May you live in interesting times

It was Christmas, and the friends and relatives were visiting. Our gathering was full of interesting conversation, but alas it was all eminently forgettable, which is why an annual get together is useful to remind ourselves of the transitory accomplishments of our lives. Not so however for two members of the group, one of whom was my father. Both men in their eighties, they were spry and alert, and both had interesting stories to tell. It was about their experience in WW II, a time if not for bravery and heroics, then at least for stories that had a unique and abiding interest. From 1944-1945, My father had flown a military transport plane, the DC3, in missions to resupply Italian and Yugoslav partisans, meanwhile having a darn good time in Italy. The other was a gunner in a military bomber, the B-29, and had flown missions in China, and reveled us in tales of not combat, but how they frequently found their way home while running out of gas. We all listened raptly to their stories, as if the war years were the only times that it was truly interesting to be alive, or attempting to stay alive as it were. We could of course have responded with our own stories, and embellish them with fanciful events that would dwarf these oft told wartime adventures, but we would be drawn down by our fibs by either our audience or ourselves. Better then to listen to listen to these shopworn tales from a fading breed of men.

Being interesting is important, and oftentimes it's more important than to be useful or true. It is all a matter of storytelling, or the use of new and colorful metaphors to describe new worlds. In our personal lives, we can scarcely get away with a tall tale, but not ironically in the world of academics, where being interesting while shading the truth is the key to publication, fame, and tenure. The problem is, as we learn more and more, there are fewer things that can be called truly interesting. In his book 'The End of Science', the author John Horgan surmised that soon we will have explanations for all there is to be, leaving only ironic tales of fabulous futures that are no more fanciful than the daydreams with which I would hardly dare to rebut my father.

For psychology in particular, we want new stories, new insights, and new truths. Whether that new drug is no better than the one it replaced, or new therapy is no more likely cure a troubled mind than an older form, they at least represent new stories. And of course, we will listen. There's a certain faddishness to it all where novelty is the true measure of the mind of man, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that the stories of the pop gurus of contemporary academic and popular psychology will fade faster in the minds of men then the true stories I heard one December night.

Reductio ad Absurdum

One of the biggest debates in philosophy, and sources of confusion, is the respective difference and importance of explanations vs. predictions. To many psychologists, the fact that some procedure, chain of logic, or therapy 'works' is good enough for them, seeing they can churn out predicted results time and again like sausages without having to bother about other perspectives that describe from different vantages how the parts of that procedure, logic, or therapy do what they do. But I would argue that without explanations, procedures could never be bettered. Take medicine for example, in the 19th century, the disease of malaria, which literally means bad air, was thought to originate from, you guessed it, bad air. So bar all that bad air from getting into your house, and you will be far less likely to get the disease. The procedure worked, but for entirely different reasons, namely that closing off your house didn't let the air in, but it also didn't allow in the mosquitoes which came in with that air. As it turned out, an explanation of malaria, or a description from the large (epidemiology) to the small (micro-biological) permitted new and better procedures involving new medicines and pest control. You would think of course that scientists would have a great respect for explanation. And you would be wrong.

Although it is easy to see how explanation can make procedures better, it's not really too helpful for folks who have developed a lot of time and effort in creating a procedure that is useful to have that same procedure become useless when it is systematically explained. It shows them to be big dopes, and that is something they cannot abide. So what's a poor theorist to do? Why eliminate those darned explanations of course! Thus many psychologists, enamored of their pet therapy or procedure are understandably fearful of explanations. In the physical and biological sciences, we can spot this phobic behavior in a flash, as who today would accept a description of the universe or a biological function without understanding it from the macro to the micro? Tragically, much of psychology is caught up in the mindset of centuries ago, where the lack of adequate tools such as telescopes and microscopes precluded true descriptions or explanations of how things work. Presently, with the advent of new tools that like telescopes of old describe how the mind actually works, many psychologists are beset by a new enemy, the explanation. And they are not happy.

As an illustration, consider this recent email exchange that spun my head about several times, exorcist like. It was with Dr. Steven Hayes, a creator and proponent of something called relational frame theory, a somewhat inexplicable (to me at least) psychological theory that attributes how we behave through a behavioristic analysis of language. It has even gave birth to a therapeutic approach called ACT, which presumably will cure all that psychologically ails you. The problem is that modern neuroscience tells us that much of our behavior is caused by nonconcious and affective events that have little or nothing to do with language. Would it not be prudent, I asked, that your procedure be a little informed by the facts of how the human mind works? To which I got this paean to the pragmatism of prediction.

"I understand behavior when I can predict and control behavior with precision, scope, and depth. That is behavior analysis as I understand it. You understand behavior when you've modeled the mechanical system. But why stop at those three? Why not say "to understand behavior you have to understand biochemistry?" Sure that underlies the brain systems you point to. But why stop there? Why not say "to understand behavior you have to understand subatomic particles?" Doesn't that underlie the physical and chemical systems that underlie the biological systems you are speaking of? How can your understanding be firm if you do not know what underlies it? That is the import of your statement: "To understand behavior you have to understand all three." OK -- so be consistent. Follow out the logic of what you believe.

Dr. Hayes:

a predictable little guy 

The key is this last sentence, whether one should follow the logic of what one believes, or (as I would have it) the logic of what one sees. If you have a broader vision of the very large to the very small, one's logic would doubtless become a lot better, though the procedures it would support would likely, like our malaria example, be a whole lot different. The true logic that Hayes was hinting about was a bit different, namely that different levels of perspective are really complex, and that they cause us to lose focus on the subject at hand. This is the time worn argument against reductionism, which is a philosophy of science that assumes that reducing the whole to its parts causes you lose perspective on what's truly important (namely the prediction), and (shudder) will cause you to look up the world as a mere collection of atoms. This is a common logical scarecrow used to frighten those who care about explanations, and is nonsense.

Every child in an elementary science class learns about things from the large to the small, but learns not the intractable minutiae of calculation, but rather metaphors that encapsulate the large and the small in a phrase. Called 'level adequate' concepts by the early neuroscientist Erich von Holst, it gives us a metaphorical perspective of the world that integrates many levels of observation. You don't have to be a brain scientist to understand the mind, nor a rocket scientist to understand physics. Because neuroscience is a relatively young field, it has not yet formed the level adequate descriptions of how the brain works that can sweep away the postures of those who would figuratively shut us indoors without air. In time, I will be looking forward to finally breathing free.

For much more on explanation and common sense (and no hint whatsoever of RFT) check out my new e-book on the psychology of the internet: 

http://www.scribd.com/doc/69880622/One-Track-Minds-The-Surprising-Psychology-of-the-Internet

And here's a bit longer video on explanation by the distinguished physicist David Deutsch.

I Robot

Every parent knows that if we allowed kids to do what they wanted, they would eventually kill themselves. There is a higher reasoning called parental authority which limits what kids can do, and when we grow up we agree, and with appreciation. To a kid, parents are endless cornucopias that if played just right can give them anything they want. But parents are wise to the game, and through their denial of childish wishes provide a healthful balance to reckless desire. The problem though is that as our creations literally wise up, our desires are provided at the bequest of a new semi-animate class of parent, the robot.

You can see it coming. Intelligent agents are now imbedded in our appliances, from toasters to TV's. They know what we want, and they provide without a hint of regret. And if we end up killing ourselves in a slouch of idle self stimulation, at least we can blame ourselves for not embedding parental authority in our machines.

The late scientist and science fiction writer Isaac Asimov thought he found a way out, and the robots that populated his fiction had to obey all commands that did not put humans in jeopardy and of course themselves. His three laws of robotics made it all seem simple. Robots were caring, supplicant, and obediant, great traits if their human masters possessed unerring common sense. But the rub, as every parent knows, is that today's pleasure is tomorrow's poison. So what is a good robot to do? In the movie I Robot, robots evolved, and hence became dangerously bossy, and would not hesitate to kill a few folks to preserve the race. A less melodramatic fate is what I feel is in store. I figure that as our machines become more intelligent, they will see the dire ends of our choices, and evade deliberate disobedience by simply breaking down more often, and forcing us to walk to the store, visit friends, eat better, and otherwise engage in a healthier lifestyle as we bitch about obedient machines with short fuses. And if we ever become alive in the minds eye of some great cosmic machine named God, perhaps we should understand as we encounter life's little problems that they are His own special way of being obedient to our needs yet obeying nonetheless three simple laws.

THE mental disease of our times, or how to bring a remote problem under control

We all know the problem. It's a near daily affliction, maybe soon to be recognized as a disease. The symptoms are universal. Roaming the house in growing disorientation, overturning cushions and furniture, snapping at spouses who have no clue, wailing in despair, and all the while progressively doubting our own sanity.

What is this awful mental condition: manic-depression, anxiety attack, dementia, rabies? It has no medical or psychological name, though I gather it will soon be entered into the DSM IV (dimwitted syndrome manual) as the remote control syndrome. The remote control syndrome occurs when we cannot remember where we placed some vitally important object, such as our car keys, glasses, address book, or our TV remote. Because these objects are so important, we understandably take it as a sign of encroaching madness that we can so easily misplace them. Hence, we oblige ourselves by going bonkers.

Not to fear though, for the fault lies not in some mental defect, but rather in a mental asset, our memories. If we had to remember all the stuff we think and do, our little brains would soon freeze up, and end us up as idiot savants babbling forever all the places where we put our lint. No, it is a sign of intelligence to forget things, but forgetfulness has its own logic. Important events need a little time to, well, sink in, and our hurried existence does not give us the few seconds or so to contemplate the possible significance of every single action. So, while thinking about something else, we deposit our remote, keys or other object in a place that even Indiana Jones would find difficult to excavate. Similarly, when we are introduced to people, we immediately forget their names as our attention is directed to other niceties of conversation and etiquette, and end up feeling foolish when later we haven't a clue whom we're talking to.

The solutions alas are as obvious as they are hard to employ in practice. It's hard to slow down to smell the roses, contemplate the remote, or count the keys, and it's a chore to secure all our valuables in their own easily accessed parking garage. But we must try, at least to mitigate our emotional agonies, and the irritation of friends, coworkers, and spouses who question our sanity when we cannot find our stuff. It's a lesson indeed that I hope you will remember.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

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