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.