Self comes to mind Constructing the conscious brain

Review by New York Times Review

Consciousness is grounded in the body, a neuroscientist posits. IN "Self Comes to Mind," the eminent neurologist and neuroscientist Antonio Damasio gives an account of consciousness that might come naturally to a highly caffeinated professor in his study. He emphasizes wakefulness, self-awareness, reflection, rationality, "knowledge of one's own existence and of the existence of surroundings." That is certainly one kind of consciousness, what one might call self-consciousness. But there is also a different kind, as anyone who knows what it is like to have a headache, taste chocolate or see red can attest. Self-consciousness is a sophisticated and perhaps uniquely human cognitive achievement. Phenomenal consciousness by contrast - what it is like to experience - is something we share with many animals. A person who is drunk or delirious or dreaming can be excruciatingly conscious without being wakeful, self-aware or aware of his surroundings. The term "conscious" was first introduced into academic discourse by the Cambridge philosopher Ralph Cudworth in 1678, and by 1727, John Maxwell had distinguished five senses of the term. The ambiguity has not abated. Damasio's distinctive contributions in "Self Comes to Mind" are an account of phenomenal consciousness, a conception of self-consciousness and, most controversially, a claim that phenomenal consciousness is dependent on self-consciousness. Phenomenally conscious content - what distinguishes the experience of blue from the taste of chocolate - is, according to Damasio, a matter of associations that are processed in different brain areas at the same time. What makes a conscious state feel like something rather than nothing is explained as a fusion of mind and body in which neurons become "extensions of the flesh." Self-consciousness is the result of a procession of neural maps of inner and outer worlds. What's more, he argues, phenomenal consciousness depends on self-consciousness. Without a self, he writes, "the mind would lose its orientation. . . . One's thoughts would be freewheeling, unclaimed by an owner. . . . What would we look like? Well, we would look unconscious." Even fish and lizards have a kind of minimal self, one that combines sensory integration with control of information processing and action. But Damasio's self is not minimal. It is inflated with self-awareness, reflection, rationality, deliberation and knowledge of one's existence and the existence of one's surroundings, and this is what he ends up arguing a being needs in order to have phenomenal consciousness. You may have sensed that I think there is a problem with Damasio's emphasis on self-consciousness: indeed, "Self Comes to Mind" is mainly about self-consciousness rather than experiential phenomenal consciousness. And the book is not about geology or underwear or many other things either. So what? I can explain the problem by a brief detour into a different book, "The Origins of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind" (1976), by the American psychologist Julian Jaynes. Jaynes held that consciousness was invented by the ancient Greeks between 1400 and 600 B.C. He argued that there was a dramatic appearance of introspection in large parts of the "Odyssey," as compared with large parts of the "Iliad," which he claimed were composed at least a hundred years earlier. The philosopher W.V. Quine once told me that he thought Jaynes might be on to something until he asked Jaynes what it was like to perceive before consciousness was invented. According to Quine, Jaynes said it was like nothing at all - exactly what it is like to be a table or a chair. Jaynes was denying that people had experiential phenomenal consciousness based on a claim about inflated self-consciousness. Damasio also denies phenomenal consciousness because of the demand of a sophisticated self-consciousness. You may have noticed an exciting report a few years ago of a patient in a persistent vegetative state (defined behaviorally) studied by the neuroscientists Adrian Owen and Steven Laureys. On some trials, the two instructed the patient to imagine standing still on a tennis court swinging at a ball, and on others to visualize walking from room to room in her home. The patient, they found, showed the same imagistic brain activations (motor areas for tennis, spatial areas for exploring the house) as normally conscious people who were used as controls. More such cases have since been discovered, and this year Owen and Laureys described a vegetative-state patient who was able to use the tennis/navigation alternation to give yes-or-no answers to five of six basic questions like "Is your father's name Alexander?" These results are strong evidence - though not proof - of phenomenal consciousness in some of those who showed no behavioral signs of it. But Damasio scoffs, saying that these results "can be parsimoniously interpreted in the context of the abundant evidence that mind processes operate nonconsciously." His skepticism appears to be grounded in the fact that these patients show no clear sign of self-consciousness and thus constitute a potential roadblock in front of his theory. Damasio also stumbles over dreaming. In dreams, phenomenal consciousness can be very vivid even when the rational processes of self-consciousness are much diminished. Damasio describes dreams as "mind processes unassisted by consciousness." Recognizing that the reader will be puzzled by this claim, he describes dreaming as "paradoxical" since the mental processes in dreaming are "not guided by a regular, properly functioning self of the kind we deploy when we reflect and deliberate." But dreaming is paradoxical only if one has a model of phenomenal consciousness based on self-consciousness - on knowledge, rationality, reflection and wakefulness. Contrary to Damasio's point of view, there is good evidence that vivid conscious experience may be antithetical to self-reflective activity. In one experiment, the Israeli neuroscientist Rafi Malach presented subjects with pictures and asked them to judge their own emotional reactions as positive, negative or neutral - a self-oriented, introspective task. He then presented different subjects with the same pictures and asked them to very quickly categorize the pictures as, for example, animals or not. Of course these subjects were seeing the pictures consciously, but Malach found that the brain circuits involved in scrutinizing self-reactions (as indicated by the emotional reaction task) were inhibited in the fast categorization task. Subjects also rated their self-awareness as high in the emotional reaction task and low in the fast categorization task. As Malach puts it, these results comport with "the strong intuitive sense we have of 'losing our selves' in a highly engaging sensory-motor act." Damasio argues that a creature without sensory integration and control of thought and action would be unconscious. But even if that is true, it does not show that phenomenal consciousness requires self-awareness, reflection, wakefulness, or awareness of one's existence or surroundings. This argument conflates the minimal self with the inflated self. Is this discussion of any practical importance? Yes. Phenomenal consciousness is what makes pain bad in itself and pleasure good. Damasio's refusal to regard phenomenal consciousness (without the involvement of the inflated self) as real consciousness could be used to justify the brutalization of cows and chickens on the grounds that they are not self-conscious and therefore not conscious. Damasio, in response to those who have raised such criticisms in the past, declares that in fact he thinks it "highly likely" that animals do have consciousness. But this doesn't square with the demanding theory he advances in his book, on the basis of which he denies consciousness in dreams and in "vegetative state" patients who can answer questions. He owes us an explanation of why he thinks chickens are conscious even though dreamers and the question-answering patients are not. The term 'conscious' was introduced into academic discourse in 1678. Its ambiguity hasn't abated. Ned Block is the Silver professor of philosophy, psychology and neural science at New York University.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [December 12, 2010]

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

As he has done previously, USC neuroscientist Damasio (Descartes' Error) explores the process that leads to consciousness. And as he has also done previously, he alternates between some exquisite passages that represent the best popular science has to offer and some technical verbiage that few will be able to follow. He draws meaningful distinctions among points on the continuum from brain to mind, consciousness to self, constantly attempting to understand the evolutionary reasons why each arose and attempting to tie each to an underlying physical reality. Damasio goes to great lengths to explain that many species, such as social insects, have minds, but humans are distinguished by the "autobiographical self," which adds flexibility and creativity, and has led to the development of culture, a "radical novelty" in natural history. Damasio ends with a speculative chapter on the evolutionary process by which mind developed and then gave rise to self. In the Pleistocene, he suggests, humans developed emotive responses to shapes and sounds that helped lead to the development of the arts. Readers fascinated from both a philosophical and scientific perspective with the question of the relationships among brain, mind, and self will be rewarded for making the effort to follow Damasio's arguments. (Nov.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Damasio (Director/Univ. of Southern California Brain and Creativity Inst.; Looking for Spinoza: Joy, Sorrow, and the Feeling Brain, 2003, etc.) seeks to understand "the mystery of consciousness.""Consciousness is a state of mind in which there is knowledge of one's own existence and of the existence of surroundings"i.e., where the self introduces the property of subjectivity to the mix. The mind emerges as it composes patterns, "mapping" the world as it interacts with it, just as it maps its own processes. It will appropriate the sensory experiences and make them its own. "Ultimately consciousness allows us to perceive maps as images," writes Damasio, "to manipulate those images, and to apply reasoning to them." The author entertains the unconventional idea that mind processing begins at the brain-stem level, not in the cerebral cortex alone, and charts the interaction of the brain stem, the cerebral cortex and the thalamus, taking elementary mind processes through to imagination, reasoning and eventually language. He provides a well-rendered explanation for the role of consciousness in the natural selection of evolution by meeting an organism's needs through orientation and organization. Along the way, Damasio confronts such slippery characters as feelings, emotions, the will to prevail, biological value and homeostasis, and he also looks carefully at neuroanatomical reference. Consciousness, in the author's well-tempered and rangy explication, "resembles the execution of a symphony of Mahlerian proportions. But the marvel...is that the score and the conductor become reality only as life unfolds." And its many players are responsible for everything from internal housekeeping to "placing the self in an evanescent here and now, between a thoroughly lived past and an anticipated future, perpetually buffeted between the spent yesterdays and the tomorrows that are nothing but possibilities."Awareness may be mostly mystery, but Damasio shapes its hints and glimmerings into an imaginative, informed narrative.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1   Awakening   When I woke up, we were descending. I had been asleep long enough to miss the announcements about the landing and the weather. I had not been aware of myself or my surroundings. I had been unconscious.   Few things about our biology are as seemingly trivial as this com­modity known as consciousness, the phenomenal ability that consists of having a mind equipped with an owner, a protagonist for one's exis­tence, a self inspecting the world inside and around, an agent seemingly ready for action.   Consciousness is not merely wakefulness. When I woke up, two brief paragraphs ago, I did not look around vacantly, taking in the sights and the sounds as if my awake mind belonged to no one. On the con­trary, I knew, almost instantly, with little hesitation if any, without effort, that this was me, sitting on an airplane, my flying identity com­ing home to Los Angeles with a long  to-do list before the day would be over, aware of an odd combination of travel fatigue and enthusiasm for what was ahead, curious about the runway we would be landing on, and attentive to the adjustments of engine power that were bringing us to earth. No doubt, being awake was indispensable to this state, but wake­fulness was hardly its main feature. What was that main feature? The fact that the myriad contents displayed in my mind, regardless of how vivid or well ordered, connected with me, the proprietor of my mind, through invisible strings that brought those contents together in the forward-moving feast we call self; and, no less important, the fact that the connection was felt. There was a feelingness to the experience of the connected me.   Awakening meant having my temporarily absent mind returned, but with me in it, both property (the mind) and proprietor (me) accounted for. Awakening allowed me to reemerge and survey my mental domains, the sky-wide projection of a magic movie, part documentary and part fiction, otherwise known as the conscious human mind.   We all have free access to consciousness, bubbling so easily and abun­dantly in our minds that without hesitation or apprehension we let it be turned off every night when we go to sleep and allow it to return every morning when the alarm clock rings, at least 365 times a year, not counting naps. And yet few things about our beings are as remarkable, foundational, and seemingly mysterious as consciousness. Without consciousness--that is, a mind endowed with subjectivity--you would have no way of knowing that you exist, let alone know who you are and what you think. Had subjectivity not begun, even if very modestly at first, in living creatures far simpler than we are, memory and reasoning are not likely to have expanded in the prodigious way they did, and the evolutionary road for language and the elaborate human version of con­sciousness we now possess would not have been paved. Creativity would not have flourished. There would have been no song, no paint­ing, and no literature. Love would never have been love, just sex. Friendship would have been mere cooperative convenience. Pain would never have become suffering--not a bad thing, come to think of it-- but an equivocal advantage given that pleasure would not have become bliss either. Had subjectivity not made its radical appearance, there would have been no knowing and no one to take notice, and conse­quently there would have been no history of what creatures did through the ages, no culture at all.   Although I have not yet provided a working definition of conscious­ness, I hope I am leaving no doubt as to what it means not to have con­sciousness: in the absence of consciousness, the personal view is sus­pended; we do not know of our existence; and we do not know that anything else exists. If consciousness had not developed in the course of evolution and expanded to its human version, the humanity we are now familiar with, in all its frailty and strength, would never have developed either. One shudders to think that a simple turn not taken might have meant the loss of the biological alternatives that make us truly human. But then, how would we ever have found out that something was missing?   We take consciousness for granted because it is so available, so easy to use, so elegant in its daily disappearing and reappearing acts, and yet, when we think of it, scientists and nonscientists alike, we do puzzle. What is consciousness made of? Mind with a twist, it seems to me, since we cannot be conscious without having a mind to be conscious of. But what is mind made of? Does mind come from the air or from the body? Smart people say it comes from the brain, that it is in the brain, but that is not a satisfactory reply. How does the brain do mind?   The fact that no one sees the minds of others, conscious or not, is especially mysterious. We can observe their bodies and their actions, what they do or say or write, and we can make informed guesses about what they think. But we cannot observe their minds, and only we our­selves can observe ours, from the inside, and through a rather narrow window. The properties of minds, let alone conscious minds, appear to be so radically different from those of visible living matter that thoughtful folk wonder how one process (conscious minds working) meshes with the other process (physical cells living together in aggre­gates called tissues).   But to say that conscious minds are mysterious--and on the face of it they are--is different from saying that the mystery is insoluble. It is dif­ferent from saying that we shall never be able to understand how a liv­ing organism endowed with a brain develops a conscious mind. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from Self Comes to Mind: Constructing the Conscious Brain by Antonio Damasio All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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