The Ghost in the Machine (27 page)

in a broad sense; it involves major reorganisations of
structure and behaviour, which result in biological or mental progress.
I shall try to show that both are based on the same draw-back-to-leap
pattern, activating creative potentials which are dormant or inhibited
in the normal routines of existence. In phylogeny, the major advances are
due to the activation of embryonic potentials through paedomorphosis. In
mental evolution something analogous seems to happen at each major turning
point. The connection between the emergence of biological novelties
and of mental novelties is provided by one of the basic attributes of
living things: their capacity for
self-repair
. It is as fundamental
to life as the capacity for reproduction, and in some lower organisms
which multiply by fission or budding, the two are often indistinguishable.

 

 

 

Forms of Self-Repair

 

 

To understand this connection, we must proceed by a series of steps from
primitive to higher animals, and finally to man. Needham has called
regeneration 'one of the more spectacular pieces of magic in the
repertoire of living organisms'. [1] Its most impressive manifestations
are found in lowly creatures like flatworms and polyps. If a flatworm is
cut transversely into two parts, the head-end will grow a new tail, and
the tail-end will grow a new head; even if cut into six or more slices,
each slice can regenerate a complete animal.

 

 

Among higher animals, amphibians are capable of regenerating a lost
limb or organ. When a salamander's leg is amputated, the muscle and
skeletal tissues near the wound-surface de-differentiate and assume the
appearance of embryonic cells. [2] Around the fourth day, a blastema or
'regeneration bud' is formed, similar to the 'organ bud' in the normal
embryo; and from then on the process follows closely the growth of limbs
in embryonic development. The region of the amputation-stump has regressed
to a quasi-embryonic state and displays genetic growth-potentials which
are inhibited in normal adult tissues.* I have compared
(
p. 122
) the gene-complex in a specialised cell to
a piano with most keys inactivated by scotch tape; regenerating tissues
have the whole keyboard at their disposal. The 'magic' of self-repair
thus has a regressire (catabolic) and a progressive (anabolic) phase;
it follows the undoing-re-doing pattern. 'The trauma plays a role similar
to that of fertilisation in embryonic development' (Hamburger [4]). The
shock triggers off the creative reaction.

 

* To be accurate, the origin of the material which forms the blastema
is still somewhat controversial; according to Hamburger [3], it is
likely that it consists partly of de-differentiated cells, partly
of undifferentiated mesenchyme-type connective tissue-cells, which
fulfil a function similar to that of the 'reserve' or 'regeneration'
cells in primitive organisms.

 

The replacement of a lost limb or lost eye is a phenomenon of a
quite different order from that of adaptive processes in a normal
environment. Regeneration could be called a 'meta-adaptation'
to traumatising challenges. But the power to perform such feats
manifests itself only
when the challenge exceeds a critical limit
.
The regenerative capacity of a species thus provides it with an additional
safety device in the service of survival, which enters into action when
normal adaptive measures fail -- as the hydraulic shock-absorbers of a
motor car enter into action when the limit of elasticity of the suspension
springs is exceeded.

 

 

But it is more than a safety device: we have seen that the major
phylogenetic changes were also brought about by a retreat from adult
to embryonic forms. Indeed, the main line of development which led
up to our species could be described as a series of operations of
phylogenetic self-repair
: of escapes from blind alleys by the
undoing and re-moulding of maladapted structures. *

 

* Evidently, self-repair by the individual animal produces no
evolutionary novelty, it merely restores its capability to function
normally in a stable environment; 'phylogenetic self-repair', on the
other hand, implies evolutionary changes in a changing environment.

 

 

As we move further up the ladder from reptile to mammal, the power
of regenerating bodily structures decreases, and is superseded by the
increasing powers of the nervous system to reorganise behaviour.
(Ultimately, of course, these reorganisations of function must also
involve structural changes of a fine-grained nature in the nervous system,
and so we are still moving along a continuous line.) More than a century
ago, the German physiologist Pflüger demonstrated that even a decapitated
frog is not just a reflex automaton. If a drop of acid was put on the
back of its left foreleg, it would wipe it off with the hind-leg on the
same side -- this is the normal spinal reflex. But if the left hind-leg
was immobilised, the frog used its
right
hind-leg instead, to wipe
off the acid. Thus even the headless creature -- a 'spinal preparation'
as it is euphemistically called -- proved itself capable of improvising
when reflex-action was prevented.

 

 

In the first half of this century, K.S. Lashley and his collaborators, in
a series of classical experiments, demolished the notion of the nervous
system as a rigid mechanism. 'The results indicate', Lashley wrote,
'that when habitually used motor-organs are rendered non-functional
by removal or paralysis, there is an immediate, spontaneous use of
other motor systems which had not been previously associated with,
or used in, the performance of the activity.' [5] The frog, using his
left leg instead of the right one in the scratch-reflex, is a simple
illustration of this; but Lashley showed that the nervous system is
capable of incomparably more surprising feats; that brain tissues which
normally serve a specialised function can, under certain circumstances,
take over the function of other, injured brain tissues -- much as the
foragers in a beehive take over the functions of the kidnapped builders
(
p. 107
).
To mention one among many examples: Lashley trained rats to choose
between two alternative targets always the relatively brighter one. Then
he removed the rats' visual cortex, and their discriminatory skill
disappeared, as one would expect. But, contrary to what one would expect,
the mutilated rats were able to learn the same skill again. Some other
brain area, not normally specialising in visual learning, must have
taken over this function, deputising for the lost area.

 

 

Moreover, if a rat has learned to find its way through a maze, no matter
what parts of its motor cortex are injured, it will still make a correct
run; and if the injury renders it incapable of executing a right turn,
it will achieve its aim by a three-quarter turn to the left. The rat may
be blinded, deprived of smell, partially paralysed in different ways --
each of which would throw the chain-reflex automaton, which it is supposed
to be, completely out of gear. Yet: 'One drags himself through [the maze]
with his forepaws; another falls at every step but gets through by a
series of lunges; a third rolls over completely in making each turn,
yet avoids rolling into a cul-de-sac and makes an errorless run.' [6]

 

 

 

Higher Forms of Self-Repair

 

 

As we arrive at the top of the ladder, we find in man the faculty of
physical regeneration reduced to a minimum, but compensated by his
unique powers to re-mould his patterns of behaviour -- to meet critical
challenges by creative responses.

 

 

Even on the level of elementary perception, learning to see through
spectacles which turn the world upside down (see
p. 78
)
testifies to these powers. Experiments which create the same effect
have been carried out on animals -- reptiles and monkeys -- by cutting
the optic nerve and letting it grow together after twisting the severed
end of the bundle half round the clock. As a result, the animals see
the world upside-down, reach leftward when food is shown on the right,
and downward if it is offered from above. They never get over the
maladjustment. Human subjects, however, fitted with inverting glasses,
do get over it. The effect at first is thoroughly upsetting: you see
your body upside-down, your feet planted on a floor which has become
the ceiling of the room. Or, with left-right inverters, you try to move
away from a wall, and bump into it. Yet after a certain time, which may
mean several days, the subject becomes adjusted to living in an inverted
world, which then appears to him more or less normal again. The retinal
image and its projection in the visual cortex are still upside-down; but,
thanks to the intervention of some higher echelons in the hierarchy, the
mental image has become reorganised. At the present stage of knowledge,
physiology has no satisfactory explanation for this phenomenon. All one
can say is that if our orientation, our postural and motor reactions to
the visual field depend on wiring circuits in the brain, living in an
inverted world must entail a lot of undoing and re-doing in the wiring
diagram.

 

 

Inverting spectacles are drastic gadgets; but most of us go through
life wearing contact lenses of which we are unaware and which distort
our perceptions in more subtle ways. Psychotherapy, ancient and modern,
from shamanism down to contemporary forms of analytical or abreaction
techniques, has always relied on that variety of undoing-re-doing
procedure which Ernst Kris, an eminent practitioner, has called
'regression in the service of the ego'. [6a] The neurotic, with his
compulsions, phobias, and elaborate defence-mechanisms, is a victim of
rigid, maladaptive specialisation -- a koala bear hanging on for dear life
to a barren telegraph pole. The therapist's aim is to induce a temporary
regression in the patient; to make him retrace his steps to the point
where they went wrong, and to come up again, metamorphosed, reborn.

 

 

The same pattern is reflected in countless variations on the
death-and-resurrection motif in mythology. Joseph is thrown into a well;
Mohammed goes out into the desert; Jesus is resurrected from the tomb;
Jonah is reborn out of the belly of the whale. Goethe's
Stirb und Werde
,
Toynbee's Withdrawal and Return, the mystic's
dark night of the soul
preceding spiritual rebirth, derive from the same archetype: draw back
to leap. (The French
reculer pour mieux sauter
is a more expressive
phrase for it.)

 

 

 

Self-Repair and Self-Realisation

 

 

There is no sharp dividing line between self-repair and self-realisation.
All creative activity is a kind of do-it-yourself therapy, an attempt to
come to terms with traumatising challenges. In the scientist's case the
trauma may be the impact of data which shake the foundations of a
well-established theory, and make nonsense of his cherished beliefs;
observations which contradict each other, problems which cause frustration
and conflict. In the artist's case, challenge and response are manifested
in his tantalising struggle to express the inexpressible, to conquer the
resistance of his medium, to escape from the distortions and constraints
imposed by the conventional styles and techniques of his time.

 

 

We can now pick up the thread from the previous chapter: the decisive
break-throughs in science, art or philosophy are successful escapes
from blind alleys, from the bondage of mental habits, from orthodoxy
and over-specialisation. The method of escape follows the same
undoing-re-doing pattern as in biological evolution; and the zigzag course
of advance in science or art repeats the pattern of Garstang's diagram.

 

 

Every revolution has a destructive and a constructive aspect. The
destruction is wrought by jettisoning previously unassailable doctrines,
and seemingly self-evident axioms of thought. The progress of science,
like an ancient desert trail, is strewn with the bleached skeletons of
discarded theories which seemed once to possess eternal life. Progress in
art involves an equally agonising reappraisal of accepted values, criteria
of relevance, frames of perception. When we discuss the evolution of art
and science from the historian's point of view, the undoing and re-doing
is taken for granted as a normal, inevitable part of the story. If,
however, we focus our attention on the concrete individual who initiated
the revolutionary change, we are faced with the psychological problem
of the nature of human creativity.

 

 

I have discussed that subject at length in
The Act of Creation
,
but as it is pertinent to our present theme, I must briefly return to
it. Readers acquainted with the earlier book may find that some passages
in this chapter have a familiar ring; but they will also find that it
carries the discussion a step further.

 

 

A quick glance at the evolution of astronomy will make the 'zigzag
pattern' clearer. Newton once said that if he could see farther than
others it was because he stood on the shoulders of giants. But did
he really stand on their shoulders -- or on some other part of their
anatomy? He adopted Galileo's laws of free fall, but rejected Galileo's
astronomy. He adopted Kepler's planetary laws, but demolished the rest
of the Keplerian edifice. He did not take as his point of departure
their completed 'adult' theories, but retraced their development to the
point where it had gone wrong. Nor was the Keplerian edifice built on
top of the Copernican edifice. That ramshackle structure of epicycles
he tore down; he kept only its foundations. Nor did Copernicus continue
to build where Ptolemy had left off. He went back two thousand years
to Aristarchus. All great revolutions show, as already said, a notably
'paedomorphic' character. They demand as much undoing as re-doing.