altruism may be even less mysterious than you think

It's strange to think there was once a time when altruism was considered a challenge to the neo-Darwinian synthesis, and how long it took to get the evidence of its basis - like all community/society behaviours - in enlightened self-interest accepted.
But when focusing on human societies, it seems to me, there is no need whatever to chew over the distinction between so-called 'genuine' altruism and its presumed antithesis, sometimes described as "the appearance of", or even "illusion of", 'true' or 'genuine' altruism.
Here we are simply confusing the concept of altruism with the evolved behaviour we describe as altruism ([seemingly] altruistic behaviour). 
But concepts are not nothing: what can be conceived can be acted upon, and therefore made to exist, in fact in a very real sense it exists at the moment of conception. 
It is a religious idea, that is to say it is a religious interpretation of extant data; sociobiological reality reformulated as a religious precept. But we can, if we wish, act in a 'truly' altruistic fashion without pulling down any Darwinian stonework. Our evolved brains now come complete with abstract reasoning, and rational consideration. 
A test case for this may be pet cats and dogs.
Human brain complexity must have evolved from an earlier normality, where immediate survival strategies were its only necessary function. Society - the net result and crucible of altruism in the Darwinian sense - created the environment in which seemingly non-adaptive (except, perhaps, in terms of sexual selection) runaway growth in brain complexity can be accomplished. It is security that is of the essence, and this is what is being repeated in pet animals. It is obvious that dogs and cats are to some extent being selected for intelligence, that is to say for observable signs of companionship, so it would be interesting to see if 'intelligence' has measurably increased among these animals over time. The evidence they give of altruistic responses towards their owners may be an interesting sign of this.
The point is that they are being bred for non-essential brain complexity, and, crucially, in an environment of sealed security, in which no external pressures are able to act as modifiers (more or less).
This is exactly what happened to humans: long before social justice was codified, we had the sense to put up walls and stop the lions getting in. The rest just happened.

singularity is a delusion

Can the concept of personal singularity as a philosophical vantage point ever be defended?
In attempting to redress what it sees as a central error in the Western tradition, Existentialism makes another: the indefensible (or at least undefended) positioning/prioritising of the Self as a fixed (ie: privileged, without license) point in existence/being.
Just as there are no true fixed points, or centrality, in physics - merely 'useful' contingent vantage points relevant to specific enquiry, so our conception of ourselves as discrete individuals is merely a sense impression.
It could be correct, but it is no basis from which to start philosophising, or on which to build a system (even an anti-system).
To say "I am going to die" - a great Existentialist profundity - is really a kind of anthropomorphism of the natural process it references.
All discussion that treats the Self as a discrete unit is an anthropomorphism of the cosmic perspective.
The later Heidegger was on to this, and spotted it as a failing in Being And Time, but he did not see that the same arguments apply to Time as to Being.
Existentialism takes our individual existence, the individuality of our existence, as a given, indeed as the given.
We are here, we are ourselves... what next?
The key issue is perspective: assuming the right of perspective.
The right to perspective is not contingent upon the ability or even the potential to perceive, but it is in the nature of that ability that it prioritises itself.

george c. williams and reductionism

One of the most important lessons we take from George C. Williams is that big problems do not demand big explanations, and that simplicity is not superficiality but merely where complexity ends up when you get to the end of the inductive trail.
Of all the debates within and without evolution to which he usefully contributed, the most obvious being those surrounding the proper place and significance of group, individual and kin selection, and the automatic assumption of 'plan and purpose' that can lead to the misattribution of some examples of beneficiality as selected adaptation, it is the wider issue of 'reductionism' into which these other issues feed that I suspect has the most value to philosophical analysis.

How strange that 'reductionist' was - and perhaps still is - bandied about in some biological quarters as a kind of insult, indicative not of philosophical or analytical rigour but as evidence of a kind of intellectual short-cutting, an unearned simplicity.
This, I believe, is antithetical to the truth of the matter.

the groucho marx theory of creativity

Why do puns seem intellectually satisfying when in reality they are arbitrary linguistic tricks? Why is so much comedy based in the juxtaposition of two ideas or concepts?
Some speculation follows, in the form of an extract from the afterword to my forthcoming book on Groucho. 
(With apologetic thanks to the memory of Colin Wilson for inspiring the title with his 'Laurel & Hardy Theory of Consciousness'!) 
...Elsewhere in this book I suggested that a half-century of the pop-psychoanalytic diagnosing of Groucho has resulted in an essentially fraudulent portrait of his personality, and that viewed through the grown-up prism of evolutionary psychology, rather than from the middle of some dopey Freudian fog, Groucho emerges as we all must: as a human animal, a collision of attributes neither accidental nor pre-destined, nor glibly reducible to the waved wand of morbid influence.
This applies equally to his professional gifts as to his personal quirks. It is remarkable how numerously Groucho possessed those characteristics suggested by evolutionary psychologists as conducive to the creative personality: introversion, antisociality, wide range of interests, independence, rebelliousness, tolerance of ambiguity and tendency to melancholy (to say nothing of Jewishness!)
 I bring up evolutionary psychology and creativity here for a reason. While working on this book, Groucho has been foremost in my mind at all times of the day and night, to a degree that has sometimes become unwelcome. (I have the kind of brain that lacks an off-switch.) But even I was surprised to find myself reminded of him while reading Sarnoff Mednick’s classic 1962 paper The Associative Basis of Creativity. This, surely, was a Groucho too far? Yet the more I considered it, the more apposite the connection seemed.
Mednick’s idea was that creativity is often associated with the ability to make remote associations between discrete ideas. The strongly creative person, presented with any word or concept, is able to rapidly choose from a range of associations, creating a body of associative connections. From this, further thoughts, concepts and associations (and, potentially, innovations) can then emerge. This associative complexity is the well-spring of creativity.
Further, the ability to do so innately and at great speed provides a mechanistic model for the concept of intuitive creative thought, that ability to seemingly ‘find’ rather than build new theories and syntheses in science, new works of music, and ad lib comedy. Now, clearly, remote association of ideas to produce a comic effect is what Groucho, and his most influential writers (Johnstone, Kaufman, Perelman and all) have always done, and what the screen Groucho does. Puns, and the development of wild chains of association that are developed as if logically extending, but which in fact owe their coherency only to some irrelevant factor such as similarity of sound or emphasis, are all features of Groucho’s comic armoury that relate directly to Mednick’s ideas.
 Take a classic Groucho movie line: “Love flies out the door when money comes innuendo.” It is the combination of the spuriousness of the association in the context proposed, as against the obviousness of the association in purely superficial terms (there is no fair connection between what Groucho says and the comment that prompted it besides the accidental similarity of sound between “innuendo” and “in your window”, but the aural similarity is, nonetheless, strong and obvious), plus the speed with which Groucho accesses such remote connections and the confidence with which he volunteers them as a valid contribution to the discussion (i.e. as if it conveyed meaning beyond mere associative correlation linguistically) that creates the comedy. (Additional layers – such as the audacity of Groucho performing such associative feats in social contexts that should demand greater restraint and sobriety - add to the humorous effect.)
 Without this theoretical model, I would find it hard to account for how we distinguish between a good pun and a bad one, since all are equally – that is to say entirely – meaningless on one level, and likewise explicable on another. Rather, what strikes us as so particularly excellent about, for example, the ‘innuendo’ pun is the remoteness of the ‘actual’ connection being accessed, in inverse relation to the clear ‘accuracy’ of its superficial linguistic justification, plus the dexterity and confidence with which it is retrieved and converted into (again superficially) meaningful-seeming discourse. Whereas “better to have loft and lost than never to have loft at all” is a weaker pun because it is less resourceful on these same terms – a vaguer association, and only one syllable, thus ‘easier’ to access. And so we read this as ‘less clever.’
 And this is all happening on two levels: this process is what the humour is based in, and thus why we find it amusing, and it is what the character on screen is actually engaged in the act of doing, and thus why we find him amusing, because we imagine him doing in an actual situation what was in fact contrived in a script.

Groucho also seems to embody the distinction between convergent and divergent thought, as formulated by J.P. Guilford. Convergent thought displays great accuracy: the arrival at a single, correct response. Divergent thought, however, displays creativity: the ability to create a range of responses that display imagination and originality. Thus if presented with some unknown object that clearly performs a function, a highly skilled convergent thinker will sum up its properties and conclude its purpose (through ‘reverse engineering’), but a highly skilled divergent thinker will be able to produce a wide range of hypotheticals, of great variety and invention. Given a commonplace object and asked to display a further use for it, the divergent thinker will produce a range of alternatives in various fields of activity; the convergent thinker will home in on one sensible application of the object.
The three most relevant capacities being tested for variation are fluency (the ability to create the widest range of responses), originality (the ability to create the most novel responses) and flexibility (the ability to propose responses of significantly different kinds). If the object is a hammer, a less divergent thinker may come up with various different ways of making use of its essential purpose, which is to hit things. A more divergent thinker, however, will find a wider array of potential uses that are not all dependent on the same essential function, perhaps making use of its shape, or its weight, or some even remoter property. Both forms of response are useful and inventive, but only the latter is truly creative in a manner that is analogous to generative creativity in arts and sciences.
As with objects and their function, so with any other associative connection. Divergent thinking of great skill, but developed in tandem with an obvious and invalidating absurdity, is another defining ingredient of Marxian comedy. When Chico proposes that a crime in one house might have been committed by the occupants of the house next door, and his response to being told that there is no such house is that they therefore need to build one, he is enacting a kind of runaway parody of divergent thinking. His aim is to solve a crime and his proposed course of action is clearly insupportable of any such purpose, but because its logical thread remains connected to the original idea he ploughs on regardless, and the humour is created by how little he chooses to prioritise against how much to ignore, in order to avoid reversing or changing course.
Groucho does something similar when he suggests a way to get around the possibility that it may not be permitted to build an opera house in Central Park might be to “do it at night when no one is looking.” Again, the merit of a single na├»ve suggestion for addressing a challenge is presumed to outweigh the multiple grievous violations of logic and practical application it then generates in application. For both Groucho and Chico it is the co-existence, within their propositions, of a central overriding absurdity and the logical rigour with which they develop the idea, plus their seeming inability to see how totally the former invalidates the latter, that creates the comic effect.
This is why their respective processes cannot co-exist, and in their onscreen match-ups Groucho is reduced to a position of normality by the wilder reach of Chico’s logic: he is, in effect, out-gunned. The one interesting occasion when this does not at first appear to happen is, in fact, in the earlier example of the ‘house next door’. Groucho’s normal reaction to Chico’s absurdity is frustration, sometimes expressing itself in gestures of physical discomfort and even aggression. When he too latches on to the idea of building another house and the two enthusiastically set to drawing up imaginary plans for it, what we are watching is not convergence but capitulation: Groucho has been consumed within Chico’s logical processes and is no longer performing autonomously at all. That is why Groucho’s response (“Well, now you’re talking – what kind of a house do you think we ought to put up?”) is as effective a laugh line as Chico’s preceding one (“Well, then of course we gotta build one”). We laugh because, just as much as when he reduces Groucho to a shivering wreck of incomprehension or fury, Chico has won again.

Philosophically, this all opens interesting new vistas. Most important of all, it helps suggest a clear intellectual basis to our response to Groucho’s comedy. The chief value of Marxian humour as traditionally postulated is emotional: the vicarious release of instinctive behaviours (and reasoning) denied free expression by social convention. This was its appeal to the Surrealists. (They lauded De Sade for the same reason, after all, almost as if to deliberately flag the possibility they may have somewhat missed the point.) Harpo, too, made oft-quoted comments to the same effect, and indeed it’s a fair-enough partial reading of his own comedy, but not really the essence of the team as a whole. (Some like to the think of the team as composite parts of a single Freudian personality, with Harpo, obviously, as rampant id.)
This ‘soft anarchy’ reading is ultimately self-consuming, as has been argued by the British existentialist (and recipient of one of the most amusing of all the Groucho Letters), Colin Wilson. Freedom of this sort is meaningless unless operating within a wider context of restraint, and relies upon the conformity of others for its existence. As such, as Wilson puts it in the chapter of his A Criminal History of Mankind titled ‘The Disadvantages of Consciousness’:

Humorists who make a virtue of anarchism – the Marx Brothers, Lenny Bruce, Mort Sahl, Spike Milligan - are generally regarded as the comedians of the intellectual, for the man with a sophisticated sense of humour, more daring and therefore funnier than the straightforward clown. (Even T.S. Eliot admired Groucho Marx.) Yet anyone who is slightly over-exposed to this type of humour – say, watching a season of Marx Brothers films on TV – soon becomes aware that its premises will not bear close scrutiny… Refusal to take anything seriously is only funny up to a point; then an odd taste of futility begins to creep in. When Groucho sings ‘Whatever it is, I’m against it’, we only find the sentiment amusing for as long as we fail to think about it. Chaos is refreshing only so long as we can feel that pleasant sense of law and order hovering in the background. 

 This, in effect, was precisely the dilemma Groucho found himself in as youth culture hero in the sixties and seventies: as a rebel-guru in a prevailing climate of rebellion, he surprised himself with his need for the reassurance of an underlying social conservatism, and, in the arts, for aesthetic standards (both moral and structural).
And I have come increasingly to the conclusion that what is funny in the Marxes’ brushes with authority is something altogether subtler. Their attitude is not one of challenge to the prevailing order, still less an indictment of it, but rather of simple disregard. They are not rejecting societal codes so much as exploiting them for their own ends. As I said in my previous book, “they are forces for good inadvertently, because they are first and solely forces for honesty.” Justice, in their purest Paramount form, is never their goal, but an inevitable side-effect of their integrity. They are accidental heroes, oblivious altruists, “bullies who target the strong”.

 Of course, the Marx Brothers have nothing to contribute to the eternal nature/nurture debate, because while it seems remarkable that one family should produce so many brothers with such pronounced gifts (including instinctive musical talent, mathematical talent and let’s not forget Zeppo’s inventiveness with engineering and mechanics) the fact that they shared the same genetic inheritance and the same developmental environment means there is no way to distinguish between the relevance of either factor.
Likewise their Jewishness, though this is a highly relevant factor in creativity studies (the high proportion of Jews in the entertainment field and especially as innovators in comedy is well-known, but recall also their disproportionate presence among Nobel Prize winners). But Jewishness, again, is both a genetic and an environmental endowment, so we come no nearer to knowing which the dog and which the tail. (Personally, I’m a gene man, not because I think the factors usually adjudged environmental are inferior or secondary in their relevance to genetic factors, but because I think in the long run much of what is instinctively placed in the ‘nurture’ column is itself reducible to nature, that is to the outcome of evolved processes. Incidentally, among the many suggested factors contributive to the high creativity rate among Western Jews is the greater than average preponderance of bilingualism in Jewish households, the ability to speak two languages being conducive to the development of remote association skills and thus creativity. It may be recalled here, then, that in addition to English, and however little Hebrew and Yiddish Groucho picked up, he also spoke his mother’s native tongue of German with a confidence and dexterity that surprised many who saw him demonstrate it in his later life.)
 What Groucho and his brothers give us, therefore, is an experience of a quantitatively different sort to that of any other of the great screen comedians. (Qualitative superiority, of course, is a matter for the individual assessor, though I presume little doubt as to where my personal vote is cast.) Their comedy is satisfying not in spite of its nonsensical and iconoclastic nature, and not because of it (in the simplistic sense perceived by the Surrealists). Rather, in its masterly display of complex associative patterns of language and meaning, it impresses the mind intuitively, so that the experience as perceived is as much an emotional as a cerebral one, somewhat in the manner of great music. The ‘meaning’ of both may ultimately be as cold and formal as mathematics, but along the neural pathways of interpretation they travel it is somehow, wonderfully, separated from its meaning-value and diverted into pure transcendence.

lawrence the outsider ~ an interview with colin wilson

Saturday, December 7th, 2013.

The philosopher and writer Colin Wilson died this week at the age of eighty two.
He was an English existentialist in an unforgivingly positivist age, and despite the freak success of his first book The Outsider in 1956, he remained beyond the mainstream of British philosophical thought for the entirety of his professional life.
Nonetheless, for many of us he was the most important British thinker of the 20th century, and his 'New Existentialism' - an attempt to lift phenomenological existentialism free from what he saw as the impasse of Sartrean subjectivity - remains its most interesting body of philosophical work. I predict that his reputation will endure and grow, and if his fate is to be an outsider eternal, a kind of British Kierkegaard - well, there are far worse fates than that.

In one of the most interesting parts of The Outsider Wilson discusses the controversial figure of T.E. Lawrence. It was my introduction to Lawrence as a thinker (rather than a hero), and I still think it is the best short account of the peculiar fascination exerted by Lawrence on like-minds. It's all the more remarkable in its insight for having been written in 1956, when very little high-quality analytic writing on Lawrence was in existence.
In 2002 Wilson made me welcome at his home in Cornwall to discuss his views on Lawrence, and Lawrence’s importance in his own writings. The following is an edited transcript of our conversation.

I mentioned that it was your book that served as my introduction to Lawrence. What was the cause of your interest, and at what age? Did you ever feel any personal sense of identification with Lawrence?

Although I’d often seen Seven Pillars in the library and looked at it, it looked just too big and difficult to get into. Then when I was first married and living in London in 1952 I discovered in North Finchley public library the book The Essential TE Lawrence, and I found that was a much easier way of learning about Lawrence and getting into Lawrence. I’d already, when I was nineteen, started putting together the material that became The Outsider. I’d written a series of short essays on various subjects that interested me: Hemingway, the letters of Van Gogh, Dostoyevsky and various other people. I bound them all together, and that was really the basis of the book. And then when I came across this Essential TE LawrencI saw immediately that he was the kind of person that fitted into my ideas perfectly, another Outsider. By then my first wife had got a two-volume edition of Seven Pillars and so I settled down to reading it. I read it straight through and became fascinated by Lawrence because I could see he was very much my kind of person.

You also mention TE Lawrence By His Friends in The Outsider.

Yes, I didn’t immediately sit down and read everything by and about Lawrence. For years it was Seven Pillars that interested me, and I forget when I got hold of TE Lawrence By His Friends, but again it would have been in the local library, probably when I did a lot of research on Lawrence just before I wrote The Outsider.

I still think The Outsider is the best introduction to Lawrence there is, not just because it says so much in such little space but also because as you yourself write in the book, there was hardly any serious writing on him in existence. There was really only the military biographies – Graves, Liddell Hart and Lowell Thomas – and then of course Aldington’s attempt at character assassination.

Aldington had come out not long before The Outsider and of course enraged me, because he seemed such a fool. He just didn’t understand his subject. Neither, incidentally, did Kingsley Amis in that sneering review he wrote of The Outsider, where he says whatever TE Lawrence may have been as a man he was surely an egregious fraud as a writer. Absolute idiot! And this is why I felt so strongly about this whole Outsider business. Here was something that I could see so clearly – the connection between Lawrence and people like Van Gogh and Dostoyevsky and Nietzsche – and there was this fucking idiot Aldington attacking him and obviously just not understanding what he was all about.

Lawrence’s reputation as a writer has ebbed and flowed over the years. How do you think Seven Pillars and The Mint stand up today purely as books?

I don’t know about The Mint, but Seven Pillars I think is one of the great books of the twentieth century, as Moby Dick and The Brothers Karamazov were of the nineteenth century. Simply one of the very great books.

I want to ask you about Lawrence’s religious attitudes. He is clearly not a religious man, and is deeply disturbed by his mother’s fundamentalism, at the same time he seems to have a strong spiritual, almost mystic sense that is far from unequivocally atheist.

Really great men are never atheists. Shelley, who claimed to be an atheist, uses the word ‘god’ a lot in his later poetry and it’s obvious that in a sense he was reaching out to the universe in the way that Van Gogh was in The Starry Night. Consequently, he is bound to start using concepts like God, even if like Matthew Arnold you define it as something outside ourselves that makes for goodness.

So Lawrence you think had that kind of concept of God?

Well, you only have to read that passage in which he talks about the Arabs standing on the edge of the desert and saying that the cold eddyless wind of the desert is the sweetest smell of all, just the complete lack of any other sort of smell. He’s basically an ascetic. So his attitude is very, very close to being religious, in the same way that Nietzsche’s attitude was. Nietzsche’s not really an atheist at all.
All the great mystics have this same feeling, which even Bertrand Russell expressed once, that there is some enormous, giant, impersonal force that blows through the universe like a tornado. And it’s of course what Lawrence meant: “Not I, but the wind that blows through me.” So none of these people can be called atheists. And as soon as you recognise what we’re talking about; that feeling that we get now and then of something far bigger than ourselves picking us up like a tornado, then I think you realise that it’s no good talking about Lawrence in terms of these categories: was he religious, was he a humanist?

Similar, I suppose, to Thomas Hardy’s view of the world.

Well yes, except that I think Hardy is a fucking idiot too. I can’t stand him; he annoys me.

The pessimism?

Yes, the pessimism. I can’t read him. I can read little bits of him, because he evokes Egdon Heath and this kind of thing so beautifully, and that’s obviously the same kind of thing as Lawrence’s cold, eddyless wind of the desert.

Lawrence almost viewed Hardy as a kind of surrogate father, and may have taken on his ideas in that way. The letters he wrote to Hardy’s wife after Hardy’s death are incredibly touching.

But Lawrence is not pessimistic. He conveys this feeling of channelling something far bigger than himself that just flowed into his work as if he was channelling a river into it. The mystic impulse.

In The Outsider you write, “We have no need to regard his conduct (after the war) as part of a ‘Lawrence enigma’.” You must have known that was a very bold and confident assertion.

I felt very strongly that Lawrence was just completely different from all of the stuff that he was surrounded by, and that it was that simple. That he was an Outsider. This is what stands out in Seven Pillars: the fact that he felt so completely and totally different from all these people, as Outsiders do. And he just felt total alienation. You know Heidegger’s phrase “the triviality of everydayness” seems to me to be the essence of what Outsiders are against. They’re trapped in it, they find themselves being swept along by it, and hate it, and they don’t quite know how to overcome it.

Do you think he embraced the Arab cause because that was the first and best thing that came along?

Well I don’t think he sought out the Arab cause in some way. He was a good archaeologist, because archaeology is about the impersonal which is what interested him. He went out into the desert anyway and therefore was a natural choice as someone to make contact with the Arabs, and he was just tossed into it by history. He didn’t make any kind of choice. What is interesting is what he then succeeded in doing, and the way that he quite unexpectedly showed himself to be a great leader.

His military reputation has always been controversial, even in his own time. Some writers have said he did a lot less than he claimed, others that he did virtually nothing at all.

He did a lot. Allenby instantly recognised a genius and did his best to push him. He knew that this was a man who could, for some weird reason, sweep the Arabs together. I’ve been around Arabia in the footsteps of Lawrence, visited all the sites where he was. And you do get a very strong feeling of the kind of person he was, and why this would have been one of the most fascinating things he had ever done. He was dipping his foot into a way of life that actually satisfied him. Whereas, if the war hadn’t occurred, he would have remained an archaeologist and probably a very good one. He’d have gone on writing about crusader castles and become some kind of an academic. Obviously a genius but deeply, deeply frustrated. The war allowed him a way out of his frustrations, a sense of freedom he could never have imagined finding.

A modern crusade, something he’d always dreamed of, carrying the Morte D’Arthur in his pocket. We know what he saw in the Arabs, but what did they see in him?

It’s very difficult to say. We talked to a lot of Arabs about it, and we talked to an Arab historian who had a very high opinion of him. But it was quite obvious that they found him a bit puzzling. He was an intellectual Outsider, and the Arabs don’t have them! They found him weird. This man who could, when called upon, become a truly great leader of men and yet was so oddly self-effacing and modest, and insecure. Quite content to be Feisal’s chief adviser.

And fundamentally divided, which must have baffled them. He says how he admired their simplicity and the clarity of their outlook, with a certain envy I should think.

As you’ve said, some of the Arabs have decided that he wasn’t all that great, that what he did was quite interesting but it could have been done by a lot of other people. I don’t think that’s true. I think it was done by Lawrence because he was Lawrence. In fact, my feeling is that Lowell Thomas wasn’t all that wrong. He was basically correct about how Lawrence was able to exert such an influence over the Arabs. They recognised a sense of purity in him, a kind of obsessive purity like their own. And also, of course, a stronger will. What interested Lawrence was the fact that his will was stronger than those of his Arab comrades.

Which was one of his key obsessions. He talks about, even in his Oxford days, living on a diet of virtually nothing, and making himself stay up all night and so on. Constantly testing his stamina and will. So he’s found a perfect outlet for that, also in the desert he is satisfying his obsession with cleanness and a Spartan lifestyle.

Yes, absolutely. And what you have to recognise about Lawrence is that he was a member of the dominant five per-cent. Shaw knew about the dominant five per-cent. Shaw had said to the explorer HM Stanley: ‘How many people in your party would be competent to take over if you fell ill?’ And Stanley shot back: ‘One in twenty’. That was in 1900. Robert Ardrey told me he’d seen the same thing during the Korean War. There were no escapes by American prisoners because the Chinese had watched the Americans very carefully, separated out those who were dominant, who could lead and inspire, and they were exactly five per-cent. Now, Lawrence was a member of the five per-cent. In fact he was more than that, because every foreman and every sergeant in the army is a member of the five per-cent. He was of that very small number, that also includes the Hitlers and the Stalins and the Nietzsches, who are more like the dominant 0.005 per-cent! Simply one of those very, very rare and remarkable personalities.
Try to think: what would have happened to someone like Henry Irving, who had been a bank clerk for years, and then went to the theatre and decided he wanted to be an actor, and even then spent something like fifteen or twenty years unknown, until he came to London, and the real Henry Irving exploded out of him. But suppose he’d stayed in the bank. He’d have been so frustrated he’d probably have died of cancer and never known why he felt so unfulfilled all of his life. It’s the lack of understanding of oneself, and Lawrence was the same. He found his outlet in the Arab revolt, but never found anything to replace it.
My own motives were simpler. I was working class, and my only desire was to get out of this boring working class background, and the sheer futility of working class life. That’s what I was escaping from. It wasn’t a question of having a goal to move towards, though I’d been interested in science since the age of ten. It was a question of wanting to get away from something: the sheer bloody boredom. Now, Lawrence didn’t have that, and it’s sad in a sense that he didn’t. He never gained the sort of fierce determination that I gained, via my hatred of my background. You know, why did DH Lawrence create so much more than TE Lawrence? Because he had a far greater forward drive, from trying to flee his awful working class background.

Do you think the John Bruce revelations enhance or distract from a fair and coherent understanding of Lawrence?

In my book The Misfits I talk about it as being very important. I think Lawrence was a classic masochist, God knows why. He may have been flogged at school or whatever.

I think his mother used to beat him as a child.

And obviously this thing about his being a bastard worried him like mad. So for some reason he had retreated into an attitude of humiliation, which is quite easy to do if like Lawrence you are born into the upper strata. Much more difficult for me as a working class person. You just struggle along and you are used to all the people around you struggling along, and therefore you don’t get yourself into this state in which you begin to feel humiliated. A friend of mine pointed out the other day the immense significance of childhood humiliation in the histories of serial killers. It has a terrific explosive effect, and I think that this was probably inside Lawrence and explains a lot about him. On the other hand, this thing which I am speaking about, the fascination with the impersonal – “not I but the wind that blows through me” – this is something that applies to all men of genius. Read Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind. He’s obviously talking about that. Lawrence, in so far as he was able to get on top of his fairly small phobias, was a pretty good mind. The kind of person I would have enjoyed knowing. I asked Robert Graves about him, but he was pretty cagey about him unfortunately.

You say that Lawrence “lacked the healthy conceit of the man of genius”. This is something that the Aldingtons of the world would disagree with, and even Lawrence’s friends, like Shaw. What exactly are you saying here?

Well actually I’m saying something rather different. When The Outsider came out and I tended to get a lot of publicity, my attitude towards publicity was very ambivalent. If you’re unknown, and suddenly you’re getting publicity, you can’t help feeling: “let it rip, why not? It can’t do me any harm.” Of course, in fact, it did do me a lot of harm. But that is the basic feeling. Now, Lawrence had been unknown all his life, and suddenly with the Lowell Thomas lectures became famous, and he rather enjoyed what you and I would probably enjoy doing; turning up at the theatre and hearing people whisper as they recognised him. You know, backing into the limelight as the phrase goes. We all have the basic need for a certain amount of self-esteem, and self-esteem is fed by the liking and the respect of other people. Now, as Shaw said, until a person has had enough attention, and is absolutely overflowing with it, he’s not really going to have a sense of latitude towards it. It’s like water on parched ground, it’s got to soak and soak until the ground is saturated. And that’s what happened to Lawrence, by which time it was too late. Did you say Shaw felt Lawrence was conceited?

Well, he said something like “What is your game really, Lawrence?” As if Lawrence was feigning certain characteristics so as to disguise others.

And Lawrence must have looked at Shaw with mild astonishment, and thought if someone as brilliant and intelligent as Shaw doesn’t understand nobody ever will! Because in that sense Lawrence didn’t really have a game. What Shaw didn’t know about was Lawrence’s background and his upbringing and whatever brought him to the state he was in at that time, but above all his Outsiderism. And the revulsion against the world he felt after what he thought to be his betrayal of the Arabs. 

So you don’t share the view of some writers that Lawrence was never unaware of the terms of the Sykes-Picot agreement?

No, I think he found it out later, and was furious. And that’s the reason that he went to the Paris Peace conference: to do his best to try and alter things. But of course it was too late. Although actually Feisal did eventually get his position, and this was probably in large part due to Lawrence’s arm-twisting.

Did Lawrence enlist in the ranks after the war in the same spirit of revulsion, or were there deeper psychological motives?

It would be a great mistake to underestimate the extent to which Lawrence was a 'monk'. I think this was very deep in him, that sort of mysticism. Having been through all this myself in my teens, having been fascinated by the mystics, this meant an enormous amount to me before The Outsider came out. When I first met my wife, I said it’s quite likely that I’m going to disappear into a monastery one day, so don’t count too much on me as a permanent husband!

You talk in your autobiography about the idea of a community of artists and writers living together in a monastic sort of way.

That’s right. Yeats was the first one to really think about that. Yeats wasn’t all that much older than Lawrence, and Lawrence was full of this kind of thing. This feeling that it ought to be possible to create a completely different kind of world. Yeats’s father said that Ruskin had told him that every day as he walked to the British Museum, he saw the faces of the people becoming more and more corrupt. So there’s this sharp division that people like that make between this world that we live in and the ideal. Heidegger started off like that, hating everything to do with technological civilisation, a totally Yeatsian romantic. Now, when you’ve got someone like Lawrence, here is someone totally cut off from his time. Had he been living in the middle ages, he would like to go into a monastery. But he’s not living in the middle ages, he’s living in the twentieth century, so what does he do? He shows contempt for civilisation by entering the army and the air force at the lowest level.

But he must have known that he wasn’t going to live a terribly monastic life there.

But he was also a masochist, and therefore to some extent he was rather enjoying the degradation of that life. 

He talks very unsparingly in The Mint about how alien barrack-room life is to him, and how much it disgusts him, yet it attracts him at the same time.

I think he’s saying what any monk might say: what I wanted was God, what I’ve got is a lot of fucking monks! What the world’s million lips are searching for just doesn’t seem to be around. And also, another interesting thing is that one of Lawrence’s favourite novels is a novel by Algernon Blackwood, I think it’s called The Satire, which is worth reading because it’s one of those really 1890’s kind of novels about a longing for nature and the natural existence. And Lawrence thought this was a very great novel, which tells you a lot. I can’t read the thing; it’s so full of purple prose that you can’t stand it. But it appealed very deeply to Lawrence because he could see what Blackwood was expressing. Lawrence didn’t mind the overblown Romantic language because he was closer to the Romantics than we are.

Seven Pillars is often criticised for having an overblown style. Lawrence himself, I think, thought the book failed in its style, and part of the reason why The Mint is so bare was in reaction against that.

I don’t find Seven Pillars overblown. That’s an Aldington-type accusation. It reminds me of Shaw’s Heartbreak House, where Hector says there’s a basic enmity between their seed and ours, and I think it’s Shotover who says: well, they don’t do us any harm. And he says, on the contrary: the very fact that the bastards are there kills our aspirations before they’re born. And they have confidence in themselves, when we have confidence in ourselves we shall kill them! This explosion of TE Lawrence-type stuff.

There’s a full-length portrait of Lawrence in Shaw’s Too True To Be Good.

Yes, it’s rather amusing. The later plays of Shaw, of course, are sort of tossed together, so you can’t really take them terribly seriously, but it’s worth looking at. The Lawrence character is asked why he got rid of his rank, and he says ‘well, it bored me’. So it really does tell you something about Lawrence.

Would he have liked it?

Oh I should think he was probably quite flattered to be put into a Shaw play.

One of the most hotly contested episodes in Lawrence’s story is the assault at Deraa. What do you think happened?

He told Mrs Shaw that he did allow this man to bugger him. I think almost certainly what happened was that he was badly beaten, though those marks on his backs may well have been due to some other masochistic episode. And you’ll notice that he comments on a “probably sexual” sensation.

Yes, extraordinarily forthright.

He was probably sure that nobody would understand it. In all probability, we just don’t understand enough about Lawrence and about what made him a masochist. I mean, I can’t understand the idea of taking pleasure in being beaten. 

But it certainly wouldn’t make sense to say that it started there, that the later masochistic episodes are in some way attributable to whatever happened at Deraa.

No, it would have been deeply ingrained. I think that if he was beaten as a child then it may well have been a case like Swinburne, who developed his masochism very early on. You’ll find all that in The Misfits. But I don’t understand masochism any more than I understand sadism. Powys claims that he was a sadist from a very early age. He went past a window once on a train, and saw a woman raising something to hit her daughter with, and he experienced an intense sexual thrill as he went past. I can’t imagine experiencing a sexual thrill at that.
And also, don’t forget that it’s all about frustration. My wife once said, as she was looking at dirty Blackpool postcards, ‘it’s all about frustration, isn’t it?’ And she put her finger on it exactly. And Powys, and all his obsession with these sweet girls on the beach showing their ankles, that’s all frustration. And Lawrence and his masochism; that’s all frustration.

Is that a universal malaise or a distinctively British one?

They used to call flagellation le vice anglais in France. I’ve often wondered why the British have always had this peculiar thing based on frustration. If you’ve been brought up in England you can sort of understand it. Particularly if like me you were born in the early nineteen-thirties and can remember what a working class childhood was like then. DH Lawrence remarked on the prudery of the working classes. You’d imagine that the working classes would be less prudish, you think of the Victorian age, and Whitechapel brothers and sisters sleeping together and getting up to an enormous amount of shagging. In point of fact, in the world I was brought up in there was incredible prudishness. You didn’t take off your clothes if your brother or any member of your family was around.

You talk of Lawrence’s ‘mind suicide’ and discuss his death as somehow inevitable. You are presumably aware that there are all manner of crackpot theories about Lawrence committing suicide or being murdered or not dying at all and the whole thing being faked. I assume you don’t subscribe to any of them.

No, no, not for a second. We know that he was off to send a telegram to Henry Williamson about going to meet Hitler. He was going too fast as usual, saw an errand boy and swerved, and that was the end of him.

So he was consciously risking death, courting death, but not actually seeking it.

I don’t know about ‘courting death’. He was in a hurry to get to the post office.

But he often spoke of his obsession with speed and how it would probably kill him eventually.

Well don’t forget we’re once again talking about the cold, eddyless wind of the desert. When you’re whizzing along at ninety miles an hour on a motorbike, once again you get this sort of heightened consciousness, heightened vitality. That was when he felt alive. He didn’t want it to kill him; he just knew that it might.

While we’re on crackpot theories, you mention in one of your books a book that purports to be psychic communications from Lawrence from beyond the grave.

Yes, it's shit! I’ve got it downstairs but I don’t take it very seriously. It’s by some lady who claimed to be in touch with Lawrence’s spirit. I’ve got another one by some lady who claimed to be in touch with the spirit of HG Wells and it doesn’t sound in the least like HG Wells.

Yes, I’ve got one called Psychic Messages From Oscar Wilde. Presumably it was quite a popular little genre at the time.

I can dig it out for you; I know where it is. But I’ve only ever glanced at it and then threw it down. I don’t know what it’s about, really. I didn’t go deeply enough into it to find out. It just didn’t interest me.

Will Lawrence be remembered in a hundred years time, and if so will it be as a literary figure, as a military hero or as an enigmatic personality?

Well, he’ll be remembered all right, because he was one of the great men of the twentieth century. And he’ll be remembered as the author of Seven Pillars. No doubt whatever about that. And probably military historians will be very interested in what he did.

In Alien Dawn you nominate John Mack’s A Prince Of Our Disorder as the best book ever written on Lawrence. What are the qualities that you think this book possesses that the others lack?

Simply that I hadn’t read a book on Lawrence for years until I picked up John’s book, and I immediately saw that it had real insight in a way that none of the books I read when I was writing The Outsider did have. They all seemed to miss the point. How far John was influenced by me I don’t know.

Some critics have said that it skirts too lightly over Lawrence’s compulsions, and gives him the benefit of too many doubts.

Well, as I said, it seems to me that the Lawrence problem is immensely simple. Recognise that he was basically a kind of monk, and that therefore he felt a revulsion against the world, and you have all the information you need. Some monks enjoyed flogging themselves with whips with nails stuck in them and all the rest of it, and they probably got a sexual thing out of it too. The same thing goes for St Theresa of Avilla talking about Jesus as the bridegroom, and so on. God knows how many nuns had orgasms thinking about ‘the bridegroom’. There’s a close connection between religious and sexual energy.

So in the final analysis, then, you think Lawrence didn’t know himself, rather than, as some suggest, he knew himself too well.

He didn’t know himself at all! In The Outsider I quote an old schoolteacher looking at Lawrence and saying that he is one of the most powerful men he has ever come across, but he does not know who he is. He never experienced that feeling of being totally carried away that Shelley felt when writing Ode to the West Wind and so on. Lawrence only felt that travelling at ninety miles an hour on a motorbike. And that’s what killed the poor devil off.

(a slightly less sweary version of this interview was first published in Abraxas Unbound)

determinism ~ 6.) determinism and the non-existence of time

Anyone who stops and really thinks about our commonsensical notions of time can instantly see that the idea is a troublesome one, that out instinctive sense of it as a directional river is fraught with logical inconsistencies that simply don’t appear to us in our everyday sensations.

The Einsteinean revelation that time is not absolute was the first hint that all was not as it seemed with this most instinctive of concepts, and there is some thrilling recent theoretical work that proposes alternative explanations for entropic progression that do not demand the existence of linear time.
Of all counter-intuitive realities, few are harder to swallow - but so many philosophical problems and paradoxes are smoothed away by it.
Time does not exist, just as Plato always said.

That time in fact makes no sense at all is easily shown by the fact that the notion of it beginning is seemingly as absurd as the notion of it not beginning.
It is a logical commonplace that temporal infinity is impossible, because it would mean that the past stretches as far back as the future stretches ahead, thus 'now' can never have occurred, and you and I could never have been born. But the idea of time starting somewhere is equally absurd because it posits the very thing it prohibits - a time before time.

What this profound mystery really tells us, I suspect, is something not mysterious at all, but perhaps a little deflating to the ego.
What I think we have here is a problem of brains, not of reality. Our brains evolved for various mundane Darwinian reasons, and the ability to ponder the mystery of time is presumably an accidental bonus of selection for some other feature. There is no reason to think our brains are capable of grasping everything: here, I think, is an example of where our brains end as reasoning machines; trying to grapple with the problem feels like the brain banging against the inside of the skull.

What does the non-existence of time mean for determinism?
It makes it fundamentally less mysterious, and also less occult. It robs the term of any unwanted connotations of fate and predestination; there ceases to be anything predictive about it because there is no longer any future for it to predict: a better name than 'determinism', therefore, might be 'concurrence'.
According to the most persuasive theories I have read, the illusion of linear progress is caused not by sequentialism but by consciousness's 'choice' of existent states, for not only do all perceived 'moments' of time (the supposed past, present and future) exist simultaneously, but so too do all possible moments.
So our 'futures' are 'determined', but from an infinite choice of possibilities, with various causal factors influencing the selection. This is neither quite determinism as it is intuitively defined, nor free will as it is intuitively defined. It is both, and neither.
It is, I think, the true model of Dasein.

determinism (intermezzo) ~ a thing is the sum of its characteristics

I have laboured the point that if a deterministic model for 'the illusion of free will' accounts for exactly the same experiences and impressions as does the concept of 'truly' free will, then the conflict between the two is purely definitional, with nothing whatever to say about practical outcomes or therefore 'reality'.

An example will explain this further.
As a forgivably young child, I was much seduced by paranormalism, and can remember an argument I had with my sceptical father. The issue was Uri Geller, and his asserted ability to bend steel.
My father said that Geller must be a fraud because steel does not bend as a result of mental energy.
I said that I could not say for definite what strange powers this man Geller may or may not possess. How can we be so sure that because we cannot do a thing that appears magical to us, that therefore nobody else in the world can do it? The world is full of exceptional people with abilities that appear impossible to us because they are so far beyond our own capabilities. Why can't Geller be an extreme example of such a person?
He was right and I was wrong, not because of any assumptions I had made about Geller but because of an assumption I had made about steel: I was treating it as something that had no claims to definitional uniqueness.
My father's position had nothing whatever to do with Geller. He was not saying anything about human potential at all. As a structural engineer, he was rightly concerned with steel.

In saying what seemed infuriatingly closed to me at the time - steel does not bend with mental energy - he was saying something massively important about the world and the objects it contains.
We tend to think of an object's properties as incidental to it, 'defining' in the soft sense of being aids to its identification. If we were playing the game 'animal, vegetable, mineral', one could eventually find the answer 'steel' once one had established enough of the defining characteristics of steel - texture, colour, composition, strength, and so on indefinitely. But this makes definitional properties sound like something an object carries around with it in a bag.
What my father was saying, then, was that steel cannot bend with mental energy not because the issue of what minds can and cannot do is certain and beyond revision but because one of the defining characteristics of steel is that it cannot be affected in such a way, because if it were it would no longer be steel at all. It would literally in that moment of transformation be something else.

Steel structures rarely melt, because they are rarely subjected to the preconditions - sufficiently intense heat - necessary to bring about that change in their essential structure. But it is accepted that it can happen; it is therefore a definitional property of steel.
And sometimes objects are shown to have entirely unforeseen properties and characteristics, as for instance when radiation, lead or asbestos were belatedly seen to be toxic. This was not at first understood to be a defining property of those objects; now it is.
But it does not follow from this that all kinds of other things that we do not see steel or other objects as doing, or qualities that we do not detect them as possessing, are equally possible.
The definitional bedrock upon which the concept of steel exists as a discrete entity in the world precludes its ability to bend with mental power; in other words, an object is as much defined by what it is not and cannot do as by what it is and can.
Defining characteristics are the essence of a thing, they are what a thing is, they are how we tell one thing from another. Steel that acts in violation of a defining characteristic of steel is not steel but something else. Therefore, it matters not how Geller differs from us, all that matters is what is certain about steel. You cannot bend it by rubbing it, or looking at it in a spooky way.
Steel is not a thing, pre-existing in its pristine, essential steelness, that also has a set of characteristics. It is a set of characteristics. The characteristics, in combination, are steel.
Steel is steel.

We can apply that reasoning to experience just as easily as to material objects. Consciousness is consciousness, whether it is God-given or purely mechanistic.
And free will is not a thing in the world that we happen to have access to, that we make use of in the way that we make use of a bicycle, as an aid to getting around in the world. It is an experience, an impression, a sensation. It is the sum of its characteristics, not of material characteristics but of the characteristics of experience that it presents to us.
If determinism is understood merely as an alternative model for accounting for those experiences it can be seen that the net result is still 'free will' as understood. Determinism is not an alternative outcome, as alleged, but an alternative means of accounting for the same outcome.
The division between determinism (crudely characterised as a kind of uncomprehending roboticism, like the fake consciousness experiences of the 'replicants' in the film Blade Runner) and freedom is false: the first is a means, the second an end.
The true division is between determinism (materialism) and immaterialism as an explanation for free will, correctly defined not as a thing in the world but as a perception we experience.

determinism ~ 5.) practical outcomes

The psychological problem we seem to have with the deterministic model of existence, which is just a way of saying the unification of human experience with all other laws of existence, is analogous to the question of God.
One of the most central yet rarely identified mysteries inherent in the conflict between religion and atheism as competing worldviews is why it should be that people are so troubled by variant explanations for the same thing.

After all, one is definitely wrong, and one at most can be true. (Or all can be wrong.) But they are all only accounts. The thing, and our experience of it, remain constant. Neither account can take anything away from the other’s experience of the world.
Each may succeed or fail to describe the universe exactly as it appears to the other, but such is their definite aim. So if both theories claim to end in exactly the same universe, why the passion?

Atheistic Darwinism and theism are different answers to the same riddle: how to account for the sensations of purpose and meaning.
What does Darwinism lack that God possesses? How do they differ? Why is Darwinism not simply another name for God, both synonyms for ‘the thing that makes existence work’?
It is, of course, the idea of personality.
Darwinism is mechanistic, unthinking, a process. God is a being who decides to do things and does them.
So the difference is really only in the small print: religion accounts for (the fact of) purpose and meaning, Darwinism accounts for (the illusion of) purpose and meaning.
But the purpose and meaning we experience is unchanged whichever you believe.

The only route out of this impasse that I can see, whereby mechanism and true unpredictability can be reconciled, comes at the cost of accepting an even more unsettling notion: the abandonment of time as a concept.

determinism ~ 4.) causation and complexity

Hume shows that causation can only ever be deemed a likely explanation for adjacent processes; it can never be proved.
It seems to us that striking a match causes a fire, because we know why it does and because the one effect follows the other action every time. Except it doesn't, of course, because it hasn't happened 'every time' yet. There remain an infinite number of times matches can be struck, and thus the ever-present possibility that our informed guess will be proved wrong.
But of course, Hume was not actually trying to disprove causation! Just as religious propagandists seize upon academic disputes within evolutionary theory to support the false claim that evolution itself is 'a theory in crisis', so advocates of paranormalism and exceptionalist phenomena cite Hume's dismantling of causation as support for a disordered, anything-goes universe.
One great philosophical service determinism performs is to put the rug back under causation: not only is the fire caused by the match striking but the match striking is caused by the decision to do so, and all of these things form part of a single network of causal processes stretching back to the beginning of existence.

Richard Dawkins was asked about determinism and free will and replied "I take refuge in complexity."
In other words, there has to come a point when causal mechanism becomes so complex that it becomes indistinguishable from discrete, spontaneously created, sequential occurrences and activity to even the most complex of observing intelligences, and at that point the debate becomes a meaningless one about terminology alone.
Positing a determinist view of mental existence and human agency need not demand any change in what we experience, merely in how we define it.
So in a profound sense, nothing has been taken away from existence.
What we are differing on is what we choose to call a phenomenon that we both experience in exactly the same way.

It is wrong, therefore, to say that purely mechanistic processes can account for 'the illusion of free will', because the word 'illusion' seems immediately to downgrade the quality, the 'reality' in a sense, of what is experienced as free will.
It is better to say that purely mechanistic processes are enough to account for free will exactly as you experience it.
Because that's all we really mean when we say 'free will': the sense of free will exactly as we experience it.

What practical difference is there between 'truly' free will and 'the illusion of' free will if the illusion of free will has all the characteristics by which 'truly' free will is defined? Indeed what, in such a context, can 'true' or 'illusion' possibly mean?
How is anything ultimately determined if not by the sum of its characteristics and effects?

Here we really have come across a major philosophical dispute that comes down ultimately to the use/misuse of language, and the imprecision of categories and concepts. For this is going further than merely saying, as Dawkins appears to mean, that there is no practical difference between unimaginably complex determinism and 'true' freedom of choice.
It is to say the two are literally the same thing. Both terms describe exactly the same impressions and experiences.

All that we are required to accept is that way, way back at the beginning of time, our mental experiences (in common with everything else in the universe) were caused.
If we believe otherwise - and assert, therefore, that we are different from everything else in the universe (and the implication is qualitatively rather than quantitatively so) - it is almost certainly because that's the way we want it to be.
This may be because it is the natural and instinctive way for any thinking entity to construct its sense of self.
Or it may be a rational conclusion, born of the fear that the alternative would rob us of dignity and meaning. This somewhat egocentric cosmology is usually supported with recourse to gods and divine sparks.

But how can determinism as I have formulated it possibly cheapen and degrade human experience?
I am not inviting you to some new future world where all our thoughts and actions are pre-determined by purely physical processes. I am saying they already are. I am saying: this is the world, the mental and the physical environment, in which you have always lived. So everything you experience in the future will be experienced just as it was in the past. Nothing will change.
You will feel the same, you will behave the same, and the sun will still rise in the morning because that's caused too.

It is the old fear of unweaving the rainbow, and this is the biggest, brightest, most sacred rainbow left in the sky.
But accepting determinism simply means acknowledging that the working of the brain, like the tide, is subject to chains of causation. This chain is so inconceivably long, so unimaginably complex, and composed of so many links that even vague comprehension of its pattern is literally impossible. No outcome can be predicted, no matter what position on the chain you start from.

This, surely, is to reconcile free will and determinism to the satisfaction of either's adherents. Far from incompatible, they are indistinguishable.
I say that human agency is determined by a mechanistic causality completely unknowable by human intellect, and that we have a name for this complete unknowability - we call it free will. It may not be 'true' freedom (whatever that means) but it's close enough to make the argument obsolete.

determinism ~ 3.) the coin toss fallacy as a model for determined freedom

Let us be clear that nothing in the natural world is undetermined.
You may wish to make a special case for the workings of your brain, but we'll clear up everything else in the universe before tackling that.

Nothing is uncaused, or is free to act in denial or avoidance of the effect of all other actions and processes with which it is existentially linked.
Take any example of a seemingly unpredictable event. How about a coin toss? The likelihood of a tossed coin landing either heads or tails side up is a virtual synonym for true unpredictability.
But we need to make an important distinction. We use the coin-toss as a means of deciding a course of action, on the grounds that we cannot guess how it will land, and it is as likely to be one way as the other.
But that does not mean it is literally undecided.
It is decided absolutely - from the second the coin leaves your hand, and even before that.
It was decided before coins were ever invented.
We don't know which way it will land, but that does not mean that it could land either way.
The likelihood of how it will land pre-toss is fifty-fifty, our ability to guess is fifty-fifty, but the toss itself is a process like any other.
There can be only one outcome every time the act is performed, and that outcome is determined by the toss itself (and other environmental factors operating upon the coin), which are themselves determined by a previous set of influences and constraints, which were themselves determined, and so on, and so on, all the way back to the First Ever Thing.

So it is possible in theory if not practice to work out what that outcome will be before the coin was even minted.
It is easy to list the most obvious and superficial factors influencing the outcome: who is doing the tossing, with what force, exact height and strength of the toss, where in the world, etc etc.
The important point is that the causal chain is too subtle and complex to be comprehensible to us, thus the act of tossing the coin is a good practical way of deciding between potential courses - but its outcome is predetermined for all that, as therefore might be the course it is supposedly deciding upon.

The brain, it seems to me, is exactly analogous with the coin.
What we experience as free will and personality is in truth the overwhelming complexity and intricacy of the causal processes by which mental experience is created. So dense and numerous are they that what we feel is the experience of absolute freedom of choice.

The only way you can possibly deny this, it seems to me, is by denying causation itself.

determinism ~ 2.) proposed reconciliation of determinism and free will

All things that happen are part of a causal chain starting from first principles and mushrooming out to the unbelievable complexity of life on earth.
Humans, as much as any other constituent of this profusion, are 'things that happen'.
It follows, then, that the course and development of this causal river can theoretically be worked out mathematically, and that all processes on earth, including personality, human decision and the workings of the brain generally, are likewise determined and (theoretically) predictable.

This appears to deny the existence of free will, and to set up a directly oppositional stance towards it that has repercussions all over; in the conflict between religion and science, for example, and in ethics and epistemology generally.

There are some very good arguments for determinism as opposed to free will, and some fairly good ones for free will as opposed to determinism. But I am proposing neither. Instead I am attempting a middle course: I want to prove that free will and determinism are two names for the exact same thing, and the friction between them, however real it may seem to their respective advocates, is a spurious one that basically comes down to use of language.

I am not here proposing a model of Consilience, nor attempting to bypass enquiry with a kind of complacent pop-Positivism.
Nonetheless, rightly wary as we should be of the relegation of all philosophical enquiry to debate about the linguistic assumptions and underpinnings of scientific enquiry, it is surely inarguable that genuine confusion can result from the imprecise or variant use of terms and concepts.
Just such a confusion has occurred here, with the religious sense and man's broader fear of spiritual and evolutionary relegation muddying the waters still further.

determinism ~ 1.) fears and misconceptions

I believe that given sufficient resources, scientific method could accurately predict the future.
The resources are not there because humans are machines of such incredible complexity that a theorem or a program sophisticated enough to account for all relevant determining factors is presently beyond even imagining.
But this is a practical limitation, not a theoretical one.

I do believe that humans are machines, and that behaviour is basically mechanics, and that free will is, in a strictly literal sense, illusory.

Resistance to such an idea, especially when so baldly expressed, comes from all fronts, from commonsensical empiricism, from wounded political thinkers, and from those who fear correctly that the general adoption of such a belief would be interpreted as a licence to wallow in apathy and pessimism.
I sympathise greatly with the latter position: but I still feel that whether or not it is generally adopted, and if so whether or not its general adoption will have the kind of effects we envisage, is already determined.

But that doesn’t mean that anything need change. Our general perception of phenomena has no effect on the phenomena themselves, which go their happy way utterly unchanged by however we choose to understand or misunderstand them.
So obviously if the universe is determined then it has always been determined, and if the free will model ever worked it will still work.

The notion of free will, though false, is still a perfectly adequate one so far as it goes, as a model for explaining our interrelation with other objects and existents in a multi-dimensional universe.
When Newtonian mechanics was first shown to not be universally infallible it didn’t mean it is was suddenly going to start letting you down in the areas where it had always held good.

So too with free will: it's an illusion, but if it always was then there is no need to abandon it up to the point where it still works.

knowledge, perception and supposition

Perception and knowledge are different, of course, but which is the most real?
Knowledge seems the obvious answer, but perception is the raw material of existence, which is why knowledge tends to lag behind instinct and first impressions, and why its intrusions are often resented.

When we look at the night sky, we know that the stars we see are an almost unimaginably vast distance away, and their charming twinkle is fuelled by savagely violent nuclear fusion reactions. But that is not what we actually see. Our ancestors looked at the stars and saw tiny lights, almost touchably near, spread across a dark blanket in the sky. And so do we. We know differently, but we still perceive the same.
The theistic worldview comes under the same category; it is a perfectly reasonable first guess at the how and why of existence. But for largely incidental emotional and political reasons, it has endured while all other pre-scientific accounts and explanations have fallen away in the light of empirical data and reasoning. Despite its enormous simplicity, which makes its internal fallacies and inconsistencies incredibly easy to identify, an evermore sophisticated body of explication has built up around it, not to genuinely illustrate its accuracy, but to shore its defences against falsification, simply because of the writer's emotional attachment to it.

Historian Paul Johnson puts the case for it thus:

(Of) possible explanations of life-time-space-and-everything-else… only one in the end makes sense. First, there is simple materialism. This, as I say, provides a bleak and totally unattractive picture of what it is all about; notably by eliminating the moral content of life altogether. If it came to be generally accepted, which is highly unlikely, then the future of the human race would indeed be nasty, brutish and short. However, it cannot be accepted by intelligent people who trouble to work out its implications, not least because it doesn’t solve the time problem. It is possible work out how life on earth will end, and how our own portion of the universe will end or even how the universe as a whole will end. But then the inevitable question arises: what happens afterwards? To this, there is no possible answer, so as an explanation of existence the materialist theory is hopelessly incomplete.
To put the problem the other way round is equally baffling. How did the universe begin?… The Bang may be a neat explanation of how the universe came into being, but it immediately raises the question: who or what detonated the Bang? And what was there before the Bang? There are no present answers to these questions, and it is hard to see how there ever can be, so long as you rule out God… Moreover, this theory can only be demonstrated mathematically. I can no more be confirmed by observation than the story of the Old and New Testaments…
The only explanation which makes sense, it seems to me, is that time, and all that it embraces, including the universe, is a projection of God’s imagination… The only ‘fact’ is the imaginative deity and this fact is spiritual not material, existing outside space and time and therefore not definable by any words we can use.

This is a good, robust philosophical defence of the theistic position.
My first objection, however, is to Johnson's claim that a materialist position does not “make sense”, but only on the grounds that it is “bleak and totally unattractive”.
The latter may be true but it says nothing whatever about whether it makes sense, unless we are presupposing that the universe has our interests at heart: the very proposition we are testing.
Johnson then goes on to say that it is inadequate because it does not answer important questions about time, telling us that the Big Bang does not make an acceptable ultimate cause of existence because it cannot explain what happened ‘before’.
There are two objections to this. One is the obvious one: that exactly the same can be said of God: who or what created him, what was it like before he showed up, etc. Neither theory is knocked down by such questioning: it reveals only the current limits of our knowledge, or perhaps the permanent limits of our reasoning capabilities.
The same goes for the objection that the Big Bang cannot be proved by observation. This is axiomatic. But neither can the existence of God. Or rather, and more tellingly, it can be but hasn’t been. And the whole concept of time, even divorced from such ultimate questions, is simply far more strange and complicated than Johnson allows. (This is something I will discuss at length in forthcoming posts.)

Nothing here has been proved or disproved. We’ve merely said something pretty basic about the limits of obtaining definite knowledge of anything.
Neither is any theory invalidated by incompleteness, as Johnson proposes. Clearly, an incomplete theory is not necessarily a wrong one, and why should our brains be capable of explaining everything anyway?
An ant or a tiger or any other living thing has as much right as a human to seek these answers, yet their brains are not even up to formulating the question. If all humans were wiped out tomorrow and only creatures with uncomprehending brains left, would that make the question meaningless?
So why should the human brain, which evolved as all others did to meet the immediate survival needs of the bearer, be expected to go all the way into these areas of dense speculation?
These are deep, deep mysteries, and nothing on earth has ever come anywhere near as close to solving them as the human brain. We should neither be too hard on it for failing to penetrate all the way, nor too proud to grasp that its limits may not match those of reality.

Finally, Johnson makes the theist’s characteristic ‘great leap’.
After dismissing scientific theories because they do not quite provide an answer to everything, he posits the theory that he says ‘makes sense’.
And it is entirely unproved, unprovable and lacking in any empirical or evidential validation.
Why should mere familiarity and consensus make the notion that we and everything are the imagination of an undetectable supernatural being ‘make sense’ more than any other unproved explanation, let alone one which reams of empirical data support?
Even if these were truly equal theories as far as relative proof goes, Johnson’s is surely the less sensible.
I mentioned earlier that reasoned supposition, even without proof, is not to be despised, and we can still reasonably speculate as to the likeliness and unlikeliness of unproved or unprovable propositions, based upon the observed nature of other things, and the questions we have answered already.
And the history of science has been the history of discovering natural laws, some easily comprehensible, some wildly counter-intuitive, but all of which work of their own steam. Nothing, yet, has ever suggested supernatural intervention in natural laws. So however unsatisfying the Big Bang theory may be, we are entitled to say that it seems more likely than a thinking, deciding, active agent outside of time and space.
This seems even more so when we anthropomorphise still further, adding elements of personality and behaviour, and the idea that this cosmic intelligence decided to make other thinking agents, place them in a landscape, see how they fare, and then judge them.

This, then, is where the argument usually ends.
But there is one point that Johnson makes that is easy to overlook, but is of the utmost importance, albeit to a very different argument.
He wrote that the materialist view of the universe, and by extension any society that was organised according to materialist principles, would be “bleak and totally unattractive”. I replied, correctly, that this made no difference as to whether it was true or not.
But could not Johnson turn around and say, just as correctly, that whether it is true or not makes no difference as to whether he is right?

Perhaps it is its centrality to ethical theory that makes theism so hard to dislodge as an account of existence.

the meaning of life ~ 3.) the meaning of rocks and nothing

The concept of God was invented to account for the existence of complex sentient life, specifically human life.
So high is our opinion of ourselves that the only explanation for our existence many millions remain prepared to accept is that we are the privileged creation of a super-being, made in his immaculate image.
But if we are prepared to accept the truth about life, that it evolves mechanistically from the laws of physics and chemistry, life itself ceases to be mysterious. The mystery that remains is existence.

It's tempting to think of existence as a 'thing in the world', like life, demanding of its own explanation, and perhaps as an opening to slip God back in.
But, as in Anthony Flew's garden analogy outlined in my previous post, this is only because we have already invented him, for a need he no longer serves.
If we all knew about Darwinism from the moment of our inception, and were confronted only with the mystery of planets floating in space, would we then have created so implausible an entity as a personality outside of space and time, pulling the strings, to account for them?
With the great question - the meaning of life - reduced, basically, to the meaning of rocks, cannot we come up with a less extravagant hypothesis?

Instinctively, we might tend to say that the mystery of existence per se is at least as great as the mystery of life, and just as demanding of a big, splashy explanation.
Hence the most popular reformulation of the old question: not ‘what is the meaning of life?’ but ‘why is there something rather than nothing?’
This is a question that by its own lights remains permanently beyond logical conclusion, and thus feels mysterious in exactly the kind of way that the fact of life once felt mysterious, and therefore big enough to allow room for a God hypothesis.
Scientists tend to despair when they hear it because to them it is a kind of semantic magic trick with no meaning: it is a question that can only possibly make sense to a thinking organism, thus can only be asked in a world of something. Their answer, then, is: because if there were nothing, there would nothing to ask the question and nothing to ask it of. Existence is not a thing in the world; it cannot be contrasted with something else; it has no 'opposite'.
Certainly, non-existence is not a valid concept - it is simply nothing. So first we must be sure what we mean by nothing.

'Nothing' is not the absence of things, still less is it empty space, which is very much something. Neither is it a kind of blankness, or blackness - only material space is empty; only things have colour. It is literally and totally nothing; it is the absence of anything at all, even the possibility of anything, even the possibility of the idea of anything.
It is an impossible state of affairs, because it is not a state of affairs. It cannot be envisaged, or usefully talked of. It has no shape, no past or future, no purpose, surely no meaning. It is simply nothing at all.
And that’s a pretty big concept. It frustrates us by the effort of articulating it; as a concept it defies formulation; it seems to run away whenever we approach it; it is like water, constantly slipping through our fingers.

True nothingness brings us to the brink of human comprehension.
It is a paradox rather like the riddle of space. Since the concept of infinite space and the concept of bounded space seem equally absurd, the question ‘what lies outside of the universe, and outside of that, and of that?’ is one that leaves us with the feeling of having run into a mental wall, as if our thoughts were actually pushing at the outer membrane of our brains.
Logically, space that ends and space that does not are equally impossible. But one or the other must be the case, so it follows that the problem is one we have conjured ourselves, a fact about our brains rather than the world (and one that seems to provide ironic evidence of the existence of a world outside of human comprehension).

Schopenhauer wrote that every man mistakes the limits of his vision for the limits of the world; this is equally true of mankind collectively: Plato's cave is scientific fact. Our perception of just about everything runs contrary to scientific explication: we don't see the world accurately, we see it effectively. This in itself is proof of the Darwinian process, and strong evidence against any notions of humans occupying any kind of central or privileged position in what we might still wish ironically to call 'the universal scheme'.
We see the world the way we can see it, which is the way that it is most useful for us to see it, which is almost certainly not the way it is. (This suggests in fact that there is no single privileged 'way it is', only an infinite possibility of ways it might be perceived, and therefore comes very close to being a scientific proof of Kantian idealism.)

Similarly, it is virtually impossible to think of nothing as anything other than a lump of nothing, as nothing in something.
Actual, complete and total nothing is too outside of our experience to be fully accepted by brains that, after all, only evolved to comprehend a limited number of comparatively simple survival options.

At a first glance the fact that we see existence as an unanswerable mystery would seem to give succour to the atheist and the believer equally.
Mysteries are inevitable, just as almost everything is mysterious to a computer or a cow, and mysterious answers are not necessary, even if the actual answers lie forever outside our reach.
On the other hand, there are no grounds for ruling them out either: if the truth is as fundamentally unknowable as the choice between two concepts equally impossible to logic, then the God hypothesis is both no more reasonable than literally anything else you care to invent, and no less reasonable.
This, at least, is arguable here, at the very threshold of existence itself, in a way that it is not, really, at any other point where ultimate questions have been felt necessary, such as the long-ago concluded 'mystery (meaning) of life'.

But ultimately, it still runs aground on the falsely physical status we accord existence as a concept.
What the theist overlooks is that the question 'why is there something rather than nothing?' makes just as much – or little – sense in reverse. To the extent that it is valid, it would be equally valid for us to posit the non-existence of anything and ask then ‘why is there nothing rather than something?’
The absurdity - and impossibility - of any such question instantly reveals the flaw in the argument when presented as it is more usually - and instinctively - formulated.
The difference between something and nothing is so fundamental that there is really no logical or existential relationship between them at all. There is a close (and misleading) linguistic connection between the two words, but the concepts, though superficially opposite, are utterly different, and incomparable as states.
There just either is, or there isn’t.

So to say that if there is, then a special explanation involving a supernatural being is called for simply makes no sense.
God can exist within a concept of things existing, but even he can’t exist outside of a state of nothingness, because as soon as you put him there you have something. There either is – with God in it or not - or there isn’t. You can’t go outside of nothing, and you can’t go before it. It’s nothing.

Any speculation on the matter reduces ultimately either to speculation as to the idiosyncrasies of language, or the computing capabilities and limits of the human brain. And it wouldn’t be the first time that either was mistaken for external reality.
As for the God hypothesis, perhaps one of the best reasons for rejecting it, paradoxically, is precisely that it does not give us that feeling of butting the insides of our skulls that the thought of infinite space or absolute nothingness do. It makes for a suspiciously comprehensible kind of ultimate answer. It feels small, unimaginative, a fudging of the big questions - as a concept it seems to have human fingerprints on it.