Tentative Thesis

Le Brun takes a very deterministic approach to the mapping of human emotions and how they manifest themselves physically. While there is much to his work that remains relevant today, modern psychological trends seem to refute the universality of Le Brun's methods, generally taking a more flexible view of this phenomenon. As such, there is room to propose a compromise between the antiquated and the modern, given that emotion does, inherently, manifest in physical form, however, these manifestations vary dramatically from culture to culture, era to era, and, most importantly, from person to person. In Austen's Persuasion and Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, particularly, there are clear demonstrations of both correct and incorrect inferences of the physical representations of various emotions. From these instances, the compromise between old and new thoughts becomes more clear.

The Cost of Attention

In N. Katherine Hayles article Hyper and Deep Attention: The Generational Divide in Cognitive Modes, the supposition is leveled that humanity is shifting from one form of attention to a very different form. The first form, deep attention, which is used most often in higher education, is “characterized by concentrating on a single object for long periods (say, a novel by Dickens), ignoring out-side stimuli while so engaged, preferring a single information stream, and having a high tolerance for long focus times.” While this form of attention is seen as being traditional, Hayles notes that, evolutionarily, the more chaotic hyper attention preceded its patient counterpart. This more capricious form of attention is “characterized by switching focus rapidly among different tasks, preferring multiple information streams, seeking a high level of stimulation, and having a low tolerance for boredom.” There is a sense that the two have to coexist with in each of us, as we are mere animals in the eyes of biology, yet we have situated ourselves comfortably atop the food chain, enough so that we are able to enjoy and reap the benefits of utilizing (the admittedly less practical) deep attention. Though there are fewer than there once were, there are still dangers present in the world, and we must be able to draw ourselves away from Dickens on occasion (no matter how captivating), to ensure that we may continue to enjoy such a “luxury.”

            Hayles’ description of hyper attention seems quite relevant to Frank McCormick’s poem Attention Deficit Disorder. The first stanza provides an especially insightful vision of life through the perspective of an individual who cannot focus in any way other than through hyper attention. The first line, “I guess I paid attention to the wrong things,” suggests a) that there is a qualitative value applied to the things on which one chooses to focus (which may well be true) and b) that the speaker feels his attention is not at his command, for if it were, he would have likely made an effort to pay attention to the right things. The following lines depict the minor details to which the speaker did pay attention, including the “empty space between the words,” the “silent edges of the textbook,” and also the physical characteristics of the teacher (i.e., shape, color, wrinkles). Despite being able to only focus sporadically and on miscellaneous objects, the speaker, in the final line of the stanza, remarks that he remembers them vividly, even claiming the capacity to “re-draw them in my sleep.” It could be read and interpreted to mean he has vivid, almost lucid dreams about the random subjects of his hyper attention, but either way, waking or dreaming, the stanza as a whole suggests that, while a Dickens novel may be cumbersome, in small doses, what hyper attention lands on is locked into the memory with a tenacity that is formidable. 

Autism, Einstein & Facebook

According to PubMed Health, the number of diagnosed cases of autism is increasing substantially. For instance, “a child who is diagnosed with high-functioning autism today may have been thought to simply be odd or strange 30 years ago.” With this in mind, might we consider the possibility that autism is not a matter of having or not having the condition, but rather looking at the condition as existing over a continuum, from which none of us is exempt? That is to say, might we all, to some degree, be affected by the socially impairing condition known as autism? It would explain the recent boom in diagnosed cases, especially as we are, as a society, less willing to consider a child simply “odd or strange,” but instead feel more comfortable applying a medical explanation for this unusual behavior. An exceptional case of autism going undiagnosed (although this is widely debated) is that of the physicist and Nobel laureate Albert Einstein, who purportedly threw tantrums and preferred solitude. Both of these behaviors are listed in the PubMed Health article as symptoms of autism.

            Furthermore, it seems plausible that there may be a correlation between increased cases of autism and the observable decrease in direct, face-to-face, human-to-human (not to stress the point to much) communication. With the explosion of the technological industry, the human interactions upon which society once relied solely have been slowly replaced by more modern electronic means. Granted, the population that is most affected by this technological usurpation of our most basic human exchanges is well advanced beyond the age PubMed Health suggest we are susceptible to developing autism (first 3 years). Rather it may be the reverse, that is, a broader portion of the population having the condition would likely encourage the establishment of an alternate form of social communication. Is this utter speculation? Absolutely. Is there not, though, an uncanny sense that all of our new contraptions for avoiding human contact have an especially apparent use to those who have autism?

EGAUGNAL or LANGUAGE: Production v. Comprehension

In Stephens and Hasson’s article Speaker-listener neural coupling underlies successful communication, the essential distinction between language production and language comprehension is drawn. From a fundamental linguistic perspective, an individual is almost always capable of comprehending more language than he or she can produce. This poses an interesting and curious dichotomy of neurological language use, as it seems to suggest that the human mind has two receptacles, if you will, in which language is stored. It seems as though the first receptacle, where language is initially stored, houses the words and phrases merely recognized, though not established well enough to duplicate in usage. The second receptacle, then, houses words and phrases that are familiar enough to recycle in one’s own language. Theoretically, words that have been heard in proper use with sufficient repetition will eventually transfer from the first to the second receptacle, allowing an individual to both comprehend as well as produce that particular element of language.

            This notion seems to apply, although in a perplexingly reverse manner, to Dean Young’s poem Handy Guide. Throughout the piece, Young expresses a series of seemingly bizarre and unrelated thoughts, all of which containing relatively basic language that ought to be familiar to most adult users of language. The reversal from the underlying linguistic notion, that comprehension precedes production, can be observed when considering the readily accessible nature of most all of Young’s language in the poem compared to the apparent inane and inexplicable nature of his statements. The poem begins, for example, with the stupefying couplet, “Avoid adjectives of scale. / Dandelion broth instead of duck soup.” The poem continues in this manner and leaves the poor reader with a complete lack of any coherent or cohesive understanding. It this unusual case, the reader’s ability to duplicate or produce this language for himself is not at all difficult, but the same reader’s ability to comprehend anything that he has just read or reproduced is virtually impossible (besides, of course, applying a series of arbitrary interpretations to the poem).

            This anomaly of a poem begs the question, is it not possible, then, to say many, many things that we can almost never truly understand?          

The Grass is Always Greener

Russell Edson’s poem Antimatter offers an innovative representation of a very well established notion. Humanity has long been familiar with the phenomenon experienced when an individual has something, but feels as though he/she might be happier with an alternative thing. This idea has been summed up concisely in the colloquialism: the grass is always greener. In other words, whenever one believes that happiness is just out of reach, they might reconsider that which they are clutching at the present, and perhaps come to the conclusion that what they have is more than enough to evoke happiness.

            The first and last lines of this poem play an especially crucial role in the reconfiguration of this ideal. The poem begins, “On the other side of a mirror there’s an inverse world,” setting up not only the visual concept of a division between this side and the other, but also using the word inverse to capture the fundamentally backwards nature of Edson’s hypothetical world. In a world where such anomalies as insane people going sane and sunrise occurring at night are the norm, one might consider this arrangement to be completely far fetched. The surprising and revealing truth of the matter is, however, that in a world where every person is insane, one is just as concerned about acquiring sanity as we are of losing it in our world, on our side of the mirror. So, while the picture Edson paints looks to us like a wild concoction of Tim Burton and Salvador Dali, it is truly no more bizarre than our world might seem to a citizen of this inverse society.

            Finally, in the last, and arguably most profound line in Edson poem, we learn, “In such a world there is much sadness which, of course, is joy . . .” To us, a reversion from adulthood into childhood, a loss of all the great benefits of being a cognizant and responsible human, seem very sad indeed. But is it truly any more sad than the exchange of innocence for corruption, the rise from peaceful youth to aggressive age. Without Edson’s unique perspective into a world upside down and backwards in every way, we might be inclined to consider our own situation to be the very happiest a situation can be. When we consider it against our own reality, though, it becomes apparent that life is only what one makes of it. Happiness is achieved only through making the best of one’s circumstances, not attempting to radically alter them for some invented or imagined ideal.     

To Feel Or Not To Feel, That Is The Distinction

Suzanne Keen’s article, A Theory of Narrative Empathy, poses an interesting distinction between the notions of empathy and sympathy. Empathy causes an individual to “feel what we believe to be the emotions of others,” while sympathy only allows an individual to experience “feelings for another” (208). In literature, the reader can only ever hope to get as close to the characters as the author permits. If we are only given a base description of a character, it is likely that we will become significantly less emotionally invested in the character’s condition. Alternatively, is we are given a good deal of insight into the character’s thoughts and emotions, we stand a much better chance of coming closer to understanding, appreciating, and ultimately feeling that which the character feels. This does sound good in theory, which stands to support Keen’s choice of title, however I am apprehensive to admit that a reader can ever fully empathize with a fictitious character made of letters and sentences. At best, we might hope to develop a sense of sympathy for the condition of a given character.

            That is to say, while I, the reader, could certainly come to a conclusion where “I feel pity for your pain,” like the physical pain experienced by Louisa from her fall, or the emotional pain felt by those who witnessed it, I adamantly believe that one can never truly feel the pain of another, especially not when the other is comprised solely of symbols (209). It is entirely natural that we, as insightful and intellectual creatures, can comprehend that the situation of another is either bad or good or some variation. It seems that the only way one could truly feel exactly the same physical or emotional sensation as another would be to experience exactly what the other experienced and through that individual’s perspective. The former would be difficult enough to orchestrate, ensuring that each and every detail of the scenario is identical, but the latter, as far as I am aware, is utterly impossible. Even if the replication of a single experience were carried out flawlessly, it would be experienced differently through the filter of the sympathizer’s perception than through that of the initial subject. For this reason, I doubt whether true empathy can ever be achieved, especially when the subject of the empathy is a series of words on a page.

Skeleton Outline

Title

Geometric Metaphors in the Enlightenment: Squaring the Circle of the Mind from Cavendish to Joyce

Introduction

Margaret Cavendish’s Poem, The Circle of the Brain cannot be Squared, alongside other historical perspectives on and images of cognition, reveals the crucial role geometric metaphors played in theorizing the brain and mind in the 17th and 18th centuries. Cavendish, like other Enlightenment writers Cudworth, Dryden and Pope, develops poetic metaphors that specifically called upon the use of geometric imagery, primarily circle, square and line, to represent elements of the brain and mind, as well as to explore the function and power of each. The circle is specifically employed to represent various phenomena within neuroscience, specifically due to its complex and perpetual nature. Cavendish utilizes several other geometric shapes, including squares, triangles and cubes, which are often used to contrast the infinite circle by way of their rigid linear structure. While one does not typically associate the immensely complicated inner workings of the brain or mind with mathematics, let alone geometry, these writers create unique illusions in which the circle becomes indicative of a higher faculty and a more bounded, restricted shape (often a square) represents a lesser one. The influence and esteem of this metaphor has preserved its relevance up to the present, extending its reach from poetry into the realm of prose, and has even attained for it a planetary or astronomical dimension in more modern depictions.

Geometry ¶ Topic Sentence

Before looking at some examples of this geometric imagery in use, it is essential for one to possess a basic appreciation for the geometric shapes being anthropomorphized in these literary works.

Cudworth ¶ Topic Sentence

A primary instance of a circle exemplifying the supreme cognitive function and a baser geometric arrangement representing a simpler function can be found in Cudworth’s  A Treatise Concerning Eternal and Immutable Morality.

Cavendish ¶ 1 Topic Sentence

Contrary to the poetic imagery set forth by Cudworth, which suggests the brain is a linear, mechanical device while the mind is a cyclically perpetual intangibility, Cavendish proposes that “while the Brain is round, no Square will be,” from which one can immediately infer that the circular configuration is still more elusive than the square, but it is now used to represent the brain, rather than the mind.

Cavendish ¶ 2 Topic Sentence

Cavendish also refers to the imagery of a line, stating, “…each Brain / Hath on a Line been stretched,” yet proposes a nuanced conception to that of Cudworth, in which the line represents both simplicity and a futile effort to map the anatomical structure itself.

Dryden ¶ Topic Sentence

In looking at the use of such geometric allegory among some of Cavendish’s contemporaries, there becomes a slightly broader implication to the circular image and its accompanying curiosity.

Pope ¶ Topic Sentence

In a similarly distinct fashion, Pope reconstructs the macabre atmosphere of Oedipus’ blindness in his poem, The First Book of Statius his Thebais.

Joyce ¶ Topic Sentence

Finally, the geometric metaphor can be considered from a more modern perspective with the help of Joyce.

Conclusion

From Cavendish to Joyce, the circle has been an emblematic marker of the incredible majesty and potential of the human brain and mind. While geometry is rarely thought of as relevant in a discussion of cognitive faculties, it is clear that scholars from centuries past and up through the present find it an integral mode of expressing the seemingly inexpressible. Conveniently, such geometric imagery has certain flexibility, meaning it can be applied to any number of scenarios, as the brain and mind are used in myriad settings. The circle stands as the exemplary shape to represent human cognition, for the simple reason that it has neither a beginning nor an end, but rather cycles endlessly.

Unintentionally Adrift: A Breakdown of Chronological Thought

Interestingly, Erasmus Darwin’s essay on the subtleties of sleep and Jonathan Schooler’s article concerning the cognitive phenomenon of mind wandering share some uncanny similarities. While we let our minds wander, we often find ourselves several steps removed from the original objective or goal that we had set out on. Schooler make note of the peculiar nature of this phenomenon, explaining how “mind wandering … often occurs without intention or even awareness that one’s mind has drifted.” The term ‘executive control’ is used to describe such intentionality on the part of an individual. An executive decision is how a person’s mind initially arrives at the specific goal that is being undertaken. In the case of mind wandering, however, an individual temporarily loses this capacity for the structured organization of his/her thoughts. This is not, by any means, a rare occurrence in human cognition (at least not in my case), but this discussion of intentionality is a curious one, especially given that Darwin entertains an eerily similar notion in his contemplation of sleep and its accompanying nuances.

            In Darwin’s essay, the “rapidity of the succession of transactions in our dreams” is a point upon which particular focus is applied. Whilst asleep, a person is essentially unable to distinguish between any one point on the timeline of his/her dream and another, “because this act of comparing requires recollection or voluntary exertion.” It is here, on the specific topic of purposeful action versus unconscious meandering, that Schooler’s article becomes intrinsically akin to the essay offered by Darwin. It seems that, whether asleep or conscious yet adrift in thought, the mind is lacking an assertive direction which can cause it to lose any sense of chronology. That chronology can apply either to the setting and action of a dream sequence or to the sequence of conscious but aimless thoughts that occur during the phenomenon of mind wandering, or, perhaps more colloquially, day dreaming.

            Darwin does suggest in his essay that there is some difference to these cognitive activities. “In our waking hours,” he claims, “we are perpetually making this comparison, and by that means our waking ideas are kept confident with each other by intuitive analogy.” That is to say, while awake, we are always allowing new external stimuli to modify our perception of reality. It might be fair to say that Darwin’s thoughts on waking perception are true only insomuch as one’s “intentional pursuit of a goal,” as Schooler puts it, is maintained steadfastly. Without such intentionality of thought, it seems that, asleep or awake, one’s thoughts will drift in such a way that the path between thoughts can scarcely be traced. 

One Book, Three Book, Old Book, E-Book

In his work, Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading, Charles Lamb discusses his personal preference for certain books over others, offering several criteria upon which books can be judged as good, bad, or even unworthy of being considered a book at all. While he claims, “I can read almost any thing,” it seems that the value judgment he is placing on some books over others is based as much on the physical characteristics of a book as on the content, the actual words. Lamb conjectures that “to be strong-backed and neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume,” which is to say, a book not only should, but must be judged by its cover. What appears to be for the very same reason, he admits, “it moves my spleen to see these things in books' clothing perched upon shelves, like false saints, usurpers of true shrines, intruders into the sanctuary, thrusting out the legitimate occupants.” There is, indeed, some validity to the notion that some crap is simply not literature, despite how hard it attempts to feign literary worth, or how widely accepted it is by public audiences. This qualification of written works as literature or something else is, and has been an ever-present struggle. As far as I can tell though, such distinctions were almost exclusively drawn according to the supposed “literary worth” embodied within the pages of a work. Lamb, on the other hand, seems to be concerned more that “no casket is rich enough, no casing sufficiently durable, to honour and keep safe such a jewel.” Exactly how is it that Lamb comes to consider a piece of writing to be a “jewel” worthy of such ornamental “casing?”

We will not likely have a clear and certain answer to the question of why written works are sorted into categories of high art and low art, or no art at all. What is perhaps more interesting though, as well as being more readily discernable, is what draws people to read the book they choose. For Lamb, we might conclude that his proclivity for fancifully adorned books has a direct correlation with those he chose to read. It should be noted, however, that he also mentions in his disjointed musings on the matter that “the thousand thumbs, that have turned over their pages with delight” are perhaps another intriguing element that might very well draw a reader towards a particular book. There is something to be said for the sheer history of a book (of a certain age) that gives the reader some sense of historical context, beyond that offered by the words that lay within. Such considerations cause Lamb to proffer the inquiries, “Who would have them a whit less soiled? What better condition could we desire to see them in?” And though it is something he simply could not have foreseen, there are many today that might argue that the crispness and ease of use that come with an electronic edition of a book (on a kindle, nook, or iPad) are, indeed, the “better condition” of any corresponding version in tangible form. While I happen to appreciate a book not only for its content, but also for “the sullied leaves, and worn out appearance, nay, the very odour,” I, too, find the case for such practical electronic devices to be a compelling one. The lingering question, which only time can answer for us, is what the “book” will look like in our children’s lifetimes, and those of our children’s children’s.

Recalling the Forgotten: Proust & the Mysteries of Memory

While reading of how a simple cup of tea and a “buttery cookie flavored with lemon zest and shaped like a seashell” immediately and spontaneously flooded Marcel Proust’s mind with an overwhelming sense of joy, the thought occurs: What else can seemingly commonplace occurrences evoke from the depths of our most secluded subconscious? In his article, Marcel Proust: The Method of Memory, Johan Lerer suggests that Proust had a sort of uncanny awareness of the value of introspection, or the psychoanalysis of the self. In mentioning that Proust, unlike his predecessors and contemporaries, invested a significant deal more into thoughts than he did things (a grave critique of his fellow persons of letters), it becomes clear that the mind, in Proust’s opinion, was the truly beautiful and amazing specimen, rather than that which it perceives. Proust’s work “became a celebration of intuition, of all the truths we can know just by lying in bed and quietly thinking.” Yet, while a thorough investigation of the psyche, in a quasi-meditative style, held many secretive riddles to which Proust sought suitable answers, such bedridden philosophical inquiries would prove only so fruitful. Lerer makes note of the work of Brown psychologist Rachel Herz, who, in studying the complexities of Proust’s literature along with the neurological implications of his revelations, found that, indeed, “our senses of smell and taste are uniquely sentimental.” It is no coincidence, then, that Proust should have experienced such an “exquisite pleasure” from such an apparently ordinary snack.

It becomes even more curious when this singular instance in Proust’s life is extrapolated to envelope all of our daily comings and goings. Might we, like Proust, find some deeply hidden, nearly forgotten memory from the taste of a long-avoided food, or from the distinct odor of some place where we have not been in ages? And for that matter, is it not possible that such a revival of sensation and thought might bring us the exact antithesis of “exquisite pleasure,” or any emotional shade of grey falling in between? This presents a rather strange possibility. When one least expects it, he may be immersed in any conceivable emotional state, and without so much as a sign of warning. Proust finds nearly perfect words for the dumbfounding inquiry that strikes at the heart of this phenomenon: “Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has traveled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being?” Just as Proust, himself, cannot provide a definitive response to such a confounding dilemma, is it more likely than not that we, too, will be unable to reach the solace that he does in The Episode of the Madeleine. At least, for his sake, he finally comes to the realization that the root of his joy is derived from the long-lost memories of a cherished aunt. The most haunting element of this discussion seems to be the problem of discerning this origin. Just imagine the mounting frustration of finding such an impetus as Proust’s Madeleine, experiencing its visceral effects, and being yet unable to arrive at the source of your state of heightened emotional response. Such baffling feelings, without any reasonable explanation, might be comparably horrifying to being drugged with a hallucinogen without your express knowledge. Such maddening futile curiosity might well be simply unbearable.

Paying Attention to Attention: The Instructor-Instructee Cognitive Quandary

Attention may well be one of the single most complex elements of human cognition. Like the young pupils described by Maria Edgeworth in her comprehensive study of attention in an educational environment, how, exactly, can any person selectively apply their attention to the plethora of stimuli present throughout our world, and successfully manage to not become desperately overwhelmed by the prospect of retaining or benefiting from any single observation? This perplexing inquiry relates poignantly to the timeless philosophical query of “whether attention was directed voluntarily or involuntarily towards objects and events” (P & J, 4). Through several anecdotes offered on the matter, each one framing the discussion in a slightly different setting, Edgeworth seems to suggest that these are not mutually exclusive options for the mysterious function of attention as it pertains to the larger issue of human cognition. On the one hand, passively strolling through space and time, seemingly oblivious to one’s surroundings, and only occasionally noting peculiar or exceptional instances, and largely by chance, at that, a person could be said to be engaged in involuntarily attention. On the other, a person might be said to be participating in a voluntary use of attention, conscientiously taking in every detail (or as many as possible given the circumstances) with a concerted effort directed towards the accumulation of useful and advantageous discoveries of the world within which we exist. While this may have seemed to philosophers, at some point in human history, as a logical and, furthermore, necessary distinction, it seems to be Edgeworth’s stance on the matter that this divergence in behavior and cognitive activity are more accurately described as stages of one’s educational development, as opposed merely to representing one’s cognitive type or individualism.

In discussing the most appropriate manner with which to educate a student on new material, Edgeworth mentions the important distinction between the perspective of an educator and that of a pupil. One must not forget that a child learning something for the first time is seeing the topic of focus in a fundamentally different way from the instructor who likely knows the contents of the lesson like the back of her hand. As Edgeworth informs us, “we often expect, that those whom we are teaching should know some things intuitively, because these may have been so long known to us that we forget how we learned them” (E, 3). That is not to say that, through time and exposure, our reliance on attention is at all diminished. Nor is it fair to conclude that the student requires the use of any more or less attention than the teacher to accomplish the same task. Rather, the student is simply in a different, and much earlier, stage of applying attention to the task at hand, and, in turn, is also at an infant stage of interpreting the data collected by the attention that has been invested in said task. A teacher may have forgotten how she has come to know so well something so complicated, and she may, as a result, view a student’s difficulty to grasp the subject matter as a failure to apply the requisite attention, but it is, in actuality, the same amount of attention being applied by both parties (assuming a standard of commitment and initiative on behalf of both, but especially on the pupil). It seems to be different, and drastically so at that, due to the simple explanation that repetition, rather than diminishing the necessary attention invested into a given task, simply deceives the practitioner into feeling as though less attention is required. In reality, the same level of attention is applied to the task for both teacher and student, although it has, through innumerable reiteration, become second nature to the educator, while it remains a mystifying puzzle to the pupil, due to an utter lack of contact with the material in question.  

The Futility of Life and Death

In language similarly inaccessible to that used by Keats in his poem When I Have Fears, yet discussing a matter equivalently relatable, as it pertains to the human condition and basic human nature, Margaret Cavendish’s poem, The Circle of the Brain Cannot be Squared, discusses the inherent desire to uncover that, which is fundamentally unknowable. In her own words, she describes the futility of an investigation “for that, which is hardest to find.” For Keats, the topic of discussion is the inevitable demise we all face, a mystery that rests at the end of each of our lives. Yet, for Cavendish, the quagmire being discussed involves the unfathomable inner-workings of the human mind. Cavendish uses several mathematic, and specifically geometric references to characterize the complex notions surrounding the mind and the root of its unattainable functions. It seems as though the “Circle of the Brain,” being the primary representation of how the mind works, is cleverly apt, given the infinite possibilities available to its beholder. In his article, Brain and Mind in the Long Eighteenth Century, C.U.M. Smith elaborates on the many different theories proposed by such noble minds as Plato, Descartes, Newton, and many others, each offering variations as to the medical explanation of the seamless interactions of the mind, soul and body. In what would appear a similarly scientific and geometric characterization of each proposed rationalization, Cavendish uses the imagery of triangles and squares, along with division and subtraction to indicate the implausibility of managing to “Square a Circle round,” or to explain that which is simply unexplainable. So, just as Keats concludes his sonnet with an admission that he cannot escape the scythe of death, it looks as though Cavendish has similarly succumbed to the realization that the mind cannot, and never will, be fully grasped by any of the hard sciences. While we can continue to divide and subtract, to break down elements that we believe to be true in search of answers to the ultimate questions, there is little hope of transforming our limited knowledge of a boundless, circular phenomenon, like the mind, into a rigid, calculated machine-like instrument.