There’s something terrifying about having a human body. At least I always thought so—I was clumsy and bloody-kneed at age 7, pubescent and self-conscious at age 12 and squeamish in anatomy class at age 17.
We’re born into these physical vessels of skin and blood and bone and set off into the world to thrive. But how to trust this material figure of mine—these limbs, valves and receptors—to work? My internal self has always been suspicious of my external self, unconvinced that we’re actually on the same team.
Slight, continual disembodiment was my first problem. Then I came to college and took a neuroscience course. What did I expect? Maybe that knowing about the brain would clear up my confusion, give me a means to understand my relationship to the physical world. Not so, as I soon discovered.
On the first day of class, we talked about Descartes—brilliant, skeptical Descartes—who identified and grappled with the same mind-body problem that I’d felt my entire life. He discovered that he could doubt everything, including his own body, but he couldn’t doubt his mind. So the story goes.
But the story doesn’t end there. Cartesian dualism, the idea that there’s a difference between mental and physical, is largely discredited today. In fact it’s almost laughable to think that we have some sort of mental matter hidden away from our physical reality. Replacing dualism is the theory that everything is material, including my thoughts, your thoughts and every thought that’s ever been thought.
If this is true, there’s no division after all: The body is all there is, and the mind is at best an extension of the body. We’re all just arbitrary collections of molecules, our minds merely chemical reactions set off in accordance with physical laws.
This possibility might be unsettling to you right now, or it might not be. For me it’s just one of the many dilemmas inspired by the field of neuroscience that has troubled me for the past three years. Who am I if my sense of self is a result of a network of neurons firing in different patterns? Do I make my own choices, or does my brain? Are murderers immoral, or just diseased? Can emotions have any validity anymore? Can meaning? And what happens if I want to change myself by pumping different chemicals into my brain—can I?
The last time I had a column in The Chronicle, I wrote broadly about culture, technology, anything I thought would be slightly compelling to the typical C-1 rider, or bored Econ 51 student or guy on a bathroom break.
This time, though, I’m trying something else out. I’m diving in, going deep into one of my intellectual interests. I want to explore the implications of neuroscience, and I hope that these musings pique the curiosity of at least a few unsuspecting skimmers of the opinion pages.
It’s a risk. The path will probably be a twisted, meandering one through multiple disciplines, neuroscience being the most obvious. Along the way, I’ll stop in strange places: economics, for example. Or philosophy, ethics, maybe even literature.
What I want to write about straddles the line between science and the humanities—an oftentimes contentious line for students at Duke, who are frequently pressured to commit squarely to one camp. The science reporters I admire most, including Jonah Lehrer, Robert Krulwich and Jad Abumrad, walk this fine line all the time. These are the greats who convinced an English major like me to minor in neuroscience.
A word of caution to “real” neuroscientists reading this: I’m not a scientist, though I’ve worked in a lab and know my fair share of neuroanatomy. In fact I think I once wrote a column about not wanting to be a neuroscientist. Whoops. Over the course of this column, I’m sure I’ll butcher my fair share of research data and run over many nuances for the sake of simplification. I want to apologize now, in advance, for any generalizations that might occur. I welcome clarifications from anyone who’d like to offer them.
Finally, a word about the tag line—I wasn’t sure what to call this weird little interdisciplinary project. Just remember, we’re all living the neurolife, even if we don’t realize it yet.
Shining Li is a Trinity senior. Her column runs every other Tuesday.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.