, Nancy was easy prey for these "beligerent, airborne helmsmen, sent from Satan's realm."
Witnesses say that at no point did anything suggest a supernatural presence and that the birds, who had nested in a nearby shrub, appeared relatively harmless. Nancy's frequent allusions to Satan and the satanic realm have caused neighbours to question her account, with claims emerging that Nancy is actually "mentally ill" and should be put "into an insane asylum." Evidence of this is yet to be substantiated, suggesting that the possibility of Nancy being specifically targeted by Satan is quite high.
Nancy rejects all alternative accounts, claiming that the birds were "on fire, but felt no pain; yes, they were sent from the devil himself, but were no match for my angel Spoof." Spoof, she says, barked relentlessly at the birds, not only allowing Nancy safe passage to the mailbox, but also scaring the avian predators away for the entire afternoon. However, Spoof did not get away unharmed, receiving several small but deep peck-wounds which Nancy refers to as "holy collateral".
Ironically, upon reaching the mailbox, Nancy found that there was in fact no mail. Sources later informed us that the postman hadn't even begun his rounds at the time Nancy was attacked, due to the extremely early hour at which Nancy had decided to check for the mail.
Spoof's wounds healed several days later, due to "divine intervention" according to Nancy. Common sense, however, tells us the wounds healed as part of a natural process, and that Spoof is a silly name for a dog.
Nancy Reich was making her way to the mailbox when the incident occurred, early last Monday morning. Luckily for Nancy, grandmother to fifteen children, the door to her home was left slightly ajar. It was this twist of fate that allowed Spoof, Nancy's courageous two-year-old fox terrier, to follow her into the soon-to-be war zone.
Nancy was attacked as she approached the mid-point between her front door and mailbox,, the birds allegedly "emerging from fiery pits in the ground nearby." Due to her severe lack of agility, Nancy was easy prey for these "beligerent, airborne helmsmen, sent from Satan's realm."
Witnesses say that at no point did anything suggest a supernatural presence and that the birds, who had nested in a nearby shrub, appeared relatively harmless. Nancy's frequent allusions to Satan and the satanic realm have caused neighbours to question her account, with claims emerging that Nancy is actually "mentally ill" and should be put "into an insane asylum." Evidence of this is yet to be substantiated, suggesting that the possibility of Nancy being specifically targeted by Satan is quite high.
Nancy rejects all alternative accounts, claiming that the birds were "on fire, but felt no pain; yes, they were sent from the devil himself, but were no match for my angel Spoof." Spoof, she says, barked relentlessly at the birds, not only allowing Nancy safe passage to the mailbox, but also scaring the avian predators away for the entire afternoon. However, Spoof did not get away unharmed, receiving several small but deep peck-wounds which Nancy refers to as "holy collateral".
Ironically, upon reaching the mailbox, Nancy found that there was in fact no mail. Sources later informed us that the postman hadn't even begun his rounds at the time Nancy was attacked, due to the extremely early hour at which Nancy had decided to check for the mail.
Spoof's wounds healed several days later, due to "divine intervention" according to Nancy. Common sense, however, tells us the wounds healed as part of a natural process, and that Spoof is a silly name for a dog.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Girls (a short dialogue)
Melanie, do you know where dad is?
No.
But how come you said dad would be back soon? Ages ago you said that, Melanie.
Dad’s gone, Peg; he’s not coming back. I just told you that so you would co-operate with me for once.
But I’m sore and dad used to help me when I was-
Where are you sore?
Here.
Are you pointing at your stomach, or at your chest, Peg?
In my chest, where I breathe.
What’s wrong? Why is it sore?
I can’t always breathe well, Melanie. It sometimes takes aaaaages to breathe properly and I start to breathe really quickly like this.
Ok, ok, you can stop now I know what you mean.
So can we make it stop?
I don’t know how, Peg.
What is it?
I don’t know.
I’m hungry.
I know, Peg. But we don’t have any food right now. I’ll go and get some in the-
But I’m reeeaaaally hungry, Melanie. It hurts in my stomach.
I thought you said it was your chest?
No, that only happens sometimes. It happens when I forget about things that are happening and start thinking about other things, like the time when-
Quiet, Peg. I’m really tired.
But you asked me about-
Yes, I know that. But I am really tired, so can you just go over to your bed and maybe sleep a while?
It isn’t a real bed. Don’t sigh, it’s not!
I know.
Can we get a real bed, maybe?
I don’t know, Peg.
Maybe we can find pieces of different beds and put them together. That’d be nice.
Peg, didn’t you hear what I said?
Oh, yeah. Sorry, Melanie. I’ll stop talking now. I know I talk a lot but it’s because I don’t get to- Oh, yeah. Sorry. Goodnight, Melanie.
Goodnight, Peg.
Hey Melanie?
Yes, Peg?
Do you dream much?
Yes.
What do you dream about?
I never remember. I just know I dream a lot. Do you?
Yes. I dream about dad. I wonder where he is.
So do I, Peg. Goodnight.
Dream about dad, or wonder where he is? –Oh, sorry Melanie. Goodnight, then. I love you. I’m sorry for talking so much.
It’s OK, Peg. I love you too.
No.
But how come you said dad would be back soon? Ages ago you said that, Melanie.
Dad’s gone, Peg; he’s not coming back. I just told you that so you would co-operate with me for once.
But I’m sore and dad used to help me when I was-
Where are you sore?
Here.
Are you pointing at your stomach, or at your chest, Peg?
In my chest, where I breathe.
What’s wrong? Why is it sore?
I can’t always breathe well, Melanie. It sometimes takes aaaaages to breathe properly and I start to breathe really quickly like this.
Ok, ok, you can stop now I know what you mean.
So can we make it stop?
I don’t know how, Peg.
What is it?
I don’t know.
I’m hungry.
I know, Peg. But we don’t have any food right now. I’ll go and get some in the-
But I’m reeeaaaally hungry, Melanie. It hurts in my stomach.
I thought you said it was your chest?
No, that only happens sometimes. It happens when I forget about things that are happening and start thinking about other things, like the time when-
Quiet, Peg. I’m really tired.
But you asked me about-
Yes, I know that. But I am really tired, so can you just go over to your bed and maybe sleep a while?
It isn’t a real bed. Don’t sigh, it’s not!
I know.
Can we get a real bed, maybe?
I don’t know, Peg.
Maybe we can find pieces of different beds and put them together. That’d be nice.
Peg, didn’t you hear what I said?
Oh, yeah. Sorry, Melanie. I’ll stop talking now. I know I talk a lot but it’s because I don’t get to- Oh, yeah. Sorry. Goodnight, Melanie.
Goodnight, Peg.
Hey Melanie?
Yes, Peg?
Do you dream much?
Yes.
What do you dream about?
I never remember. I just know I dream a lot. Do you?
Yes. I dream about dad. I wonder where he is.
So do I, Peg. Goodnight.
Dream about dad, or wonder where he is? –Oh, sorry Melanie. Goodnight, then. I love you. I’m sorry for talking so much.
It’s OK, Peg. I love you too.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
From the Inside, I feel the Rain
The class laugh while the teacher fumbles around, but I can’t laugh—in fact, I feel like crying because I can’t stand this type of humiliation, this loss of dignity; there aren’t even words to describe what it is that I feel at times like this, it’s just a kind of deep sorrow for someone else who isn’t aware of what’s happening around them; a kind of obliviousness I guess, that eats away at me even though I’m not the victim here—but is anyone the victim here?—I look around and see raw arrogance, like people have no sense of compassion for each other, they just want to humiliate people to satisfy some deep-seated need, somewhere within them, that sates their sadistic desires; the same feeling emerges when I here other people trying to express the inner devastation I’m feeling right now, who try to inform the world that this place is messy and cruel and that there’s a certain point in contemplative thought where the mind just goes numb and screams incessantly, through song, written words, spoken words, through screen and even action; it’s like the climax of absurdity, which one simply cannot fathom and thus their imagination takes over—but I am no artist, no creator of sorts; and thus I must sit here and watch a man become a victim to throngs of rapacious, ignorant, grinning vermin who have no respect for emotion whatever; who trot around every day as if it will last forever, fueling their superficial experience of life until the End of Days. But not me; no, I have to face it and try to explain it to myself and question myself as to whether what is happening and what it evokes are really valid, as if some sorceress may have veiled my world-stage in an act of fruitless, reckless deception; I have to get that tugging feeling in my stomach when I see people reproaching others unnecessarily, or making derogatory remarks because it gets them off somehow; this world, for me, is just tears waiting to flow down my cheeks, as if there are tiny trenches already there, awaiting the inevitable deluge—the river that flows all year round, and that only flows harder when I attempt to dam it.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Quite a Mutation: Humans and Symbolic Thought
In An Essay on Man, Ernst Cassirer proclaims that "instead of dealing with the things themselves man is in a sense constantly conversing with himself." This remark is in relation to human beings' identifying characteristics among other animals, namely the ability to reflect, the capacity to think before responding to external stimuli, rather than being limited to instantaneous, instinctive reactions, such as other animals are. Cassirer stresses the role of the human-symbol systems inherent in religion, art, myth, and so forth, also pointing out that humans have no choice in their condition as reflective, symbol-using beings; this, he remarks, could even prove to be a great disadvantage for the species.
The sense in which Cassirer talks of the distinction between humans and other animals regarding symbolic systems seems clear enough: animals, in a different sense, may be seen to have symbol systems, but they do not invest reflective thought into these systems, which makes me more inclined to call the animals' systems sign systems. Upon facing an external stimulus, an animal will react instinctively; there is no linguistic system whereby the animal will mentally consider it's options of, say, "escape", "fight", or "camouflage". These decisions will be made more or less straight away, as far as observance tells us. Humans, on the other hand, have such complex reflective processes that when faced with an external stimulus, they can be overwhelmed with options, indecision or apprehension. What is this creature attacking me? Why is it attacking me? In what way can I appease it/escape from it?
And so humans are in a "new dimension" of existence to animals. But why is this so? In the evolutionary paradigm, this seems an intereresting and challenging query. What function does our ability to invest complicated symbolic thought into our actions, our thoughts - indeed, our existence - have in a surivival sense? Questions relating to the importance of language and its relationship to human experience and reality arise in abundance from this enquiry. The development of consciousness and all that it entails seems to be a great flaw in the evolution of the species, when we think of humanity's destructive traits as compared to those of other animals. Countering this idea, the potential which symbolic thought has to create communal benefits has proven a great benefit to humans through religion, art, myth, and so on. But does this outweigh the concomitant destruction which humanity's ability to create symbols has brought with it? Without the ability to imaginatively create, to invest meaning into things via words, symbols, etc., human's would be unable to create the destructive forces we see around the world today. The question is an intriguing one, but overwhelming evidence suggests that the human animal is by far the most destructive, leaving a rather contentious hole in evolutionary theory.
And of course, the absurd nature of human existence is yet another byproduct of the development of a reflective mind. The "lower" creatures of the world, whom we say have no intelligence comparable to ours, do not have to face their inevitable end (death, as an existential notion) throughout the span of their lives; this is an endurance reserved for the human animal alone. In themselves, the decision-making processes of animals induce no obvious frustration, anxiety, or fear - this, again, is peculiar only to the human species (even when an animal is hunted, or in fear of being hurt, it presumably does not fear death itself, but rather the imminent danger of pain).
At what point in evolution was it beneficial to know one is going to die, or more importantly, to not know what death is or even, arguably, what life is? Symbolic institutions, in particular religion, function not only to bind the follower to a set of beliefs, but to explain his or her entire existence - and this applies generally to primitive and modern religion alike, as well as the more spiritual traditions. So here we see symbols functioning as explanations for thoughts humans may never have had without symbols; an interesting full circle: development of symbolic form leads to recognition of the absurdity of the human enigma of life, which in turn leads to institutionalised symbolism to explain the absurd (incomprehendable) nature of life. Surely, says the man of faith, only God could orchestrate such an impressive path to enlightenment. Without drawing any outlandish conclusions, nor inclining strictly to either side of a complex dichotomy (integration of thought is my general approach, rather than warring factions, but that is for another article...), I simply ask: what is the evolutionist's rebuttal?
To be sure, the topic is more complicated than my limited knowledge has made it appear; nonetheless, I hope that - despite its being a meagre abstract - the piece has aroused some thought.
Bibliography
Cassirer, E, A Clue to the Nature of Man: the Symbol in An Essay on Man, 1972
The sense in which Cassirer talks of the distinction between humans and other animals regarding symbolic systems seems clear enough: animals, in a different sense, may be seen to have symbol systems, but they do not invest reflective thought into these systems, which makes me more inclined to call the animals' systems sign systems. Upon facing an external stimulus, an animal will react instinctively; there is no linguistic system whereby the animal will mentally consider it's options of, say, "escape", "fight", or "camouflage". These decisions will be made more or less straight away, as far as observance tells us. Humans, on the other hand, have such complex reflective processes that when faced with an external stimulus, they can be overwhelmed with options, indecision or apprehension. What is this creature attacking me? Why is it attacking me? In what way can I appease it/escape from it?
And so humans are in a "new dimension" of existence to animals. But why is this so? In the evolutionary paradigm, this seems an intereresting and challenging query. What function does our ability to invest complicated symbolic thought into our actions, our thoughts - indeed, our existence - have in a surivival sense? Questions relating to the importance of language and its relationship to human experience and reality arise in abundance from this enquiry. The development of consciousness and all that it entails seems to be a great flaw in the evolution of the species, when we think of humanity's destructive traits as compared to those of other animals. Countering this idea, the potential which symbolic thought has to create communal benefits has proven a great benefit to humans through religion, art, myth, and so on. But does this outweigh the concomitant destruction which humanity's ability to create symbols has brought with it? Without the ability to imaginatively create, to invest meaning into things via words, symbols, etc., human's would be unable to create the destructive forces we see around the world today. The question is an intriguing one, but overwhelming evidence suggests that the human animal is by far the most destructive, leaving a rather contentious hole in evolutionary theory.
And of course, the absurd nature of human existence is yet another byproduct of the development of a reflective mind. The "lower" creatures of the world, whom we say have no intelligence comparable to ours, do not have to face their inevitable end (death, as an existential notion) throughout the span of their lives; this is an endurance reserved for the human animal alone. In themselves, the decision-making processes of animals induce no obvious frustration, anxiety, or fear - this, again, is peculiar only to the human species (even when an animal is hunted, or in fear of being hurt, it presumably does not fear death itself, but rather the imminent danger of pain).
At what point in evolution was it beneficial to know one is going to die, or more importantly, to not know what death is or even, arguably, what life is? Symbolic institutions, in particular religion, function not only to bind the follower to a set of beliefs, but to explain his or her entire existence - and this applies generally to primitive and modern religion alike, as well as the more spiritual traditions. So here we see symbols functioning as explanations for thoughts humans may never have had without symbols; an interesting full circle: development of symbolic form leads to recognition of the absurdity of the human enigma of life, which in turn leads to institutionalised symbolism to explain the absurd (incomprehendable) nature of life. Surely, says the man of faith, only God could orchestrate such an impressive path to enlightenment. Without drawing any outlandish conclusions, nor inclining strictly to either side of a complex dichotomy (integration of thought is my general approach, rather than warring factions, but that is for another article...), I simply ask: what is the evolutionist's rebuttal?
To be sure, the topic is more complicated than my limited knowledge has made it appear; nonetheless, I hope that - despite its being a meagre abstract - the piece has aroused some thought.
Bibliography
Cassirer, E, A Clue to the Nature of Man: the Symbol in An Essay on Man, 1972
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Solipsism
The Penguin Dictionary of Philosophy defines solipsism, in the ontological sense, as the view that nothing exists except one's own self and the contents of its consciousness. The word is also used epistimologically to describe the claim that nothing can be known but oneself and the contents of one's consciousness.
An obvious response to the notion of solipsism might be that others clearly exist, whether we can know them or not; or again, that because one can discern the observable universe, objects within it are necessarily real and existent. It is easy to assume that because we, as humans, can observe others with similar qualities to our own, that others exist; it is the quality of this knowledge, however, which can be brought into question.
As I sit here, watching this computer screen, light in the form of photons is hitting my eyes and travelling as neural impulses to my brain. My brain then interprets these signals and creates for me a picture of my ever changing reality. The essential point here (and I'm aware of my incompitent knowledge of neurology) is that what I see is a representation of reality, created by me; it is not reality itself. The seems to have profound phenomenological implications, seeing that the world we accept as authentic is, in fact, our very own unique interpretation. If all we experience is our own, subjective recreation, then what exactly is "the world"? How can there be a confirmation of the existence of both objects and things in the external world if our method of verification involves an arguably biased re-creation?
Alterations in consciousness arise from abnormal fluctuations in certain neurotransmitter levels. There are four neurotransmitters responsible for all altered states of consciousness (acetylcholine, seretonin, dopamine and norepinephrine...I think!). The myriad studies undertaken to determine how various things affect changes in consciousness are essentially measuring the degrees to which humans vary their representations of the world. But is this just measuring the alterations of an already questionable reality? The foundations on which consciousness as it is conventionally accepted seem to shake lightly when it is seen from this vantage. Could altered states in fact bring us closer to a "real" reality, or do they take us further from it (whatever "it" is)?
The brain is the centre for interpretation in this sense. If it re-creates or reinterprets all external stimuli, then subjective reality, as a unique and individual phenomenon, falls into solipsism. All that we can know comes from our brains' calculations, which are assumably very subjective and thus unique, and which are approximations as opposed to exact empirical measurements. Essentially, it could be argued, each individual experiences a vastly different reality, which is based not on a certain universal reality we all partake in, but an interpretation of a reality which is unable to be grasped by human beings.
This perhaps brings into question the veritability of scientific/empirical findings. It also has profound existential effects; it leaves the human in his/her lonely existence, unable to verify others, or to know that what they see is the same as what others see. Sounds, images, sensations: all such stimuli are naturally refined in the process of interpretation, leaving the subject with knowledge only of their own, subjective phenomena, not of what truly is. A bundle of external data, garbled into what we call consciousness.
And implications thus arise, as previously mentioned, regarding altered states of consciousness. These altered states include sleep, hypnagogy (period between wakefulness and sleep), hypnapompy (period between sleep and wakefulness), drug-induced altered states as well as those that result from mental illness. It has been explained (See Hobson, The Dream Drugstore) how all of these states essentially work via the four neurotransmitters mentioned earlier. The brain chemicals associated with REM sleep, which is the primary dreaming state, have also been shown to be associated with other altered states, such as those induced by certain hallucinogens; and dopamine is linked with both mental illnesses such as Schizophrenia, as well as marijuana and other drug usage. Though my knowledge of these associations is limited, many other links have been found. It is extremely important to note that the quality of the fluctuations in consciousness is dependent not only on the links mentioned; many, many variables affect exactly how one's consciousness is affected and changed (for example, marijuana use obviously does not reproduce the experience of a schizophrenic).
So, what does this imply? Not only is solipsism an intriguing and plausible notion, but through power and authority humans are, in a way, prohibiting and promoting certain kinds of realities, none of which we can claim to be authentic (seeing as there is no way of knowing what an authentic reality is). By allowing prohibitions of consciousness-altering drugs, while advocating other drugs which have relatively similar effects but which have been deemed therapeutic in some way, people are being guided in how they interpret the world. In both cases, the same chemicals are being affected, just to different degrees. It could even be daringly said that convention, social mores, etc. are another method whereby what we select to interpret to create our world is being controlled by an external agent. Foucault was one of the first to see the conceptions of things like modern health and sexuality as ways of controlling the masses (i.e. through institutions); was this observation, perhaps, a way to modulate human consciousness and thus peoples' experience of reality?
This argument is not extensive, but it helps put into perspective the human accounts of reality. Orwellian thought-control becomes a very real thing when consciousness is seen as controlled by authorities, who could very well have sinister motives for allowing or disallowing substances. Perhaps this is the way of exploiting a ubiquitous unstable reality, one in which all we have is our own conceptions, our own calculations and selective re-creations of things. Existentially, solipsism leaves us isolated and alone - what if we could attain some form of collective consciousness through organic hallucinogens or other means? Is this being prohibited so as we can serve as the means to an end for those in power? The very comment seems so far-fetched, so counter-intuitive that the average reader will turn away, perhaps even laugh, at the prospect of drug promotion; this, when it is considered that plants have been an integral part of human communities for thousands fo years, simply demonstrates just how conditioned peoples' thoughts are in the modern era. But, to move on to a conclusion: the networks of thought and ideas this topic creates are endless and leave us baffled and alone in a world of our own creation; it does, however, raise important questions, which I think more people should address. To do this, humans en masse need to look past the universal social mores they have clung to for so long, and perhaps ask themselves what is really absurd in this existence.
Bibliography
T. Mautner, Dictionary of Philosophy, Penguin, 2005
A. Hobson, The Dream Drugstore: chemically altered states of consciousness, The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 2001
An obvious response to the notion of solipsism might be that others clearly exist, whether we can know them or not; or again, that because one can discern the observable universe, objects within it are necessarily real and existent. It is easy to assume that because we, as humans, can observe others with similar qualities to our own, that others exist; it is the quality of this knowledge, however, which can be brought into question.
As I sit here, watching this computer screen, light in the form of photons is hitting my eyes and travelling as neural impulses to my brain. My brain then interprets these signals and creates for me a picture of my ever changing reality. The essential point here (and I'm aware of my incompitent knowledge of neurology) is that what I see is a representation of reality, created by me; it is not reality itself. The seems to have profound phenomenological implications, seeing that the world we accept as authentic is, in fact, our very own unique interpretation. If all we experience is our own, subjective recreation, then what exactly is "the world"? How can there be a confirmation of the existence of both objects and things in the external world if our method of verification involves an arguably biased re-creation?
Alterations in consciousness arise from abnormal fluctuations in certain neurotransmitter levels. There are four neurotransmitters responsible for all altered states of consciousness (acetylcholine, seretonin, dopamine and norepinephrine...I think!). The myriad studies undertaken to determine how various things affect changes in consciousness are essentially measuring the degrees to which humans vary their representations of the world. But is this just measuring the alterations of an already questionable reality? The foundations on which consciousness as it is conventionally accepted seem to shake lightly when it is seen from this vantage. Could altered states in fact bring us closer to a "real" reality, or do they take us further from it (whatever "it" is)?
The brain is the centre for interpretation in this sense. If it re-creates or reinterprets all external stimuli, then subjective reality, as a unique and individual phenomenon, falls into solipsism. All that we can know comes from our brains' calculations, which are assumably very subjective and thus unique, and which are approximations as opposed to exact empirical measurements. Essentially, it could be argued, each individual experiences a vastly different reality, which is based not on a certain universal reality we all partake in, but an interpretation of a reality which is unable to be grasped by human beings.
This perhaps brings into question the veritability of scientific/empirical findings. It also has profound existential effects; it leaves the human in his/her lonely existence, unable to verify others, or to know that what they see is the same as what others see. Sounds, images, sensations: all such stimuli are naturally refined in the process of interpretation, leaving the subject with knowledge only of their own, subjective phenomena, not of what truly is. A bundle of external data, garbled into what we call consciousness.
And implications thus arise, as previously mentioned, regarding altered states of consciousness. These altered states include sleep, hypnagogy (period between wakefulness and sleep), hypnapompy (period between sleep and wakefulness), drug-induced altered states as well as those that result from mental illness. It has been explained (See Hobson, The Dream Drugstore) how all of these states essentially work via the four neurotransmitters mentioned earlier. The brain chemicals associated with REM sleep, which is the primary dreaming state, have also been shown to be associated with other altered states, such as those induced by certain hallucinogens; and dopamine is linked with both mental illnesses such as Schizophrenia, as well as marijuana and other drug usage. Though my knowledge of these associations is limited, many other links have been found. It is extremely important to note that the quality of the fluctuations in consciousness is dependent not only on the links mentioned; many, many variables affect exactly how one's consciousness is affected and changed (for example, marijuana use obviously does not reproduce the experience of a schizophrenic).
So, what does this imply? Not only is solipsism an intriguing and plausible notion, but through power and authority humans are, in a way, prohibiting and promoting certain kinds of realities, none of which we can claim to be authentic (seeing as there is no way of knowing what an authentic reality is). By allowing prohibitions of consciousness-altering drugs, while advocating other drugs which have relatively similar effects but which have been deemed therapeutic in some way, people are being guided in how they interpret the world. In both cases, the same chemicals are being affected, just to different degrees. It could even be daringly said that convention, social mores, etc. are another method whereby what we select to interpret to create our world is being controlled by an external agent. Foucault was one of the first to see the conceptions of things like modern health and sexuality as ways of controlling the masses (i.e. through institutions); was this observation, perhaps, a way to modulate human consciousness and thus peoples' experience of reality?
This argument is not extensive, but it helps put into perspective the human accounts of reality. Orwellian thought-control becomes a very real thing when consciousness is seen as controlled by authorities, who could very well have sinister motives for allowing or disallowing substances. Perhaps this is the way of exploiting a ubiquitous unstable reality, one in which all we have is our own conceptions, our own calculations and selective re-creations of things. Existentially, solipsism leaves us isolated and alone - what if we could attain some form of collective consciousness through organic hallucinogens or other means? Is this being prohibited so as we can serve as the means to an end for those in power? The very comment seems so far-fetched, so counter-intuitive that the average reader will turn away, perhaps even laugh, at the prospect of drug promotion; this, when it is considered that plants have been an integral part of human communities for thousands fo years, simply demonstrates just how conditioned peoples' thoughts are in the modern era. But, to move on to a conclusion: the networks of thought and ideas this topic creates are endless and leave us baffled and alone in a world of our own creation; it does, however, raise important questions, which I think more people should address. To do this, humans en masse need to look past the universal social mores they have clung to for so long, and perhaps ask themselves what is really absurd in this existence.
Bibliography
T. Mautner, Dictionary of Philosophy, Penguin, 2005
A. Hobson, The Dream Drugstore: chemically altered states of consciousness, The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 2001
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