Mind Shift How Culture Transformed The Human Brain

•
•
•
•
•• • HOW
CULTURE
• TRANSFORMED
THE HUMAN
• • BRAIN
OUP CORRECTED AUTOPAGE PROOFS – FINAL, 27/01/21, SPi
M I ND SH I F T
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AC K NOW L E DGE M E N T S
I would like to thank a number of people who have helped bring this,
my third book, to fruition. I owe a particular debt to Latha Menon, my
editor at Oxford University Press, who had a great deal of input into the
book. Latha’s critical comments had a major impact in pushing me to go
that ‘extra mile’ in the writing and her encouragement at all stages made a
huge difference to me during the five years that I have been working on
this project. I would also like to thank Jenny Nugee of the OUP editorial
team, for her help on a multitude of practical matters, and Charles Lauder
and Saraswathi Ethiraju of SPi Global, for meticulous copy-editing of the
book. Quite a number of people helped immensely with the writing of
the book through their critical comments; I would like to thank Jonathan
Bate, David Crane, Jane Hardy, Marnie Holborow, George Paizis, Naomi
Rokotnitz, John Rose, Margarida Ruas, and Jozsef Somogyi, as well as an
anonymous reviewer, for their comments in this regard. I would also like
to thank Margarida Ruas for producing the superb set of line drawings for
the book. I also owe thanks to Anthony Morgan for producing the author
photo for the book cover. For their expert assistance with marketing and
publicity, and answers to many questions on this front, I would like to
thank Anna Gell and Kate Roche of OUP. I owe thanks also to friends and
colleagues who have indulged me in my speculations about some of the
themes of this book. I also owe a great debt of thanks is to my family, for
providing such a warm and lovely home environment that meant so
much to me during the long hours spent on researching and writing, and
for putting up with the time I spent on this project. Finally, I would like to
dedicate this book to the memory of the family members who are
mentioned in it, but are no longer here to provide me with their love,
v
ack now l e dge me n ts
inspiration and vision: my grandmother, father, mother and sister. You

taught me so much and if thought can be viewed as a kind of dialogue,
then I will be always grateful for your role in my own thoughts.
Note on copyright material
I am grateful for permission to include the following copyright material

in this book:
Epigraph from William Golding, Pincher Martin. Published by Faber
and Faber Ltd.
The publisher and author have made every effort to trace and contact
all copyright holders before publication. If notified, the publisher will be
pleased to rectify any errors or omissions at the earliest opportunity.
vi
CON T E N T S
Introduction 1
PART I ORIGINS OF MIND
1. Mind and Matter 19
2. Tool and Symbol 32
3. Individual and Society 46
PART II MIND AND BRAIN
4. Nerve and Brain 63
5. Genome and Epigenome 80
6. Growth and Development 92
PART III THE DYNAMIC MIND
7. Learning and Memory 109
8. Thought and Language 125
9. Creativity and Imagination 140
10. Emotion and Reason 155
11. Conscious and Unconscious 171

con t e n ts
PART IV MIND IN TROUBLE
12. Sanity and Madness 187
13. Depression and Anxiety 204
14. Normality and Diversity 222
15. Crime and Punishment 239
PART V THE SOCIAL MIND
16. Class and Division 261
17. Resistance and Rebellion 278
PART VI MIND AND CULTURE
18. Music and Rhythm 303
19. Art and Design 320
20. Fact and Fiction 340
21. Science and Technology 358
PART VII THE FUTURE OF MIND
22. Mind and Meaning 375
23. Mind and Machine 396
Epilogue: A Twenty-First-Century Mind 411
Glossary 437
Endnotes 439
Index of Names 499
Index of Subjects 507
viii
‘[Man] is a freak, an ejected foetus robbed of his natural development,

thrown out into the world with a naked covering of parchment, with too
little room for his teeth and a soft bulging skull like a bubble. But nature
stirs a pudding there and sets a thunderstorm flickering inside . . .’
William Golding
INTRODUCTION
z
T he Universe, according to estimates, is about ninety-three billion

light years across and contains over a hundred billion galaxies, each
with hundreds of billions of stars.1 Each year we learn more about cosmic
phenomena such as black holes and colliding galaxies through increas-
ingly powerful telescopes. Yet to find the most complex object in the
known Universe, we need look no further than the space within our own
skulls. Weighing about a kilogram and a half, with the appearance and
consistency of cold porridge, the human brain nevertheless has about as
many nerve cells or neurons—around a hundred billion—as there are
stars in the Milky Way.2 Since each neuron can connect with around ten
thousand others through cellular structures called synapses, there are
about a hundred trillion such connections in the brain. And as the brain
has hundreds of different types of neurons, its complexity is far greater
than can be described by simply focusing on the total number of cells or
their interconnections.
The power of the human brain is displayed in the wonders of modern
civilization. As a species, we are distinguished by our ability to systemat
ically shape and transform the world around us via technology, which
itself we continually improve. By this means in 40,000 years we have
gone from living as hunter-gatherers scratching a living from the earth to
sending astronauts to the Moon and unmanned probes to the far reaches
of the Solar System and beyond.3 Such technological advances are based
upon our species’ ability to continually discover more about the natural
world through science, with each new generation.
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Of course if human culture were only concerned with science and

technology it would be dull indeed.4 To the human mind we also owe the
literature of William Shakespeare and Emily Brontë, the music of
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Billie Holliday, and the visual art of Pablo
Picasso and Paula Rego. Yet despite the human brain’s capacity for such
intellectual and technological feats, we still know astonishingly little
about how it achieves them. This deficit in understanding is a problem
not only because it means we lack basic knowledge of the biological factors
that underlie our human uniqueness, but also because, for all its amazing
capabilities, the human mind seems particularly prone to dysfunction.
Currently a quarter of the population of Britain suffers from a mental
disorder, and the proportion is similar in other developed countries.5
Some would argue that this reflects a tendency to ‘medicalize’ what might
once have been considered to be within the spectrum of normal human
behaviour. But it would surely be a mistake to underestimate the pain and
suffering caused by conditions like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and
clinical depression. Although drugs can alleviate many of the symptoms
of these conditions, even some psychiatrists question whether such drugs
treat the underlying causes of these disorders or merely mask the symp-
toms. In addition, a significant proportion of people fail to respond to
such treatments for reasons that are often unclear, but which can have
tragic consequences for sufferers and their loved ones.6 I speak here from
bitter experience, having recently lost my sister to a severe form of depres-
sion that spiralled out of control, being apparently unresponsive to a var
iety of different types of drugs and psychotherapies, resulting finally in
her suicide by hanging, aged just 53. Sadly, there is a history of such mat-
ters in my family, adding a personal resonance in my case to the question
of whether mental disorders are largely a product of biology or environ-
ment. In fact, as we shall see, the idea that one can separate ‘nature’ or
‘nurture’ in this way betrays a misunderstanding of both biological mech-
anisms and the unique role that society plays in the human condition.
Still, some would argue there is good reason to be optimistic about the
prospect of developing new and better treatments for mental disorders in
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the not-so-distant future. Such optimism is based on our increasing

potential to study how the brain works in various important new ways
thanks to recent technological innovations. While methods for measur-
ing the electrical and chemical changes that occur in neurons during
nerve impulses have been available for some years, it is now possible to
genetically label living cells using fluorescent proteins so that such meas-
urements can be carried out in the brain of a live animal. One approach,
called ‘brainbow’, mixes fluorescent colours to create a palette of 90 dif-
ferent shades, making it possible to distinguish many different neurons
and their interconnections.7
We also have the DNA sequence of not only the human genome, but
those of mice and our closest animal relative, the chimpanzee, and even
of extinct proto-humans like Neanderthals.8 While this only allows com-
parison at a whole organism level, increasingly sophisticated methods for
taking a ‘snapshot’ of the genes turned on or off in different brain cells
make it possible to compare such patterns of gene ‘expression’ in our
brains with those of other species. Meanwhile studies are underway to
create a ‘connectome’ of the human brain.9 Just as the Human Genome
Project mapped all the genes in our genome, so the Human Connectome
Project aims to identify all the connections between different brain cells.
In addition, exciting new technologies now allow us to study the func-
tional roles of individual genes and cells in the brain. For instance, optoge-
netics uses genetic engineering to make neurons in an animal brain
become responsive to light.10 By beaming laser light into the living brain
using fibre-optic cables, it is possible to stimulate—or supress—the activ-
ity of such neurons in the brains of experimental animals, and investigate
their roles. And new forms of ‘gene editing’—discussed in my book
Redesigning Life and later in this book—now mean that the function of spe-
cific genes in the brain can be investigated in practically any mammalian
species, including our primate cousins, whose brains are most similar to
ours in terms of size and structure.11 Gene editing makes it possible to
totally eliminate a gene’s expression, or subtly modify its properties, akin
to what happens in many human diseases, and then study the effects on
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brain function. This allows the gene’s normal function to be ascertained,

but can also identify potential genetic links with specific mental disorders.
Accompanying these technological advances are important recent
conceptual shifts in our understanding of how the brain works. For
instance, glial cells—the other main type of brain cell besides neurons—
which were formerly thought to only play a supporting role, are increas-
ingly recognized as far more active in transmitting information through
the brain.12 Another important shift in our understanding concerns the
role of the ‘non-coding’ genome in brain function. Until recently, the
genome was defined primarily as the sum of the genes—the molecular
entities that encode the proteins that form the building blocks of each liv-
ing cell but also provide the motors and other molecular machinery that
drive its activity. Yet genes account for less than 2 per cent of the genome,
and recently there has been a realization that anything between an add
itional 8 and 80 per cent of the genome may have important roles too, the
exact proportion with functional roles being a matter of lively debate.13
Amazingly, this portion of the genome—previously often termed
‘junk’ DNA—contains around four million switches that regulate the
22,000 or so protein-coding genes. It also produces many different types
of RNA—DNA’s chemical cousin. Previously RNA was viewed merely as
an intermediary between DNA and protein, but regulatory forms of the
molecule have recently been shown to have key roles in their own right.
One is regulating chemical modifications of the DNA genome and the
proteins associated with it, in response to environmental signals. Such
‘epigenetic’ changes mean that the genome is far more affected by cellular
activity, and that of the body as a whole than had been suspected.14
Perhaps most surprisingly, regulatory RNAs have been shown to be
secreted by both neurons and glial cells and to travel to other cells in the
brain, where they can then directly affect the functions of such cells.15
Indeed, recent studies suggest that RNAs generated by brain cells in response
to stress can even travel via the blood to sperm cells, and are thereby
transmitted to the embryo, carrying with them the ability to transmit stress
and anxiety to the next generation.16 If that sounds somewhat worrying,
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there is increasing evidence that more positive life events can beneficially
affect the brain through epigenetic mechanisms.17
Yet while focusing on the molecular and cellular biology of the human
brain is a crucial aspect of understanding how our minds work, it is
unlikely to be enough on its own, for our brains are shaped by our social
environment to a degree unique to our species. In this book, I argue that
society radically restructures the human brain within an individual per-
son’s lifetime, and that it has also played a central role in the past history
of our species, by shaping brain evolution. So if we are truly to under-
stand the human mind we must explain how the biological object that is
the brain has become infused with this social influence. But in so doing,
we must also steer a path between two overly polarized views of the
human mind.
The first viewpoint was expressed by Jim Watson, co-discoverer of the
famous double helix structure of DNA, who said of the Human Genome
Project that ‘we used to think that our fate was in our stars, but now we
know that, in large measure, our fate is in our genes.’18 This viewpoint can
be applied to humans both as a species and as individuals. At the species
level, it is linked with the idea that human behaviour and society are direct
readouts of our genetic code, which is why the genome is sometimes
referred to as the ‘blueprint’ of the species. Such a view may also be asso-
ciated with the belief that supposedly universal human characteristics
like competition, selfishness, sexism, homophobia, racism, and even a
willingness to make war on other nations are intimately linked to our
biology, and not just tendencies specific to the particular type of society
in which we currently live.
At the individual level, this viewpoint seeks to explain differences
between people—expressed via their personality, intellectual capacity, or
sexuality—primarily at the level of genetics. For Jim Watson, ‘If some-
one’s liver doesn’t work, we blame it on the genes; if someone’s brain
doesn’t work properly, we blame the school. It’s actually more humane to
think of the condition as genetic. For instance, you don’t want to say
that someone is born unpleasant, but sometimes that might be true.’19
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Showing how widespread such views are among some sections of the
scientific establishment, Daniel Koshland, former editor of Science magazine,
when asked in 1989 why so much money was being invested in the
Human Genome Project rather than used to help the homeless, replied,
‘What these people don’t realize is that the homeless are [mentally]
impaired . . . Indeed, no group will benefit more from the application of
human genetics.’20 Here, current social problems are reduced to a prob-
lem of the individual, rooted in a defective biology. But Koshland’s state-
ment also reflects the optimistic view that it will be possible to identify a
clear link between genes and mental disorders, thereby leading to revolu-
tionary new drug treatments for such disorders.
The second viewpoint rejects the idea that human behaviour and soci-
ety are primarily a matter of biology, but makes the equally bold assump-
tion that genetics has little or no influence on how an individual turns out
in life. Such a view was expressed forcibly by John Watson, founder of the
behaviourist movement in psychology, who in 1930 said, ‘Give me a dozen
healthy infants, well-formed, and my own specified world to bring them
up in and I'll guarantee to take any one at random and train him to become
any type of specialist I might select—doctor, lawyer, artist, merchant-chief
and, yes, even beggar-man and thief, regardless of his talents, penchants,
tendencies, abilities, vocations and the race of his ancestors.’21
More recently, in 2013, the British Psychology Society (BPS) issued a
statement attacking what it calls the ‘biomedical model’ of mental disorders,
which many BPS members see as the dominant standpoint of most
psychiatrists and one that views such disorders primarily as illnesses to
be treated using drugs. Instead Lucy Johnstone, a clinical psychologist
who helped draw up the statement, rejects the idea that mental disorders
have any biological basis, saying that ‘On the contrary, there is now
overwhelming evidence that people suffer breakdown as a result of a
complex mix of social and psychological circumstances—bereavement
and loss, poverty and discrimination, trauma and abuse.’22
This statement is interesting because it suggests that psychiatrists and
clinical psychologists—the two main sets of health professionals that
6
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treat mental disorders—fundamentally disagree about the basis for

mental disorders, despite having to work together to diagnose and treat
such disorders. So what is the best way to resolve this dilemma? In this
book I will make the case that focusing solely on biology or environment
alone is unlikely to provide us with a proper picture of how the mind
works, or explain why some individuals rather than others succumb to
mental disorders. I will argue that purely biomedical, or psychological,
views of the mind and its disorders both suffer from major flaws that
restrict our understanding of how the human brain and mind work, and
also adversely influence our ability to properly diagnose and treat serious
mental disorders.
A central problem with the view that mental disorders are primarily
due to differences in an individual’s DNA has become apparent following
attempts to define such clear genetic links in the wake of the Human
Genome Project. At the project’s conclusion, Daniel Koshland was far
from alone in believing that clear genetic links for ‘illnesses such as manic
depression, Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia, and heart disease’ would soon be
uncovered, providing new targets for drug design.23 To identify such links,
over recent decades, millions of dollars have been invested in so-called
‘genome-wide association studies’ (GWAS).24
Yet while GWAS have identified over a hundred links between different
regions of the genome and schizophrenia, the vast majority are not even
in the genes themselves but in non-protein-coding regions, and each
apparently contributes only a tiny amount to the chance of succumbing
to this disorder.25 This seems to make a mockery of the idea that just a few
‘schizophrenia genes’ strongly influence an individual’s chance of suc-
cumbing to this disorder. What is more, this scenario is being repeated for
other common mental disorders.
As we shall see, another explanation for these findings is that rather
than many small genetic differences contributing to a disorder, instead
particular affected individuals may have genetic differences that contrib-
ute strongly to their chance of getting a disorder, but are rare in the popu-
lation as a whole. But it remains far from clear whether this is true for a
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disorder as a whole, or only for a proportion of affected individuals. Either

way, both scenarios pose potential problems for the development of new
drug treatments, for if many genetic differences, each with a tiny effect,
contribute to a disorder like schizophrenia, how could these be targeted
simultaneously with drugs? Or if rare gene variants are the key to under-
standing mental illness, each different in a specific individual, then could
targeting such variants really form a viable economic strategy? Perhaps
most importantly, a focus on genetic differences alone neglects the fact
that these may only create a predisposition in a highly specific set of envir
onmental circumstances, so that they are far from deterministic in their
action, and may even be irrelevant in most other circumstances.
Indeed, the biomedical model as a whole, and therapies designed
around it, may require a major rethink as we learn more about the brain’s
intricate structure, and the way that genes—and mutations in these
genes—affect its overall function. A still common view in psychiatry is
that serious mental disorders are due to an imbalance in neurotransmit-
ters—the chemicals that transmit signals between neurons—in the
brain.26 So schizophrenia is believed to be caused by an excess of dopa-
mine, while depression is due to a lack of another neurotransmitter, sero-
tonin, also known as 5-HT. Bipolar disorder presents a challenge to this
view since sufferers fluctuate between depression and psychotic mania,
as this disorder’s previous name—manic depression—indicates. Here the
idea is that the fluctuating moods are due to cyclical changes in serotonin,
dopamine, and a third neurotransmitter, noradrenaline.
One problem with viewing the human brain as a vat of chemicals, with
excesses or deficiencies of particular chemicals causing a particular dis
order, is that this contradicts new insights about its intricate structure.
Although neurotransmitters play key roles in normal brain function, so
that alterations in their action may underlie particular mental disorders,
such changes only make sense in the context of the detailed neural circuits
that constitute the functional architecture of the brain and its sub-regions.
The chemical imbalance viewpoint may also be based on a faulty inter-
pretation of how some drugs used to treat mental disorders actually
8
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work. Selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors (SSRIs), of which the most

well known is the drug Prozac, are commonly used to treat depression.27
SSRIs increase the concentration of serotonin in the brain by blocking
its re-uptake by neurons, which has led to the claim that depression is
caused by a serotonin deficiency.
Yet recent evidence suggests that SSRIs may also stimulate the growth
of new neurons.28 Such neurogenesis is becoming recognized as a very
important process in the adult human brain, in contrast to previous
beliefs that it only occurred in the embryo, foetus, and child. Defects in
neurogenesis may therefore underlie some types of depression, which is
why SSRIs can be effective as a treatment. But lest we get too carried away
with substituting one explanation for depression with another, it is
important to note that a significant number of seriously depressed indi-
viduals fail to respond to SSRIs, my sister being a tragic example in my
own family. Coupled with the fact that genetic evidence is pointing to a
variety of underlying biological causes for depression, it seems likely that
we will need to revise ideas that view such a biological link in an overly
simplistic and unitary fashion.
If these are some of the problems with the biomedical model of mental
disorders, what about the idea that such disorders are solely socially and
psychologically based? I have already mentioned the behaviourist move-
ment in psychology, which was pioneered by John Watson and later by
B. F. Skinner, becoming particularly influential in the mid-twentieth cen-
tury. Behaviourism was initiated by the Russian psychologist Ivan Pavlov’s
observation that dogs salivate not only when presented with food, but
also when in the presence of a human laboratory assistant whom the
dogs associate with bringing that food.29 This led to Pavlov’s famous
experiment in which he showed, by ringing the bell at the same time as
the food was presented, that a dog could eventually be trained to salivate
in response to a bell alone.
Behaviourism developed into the view that all behaviour, including
that of humans, is due to conditioned reflexes.30 Behaviourists believed
that the brain could be treated as a ‘black box’, whose specific biology was
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irrelevant to understanding how the stimuli that entered it resulted in

subsequent actions. Eventually there was a backlash against the idea that
all human behaviour can be seen as equivalent to rats pressing levers to
get a reward. Yet the influence of behaviourism on psychology today is
more pervasive than is often realized.
The dominant current view in psychology is ‘cognitive behaviour-
ism’.31 Like classical behaviourism, this sees the human mind as some-
thing that processes incoming information and generates a response.
However, this viewpoint does not believe that the specific structure of the
mind can be totally ignored; instead, it sees the mind as similar to a com-
puter, and with humans having a bigger brain in proportion to body size
than other animals, the extra information processing that occurs within
our brains is assumed to explain the distinctive features of human con-
sciousness. Based on this model, the standard method of treatment used
by many psychologists today is ‘cognitive behavioural therapy’ (CBT).32
This views people with a disorder like depression as being trapped in a
vicious cycle of negative thoughts and feelings. It does not ignore the fact
that depression may reflect real dilemmas in a person’s life, but argues
that the best way out of the depressive state is to break down problems
that seem overwhelming into smaller parts, allowing exit from a patho-
logical cycle.
In contrast to Freudian psychoanalysis, which looks for the source of
mental illness in the past, CBT is more focused on the present. As an
approach for treating mental disorders, CBT is very influential, being the
main form of therapy used by the British National Health Service (NHS).33
To some extent this is because, unlike psychoanalysis with its expensive
therapy sessions extending often over several years, led by practitioners
who are required to have undergone extensive training, CBT can be car-
ried out by less skilled practitioners, over a much shorter space of time.
Because of this apparent cost-effectiveness, CBT has sold itself as a prag-
matic, scientific approach to the treatment of mental disorders. And
indeed I have benefited from this approach myself in that it has helped me
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deal with the effects of various traumatic deaths in my family, as well as

with more mundane life incidents.
Yet recently doubts have been raised about the value of this type of
therapy, at least for serious mental disorders. So Tom Johnsen and
Oddgeir Friborg of the University of Tromsø in Norway conducted a
‘meta-analysis’—an approach that uses statistics to integrate the findings
of multiple independent studies—to assess 70 studies, conducted between
1977 and 2014, that looked at the use of CBT in treating depression.34 This
analysis indicated that the therapy is only half as effective at treating this
disorder now as when it first began to be used in the 1970s. So what could
be responsible for this startling decline?
One explanation is that cuts in healthcare budgets mean the quality
of therapy has decreased, as the length of sessions is reduced or less
experienced therapists are employed. But another explanation is that
early publicity around this approach made it seem like a miracle cure, so
it may have functioned like one initially by virtue of the placebo effect,
whereby a patient experiences an improvement in their condition due to
personal expectations, rather than because of the treatment itself. Now
expectations are more realistic, the effectiveness of CBT has fallen as a
consequence.
For psychotic disorders like schizophrenia, the situation is even more
problematic. Although initial meta-analyses suggested that around 50
per cent of schizophrenics showed a significant reduction of symptoms
following CBT, more recent ones indicate that only 5 per cent of people
benefited significantly compared to untreated individuals. Most troubling
was a meta-analysis published in the British Journal of Psychiatry in 2014.35
The largest of its kind, this examined the effects of CBT in 3,000 schizo-
phrenics. The analysis revealed a ‘small’ therapeutic effect in reducing
symptoms like delusions and hallucinations, yet even this minor effect
disappeared in studies conducted ‘blind’, that is when effects were assessed
without knowledge of whether an individual had undergone therapy or
was left untreated.
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The failure of both pharmacological and ‘talking cure’ therapies to

effectively treat many cases of serious mental disorder comes with a high
human cost. Figures released by the British NHS in 2016 showed that the
number of annual deaths of mental health patients in England had risen
by 21 per cent over the previous three years.36 The number of mentally
distressed patients who killed themselves, or tried to do so, rose by 26 per
cent over the same period. This surge in deaths may be partially due to
cuts in the health services and support networks available to help such
people. According to Paul Farmer, chief executive of Mind (a British men-
tal health charity) and chair of NHS England’s mental health taskforce,
‘Suicides among people in touch with crisis resolution and home treat-
ment teams—which are there to support people in crisis to stay in their
own homes rather than be admitted to hospital—have increased signifi-
cantly. These teams have in recent years been starved of funding and in
some cases have been disbanded altogether or else merged into commu-
nity teams, losing their specialist function.’37 However, Simon Wessely,
president of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, believes that the apparent
dramatic increases may be more a reflection of healthcare staff being
more likely to report such events.38
What is clear is that the incidence of reported mental disorder is rising
at the same time as healthcare services seem increasingly unable to cope
with increased demand. In Britain, the number of people seeking help for
mental health problems increased by more than 40 per cent between
2005 and 2015, and the number of prescriptions for antidepressant drugs
rose by more than 100 per cent during this period.39 Meanwhile, the num-
ber of specialist mental health nurses fell by more than 10 per cent over
that time. While such figures may seem like mere numbers to many people,
to those grieving the loss of a loved one who ended their life following a
mental disorder, they serve as a grim reminder of how different things
might have been with better resources. In the case of my sister’s suicide,
the coroner concluded that she was ‘discharged too informally by those
responsible for her with no paperwork and no advice to the family on
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how to help her.’40 Of course it is easy with hindsight to imagine what might
have been, but there seems little doubt that the erosion of NHS services
has had a negative impact on mental health diagnosis and treatment.
In the USA, the lack of a publicly funded health service like the NHS
means that the situation for people with mental disorders is even worse.41
Until recently, even those with a private health insurance plan were not
covered for mental illness. In November 2013 President Barack Obama’s
health reforms forced insurance companies to cover mental disorders in
the same way as other medical conditions.42 Yet the legacy of this lack of
cover means that the infrastructure to deal with mental disorders remains
woefully inadequate. Paul Appelbaum, a psychiatrist and expert on legal
issues in medicine at Columbia University, New York, has noted that ‘right
to care does not mean access to treatment. Tens of millions of people who
did not have insurance coverage may now be prompted to seek mental
health treatment. And the capacity just isn’t there to treat them. There
really is no mental health system in the US.’43 As a consequence, more
than half a million US citizens with serious mental illness are falling
through the cracks of society, leading Tim Murphy, a child psychologist
and Republican congressman, to remark that ‘we have replaced the hos
pital bed with the jail cell, the homeless shelter and the coffin. How is that
compassionate?’44
While US states have been reducing hospital bed places for decades, the
worst cuts occurred following the recession that began in 2008, with $5
billion disappearing from mental health services budgets from 2009 to
2012.45 In the same period, 4,500 public psychiatric hospital beds—nearly
10 per cent of the total supply—were lost in the USA. According to the
2012 US National Survey on Drug Use and Health, nearly 40 per cent of
adults with ‘severe’ mental illness received no treatment at all.46 One pos-
sible consequence of this situation is mass shooting incidents, reports of
which now regularly punctuate the US news. Yet a less reported but
ultimately far greater loss is the number of Americans who commit sui-
cide each year, with, for instance, almost 45,000 people taking their own
13
in t roduc t ion
lives in the USA in 2016—a fate that claims the lives of more citizens than
car accidents, prostate cancer, or homicides, according to the US Centers
for Disease Control and Prevention.47 Worryingly, the US suicide rate
increased 33 per cent from 1999 to 2017, with rates rising particularly
sharply since 2006.48 So while the US suicide rate increased by about 1 per
cent a year from 2000 to 2006, that rate doubled from 2006 to 2016.49
And although suicide is the starkest indicator of mental distress, there are
others; so drug overdoses claimed 70,000 US lives in 2017. Because of
this, US life expectancy, perhaps the broadest measure of a nation’s health,
fell from 2016 to 2019, in part because of the rise in drug overdoses and
suicides.50 This was the biggest three-year drop since the years 1915 to 1918.
Mental health problems cause misery for sufferers and their families,
but also have an economic impact; for instance they cost the British econ-
omy £110 billion a year, according to a 2009 report by the Royal College of
Psychiatrists, the London School of Economics, and the NHS Mental
Health Network.51 Obviously, a better resourced health service would be a
key step to helping people with mental disorders, but improving the treat-
ments—based on both drugs and psychotherapy—available for such
people is also critical. Ultimately, the possibility of such an improvement
rests on a better understanding of how the human mind works, and how
this relates to human brain function, topics with which this book will be
concerned. Here though we face a problem, for while there are many dif-
ferent viewpoints about these subjects, what is lacking is a unifying
framework that binds them together.
This problem is not new. In 1934, comparing viewpoints about the
mind at that time, the Russian psychologist Lev Vygotsky stated that ‘there
exist many psychologies, but [no] unified psychology.’52 At the time, three
particularly influential views were introspective psychology, behaviourism,
and psychoanalysis. Introspective psychology, pioneered by individuals
like William James (brother of novelist Henry James) sought to understand
the human mind by questioning individuals about their innermost thoughts.
Behaviourism, as already mentioned, was stimulated by Ivan Pavlov’s dis-
covery of conditional reflexes. The third viewpoint, psychoanalysis,
14
in t roduc t ion
developed from Sigmund Freud’s discovery that the neurotic individuals

he analysed seemed to be supressing important thoughts and desires,
particularly those relating to sex, leading to the idea of an unconscious
mind coexisting alongside the conscious one.
Vygotsky believed that James, Pavlov, and Freud had all provided
important insights, but he pointed to two problematic tendencies
within the schools of thought that grew from these insights. The first
was for each to develop into an all-encompassing view of the mind that
tended to exclude other viewpoints; the second was for this world view
to collapse under the weight of its own internal contradictions.53 The
first tendency was illustrated by the way behaviourism developed into
the idea that all human behaviour is merely a series of conditioned
reflexes. In contrast, Freudian psychoanalysis viewed an individual’s
behaviour, and even human society as a whole, as a battle between the
conscious and unconscious mind. Meanwhile, introspective psychology
argued that only the individual can truly assess his or her innermost
feelings. These mutually exclusive ways of viewing the mind meant
that ‘any behavioural or mental act being expressed in terms of these
three systems would acquire three entirely different meanings.’54 The
second tendency involved a view of the mind expanding to the point
that it became almost a parody of the original insight. So Freud’s view
that unconscious impulses are primarily due to repressed sexuality
led to his eventually trying to explain all of human society in this way,
so much so that he came to see ‘communism and totem, religion
and Dostoevsky’s writings, occultism and commercials, myth and
Leonardo da Vinci’s inventions [as all] just a libido in disguise and
nothing else.’55
Given that Vygotsky was writing in the early twentieth century, one
might wonder how relevant his arguments are today. Yet almost a century
later, it is far from clear whether contemporary mainstream viewpoints
about the mind are any more unified. As I have already highlighted, the
two views of the mind that dominate clinical practice—the biomedical
model espoused by most psychiatrists, and the cognitive behavioural
15
in t roduc t ion
one adhered to by the majority of clinical psychologists—are based on

perspectives that seem to share little common ground. So does this mean
that a unified explanation of how the mind works, encompassing both
biological and social aspects of human consciousness, will always be
outside our reach? Certainly this is the view of some commentators; so
Stuart Sutherland, a psychologist at the University of Sussex, stated in
1989 that ‘consciousness is a fascinating but elusive phenomenon: it is
impossible to specify what it is, what it does, or why it evolved.’56 Yet it is
my view that this is not so, and in the rest of this book, I will explain why.
Building on Vygotsky’s original insights, but linking these for the first
time to the findings of twenty-first-century neuroscience, I will argue that
the human mind has undergone a qualitative transformation, enlarging
the brain, giving it greater flexibility and enabling higher functions such
as imagination, and that this shift has been driven by tool use, but espe-
cially by the development of one remarkable tool—language. I will show
how the complex social interaction brought by language opened up the
possibility of shared conceptual worlds, later enriched with music, art,
and literature. This ‘mind shift’ has enabled modern humans to leap
rapidly beyond all other species, and generated an exceptional human
consciousness, a sense of self that arises as a product of our brain biology
and the social interactions we experience. As a consequence, our minds,
even those of identical twins, are unique because they are the result of this
remarkably plastic brain, exquisitely shaped and tuned by the social and
cultural environment in which we grew up and to which we continue to
respond through life. However, suffering, delusions, and despair can occur
when this symphonic brain activity goes wrong. This then is the book’s
theme, and it will require re-examining what we mean by consciousness,
but also what it means to be human. This I will seek to do. But before doing
so, let us first consider previous ideas put forward to explain how the
human mind works, and why I believe we need a very different approach.
16
Part I
ORIGINS OF MIND
CH A P T ER 1
MIND AND MATTER

z
W hat is the basis of human thought? How does human conscious-

ness differ from that of an animal? Why do different people have
such distinct types of personalities? Is the human mind separate from the
body, or intimately linked to it? Fundamental questions such as these
have occupied the minds of philosophers at least since the ancient Greeks.
For instance Aristotle believed that consciousness exists as a continuum
of different types of ‘souls’ (Figure 1).1 According to him, plants have a
vegetative or nutritive soul, which controls their growth, nutrition, and
reproduction, while animals have such properties too, but also possess
the powers of perception and locomotion. Aristotle thought that any
organism able to feel can experience pleasure; therefore animals also have
desires. However, he saw humans as unique in having a ‘rational’ soul,
which gives our species the power of reason and thought. Aristotle’s ideas
shaped discussion about consciousness for almost two thousand years.
But they did not address the question of why humans are different from
other animals, or how we might begin to understand animal, but also
human, consciousness in a scientific manner.
In fact, in the hands of the Catholic Church, such ideas were mainly
used to consolidate the idea that the human soul was outside the bounds
of science. This was unfortunate because Aristotle was one of the first
individuals to investigate nature by carrying out experiments. However,
such an approach was seen as highly controversial in medieval times if it
began to directly challenge existing ideas sanctioned by the Church.
With such sanctions against those who advanced new theories about
the structure of the Universe, it is perhaps not surprising that speculation
mind a nd m at t e r
Humans
Animals
Plants
Vegetative Sensitive Rational
Soul Reproduction Soul Soul
& Mobility
Growth & Thought
Sensation &
Reflection
Figure 1 Aristotle’s three types of soul.
about the material basis of human consciousness—the realm of the

‘immortal soul’—could be even more dangerous. However, as the seven-
teenth century progressed, even here change was afoot, as new ideas were
put forward about the human body, and how it might function. And the
person who really began to change our views in this respect was an
Englishman—William Harvey.
Born in Folkestone, Kent in 1578, Harvey was educated in Cambridge,
but his most formative experience was his later studies at the University
of Padua in Italy.2 Uniquely for the time, students at Padua learned about
the human body by dissection and observation, rather than simply regur-
gitating the views of ancient thinkers. Returning to England in 1602,
Harvey became a medical doctor, but he also began studying the heart
and blood vessels, performing experiments on animals as well as observ-
ing patients.3 Such studies led Harvey to propose that the heart pumps
blood in a one-way circulatory system.
The realization that the heart works like a pump transformed our
understanding of this organ, but also helped stimulate the idea that the
whole human body can be viewed as a machine.4 In particular, the phil
osopher René Descartes became a major exponent of this viewpoint.
Born in La Haye en Touraine, France, in 1596, Descartes refused to be
bound by previous thinkers’ ideas, arguing that he would investigate key
topics ‘as if no one had written on these matters before.’5 He proposed
that many ‘motions occurring inside us do not depend in any way on the
mind. These include heartbeat, digestion, nutrition, respiration when we
20
are asleep, and also such waking actions as walking, singing, and the like’.6
This was bold thinking, for it suggested that not only bodily functions but
also aspects of human behaviour can be viewed as analogous to the work-
ings of a machine. But Descartes was careful to note that higher mental
functions such as conscious awareness, free will, and personality cannot
be explained in this manner, saying that ‘on the one hand I have a clear
and distinct idea of myself, in so far as I am simply a thinking, non-extended
thing [that is, a mind], and on the other hand I have a distinct idea of body,
in so far as this is simply an extended, non-thinking thing.’7 This led to his
famous statement, ‘I think, therefore I am.’8
Although Descartes believed that the soul can influence the body
through a point of contact he arbitrarily located in the pineal gland, he
argued that its supernatural form made it impossible to understand by
scientific methods. This separation between body and mind left open the
possibility that the mind has an immortal nature, as the soul, in keeping
with the idea of an afterlife. Descartes’ standpoint made some sense given
the limited understanding of brain function at that time. It may also have
been a pragmatic position given the Church’s persecution of individuals
for putting forward scientific views about the physical universe, let alone
questioning the existence of an immortal soul. But the effects of this
separation have clouded understanding of the human mind—and how it
works—to the present day.
One of the first people to challenge the idea that the mind could not be
studied scientifically like the rest of the human body was the philosopher
John Locke. Born in Somerset in 1632, Locke grew up during the English
Civil War of 1642–9;9 indeed his father was a captain in the parliamentary
army, and as a student at Westminster School in London, Locke was
deeply affected by hearing the groan of the crowd at Charles I’s execution,
which took place at nearby Whitehall in January 1649.10 The social revolu-
tion that accompanied the civil war transformed British society by
overturning the old feudal order, allowing new ideas about science and
society to blossom.11 As a scholar at Christ Church in Oxford, Locke
turned his attention to the human mind; his solution to the problem of
21
understanding how the mind worked was to view it as a ‘blank slate’,

expressed by his statement, ‘Let us then suppose the mind to be, as we say,
white paper void of all characters, without any ideas. How comes it to be
furnished? . . . To this I answer, in one word, from experience.’12
Such a view explained how ideas could change in society, for an indi-
vidual’s changing experience could also change their consciousness. This
was an important principle in post-revolutionary British society in which,
in theory at least, a person’s rise in society was now based on merit, and
not upon their position in the feudal order. Yet Locke did not completely
break from the dualism that Descartes had introduced into discussions
about human consciousness. Acknowledging that there is surely more to
the human mind than simply experience, he proposed that there must
also be some material factor that binds an individual’s life story into a
sense of self and personal identity.13 However, he skirted the issue of how
such a unifying influence might arise in the brain by stating that God had
made humans this way, so in this respect his proposal was not much of an
advance on Descartes’ model, in that it left the higher aspects of human
consciousness as an unknowable entity.
While Locke was prepared to prod at the boundaries of the dualism
introduced by Descartes in his discussions about human consciousness,
the real iconoclast in this respect was the Scottish philosopher David
Hume. Born in Edinburgh in 1711, Hume took the blank slate view of the
mind to its logical conclusion, by saying that there really is nothing more
to human consciousness than experience. Addressing the issue of how
this could ever result in a unified sense of personal identity, he proposed
that this is to some extent an illusion. Instead, for Hume, the self is noth-
ing but a collection of diverse experiences. However, recognizing, like
Locke, that something must bind such experiences together for con-
sciousness to form a coherent whole, he proposed that ‘there is a secret tie
or union among particular ideas, which causes the mind to conjoin them
more frequently together, and makes the one, upon its appearance, intro-
duce the other.’14 As an attempt to explain human consciousness purely
by materialist principles, and without any need for a supernatural soul, it
22
was an important step forward. Yet by failing to properly explain how

ideas cohere into a unified whole, Hume was unable to complete the revo-
lution in thinking about the mind that he had initiated.
Despite the deficits in Locke and Hume’s views of human conscious-
ness, the blank slate view of the mind is still very influential in psychology,
for, as already mentioned, it is central to behaviourism. Indeed, behav-
iourists like John Watson and B. F. Skinner followed Locke in ignoring the
question of how experience might generate a sense of personal identity in
a human brain treated as a blank slate. As one critic has put it, this view
assumes that ‘children are born with brains of soft clay, their mental
makeup . . . infinitely mouldable’.15
Yet as should be obvious to any parent with two or more children, sib-
lings can grow up in the same family environment but display completely
different personalities, interests, and degrees of motivation. And treating
the mind as a blank slate also fails to explain why humans differ from
animals, and why some people thrive in a challenging environment, while
others in the same environment succumb to mental disorders.
In the face of such criticisms, ‘cognitive behaviourism’ has sought to
create a more sophisticated way of understanding the mind. Rather than
basing itself on the simple stimulus–response circuit first identified by
Pavlov, cognitive behaviourism sees the human mind as a very sophisti-
cated information-processing device, or computer.16 By analogy with
computers, this view of the mind sees it as a device that receives informa-
tion from the outside world, processes and stores this information, and
then uses it to produce a response, either immediately or in the future.
The particular power of human minds is then seen to arise from the fact
that our relatively bigger brains endow us with a much greater computing
power than the brains of other animals. But there are also a number of
limitations to this view.17
For a start, by focusing primarily on the logical aspects of cognitive
processing, it neglects the emotional, creative, and social side of human
thought. It also does not explain why actual computers, despite having
vastly greater number-crunching abilities than a human brain, show no
23
signs of developing the conscious awareness of the human mind, although

I will return later to the question of whether computers might achieve this
ability in the future. Moreover, this model rarely engages with the ques-
tion of how the different neurons in a living human brain come together
to create such a super-powerful computing device, or why there seems to
have been a qualitative leap in our consciousness compared to those of
other species, including our closest cousins, chimpanzees. Linking all
these issues is a problem with both traditional behaviourism and its more
modern cognitive version, which is that the mind is largely treated as an
abstraction. It remains unclear how such a mind might relate to actual
brain structure and function. Because of this, neither approach seems to
take us much further than the unknowable soul of Descartes’ model, in
terms of leading to an understanding of how consciousness takes form in
a human brain.
Given that we know vastly more about the biology of the brain than
Descartes did, can we use such knowledge to better understand the
mind? A major advance came with the discovery that all life can be
viewed as a flow of information from the DNA of the genes to the pro-
teins which act as the building blocks of each cell, and the body as a
whole. Although DNA was discovered by the Swiss biologist Friedrich
Miescher in the 1860s, it took almost a hundred years for scientists to
realize its unique role in the life process.18 This realization came with
the theoretical elucidation of its 3D structure by Jim Watson and Francis
Crick in 1953, building on the experimental studies of Rosalind Franklin
and Maurice Wilkins.19
The discovery of the famous double helix structure of DNA was a major
breakthrough for two reasons.20 First, it showed how the ‘molecule of life’
reproduced itself at each cell division. Essentially, the helix breaks in two,
and a new double helix is formed from each single strand of DNA. Second,
the DNA structure showed how the genetic material might act as a ‘blue-
print’ for the organism. The realization that DNA could be viewed as a
chain made of four letters—the DNA ‘bases’ A, C, G, and T—that acted as
a linear ‘code’ led to the discovery that three bases of DNA code for a
24
DNA
D
A T G C C T G T T C A T C G T three bases
code for
Methionine Proline Valine Histidine Arginine one amino acid
Figure 2 Genetic code from DNA to protein.
particular amino acid, the basic units that when linked together form
proteins (Figure 2). For instance, GTT codes for the amino acid valine,
CCT for proline, and so on for all twenty amino acids. Working out the
genetic code was a key scientific achievement of the 1960s.21 Finally in
1977 Fred Sanger developed a method for ‘sequencing’—that is, reading—
all the letters of a genome. Following a colossal effort involving scientists
across the globe, the human genome was fully sequenced in April 2003.22
The central importance of DNA to life—and the fact that differences in
genomes ultimately define to which species an individual organism
belongs—led to claims that possession of the human genome sequence
would have a major impact on our understanding of what it means to be
human. The late Sir John Sulston, who led the Human Genome Project in
Britain, said at the end of the project that ‘we’ve now got to the point in
human history where for the first time we are going to hold in our hands
the set of instructions to make a human being.’23 So given that a defining
feature of being human is our conscious minds, how have advances in
genetics affected our ability to understand the way our minds work? To
properly address this question, it is worth restating a few basic principles
of genetics.
Genetics was established by Gregor Mendel, a monk working in a
monastery in Brno, once part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire but now in
the Czech Republic. In 1865 Mendel showed that particular characteristics
25
are passed down to future generations according to defined ‘laws’ of

inheritance.24 These laws stem from each characteristic being determined
by ‘factors’—now termed genes—that come in opposing pairs, with one
member of the pair dominating the other. In the pea plants that Mendel
studied, such pairs determine long versus short stems, or smooth versus
wrinkled pods. In ‘dominant’ inheritance, a single copy of the dominant
gene gives the plant a particular characteristic or trait, thereby making
itself known in every generation. In ‘recessive’ inheritance, two copies of
the recessive gene are required to produce the trait: parents with only one
copy do not show the trait themselves, but a quarter of their offspring
have both copies, and therefore display the trait.
Although Mendel studied pea plants, the laws of inheritance that he
established were subsequently shown to be true for predispositions to
particular human diseases (Figure 3).25 Huntington’s disease, associated
first with jerky movements, then psychotic behaviour, and finally demen-
tia and premature death, is a dominant genetic disorder. In contrast, cystic
fibrosis, in which sticky mucus accumulates in the lungs and pancreas,
stopping them functioning properly and eventually leading to an early
death, is a recessive disorder. Because of this, it is passed on to future
generations by ‘carriers’ who meet and have children without being
aware that they then have a one-in-four chance of having a child with
the disorder.
Recessive inheritance Dominant inheritance

Nn Nn Nn nn
Carrier Carrier Affected Unaffected

father mother father mother
NN Nn Nn nn Nn nn Nn nn
Unaffected Carrier Carrier Affected Affected Unaffected Affected Unaffected
Figure 3 Inheritance of recessive and dominant characteristics.
26
Sometimes human behaviours like ‘selfishness’ or ‘nationalism’ are said

to have a clear genetic basis. Such statements are based on the often
unspoken idea that these conditions are inherited with the same mathem
atical precision that Mendel described for his pea plants, or is true of a
disorder like Huntington’s or cystic fibrosis. However, given that behav-
iours like selfishness are asserted to be a general characteristic of humans
as a species, such associated genetic differences are presumably thought
to have already become established in every living person, not just a few
individuals. Take, for instance, the ‘helping gene’ that Mark Pagel of the
University of Reading has proposed to code for an ‘emotion that disposes
people to be friendly.’26 In fact this gene turns out to have a dual character,
for while it makes us friendly to other individuals of our particular nation,
towards people of a different country it becomes a ‘xenophobic’ gene that
leads to distrust of foreigners and can even be an important factor in mak-
ing people willing to go to war with those of another nationality. This is
just one illustration of how claims about the influence of genes may be
used to reinforce social stereotypes, such as the idea that people are nat
urally selfish, or jingoistic, why women are less likely to occupy the top
jobs, or why men do not tend to like ironing.27
Critics of such claims have mainly focused on their reactionary conclu-
sions about human nature, or women’s position in society compared to
men. But from a scientific point of view, a more fundamental problem is
that such claims make little sense given how genes, and the genome as a
whole, actually work. A gene only produces a particular protein when
stimulated to do so, typically by a chemical signal in the cell that itself is
activated by an agent like a hormone that arrives at the cell surface,
attaches itself to a ‘receptor’ protein, and triggers a cellular response.28 For
instance, adrenaline stimulates receptors on heart, muscle, and liver cells,
and thereby triggers an immediate response—the ‘fright, flight, fight’
reaction to a scare—but also induces longer-term changes in the activity
of particular genes. Other cellular signals switch genes off, rather than
turn them on.
27
Importantly, such signals activate specific proteins, themselves coded

by genes. But this also means that genes can only influence the cell—and
the wider body—as part of a network of proteins, also coded by genes.
Not only do many proteins combine to form multi-protein ‘complexes’,
but also they often work within ‘signalling pathways’, in which protein A
influences the actions of protein B, which regulates protein C, and so on.
This means that in an individual cell, we can only understand how genes
affect the properties of that cell if we also consider the other proteins with
which a particular protein interacts. And since proteins are encoded by
genes, that means that genes themselves interact in complex ways; indeed
biologists now commonly talk of ‘gene regulatory networks’.29
All of this is important in considering how particular human behav-
iours, and human consciousness itself, might have evolved. Remember,
genes themselves are never a direct target for the forces of natural selec-
tion; instead, those forces can only influence two aspects of an organism:
its capacity for survival within a particular environment, and its subse-
quent ability to reproduce and pass on its genes to future generations.
Of course, serious genetic abnormalities can influence this process.
Tragically, boys with the muscle-wasting disorder Duchenne’s muscular
dystrophy (DMD) typically do not live longer than their teens, and are
generally in a wheelchair long before this, such is the severity of the dis-
ease.30 As a consequence, such boys never transmit their disorder to future
generations. Instead, DMD is passed on by female ‘carriers’ who do not
suffer from this condition, because it is due to a defect in a gene called
dystrophin located on the X chromosome.
Since women have two X chromosomes, carriers have a normal copy
of dystrophin which makes up for the loss of a functional other copy.
However, half their male offspring have no such protection. DMD, like
the blood-clotting disease haemophilia, is an ‘X-linked recessive’ disorder
(Figure 4). In contrast, a dominant disease like Huntington’s makes its
effects known each generation. But because the symptoms only manifest
themselves relatively late in life, people with this disorder often pass on
28
X-linked recessive inheritance
xy xx
Unaffected Carrier
father mother
xy xy xx xx
Unaffected Affected Carrier Unaffected
son son daughter daughter
Figure 4 Inheritance of X-linked recessive characteristics.
this genetic defect to their children before they realize they have the
disease and can transmit it.31
It has been possible to link disorders like cystic fibrosis, DMD, and
Huntington’s to single genes because the genetic changes associated with
them have such dramatic effects. For instance, with DMD, no functional
dystrophin protein is produced, while in Huntington’s, the negative
effects of the mutant huntingtin protein are so severe that a sufferer even-
tually dies from the condition. Yet there is growing evidence that more
common conditions, whether bodily disorders like diabetes or heart dis-
ease, or those that affect the mind like depression or schizophrenia, have
no such simple genetic link.
Why this is so is something that I will explore in greater detail in later
chapters of this book, but it does suggest that claims about the genetic
basis of human behaviour, and differences between human individuals,
that are based on a simple extrapolation from rare single-gene disorders
have overexaggerated the similarities between these disorders and the far
more common ailments that can affect both the mind and body.
29
This also seems to be the case for other human characteristics often
claimed to have a clear genetic basis, ranging from intelligence to sexual
inclination. For instance, a recent study investigated nearly 80,000 chil-
dren and adults in order to identify differences in DNA sequence across
the human genome associated with ‘general intelligence’—defined by an
individual’s IQ score and ability to give answers to brief touchscreen puz-
zles. The study identified 52 genomic regions that showed such an asso-
ciation.32 However, these only account for about 5 per cent of the IQ
scores among different people. Given that IQ tests themselves have been
criticized for their class and cultural bias, that is hardly a ringing endorse-
ment for a genetic basis for intelligence. Media reports in 1993 that a ‘gay
gene’ predisposes men to becoming homosexual were misleading given
that no gene had been discovered, only an association with a slight genetic
difference in the X chromosome.33 In fact, subsequent attempts to find an
actual gene failed to identify such an entity.34 None of this means genes
are not involved in human behaviour—an aspect I will explore later in
this book—but it does mean we need to move beyond simplistic views
about their involvement.
Linked to the attempt to identify simple links between genes and
human behaviour has been the claim that such genes map directly on to
structures in the brain. Harvard University psychologist Steven Pinker
has proposed that the human brain is an interacting community of dis-
tinct modules, each specialized for a particular function. Conveniently,
each module is suggested to have a specific genetic basis.35 Explaining
how such genetically coded brain modules arose, Pinker has argued that
each evolved as a response to problems faced by our hunter-gatherer
ancestors as they sought to survive and prosper in a hostile environment.
Yet neuroscientist Steven Rose of the British Open University has criti-
cized Pinker on the grounds that the latter seems ‘not very interested in
actual brains, since his mental “modules” may or may not map onto
actual neuronal ensembles.’36 In fact recent studies of the brain confirm
that the brain is modular in some respects, yet increasingly point to con-
sciousness as a feature of the whole brain. This raises the question of how
30
a brain that is partly modular in its structure might at the same time only
function properly as an interconnected whole—something we will con-
sider later in this book.
In summary, a major problem with much popular speculation about
the biological roots of consciousness is that those who advocate a
gene-based view of consciousness often appear to have little understand-
ing of modern genetics, while speculation about how brain structures
shape that consciousness often bears little resemblance to emerging
knowledge about the complexity of an actual human brain. There is a
common thread here, which is that idealized genes and brains have been
substituted for real ones. Unfortunately, because of this tendency, it is not
clear how much we have really advanced forwards from René Descartes
and his belief that the human mind was an unknowable entity or, for that
matter, the behaviourists with their view that the human mind could be
treated as a black box.
In contrast, to understand human consciousness we need to under-
stand real genes, real brains, and how these have evolved in humans com-
pared to other species. And to do this means first of all re-examining the
unique features that distinguish us from such species.
31
CH A P T ER 2
TOOL AND SYMBOL

z
T o understand the basis of human conscious awareness, a good

starting point would be to establish what makes humanity unique
compared to other species on our planet. To do so, however, means going
against a trend in science over the past few centuries that has tended to
downgrade the uniqueness of Homo sapiens and our place in the Universe,
for entirely valid reasons. This trend began with Nicolaus Copernicus’s
demonstration in 1543 that instead of being at the centre of the Universe,
the Earth is merely a satellite of the Sun, which we now know as just one
star amongst trillions of others. A further blow to our egos came with
Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace’s theory of natural selection,
most famously expounded in Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, published
in 1859, which showed that humans are only one of many branches on the
tree of evolutionary change.1 We now appreciate that while life itself has
existed on Earth for 4 billion years, humans only diverged from our clos-
est relatives, the chimpanzee, between 6 and 10 million years ago.2 And
comparisons of human and chimp genes have shown that these are 99 per
cent similar in DNA sequence.3
Such discoveries have helped to undermine the idea, associated with
thousands of years of religious dogma, that humanity is unique among
the life forms on our planet, having been created in the image of some
deity, or deities. Yet it surely does not require any belief in a supernatural
being to recognize there is something quite distinctive about our species
compared to others in the animal kingdom, including every other pri-
mate species.
tool a nd sy mbol
Growing up in an advanced modern civilization, it is easy to forget how

remarkable are the technologies that Homo sapiens has generated that help
define a typical human life. And far from reaching a plateau, humanity’s
technological achievements are accumulating at an exponential rate. Not
that everyone will agree on the value of all such technological develop-
ments. A growing problem for those seeking to publicize the most
up-to-date images from Pluto or the moons of Jupiter is having to compete
with the latest selfies from Kim Kardashian or Beyoncé. Yet fundamental
or frivolous, nothing generated by any other species on Earth compares
with our human powers of technological mastery and innovation.
Take for instance our closest animal relative, the chimpanzee. Recent
studies have shown that chimps have a sophisticated social structure, are
able to use natural objects as tools, and can construct habitats such as
nests in the trees in which they live.4 Yet nothing suggests that the way
chimps live today is very different to how they have existed for the past
few million years except, tragically, as a result of human activity, which is
gradually eroding their habitats and pushing them to the edge of extinc-
tion.5 In this respect, despite their genetic similarity with humans, chimps
have far more in common with every other species on Earth, in being
bound by the laws of natural selection. As Darwin and Wallace demon-
strated, this allows organisms to radically change their character over
time, but at such a slow rate that changes can only be measured over mil-
lions of years. In contrast, over the past 40,000 years, humans have gone
from scratching a living from nature to building cities, cultivating crops
and farm animals, and devising inventions which have taken humans
beyond our planet, imaged individual atoms, and captured light from the
farthest reaches of the Universe.
So how did this divergence between humans and other species arise? In
addressing this question, we have two main options. One is to use archae-
ology to uncover fossilized human skeletons and cultural artefacts from
past human, or human-like, societies. The other is to study human evolu-
tion through comparisons of different genomes—modern humans versus
33
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chimpanzees, other apes, and extinct proto-humans like Neanderthals.

While DNA evidence has only been available over the past few decades,
scientists have been drawing conclusions about human prehistory ever
since the discovery of a Neanderthal skull in Germany in 1856—three
years before Darwin published his Origin of Species.6 Since then, a multi-
tude of fossils have been discovered spanning several million years of
human evolution, along with artefacts such as stone tools. Yet much
remains uncertain about the exact pattern of human evolution, partly
because many fossils exist merely as fragments, and partly because of
misconceptions that have affected the interpretation of these fossil finds.
One such misconception led to that first Neanderthal skull being disre-
garded by Herman Schaaffhausen, the naturalist who initially studied it.
Ignoring the skull’s location next to extinct cave bear and mammoth
bones, Schaaffhausen claimed it belonged to a member of one of the bar-
barian tribes mentioned by Roman historians.7 Only some years later was
the skull recognized as belonging to an extinct proto-human species.
And showing that even the greatest scientists can make mistakes, another
misconception in our view of human evolution came from none other
than Charles Darwin. In his book The Descent of Man, published in 1871,
Darwin considered which key distinguishing features of humanity—
walking upright, speech, tool use, and a bigger brain—might have evolved
first. Darwin plumped for a big brain.8 He did recognize the importance
of the other features, but saw these as occurring after the growth of the
brain, and therefore as a consequence of this growth. Yet Darwin’s order
of events was mistaken. We now know that a distinctively large brain only
became a feature of humanity several million years after our ancestors
first embarked on their unique evolutionary path. Instead, what first set
us on this path was when proto-humans first began walking on two feet.
Next came a particular aptitude for using tools. Dramatic brain growth
only occurred much later in our evolution.
Of course when Darwin was writing there was little fossil evidence to
help illuminate human evolutionary history. For as well as the confusion
about the exact relationship of Neanderthals to humans, there was no
34
tool a nd sy mbol
evidence at this time of more ancient proto-human fossils. However,

archaeologist Bruce Trigger of McGill University in Montreal has sug-
gested that Darwin was also constrained by a ‘reluctance to challenge the
primacy which the idealistic religious and philosophical thinking of his
time accorded to rational thought as a motor in bringing about cultural
change.’9 In other words, Darwin may have been overly swayed by his
intellectual’s view of the importance of the mind compared to other
human attributes such as our hands, with their particular skill at making
and using tools.
Intriguingly, one individual at this time who did guess the correct
sequence of human evolution was Friedrich Engels, which might seem
surprising given that he is more usually known as a political thinker and
activist, not a source of insights about the natural world. Yet in an essay he
wrote in 1876 entitled ‘The Part Played by Labour in the Transition from
Ape to Man’, Engels argued that human evolution was initiated when our
ancestors began walking on two feet, which freed the hands to design
and make tools.10 Such tool use, carried out as a highly social activity,
eventually gave birth to language, and this, together with shared labour
activities, began to fuel the growth of the brain in a kind of positive
feedback mechanism.
Engels’ essay was remarkably prophetic given that such a pattern of
events is now accepted as the correct sequence of human evolution.
Unfortunately, the essay lay unpublished until after Engels’ death in 1896,
when it appeared in Die Neue Zeit, a German socialist newspaper.11 There
its insights were ignored by the professional scientific world, or, more
likely, it was not even known about in those circles. This was unfortunate:
guided by Darwin’s proposal that our large brains were the first distinct
ive human feature to evolve, for many years archaeologists accepted erro-
neous findings and disregarded important clues in their bid to make the
fossil evidence fit such a mistaken pattern of evolutionary change.
One famous piece of wrong- footing was a discovery made near
Piltdown, in Surrey, England, in 1912. Here, Charles Dawson, an amateur
archaeologist, identified a fossil skull with an ape-like jaw but a cranium
35
tool a nd sy mbol
of modern human-like proportions.12 Fitting as it did the proposal that

the first proto-humans had an ape-like posture and a large brain, the find
led to newspaper headlines along the lines of ‘Missing Link Found—
Darwin’s Theory Proved’. Yet the ‘fossil’ was a fake, something only real-
ized in 1953 when analysis showed that the main part of the skull was only
500 years old and the jaw came from a modern-day orang-utan. Who
propagated the hoax remains debatable, although recent evidence has
implicated Dawson himself.13 In the meantime, not long after the Piltdown
‘discovery’, a genuine archaeological find by Raymond Dart in South
Africa in 1924 of the partial remains of an ape-like creature with a small
brain, but which walked on two legs, was largely disbelieved.14
Only in 1974 when Donald Johanson discovered a complete
3.2-million-year-old female skeleton with an ape-sized brain and erect
posture in Afar, Ethiopia, was Darwin’s sequence finally laid to rest.15
Johanson named the skeleton ‘Lucy’, after the Beatles’ song Lucy in the Sky
with Diamonds, which was playing in the archaeologists’ camp at the time
of the discovery. More seriously, the skeleton was proposed to be that of a
new proto-human species, Australopithecus afarensis, meaning ‘southern
ape from Afar’.
Although Engels was ahead of his time in recognizing the general pat-
tern of human evolution, in other ways his account is misleading in giving
the impression of a smooth progression from ape to human. We now
know the evolutionary process was far from such a linear ladder of pro-
gress, being more like a branching tree, involving multiple proto-human
species—also known as hominids—many coexisting for long periods of
time (Figure 5).16
Such complexity is exacerbated by proto-human remains often only
consisting of fragments of bone, teeth, or bits of rock that may have, or not,
been stone tools. This makes assigning a new fossil to a known proto-human
species, or deciding whether it belongs to a totally new one, a process
open to much discussion. As palaeontologist Chris Stringer of the Natural
History Museum in London has noted, ‘the field of human evolution is
littered with abandoned ancestors and the theories that went with
36
tool a nd sy mbol
Homo sapiens Homo neanderthalensis

0
Homo
H
heidelbergensis
Homo HHomo
1 antecessor eerectus P.
? robustus
P.
Homo boisei
ergaster Homo
2 habilis
Homo species
Paranthropus
Australopithecus aethiopicus
africanus
3
Australopithecus
afarensis
‘Lucy’ Australopithecus
4 anamensis
Ardipithecus
ramidus
5 ‘Ardi’
6 million years ago Orrorin tugenensis
Figure 5 Evolution of humans from apes.
them . . . Failure to realize the complexities involved in trying to interpret a

few fossils scattered sparsely through space and time has characterized
the approach of even the most competent workers, resulting in naïve
interpretations.’17 Despite this diversity, the trend is that first identified by
Engels, namely of upright walking freeing the hands to use and design
tools. We should consider, then, at what point proto-humans first began
using tools in a distinctive way compared to other apes, and how this
might have led to other features like language capacity and a bigger brain.
Definitively answering the first question is complicated by the regular
appearance of new evidence to challenge past views on this matter.
37
tool a nd sy mbol
This capacity of nature to challenge accepted viewpoints is, of course, what

gives science its power, but it can create much debate and disagreement in
the process. For human evolution, an early consensus was established by
Louis and Mary Leakey, who in 1964 discovered a 1.8-million-year-old
skull of a species they named Homo habilis, or ‘handy man’, because the
skull was found next to hand-crafted stone tools.18 Giving the new species
the prefix Homo signified it as the start of a more human-like line of evolu-
tion, in contrast to Australopithecus afarensis, which was bipedal, but has
otherwise been thought to be far more ape than proto-human.
Yet recently Sonia Harmand and Jason Lewis, of Stoney Brook
University in New York, have challenged this distinction, through their
discovery of stone tools dated to 3.3 million years ago, raising the question
of which proto-human species made such tools.19 Other studies have
uncovered butchered animal bones from this time that show the marks of
precision stone tools.20 An obvious candidate is Australopithecus afarensis,
which lived from 3.9 to 2.9 million years ago. This pushes back the
point in prehistory at which proto-humans may have designed and
used tools. For palaeoanthropologist Henry Bunn of the University of
Wisconsin, this implies that while proto-humans at this time ‘had small
australopithecine-sized brains . . . nevertheless they figured out how to cut
through often tough hide to efficiently get the meat off the bones and
break the bones open for the marrow.’21
What might have triggered this move into tool-making? The stone
tools identified by Harmand and Lewis were made during a ‘drying out’
period in this African region between 2 and 3 million years ago that would
have presented our ancestors with a much greater variety of habitats,
such as woodlands and grasslands, than previous primates had known.
An enhanced ability to use tools at this time could have been particularly
fortuitous, in allowing proto-humans to be more adaptable and extract
food from a greater range of areas.22 Despite these steps towards the
human condition, our ancestors in this prehistoric era appear to have
still partially shared the tree-dwelling lifestyle of their primate cousins.
38
tool a nd sy mbol
In addition, the tools they created were probably still quite ad hoc and largely
disposable. Thomas Wynn, a palaeoanthropologist of the University of
Colorado, believes that the new findings suggest that ‘when you needed a
stone tool and you didn’t have one, you just made one, then dropped it.’23
A breakthrough in tool-making seems to have taken place in a later
proto-human species—Homo erectus. According to Wynn, ‘the technol-
ogy [of this species] is really different, more sophisticated in a cognitive
way than anything earlier hominids or chimpanzees could do—some see
cognitive abilities to coordinate spatial and shape information that chim-
panzees don’t have.’24 Homo erectus was far less based in the treetops, and
the tools it created were much less disposable, pointing to a greater invest-
ment of labour in these objects, and also perhaps more of a sense of their
use in different, future situations.
If sustained tool use was the initial defining feature of humanity, how
did this translate into a capacity for language and accelerated brain devel-
opment? Engels believed that increasing use and design of tools made
possible by the bipedalism of our proto-human ancestors was a key step
in the development of language. As he put it, communal tool use ‘helped
to bring the members of society together by increasing the cases of
mutual support and joint activity . . . Men-in-the-making arrived at the
point where they had something to say to each other.’25 During this pro-
cess, ‘the reaction of labour and speech on the development of the brain
and its attendant senses, of the increasing clarity of consciousness, power
of abstraction and of conclusion, gave both labour and speech an ever
renewed impulse to further development.’26 So what is the evidence for
such a process of positive feedback?
One problem in exploring this question is that, unlike fossils and stone
tools, language leaves no direct imprint to be discovered by archaeologists,
although it does make its presence known in the human body through
changes in the larynx and in certain brain regions. Nevertheless, these are
subtle changes that are difficult to detect in a fossilized skeleton. Instead, we
must guess the likely development of language evolution by indirect means.
39
tool a nd sy mbol
Thomas Morgan and colleagues at the University of California,

Berkeley, recently explored how language as a means of interaction in
modern humans affects their ability to learn how to create prehistoric
stone tools.27 Morgan’s team divided volunteers into groups. The first
group were given a stone and a finished product and just told to get on
with the task. The second group learned primitive tool-making technol-
ogy by watching an expert and then trying to replicate what they did, but
with no interaction. In the third group, the toolmaker actively showed the
volunteers what they were doing but without gestures, while in the fourth
group, gesturing and pointing were allowed but talking was forbidden. In
the fifth group, the toolmaker explained verbally whatever was necessary
for volunteers to appreciate the production process. Finally, the quality of
the tools produced by each group was assessed.
The study showed that volunteers told just to get on with the task pro-
duced poor results, but so did those who passively watched an instructor.
But groups in which gesturing and talking were allowed produced far
higher quality products, with gesturing doubling the quality and verbal
teaching quadrupling it. This suggests that the successful spread of even
the earliest known tool-making technology, more than two million years
ago, required a capacity for teaching by gesture, and maybe the beginnings
of spoken language.28
Another way of investigating the question is to image brain activity
when people are making stone tools and compare this to activity when a
person is engaging in language, as did Natalie Uomini and Georg Meyer of
the University of Liverpool. They used functional transcranial Doppler
ultrasonography (fTCD)—which measures blood flow to different brain
regions and therefore their likely relative activity—to study ten expert
toolmakers performing two different tasks.29 The first task involved craft-
ing an Acheulean hand axe, a prehistoric symmetrical tool that requires
considerable planning and skill; the second silently imagining words
beginning with a given letter. The volunteers interspersed such activity
with non-skilled behaviour—banging two stones together for the first
task and resting without thinking of words for the second. The researchers
40
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found that blood flow changes during the first ten seconds of each
experimental period—when the volunteers were working out how to
shape the stone or thinking up their first words—were very similar.
Uomini and Meyer think that their findings suggest that language and
tool-making coevolved as early as 1.75 million years ago. Yet since they
used a tool-making method known as the Late Acheulean, dating from
half a million years ago, that put much greater emphasis on symmetry and
aesthetic considerations than the Early Acheulean method of 1.75 million
years ago, Michael Corballis, of the University of Auckland, New Zealand,
believes that while the study does suggest coevolution between language
and toolmaking, ‘language itself emerged much later, but was built on
circuits established during the Acheulean period.’30
Exactly how language first arose in humans may always remain a mat-
ter of speculation in the absence of direct evidence. What we can investi-
gate directly is what makes language capacity unique to human beings. In
fact not everyone accepts this uniqueness. One area of dispute is the
extent to which humanity’s extraordinary language capability is innate,
rather than something learned. I have already mentioned the view of
behaviourists like B. F. Skinner that all human behaviour is a series of con-
ditioned reflexes. Skinner viewed language as no different in this respect.
He believed that if a child says ‘milk’ and her mother subsequently gives
her some, the child finds this rewarding, enhancing her language develop-
ment. Evidence for this view came from studies like one by Doug Guess of
Kansas University, who in 1968 claimed he had taught a girl with severe
learning disabilities to make correct grammatical utterances using posi-
tive reinforcement of praise and food.31 And, indeed, studies of chimpan-
zees in the 1960s and 1970s suggested that the ability to be taught language
by such reinforcement might not even be unique to humans.
Although chimps have no vocal apparatus for making the sounds of
human speech, Allen and Beatrix Gardner, psychologists at the University
of Nevada, claimed to have taught a chimp, Washoe, to use American sign
language for the deaf.32 The Gardners raised Washoe like their own child;
she wore clothes and sat with them at the dinner table. During her life
41
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Washoe learned over 250 symbols and was even said to have coined
completely novel words. For instance, after seeing a swan, Washoe made
the two signs for ‘water’ and ‘bird’, suggesting she had grasped the link
between the two. Hearing about this incident, Harvard University psych
ologist Roger Brown viewed it ‘like getting an S.O.S. from outer space’.33
Washoe was not the only ape to display an apparent flair for learning
sign language. A bonobo chimp, Kanzi, learned over 400 symbols, and
was said to have invented novel words, referred to past versus present
events, and understood others’ points of view, all implying a more com-
plex understanding of language than simply associating words with their
objects.34 And a gorilla, Koko, was reported to be able to understand
grammar, something only humans were thought capable of doing. On
being informed of the death of Robin Williams in 2014, it was said that
Koko made the sign for ‘cry’, and ‘looked very thoughtful’, despite having
only met the actor once in 2001, when Williams spent an afternoon with
the celebrity ape.35
Despite the potency of such stories, major criticisms have been raised
regarding the idea that language acquisition in humans is simply a matter
of reinforcement. Notably in the 1960s Noam Chomsky of the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology identified key problems with this
view.36 Chomsky highlighted a central feature of human language, namely
its capacity for expressing an infinite number of ideas using a limited
set of symbols. Such creativity is made possible not only by the size of a
person’s vocabulary, but also by how words are strung together in a pre-
cise order. Chomsky argued that the speed with which children learn new
words, but also how to combine them in a grammatically precise fash-
ion, means our species must have an innate biological capacity for
complex language.37
But what about the claims that other primates can learn human lan-
guage? In fact there is now evidence that experimenters who claimed
amazing linguistic abilities for Washoe the chimp or Koko the gorilla may
have overinterpreted their responses, and even unconsciously given the
apes visual cues about what to say. Herbert Terrace, who studied the
42
tool a nd sy mbol
chimp Nim Chimpsky—this name being a dig at Chomsky—recognized

this problem midway through the studies. According to him, ‘previously,
I had been so fixated on watching Nim’s hands that I missed what his
teachers had been doing on the side while in shadow. About one quarter
of a second prior to Nim’s signing, they were making the same or similar
signs! This discovery downgraded what we thought were spontaneous
utterances to imitative responses.’38
Researchers may also have selectively picked examples of ape signings
because they were so keen to identify human-like language in these non-
human species. The individuals who taught apes sign language invested
huge amounts of professional but also personal time with their wards.39
For instance, Penny Patterson, who worked with Koko the gorilla, devoted
much of her life to this animal since she began working with her in 1971. It
is pertinent to ask, therefore, whether such researchers became so devoted
to their apes that like a proud cat- or dog-owner who swears their pet is
more intelligent than the average, their judgement was swayed by close
proximity to their experimental subjects.40 For instance, did Koko really
display sorrow on the death of Robin Williams, whom she met for one
afternoon 13 years before, or was she merely mimicking the sorrowful
attitude of her human carers?
Building on such concerns, critics have pointed to important differ-
ences between humans and these taught apes in their use of language. A
central feature of human language is its spontaneous nature, whether
small talk about the weather with a stranger, a toddler pointing out a cute
dog to her parents, or the many fascinating questions that a book about
human consciousness might prompt from its readers. In contrast, apes
seem not to care for chit-chat. For instance studies of Kanzi show that
only 4 per cent of his signs were comments, the other 96 per cent being
purely functional, such as requests for food or toys.41 Such criticisms have
not gone down well with some researchers in this area. In an exchange
between Penny Patterson and Herbert Terrace in the New York Review of
Books in 1980, Terrace accused Patterson of only eliciting signed responses
from Koko by asking her questions. Patterson at first defended her
43
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research methods, but eventually gave up on the debate, saying that her
time would be ‘much better spent conversing with the gorillas’.42
Since taught apes may often be merely mimicking the gestures of
human researchers, and researchers may be showing selective bias in
drawing conclusions about ape language capacity, another approach
would be to study whether apes show a capacity for sophisticated forms
of communication in the wild. Recently Catherine Hobaiter and col-
leagues at the University of St Andrews in Scotland investigated wild
chimpanzees and claimed to have found that they can communicate 19
specific messages to one another with a ‘lexicon’ of 66 gestures. Hobaiter
believes the chimps are similar to humans in having a communication
system in which they deliberately sent a message to another individual.
For her, ‘the big message . . . is that there is another species out there that is
meaningful in its communication, so that's not unique to humans.’43 Yet
while Hobaiter claims that some gestures are only used to convey one
meaning, like leaf clipping, where a chimp takes small bites from leaves to
elicit sexual attention, undermining this claim, other gestures were more
ambiguous; for instance, a grab can apparently signify either ‘Stop that’,
‘Climb on me’, or ‘Move away.’44
Susanne Shultz, a biologist at the University of Manchester, believes
the researchers’ attempts to fill in the gaps in our knowledge of the evolu-
tion of human language are commendable, but ‘the vagueness of the ges-
ture meanings suggest either that the chimps have little to communicate,
or we are still missing a lot of the information contained in their gestures
and actions. Moreover, the meanings seem to not go beyond what other
less sophisticated animals convey with non-verbal communication.’45 It
therefore seems that fundamental differences remain in terms of language
capacity between humans and apes.
Yet while the behaviourist view that human language acquisition is
simply an accumulation of conditioned reflexes now looks incorrect,
recent studies have also challenged Chomsky’s view of a biological basis
for a ‘universal grammar’ shared by all humans.46 Instead, increasing evi-
dence points to both human biology and the process of growing up in a
44
tool a nd sy mbol
specific human society as being factors of equal importance in the forma-

tion of language. I will return to this question later by looking at new
studies that are beginning to identify genes that underpin human lan-
guage capacity, as well as the regions of the brain that play important
roles in language development, but also at evidence that the environment
helps to shape human language. For now though, let us consider another
aspect at the heart of what makes humans unique: the relationship
between individual and society.
45
CH A P T ER 3
INDIVIDUAL AND SOCIETY

z
T he relationship between the individual and society has been hotly

disputed among philosophers and politicians through the ages.
Aristotle believed that ‘man is by nature a social animal . . . society is some-
thing that precedes the individual. Anyone who either cannot lead the
common life or is so self-sufficient as not to need to, and therefore does
not partake of society, is either a beast or a god.’1 This was in line with the
ancient Greek viewpoint that human civilization was inconceivable with-
out the organization of individuals into a ‘polis’, or body of citizens. The
Athenians established the idea of democratic government in such a soci-
ety, although their concept of democracy was highly limited.
In feudal societies, a person was defined by their position in a rigid
social hierarchy rather than as an individual judged on their merits. This
system was justified by the idea that everyone had their place in society,
ordained by God. The notion is expressed succinctly in the lines of the
English hymn ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’: ‘The rich man in his castle,
the poor man at his gate, God made them high and lowly, and ordered
their estate.’2 Ironically, when this hymn was written by Cecil Frances
Alexander, wife of the Archbishop of Armagh, in 1848, the British feudal
aristocracy had long relinquished their role as rulers of society—although
not all their wealth and influence—to a new governing class, who now
run our capitalist economic system. Asserting themselves first in the
Italian Renaissance, and then coming to power in the Netherlands,
England, and France, after bitterly fought revolutions, a rallying point for
this new class was the primacy of the individual. René Descartes, with
his statement ‘I think, therefore I am’,3 and Jean Jacques Rousseau, who
indi v idua l a nd socie t y
saw every ‘man [as] born free and master of himself’,4 were important
proponents of this individualist viewpoint.
The importance of the individual is taken for granted in modern capit
alist society. Indeed, former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher
even notoriously claimed in 1987 that ‘there’s no such thing as society.
There are individual men and women and there are families.’5 While many
would disagree with this extreme position, the view that society is merely
a collection of individuals driven by self-interest is a very common one.
Yet recent studies have questioned the idea that we are naturally soli-
tary individuals. Instead they suggest that socializing with others is so
central to our species that rejection—whether by a lover, friend, or even
while playing a game with total strangers—is registered in the same brain
regions as respond to physical pain. One such study, led by Matthew
Lieberman at the University of California, Los Angeles, imaged the brains
of volunteers playing an invented online game called Cyberball.6 When
invisible online ‘players’ deliberately stopped passing the e-ball to the vol-
unteer, the brain region that lit up in the scanner was the one also acti-
vated by physical pain. Looking at scans from two studies side by side,
Lieberman noted that ‘without knowing which was an analysis of phys
ical pain and which was an analysis of social pain, you wouldn’t have been
able to tell the difference.’7
Other studies have undermined the idea that human beings are inher-
ently selfish, indicating instead that altruistic acts trigger activity in the
‘reward’ region of the brain that is stimulated when a person experiences
pleasure. For instance, Jorge Moll and colleagues at the National Institutes
of Health, near Washington, DC, showed that this region became more
active when people gave $10 to charity than when they received the same
amount.8 And Tristen Inagaki and Naomi Eisenberger of the University of
California, Los Angeles, have shown that comforting someone in distress
is a powerful stimulus for this brain region.9 They performed brain scans
on women holding their boyfriend’s hand, both when the couples were
sitting together normally and when the man was given an electric shock.
The brain’s reward region was activated on both occasions, but even
47
more so when the women were comforting their distressed partners.

Eisenberger believes this shows that while people ‘typically assume that
the benefits of social support come from the support we receive from
others . . . it now seems likely that some of the health benefits of social
support actually come from the support we provide to others.’10
A particularly surprising observation was made when the brains of
people not engaged in any activity were monitored. Instead of the brain
being relatively inactive during these periods as one might expect, a
‘default activity’ was triggered, and this occurred in those brain regions
involved in social interaction with other human beings. Lieberman
believes this is because ‘the default network directs us to think about
other people’s minds—their thoughts, feelings, and goals . . . Evolution
has made a bet that the best thing for our brain to do in any spare moment
is to get ready for what comes next in social terms.’11
Studies like these raise the question of how the human brain became so
attuned to social cues in this way. Here there are two issues to consider.
One is evidence that primates in general have evolved to be highly sensi-
tive to social interactions with other members of their species, and this
has been accompanied by enhanced brain growth in order to handle these
more sophisticated interactions. Robin Dunbar of the University of
Oxford has demonstrated a good correlation between relative brain size
in a particular primate species and the extent of the social interactions of
individuals of that species with each other.12 This could be one reason
why primates as a group have relatively bigger brains than other mam-
mals. Because of this, the very fact that humans are primates may explain
why we are so primed to seek social interaction, and for our brains to
reward us for such interactions.
Yet while social interaction may be hardwired into our brains because
of evolutionary changes in our primate ancestors, some features of our
strong tendency towards social interaction may be specifically human. In
particular, considering what I said previously about the uniquely human
characteristics of our capacity for tool design and use, and language, how
might these be linked to our skill, and desire for, social interaction?
48
One scientist particularly interested in this question was the Russian

psychologist Lev Vygotsky who developed novel ideas about human
consciousness starting in the early 1920s and then with increasingly
important insights until his tragic death in 1934 at the age of only 37, from
tuberculosis.
Such were the depth and breadth of Vygotsky’s insights that he was
named the ‘Mozart of psychology’ by psychologist Michael Cole of
Rockefeller University in New York, when his writings were ‘rediscovered’
in the 1960s, having been suppressed as too subversive by Josef Stalin and
later rulers of the Soviet Union.13 Vygotsky’s ideas have had an influence on
modern psychology—particularly regarding the link between individual
and society, and the development of consciousness during childhood—
that continues to this day.
In seeking to understand the unique features of human conscious
awareness, Vygotsky was influenced by Friedrich Engels’ view of our spe-
cies’ evolution. Although Engels’ essay on this topic was ignored by most
scientists, in the newly formed Soviet Union there was much more recep-
tiveness towards it, following its translation into Russian in 1927.14
Vygotsky was struck by the idea that tool-making and use constituted the
crucial initial step in human evolution, and he creatively elaborated on
Engels’ account of how this allowed human beings to first begin to shape
the world around them. Vygotsky proposed that language, through
becoming internalized as thought, could itself be viewed as a tool, in this
case shaping consciousness. What language and tools have in common is
that they both act as mediators, yet while technical tools are aimed at
‘mastering, and triumphing over nature’, in contrast language is an
‘internal activity aimed at mastering oneself.’15
How might language play such a role in shaping individual conscious-
ness? Vygotsky explored this question by studying the development of
conscious awareness in children. When he began developing his ideas in
the 1920s, a key figure in this area of study was the French psychologist
Jean Piaget.16 At this time it was commonly assumed that children are
merely less competent thinkers than adults, but Piaget’s studies indicated
49
SENSORY- PRE- CONCRETE FORMAL

MOTOR OPERATIONAL OPERATIONAL OPERATIONAL
(up to 2 yr) (2 to 7 yr) (7 to 12 yr) (12 yr and up)
Understands world through
SSenses andd Language

L and
d Logical
L i l H h i l
Hypothetical
actions mental images thinking and thinking and
categories scientific
reasoning
Figure 6 Piaget’s stages of child development.
that young children think in strikingly different ways to adults, and go

through discrete stages of development, marked by qualitative differ-
ences, rather than via a gradual increase in the number and complexity of
behaviours, concepts, and ideas (Figure 6).17 Piaget saw child development
as a combination of an innate biological process and social influence
through the learning environment, but his emphasis was definitely on the
innate character of development.
While Vygotsky agreed with some aspects of Piaget’s view of a child’s
mental development—such as the idea that this occurs in discrete
stages—his conclusions about the main driving force behind the develop-
ment of the child’s mind were radically different.18 In contrast to Piaget’s
notion that children’s development necessarily precedes their learning,
Vygotsky argued that learning is a necessary and universal aspect of
the process of developing ‘culturally organized’, specifically human
psychological functions.19
50
Culture
DEV LOPM NT
DEVELOPMENT
Social Language
interactions
ons
Figure 7 Vygotsky’s theory of cognitive development.
One phenomenon Vygotsky focused upon was the tendency of young

children to talk to themselves as they play. Piaget called this phenomenon
‘egocentric speech’, and noted its abbreviated form and grammatically
fragmented structure.20 He realized that it might guide the child’s activ
ities, but believed its insular nature and fragmented form indicated it was
a relic of a past developmental stage, soon to be superseded by more
mature forms of planning and self-control. In contrast, Vygotsky saw
such speech as a vital stage in child development (Figure 7).21 By studying
how young children talk to themselves as they play, Vygotsky showed
that egocentric speech guides a child’s activities but is also a transitional
phase later internalized as ‘inner speech’ which helps to create the thought
processes of each individual.
Other important insights came from Vygotsky’s investigations of how
children begin to think conceptually.22 His studies indicated that this is an
active process, whereby the child seeks out the words and concepts that
make sense of their everyday practical and social experience. Continual
testing of the meaning of language against reality allows them to reach
towards future knowledge and abilities, and this is apparent in the incred-
ible creativity and questioning nature we typically associate with chil-
dren.23 One way Vygotsky studied concept formation was to ask children
of different ages to sort 22 blocks of varying colours, shapes, heights, and
sizes into groups.24 The blocks were coloured red, blue, green, yellow, and
white. But there were also four ‘secret’ categories, identified by nonsense
words—‘lag’—tall and fat blocks; ‘bik’—small and fat blocks; ‘mur’—tall
51
and thin blocks; and ‘cev’—small and thin—on the reverse of each block.
The children were not told that these four words represented such com-
plex concepts, nor did they know that the words referred to a combin
ation of the height and the size of the object. The child was asked to group
together all blocks that might belong to the same kind. After this sorting
exercise, the experimenter picked a wrongly selected block, read its name,
and encouraged the child to keep trying. Following each attempt, another
wrongly selected block was picked up, and its name revealed. In this way,
the child could discover to which characteristics the words referred.
Vygotsky called his test the ‘double stimulation’ method, since the child
was stimulated both by the physical properties of the blocks and by the
nonsense names.25 The test was supposed to indicate the level of concep-
tual problem solving that the child had reached in their mental develop-
ment. The overall finding of the study was that true conceptual problem
solving was only achieved by older adolescents. But also interesting was
what was revealed about the different stages of preconceptual thinking
in children.
Vygotsky named the preconceptual stages syncretic, complex, and
pseudo-conceptual. The youngest children grouped blocks syncretically,
meaning they collected blocks at random, based on a vague idea that they
belonged together.26 Complex thinking was more advanced in that blocks
were grouped by real similarity, but inconsistently. So in a ‘collection
complex’, blocks were paired by complementarity: red with blue, tall with
flat, and so on. In a ‘chain complex’, if the first block was red and round,
the second one could be red and triangular, the third triangular and green.
This type of thinking was distinguished from true conceptual thought by
showing no hierarchical organization in the selections.
An intriguing phenomenon uncovered by the study was ‘pseudo-
conceptual’ thinking.27 Here, at first glance children appeared to be
sorting blocks on a purely conceptual basis, selecting them for instance by
a shared feature, like colour. The preconceptual nature of such a selection
was only revealed when the experimenter turned over a block and
exposed its inaccuracy according to the nonsense word describing it.
52
While a child using true conceptual reasoning responded by removing all

selected blocks and starting again, one guided by pseudo-conceptual
reasoning only removed the ‘wrong’ block and continued to insist on the
appropriateness of the others they had selected. Vygotsky believed this
revealed that ‘the child’s complexes . . . do not develop freely or spontan
eously along lines demarcated by the child himself’ but rather along lines
preordained by the word meanings established in adult speech.28 Only in
the experiment was the child freed from the directing influence of the
words of the adult language with their developed and stable meanings. In
other words, a child grouping objects according to a common feature,
such as a square shape, does not necessarily have an internal concept
corresponding to that common feature. This raises the question of how a
child progresses from pseudo-conceptual thinking to that guided by
pure concepts.
A key distinction that Vygotsky made in this respect was between
‘everyday’ concepts and ‘scientific’ ones. With everyday concepts the child’s
attention ‘is always centred on the object being represented and not on
the thought that grasps it.’29 In contrast, scientific concepts, ‘with their
quite different relationship to an object, are mediated through other con-
cepts within their internal, hierarchical system of relationships.’30 This
means that a child can apply conceptual categorization without necessar-
ily understanding it fully. The development of scientific concepts is par-
ticularly associated with formal schooling; however, Vygotsky believed
that classroom teaching is most effective when it connects with the child’s
own spontaneous view of the world formed through their everyday
experiences. It is through such an organic connection that a child is most
likely to develop an understanding of the hierarchical basis of true con-
ceptual categorization and not just apply it blindly.
This idea was explored in a 1994 study by Luis Moll and James Greenberg
of the University of Arizona, while trying to encourage literacy in chil-
dren of a Mexican community in Tucson, Arizona.31 In the study, writing
classes were geared to the children’s everyday experiences outside the
classroom and the learning experience mainly took the form of project
53
work whose content was drawn from the community from which the
children came. Moll and Greenberg’s approach involved creating ‘mean-
ingful connections between academic and social life through the concrete
learning activities of the students’.32 Spelling and grammar were not
ignored in the study, but the emphasis was on treating reading and writ-
ing as communicative and meaningful. With such an approach even the
most uninterested or apparently incapable children made great improve-
ments in their literary skills.33
Vygotsky was not the only thinker with such a view of the key role of
language in mental development working in Russia in the 1920s and
1930s. Valentin Voloshinov, who also died young, in 1935, aged only 40, in
this case after incarceration in a Stalinist ‘Gulag’ prison-camp,34 came to
similar conclusions during this period. Although Voloshinov and
Vygotsky are not recorded as having met or read each other’s work, cer-
tain themes ‘in the air’ in Russia at this time may have contributed to the
large degree of overlap and complementarity in their approaches to the
study of human consciousness.35
Voloshinov was more concerned with adult thought patterns than
those occurring in children. He argued that people ‘think and feel and
desire with the help of words; without inner speech we would not become
conscious of anything in ourselves. This process of inner speech is just as
material as is outward speech.’36 But he also believed that thought and
language share the same transmission medium and have the same source,
that is, society. He proposed that each person engages in ‘horizontal’
social relationships with other individuals in specific speech acts, and
simultaneously in ‘vertical’ internal relationships between the outer
world and their own psyche.37 The mind is thus not an internal but a
boundary phenomenon. Or as Voloshinov put it, ‘individual conscious-
ness is not the architect of the ideological superstructure, but only a ten-
ant lodging in the social edifice of ideological signs.’38
Expressed in this way, it might appear that Voloshinov saw language,
and therefore thought, as something imposed upon the individual, like
the ‘blank slate’ view of the mind of the behaviourists. But this was far
54
from the case, for he rather viewed language as a dynamic process, in

which the individual plays a highly active role. And it is the social rela-
tions between the two individuals taking part in a verbal exchange that
influence the way this exchange develops. As Voloshinov put it, ‘the word
is implicated in literally each and every act or contact between people—in
collaboration on the job, in ideological exchanges, in the chance contacts
of everyday life, in political relationships, and so on . . . The word has the
capacity to register all the transitory, delicate, momentary phases of social
change.’39
But how can this be so, given that all individuals in a particular society
use the same words and the same language system? Voloshinov’s explan
ation was that words used by groups with radically different circum-
stances and life activities become inflected with different and competing
meanings as these groups struggle to express their life situations, their
outlooks, and their aspirations. Because of this, for Voloshinov, language
exists in ‘a continuous process of becoming. Individuals do not receive a
ready-made language at all, rather, they enter upon the stream of verbal
communication.’40
Voloshinov’s view of language is based on dialogue, but in a much
deeper sense than we usually use this term in everyday speech. A key fea-
ture of any utterance produced by an individual is that it can only be
understood in relationship to other utterances. In other words, under-
standing is a process in which the utterances of a listener come into con-
tact with and confront those of a speaker. Or as Voloshinov expressed it,
‘for each word of the utterance that we are in process of understanding,
we . . . lay down a set of our own answering words. The greater their num-
ber and weight, the deeper and more substantial our understanding will
be.’41 A second way in which utterances can come into contact is through
the practice of an individual taking over another’s words or expressions.
One familiar way in which this occurs is in parody, for instance when a
speaker repeats the utterances of a well-known celebrity or politician by
repeating such utterances with a different intonation or in a context
different from the original one, in a way that can be humorous, sarcastic,
55
or so on. It is through this multi-voicedness that parody achieves its effects.

However, while parody may be a particularly obvious form of this phe-
nomenon, Voloshinov believed that some element of multi-voicedness is
an essential feature of practically every type of utterance.42
While Voloshinov viewed words as having multiple accents, he did not
see this as a random process. Instead, verbal exchanges between individ
uals are governed by what he called ‘speech genres’. These form a crucial
link between the abstract level of a language system and the concrete rich-
ness of speech. Mikhail Bakhtin was another Russian philosopher of lan-
guage who worked closely with Voloshinov in the 1920s and 1930s as part
of an intellectual circle involving a variety of other individuals; indeed it
has even been claimed, controversially, that Bakhtin was the actual author
of the books published under Voloshinov’s name.43 Whatever the truth of
this claim, Bakhtin continued to develop the concept of speech genres
until his death in 1975. He noted that speech genres come in various differ-
ent forms, and this range gives social interaction its range and dynamism.
They might include ‘social dialects, characteristic group behaviour, pro-
fessional jargons, generic languages, languages of the authorities of vari-
ous circles and of passing fashions, languages that serve the specific
socio-political purposes of the day.’44 Individuals can draw on different
speech genres in their everyday life. So an administrative assistant might
use a deferential genre while speaking with her line manager, a relaxed
one while talking with workmates at lunch, and a more politicized genre
at a meeting of her trade union branch.
Bakhtin noted that speech genres are so much a part of everyday speech
that we generally use them unthinkingly. Or as he put it, ‘our repertoire of
oral (and written) speech genres is rich. We use them confidently and skil-
fully in practice, and it is quite possible for us not even to suspect their
existence in theory.’45 Bakhtin also saw speech genres as being grounded
in reality, stating that ‘genres correspond to typical situations of speech
communication, typical themes, and, consequently, also to particular
contacts between the meanings of words and actual concrete reality
under certain typical circumstances.’46
56
Yet speech genres are also sensitive to changes in circumstances. For

Richard Bauman of Indiana University, they represent a ‘ready-made way
of packaging speech’ but also allow for ‘creative, emergent, and even
unique’ performances.47 Because of this, both the voice type of a speech
genre and a concrete individual voice are simultaneously involved. This
interaction occurs because, as Bakhtin put it, ‘the word in language is half
someone else’s. It becomes “one’s own” only when the speaker populates
it with his own intentions, his own accent, when he appropriates the
word, adapting it to his own semantic and expressive intentions.’48
Crucially, being linked to social groups, speech genres are very sensitive
to social change, in ways that I will explore later in this book.
While social interactions shape language, it is still individuals that
make the utterances involved in concrete speech, and understand and
respond to those made by other individuals. So how does language mani-
fest itself in the individual mind? Voloshinov thought that the ideological
character of language is also present in the individual. Antonia Larrain
and Andrés Haye, psychologists at the University of Santiago in Chile,
believe that this is because inner speech is a ‘dialogue that consists of a
constant negotiation and redefinition of ideological territories.’49 The lin-
guistic aspects of inner speech help the speaker to think and feel in a stable
and recognizable way along with others, but in an ongoing human con-
sciousness it is not the linguistic structure of speech but the ‘dialogical
dynamics internalized from social activity’ that most characterize our
inner thoughts.50
A challenging aspect of investigating the validity of this view and the
general idea that inner speech is a central motor of consciousness is that
processes that occur in the individual mind are very difficult to study.
Because of this, those interested in investigating this issue further must
resort to indirect methods of analysis. Vygotsky believed that since ego-
centric speech in children is an important transitory stage in the develop-
ment of inner speech, clues about the latter’s character might be found in
the structure of egocentric speech.51 Charles Fernyhough of the University
of Durham has recently tried to monitor inner speech directly by getting
57
adult volunteers to wear a device that bleeps at random intervals, at which

point the wearer is prompted to note whatever was passing through their
mind at the time.52 This was repeated on six occasions. The subjects were
then interviewed about the nature of their inner mental responses and
their relation to spoken language.
By such routes, the emerging picture of inner speech is that it differs
from external speech, in both structure and how it conveys meaning. It
has a highly abbreviated quality because its context is already largely
known to the individual in which it occurs. To some extent this is a fea-
ture of egocentric speech in children. As Vygotsky observed, a child talk-
ing to themself ‘already knows’ what they are talking about and therefore
has no need to name the subject; so only ‘new information’ is retained
while ‘old information’ is simply presumed.53 Yet inner speech is likely to
be even more telegraphic and abbreviated than egocentric speech.
Because of this, and as external speech requires tongues, lips, and voice
boxes, Fernyhough estimates the likely speed of inner speech to be about
4,000 words per minute—ten times faster than verbal speech.54 Other
key differences include a predominance in inner speech of personal,
private meaning over conventional, public meaning, and a tendency to
agglutination—that is, for words to join to form more complex wholes.55
Based on his studies, Fernyhough believes there are different kinds of
inner speech, which vary ‘according to how compressed it is, how con-
densed. We think inner speech varies according to how much it’s like a
conversation between different points of view . . . And that fits with the
idea that inner speech has a lot of different functions. It has a role in
motivation . . . in emotional expression, it probably has a role in under-
standing ourselves as selves.’56
One situation in which inner speech clearly plays a role as a motivating
influence is in sport. In a recent study by Amir Dana and colleagues at the
Islamic Azad University in Borujerd, Iran, darts players were asked to aim
at the board while inwardly voicing either positive or negative inner
suggestions such as ‘you can do it’ or ‘you’re bound to miss’.57 Those who
spoke positively to themselves scored consistently higher. More generally,
58
high-achieving athletes have been shown to talk more to themselves than

less successful rivals.58
The idea that inner speech is essentially a dialogue raises many import
ant questions. Fernyhough believes that ‘we are all fragmented. There is
no unitary self. We are all in pieces, struggling to create the illusion of a
coherent “me” from moment to moment.’59 But if this is the case, then
how do most of us manage to navigate our way through life with the sense
that we are each unique individuals, with our own goals and aspirations,
through both successes and failures? And if the ‘normal’ human psyche is
by nature fragmented, then how does this differ from individuals who by
their behaviour and statements appear to have progressed significantly
further than the norm in their state of mental fragmentation, such as
people suffering from conditions like schizophrenia or multiple person-
ality disorder?
If inner dialogue is central to human thought, where does this leave
deaf individuals? Lacking a means of hearing external speech, are they
also deficient in this aspect of consciousness? In fact deaf people do seem
to have an inner dialogue, but one that can take a different form to inner
speech. In a recent survey, a deaf person asked about this question stated
that ‘I have a “voice” in my head, but it is not sound-based . . . in my head, I
either see ASL (American Sign Language) signs, or pictures, or sometimes
printed words.’60 The age at which hearing loss occurs seems to influence
the exact modality of the inner dialogue. So one individual who lost their
hearing aged two stated that they think in words, but without sound.61 It
seems that the inner dialogue that mediates human consciousness in this
case still involves symbols, but not necessarily auditory ones. I will look
at how consciousness is affected by loss of one or more of the senses later
in this book, and indeed at some of the other questions raised in this
chapter about the nature and role of our inner dialogue.
For now though, it is time to take a step away from psychology and
turn to neuroscience. For one issue that neither Vygotsky nor Voloshinov
got to address is how the features of the human mind that they believed
distinguish human consciousness from that of other animals are influenced
59
by each individual consciousness being also the product of a biological

entity—the brain. One consequence of seeing mental functioning
in human individuals as having its origins in social, communicative
processes—and human thought as a kind of verbal dialogue—is that this
should have the effect of transforming the different functions of our
brains in a way that is unique to human beings compared to other species,
even to such closely related primate species as chimps. But posing the
matter in this way raises a conundrum, for how can humans and chimps
be apparently so similar at the genetic level—99 per cent if protein-coding
genes are compared—and yet our brains be so different at a functional
level? It is time to look at what science is revealing about the human brain.
60
Part II
MIND AND BRAIN

CH A P T ER 4
NERVE AND BRAIN

z
T he phenomenally complex structure that is the human brain is the

product of a remarkable evolutionary process that has given rise to
the conscious awareness that makes our species unique on Earth. So any
attempt to understand the material basis of this uniqueness needs to
engage with the structure and function of the brain.
The basic unit of the brain is the nerve cell, or neuron.1 These cells are
also the main units of the peripheral nervous system, which sends mes-
sages from the brain to the other tissues and organs that make up our
bodies. Neurons are distinctive compared to other cells in being able to
conduct electrical impulses, in the form of a flow of charged atoms (ions).
These flows of ions occur thanks to protein pores, known as ‘ion chan-
nels’, found on the surface of neurons that allow particular ions to enter
or exit the cell in a regulated fashion.2
The basic structure of neurons was first identified by Spanish biologist
Santiago Ramón y Cajal in the late nineteenth century.3 He used new
methods for chemically staining cells to demonstrate that neurons have
three main parts—a cell body, dendrites, and an axon. Cajal originally
wanted to be an artist, and this artistic vision is apparent in the beautiful
drawings he made—at a time when photography still had not made its
entry into the biological sciences—of the structures of different neurons.
As Cajal himself put it: ‘Like the entomologist in pursuit of brightly
coloured butterflies, my attention hunted, in the flower garden of the grey
matter, cells with delicate and elegant forms, the mysterious butterflies
of the soul, the beating of whose wings may someday—who knows?—
clarify the secret of mental life.’4
ne rv e a nd br a in
Dendrites
Terminal bulb
Nucleus
Cell body
Axon Myelin sheath
eat
Transmitted signal
Incoming
i signal
i
Axon
Myelin layers
Neural signal
Figure 8 The nerve cell and transmission of signal.
Building on Cajal’s pioneering studies, subsequent investigations have

shown that the neuron’s cell body contains a nucleus—within which is
the genome of the nerve cell—plus other important subcellular struc-
tures (Figure 8). But it is the dendrites and axon that are critical to the
business of conveying electrical impulses from one neuron to the next.
It is through the dendrites that electrical activity is initiated in the nerve
cell, and the axon is the structure that transmits the electrical signal to a
neighbouring cell. In many human neurons, unlike the situation in sim-
pler organisms, the flow of electricity along the nerve cell is aided by an
insulating structure around the axon called the myelin sheath.5 This only
allows the electrical changes in the axon to occur at regular intervals
where there is no sheath, forcing the impulse to ‘jump’ from gap to gap,
which greatly speeds up its progress along the axon (Figure 8). It has been
estimated that myelinated neurons can carry impulses up to 100 times
faster than non-myelinated ones. This is particularly important given that
some axons in the human body—for instance those in the spinal cord—
can be a metre long.
64
Axon terminal
Sending
neuron
Synaptic vesicles
carrying neurotransmitter
Neurotransmitter
Receiving
ng released into synapse
neuron
Neurotransmitter
attached to receptor
Ion flows through

Dendrite
rite open channel
Nerve iimpulse
re-initiated
Figure 9 Synaptic transmission of nerve impulses.
A crucial property of the brain and nervous system is that neurons are
connected together in chains. There is no direct electrical contact between
adjacent neurons; instead, chemical messengers known as neurotrans-
mitters are released into the narrow space between the axon of one
neuron and the dendrite of the next—the synapse (Figure 9). By a process
similar to a key fitting into a lock, neurotransmitters interact with
‘receptor’ regions of particular ion channels on the surface of the dendrite
to open or close particular channels, altering the ionic composition of the
neuron as a consequence.
How neurons conduct electrical impulses was shown by Alan Hodgkin
and Andrew Huxley at the University of Cambridge in 1939.6 They studied
axons from giant squids, which were large enough that the researchers
could impale them with electrodes, recording both electrical current and
voltage. These studies showed that when unstimulated, the neuron has a
negative electric charge. Activating neurotransmitters cause sodium ions
to flow into the cell. Since sodium is positively charged, the neuron
becomes more positive. At a certain point, it can become so positive that
this triggers an explosive rise and fall of electrical charge called an action
potential, the fall being due to positive potassium ions rushing out of
the cell.7 The action potential sweeps like a wave along the axon, and,
due to the conducting effect of the myelin sheath, it can reach speeds of
65
250 miles per hour in some human neurons. At the axon’s end, the action
potential causes the release of neurotransmitter into a synapse, and this in
turn activates or inhibits a neighbouring neuron via its dendrites. Once a
neuron has conducted an action potential, protein pumps on its surface
return its ionic composition to a resting level, at which point it can begin
the process of electrical conduction once more.
Since an axon may have hundreds of branches, it can activate or inhibit
the dendrites of many other neurons. As each neuron has many den-
drites, whether the activation of a dendrite in a neighbouring neuron
leads to an action potential depends on the information flowing into that
neuron from other axons, and whether the neurotransmitters being
released into each synapse are excitatory or inhibitory. In this way the
behaviour of each neuron is influenced by the sum of the information
flowing into it via all its dendrites.
This is the situation for all neurons, but there is much diversity in size
and shape between these cells.8 Multipolar neurons with the form
described earlier—a cell body from which emerges a single long axon and
a crown of shorter branching dendrites—are the most common type of
neuron in our nervous system. But one type of multipolar neuron only
has a single primary projection that functions as both axon and dendrites.
And neurons involved in sensing pressure, touch, and pain have axons
that split in two opposite directions, with one end heading for the skin,
joints, and muscle, while the other connects with the spinal cord. The
latter is a bundle of nerves running up and down the spine, and can be
viewed as akin to an information superhighway, transmitting messages to
and from the brain at rapid speed.
Neurons can be classified according to their functional role (Figure 10).9
Sensory neurons supply information to the brain from sensory organs
like the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and skin. Motor neurons spread out from
the brain and spinal cord to regulate the action of muscles, which they
activate via a ‘neuromuscular junction’, a structure that works in a similar
way to a synapse. Interneurons connect neurons in the brain; while some
66
Rece
Receptor
cells
Musc
Muscle
Receptor → CNS CNS → CNS CNS → Effector

SENSORY INTERNEURONS MOTOR
Figure 10 Three main classes of neurons.
link distant brain regions, others group neurons into smaller circuits of
neighbouring cells. But descriptions of such major classes only give a fla-
vour of the true complexity of the brain, which contains hundreds of
neuronal types. Even a glance at some of the names assigned to nerve
cells—cone, climbing fibre, crab-like, medium spiny, pyramidal, chande-
lier, and tripolar—gives a sense of the multitude of the variety of cell
shapes found in the brain.
One class of neurons that have excited much interest recently gets their
name not from their shape, but from their function. They were discovered
by Giacomo Rizzolatti and colleagues at the University of Parma in Italy
in 1992 when they implanted microelectrodes in the brains of monkeys to
study their brain activity during different actions, such as the clutching of
food.10 One day, as a researcher reached for his own food, he noticed
neurons activating in the monkeys’ premotor cortex—the same region
that showed activity when the animals made their own similar hand
movement. Following up this intriguing observation, the group found
that this activity was due to a class of neurons which they dubbed ‘mirror
neurons’ that fire when a monkey performs an action, but also when it
67
observes another individual making the same movement. Mirror neurons

have since been shown to exist in the human brain.11
More controversially, some neuroscientists believe that our mirror
neurons may allow us to simulate not only other people’s actions, but
also the intentions and emotions behind those actions. So Marco Iacoboni,
of the University of California in Los Angeles, thinks that ‘mirror neurons
are the only brain cells we know of that seem specialized to code the
actions of other people and also our own actions . . . without them, we
would likely be blind to the actions, intentions and emotions of other
people’ and that mirror neurons let us understand others by providing
some kind of inner imitation of the actions of other people, which in turn
leads us to ‘simulate’ the intentions and emotions associated with those
actions.12
Neurons are the most well-known cells in the brain but they are not the
only type of cell in this organ. The other main type are the glial cells, also
known as neuroglia (Figure 11).13 Glia comes from the Greek word for
glue, reflecting the view of these cells when they were first characterized
as being merely a structural support for neurons in the brain. But further
research showed that a class of neuroglia called oligodendrocytes supply
nutrients to the neurons, and generate the myelin sheath that wraps such
cells. Neuroglia have generally been considered very much secondary to
neurons in terms of importance. Recently though, that view has been
Oligodendrocyte
Microglia
Astrocyte
Figure 11 Neuron and neuroglial cells.
68
changing. For it turns out that glial cells can play a highly active role in
brain cell communication, and perhaps in the development of human
intelligence.
If asked to name the most intelligent person of the twentieth century,
many people would probably identify Albert Einstein as their chosen fig-
ure of genius. When Einstein died in 1955 and left his body to be examined
for the purposes of medical research, some people expected that his brain
would turn out to be a lot bigger than those of less distinguished individ
uals. Yet a post-mortem showed that not only was Einstein’s brain of aver-
age size, but also there was nothing unusual about the number or size of
its neurons. But in the late 1980s, some scientists investigating Einstein’s
brain claimed that it had an unusually large number of neuroglia, espe-
cially in the association cortex, an area of the brain linked to imagination
and complex thinking.14 Quite what the significance of this finding about
one, albeit very gifted, individual might be for our understanding of brain
function is far from clear, but it is one of the discoveries that have chal-
lenged the idea of glial cells as merely supporting actors.
One reason why neuroglia were underestimated for so long was that
they seemed to have no way of transmitting information in the brain.
Neurons, as we have seen, carry information along their length via action
potentials, and communicate with other neurons by releasing chemical
messengers across connecting synapses. In contrast, neuroglia cannot
generate action potentials. However, recent studies have shown that
chemical communication is just as important for them. They turn out to
have many of the same cell surface receptors as neurons, allowing them to
communicate with both neurons and other neuroglia.15
One class of neuroglia, called astrocytes, play an important role in the
formation of synapses.16 If rodent neurons are cultured outside the body
in the absence of astrocytes, they form few synaptic connections. But if
astrocytes are added to the culture, the number of synapses rapidly rises,
and synaptic activity increases tenfold. Astrocytes secrete chemicals that
enhance synapse formation and directly regulate synaptic activity. The
close physical association between synapses and astrocytes ensures that
69
these are the first cells to respond to changes in synaptic activity during
embryo development, but also in the adult brain.17 Astrocytes are highly
dynamic, constantly modulating their association with synapses—and
thereby their influence—with the dynamic pattern being dependent on
the state of the brain.
Another class of glial cells called microglia make up about 10 per cent
of the cells in the brain.18 For some years now these cells have been recog-
nized as the brain’s primary defenders against disease; they identify
injured neurons and destroy them, and strip away defective synapses,
thereby removing diseased cells that have a negative impact on the rest of
the brain.19 For decades, scientists thought of microglia only as immune
cells and believed that they were quiet and passive in the absence of an
infectious invader. Recently though, that idea has begun to change. One
clue that microglia might have a wider role was the discovery that these
are the fastest-moving cells in a healthy brain. For instance, recent studies
have revealed that microglia can reach out to surrounding neurons and
contact synapses in the absence of disease. These cells regulate the num-
ber of synaptic connections just as a gardener prunes a plant. This is
important because, for reasons that are not fully understood, the brain
begins with more synapses than it needs. Cornelius Gross, of the European
Molecular Biology Laboratory in Heidelberg, who studies this process,
has shown that microglia help sculpt the brain by eliminating unwanted
synapses.20 But how do the microglia know which synapses to remove
and which to leave?
In fact, microglia can receive two types of message from neurons—one
that identifies synapses that play an important role and should be pre-
served, another that highlights weaker ones that need pruning. Pruning is
important, as shown by the demonstration by Gross’s team that remov-
ing the receptor for a chemical named fractalkine from microglia leads to
weak synaptic contacts caused by defective synaptic pruning in the
hippocampus, a brain region involved in learning and memory. Gross
believes this shows that during embryo development neurons ‘call out’ to
microglia for assistance with pruning.21 Yet it appears that there are also
70
mechanisms in the brain to avoid overpruning, since another study, by

Emily Lehrman and Beth Stevens of Boston’s Children’s Hospital, showed
that useful synapses that are destined not to be pruned are identified by a
protective protein ‘tag’ that deters microglia. If the receptor is eliminated
genetically in a mouse, synapses are no longer protected, leading to excess
engulfment by microglia and overpruning of neuronal connections.22
Recent studies of the role of glial cells in the brain are also revealing
potentially important differences between humans and other species in
the functions of these cells. They have shown that astrocytes reach dra-
matically longer distances in the human brain and propagate chemical
signals faster than astrocytes in other species.23 These features suggest an
amplified role for human astrocytes in brain function. Other studies have
shown that the genes that are switched on or off in human astrocytes are
quite different from those in mice, so astrocytes may have evolved to play
quite different roles in the two species.
Intriguingly, Steven Goldman and colleagues at the University of
Rochester in New York have recently shown that baby mice whose brains
were injected with human astrocyte precursor cells grew up to have bet-
ter memories and learning abilities than their normal counterparts. This
suggests that human astrocytes may have an enhanced ability to control
synapses.24 But future studies injecting chimpanzee or macaque glia into
the mouse brain will be needed to determine whether the effects are due
to properties unique to the human cells or ones that are common to those
of all primates.
Another hint concerning the functions of astrocytes comes from stud-
ies of autism. Many genes implicated in some types of autism are expressed
in astrocytes. Moreover, when researchers examined astrocytes in frontal
brain regions in post-mortem samples from some individuals who had
been diagnosed with autism, they found the astrocytes to be denser, with
smaller cell bodies and fewer and shorter projections, than in unaffected
individuals.25 Changes in glial cells have also been claimed to play a role in
dyslexia, stuttering, tone deafness, chronic pain, epilepsy, sleep disorders,
and even pathological lying.26
71
Cortex
Thalamus
Hypothalamus
Amygdala
Hippocampus Cerebellum
Pons
Medulla
Forebrain Midbrain Hindbrain
Figure 12 The different regions of the human brain.
Let us now move from the cellular structure of the brain, with its many
types of neurons and glia, to its large-scale structure. The brain has three
main parts: the forebrain, midbrain, and hindbrain (Figure 12).27 The fore-
brain includes the cerebrum, which has two hemispheres and a highly
folded surface ‘cortex’—derived from the Latin word for bark, for indeed
the cortex wraps around the brain like bark on a tree. The cortex is par-
ticularly enlarged in humans, in places having double the area it should
for a primate of our size.28 This is the part of the human brain thought to
be involved in reasoning, planning, and problem solving. But, demon-
strating how specific brain regions are involved in multiple functions, it
also plays key roles in the regulation of movement, perception, visual
processing, recognition of sounds, and speech.
Also buried within the forebrain are the various parts of the limbic sys-
tem, which are more ancient from an evolutionary viewpoint and often
called the ‘emotional brain’, reflecting their role in mediating different
emotions, or even the ‘lizard brain’, to convey the fact that we share these
brain regions with ‘lower’ organisms.29 The limbic system contains the
72
thalamus which, like a central postal-sorting depot, channels informa-

tion both into and out of the cortex. Then there is the hypothalamus,
which, as its name implies, lies underneath the thalamus, and regulates
thirst, hunger, sexual desire, reproduction, and the body clock. The amyg-
dala is a region of the limbic system that plays a central role in processing
emotions; it is active in responses associated with fear, but also with
pleasure. Adjacent to this is the hippocampus, named after the Latin for
‘seahorse’, which it was thought by early researchers to resemble. This
plays important roles in memory—both in the formation of memories of
events and facts and in consolidating the transition from short-term to
long-term memory.
The midbrain is involved in functions such as vision, hearing, and
movements of the eyes and body.30 Meanwhile, the hindbrain includes the
cerebellum, or ‘little brain’, so-called because like the cerebrum it has two
hemispheres and a highly folded surface.31 This structure is involved in
the regulation and coordination of movement, posture, and balance;
however, as we shall see, there is increasing evidence that the cerebellum
may also play important roles in ‘higher’ mental processes, including
imagination and creativity. The hindbrain also contains the pons, which
controls consciousness and sleep, and the medulla, responsible for main-
taining vital body functions, such as breathing and heart rate.32
While different brain regions have distinct functional roles, increas-
ingly these are being shown to be linked in a highly coordinated way. One
way such coordination takes place is via electrical brain ‘waves’—syn-
chronized electrical pulses from masses of neurons communicating with
each other—whose character varies depending on the state of alertness of
the organism in which they occur.33 These insights about brain waves
have coincided with a shift among some scientists away from a view that
reduces the brain to the behaviour of its individual components. For
instance, Earl Miller of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology points
out that previous theories about how the brain works tended to view it as
‘a giant clock, and if you figure out each gear, you’ll figure out the brain.’34
In contrast, Miller argues that the brain is better understood as ‘networks
73
interacting in a very dynamic, fluid way’, with oscillating brain waves,

which he sees as ‘the most powerful signal in the brain’ central to the
coordination of such networks.35 Robert Knight of the University of
California at Berkeley has similar views about this issue. He believes that
‘you’ve got to have a way to get brain areas communicating. What oscilla-
tions do is provide a routing mechanism.’36 Importantly, brain waves can
carry out such routing extremely rapidly. Such waves may tune out extra-
neous information by temporarily shutting down unnecessary commu-
nication lines.
This basic structure of the human brain is shared by other mammals,
and has many similarities with the brains of other animal groups like
birds, reptiles, amphibians, and fish. But to understand human conscious-
ness we need to identify the ways in which the human brain differs from
those of other species. A striking feature of human evolution has been the
rapid growth of our brains relative to other primates.37 Over the past
seven million years, the brains of our ancestors tripled in size, with most
of this growth occurring in the past two million years.38 One way to
investigate the biological basis of this extraordinary growth is to study our
proto-human ancestors. However, this investigation is complicated by the
fact that brains rarely fossilize, and no fossilized proto-human brain tissue
has been found. Instead scientists estimate ancient brain volumes from
skull size, and studying the few rare fossils that have preserved natural
casts of the interior of skulls with the imprints of the brain in the bone. In
addition, methods like computerized tomography make it possible to scan
the skull and create a digital brain representation.39 Comparing such brain
imprints and 3D representations from different fossil skulls can give us an
idea about changes in proto-human brain structure.
Such analysis shows that for the first two-thirds of the period since
proto-humans diverged from apes, the size of their brains was within the
range of those of apes living today.40 Australopithecus afarensis, the species
of which the famous Lucy was a member, had brain volumes of 400 to
550 ml—about the size of a large orange—compared to chimp brains of
around 400 ml, and gorilla brains between 500 and 700 ml.41 Yet showing
74
that size is not the only factor to consider, australopithecine brains show
subtle changes in structure and shape compared with those of apes.42 For
instance in this species, the neocortex—the part of the brain involved in
higher-order brain functions in modern humans—had begun to expand.
The most dramatic changes in brain size and structure occurred in the
final phase of human evolutionary change.43 Homo habilis, which appeared
on Earth 1.9 million years ago and is particularly associated with stone-
tool production and use, saw a modest increase in brain size, but also an
apparent expansion of a region of the frontal cortex linked to language
called Broca’s area. The first fossil skulls of Homo erectus, which appeared
1.8 million years ago, had brains averaging just over 600 ml, in contrast to
Homo sapiens, which has an average brain volume of around 1,400 ml.44
Chet Sherwood, an anthropologist at George Washington University in
Washington, DC, believes that there must have been a clear functional
benefit for such a change. As he notes, ‘brains don’t just do that for no
reason in evolution. Evolution is frugal and cost-effective, and brain tissue
has extraordinary metabolic expense. There must have been some adap-
tive value to brain size increase.’45
Neanderthals, who lived between 400,000 and 40,000 years ago, had
brains similar in size to those of modern humans. But Robin Dunbar and
colleagues at the University of Oxford have suggested that Neanderthals
devoted more of their brains to controlling their bodies and regulating
their vision.46 This was because these proto-humans had significantly
wider shoulders, thicker bones, and larger eyes than early humans. The
researchers believe that this latter difference could be because
Neanderthals underwent their key stages of evolution in Europe, at a
higher latitude, and therefore poorer light conditions, than Africa, where
Homo sapiens originated. After ‘correcting’ for these differences, the
amount of brain volume left for other tasks is significantly smaller for
Neanderthals than for modern humans. So while the average brain
volumes of the two groups is the same, at around 1,400 ml, the corrected
average Neanderthal brain volume is just 1,134 ml, compared to 1,332 ml
for humans.47
75
Further information about potential differences between human and

Neanderthal brains has come from comparisons of brain imprints on
skulls of the two species at different developmental stages. Philipp Gunz
and Simon Neubauer at the Max Planck Institute in Leipzig used 3D
imaging to study skulls of Neanderthals and humans that were either
newborn or at different stages of childhood.48 They found that
Neanderthals had elongated braincases at the time of birth like modern
human babies, but only the human ones change to a more globular shape
in the first year of life. Neanderthals therefore reached large adult brain
sizes through a developmental pathway different to that of modern
humans. Moreover, the pattern seen in the Neanderthals is more similar
to that of chimpanzees.
Gunz believes that the differences in the patterns of brain development
that he and Neubauer have uncovered might contribute to cognitive differ-
ences between modern humans and Neanderthals.49 And Robin Dunbar
thinks his team’s findings also suggest there was less capacity in the
Neanderthal brain for higher cognition and social networking. As he puts
it, ‘having less brain available to manage the social world has profound
implications for the Neanderthals’ ability to maintain extended trading net-
works, and are likely also to have resulted in less well developed material
culture—which, between them, may have left them more exposed than
modern humans when facing the ecological challenges of the Ice Ages.’50
Although these arguments can seem persuasive, it is important to rec-
ognize that we still know far too little about why the Neanderthals became
extinct while our own species survived. We should also not be too dis-
missive of Neanderthals’ qualities, despite the common view of them as
unintelligent brutes. Recent studies have suggested that they had some
form of language, advanced skills in tool-making and use, and even a
sense of the medicinal properties of herbs.51 More controversially, there is
evidence that Neanderthals may have buried their dead, indicating a
possible sense of an afterlife—a subject that I will explore in more
detail later—and sufficient creative ability to practise art. But it may still
have been the superior ability of humans to negotiate complex social
76
interactions, or a greater capacity for reasoning or thinking ahead, that in

the end gave our species its advantage.
There is a limit to what we can learn about human brain evolution
from fossil evidence alone. While fossil brain casts are helpful for deter-
mining overall brain size, they offer little insight about internal brain
anatomy and organization. One way to investigate this question involves
studying gross human brain structure and assessing how it differs from
that of a chimpanzee, our closest living relative. Such a comparison, car-
ried out by Suzana Herculano-Houzel at the Federal University of Rio de
Janeiro, has revealed that most of the increase in the size of the human
brain is due to an expansion of the cerebral cortex and its underlying
nerve fibres.52 The parts of the cortex that have grown most are those that
integrate information from other brain regions and are involved in higher
cognitive functions like planning and abstract thinking. Areas primarily
devoted to one function, like the motor cortex or visual cortex, have
grown less. Herculano-Houzel thinks that such an expansion may have
had important functional consequences, for she believes that it helped to
create new patterns of connectivity and new functions in the expanded
brain areas.53
Another important feature of the human brain is that a larger fraction
of its growth occurs outside the womb. While a newborn chimpanzee
brain is 36 per cent that of its adult size, a newborn human brain is only 27
per cent that of an adult.54 Subsequently, from birth until the age of five to
six years, the human brain grows six times as fast as that of the chimp. For
Chet Sherwood, ‘it’s as though our newborns and infants still have fetal
brains growing in the outside world.’55 Although humans reach adult
brain size in childhood, brain development continues for decades after-
wards. And while the human brain at birth has less than 2 per cent of
adult levels of myelin—which increases the speed of electrical impulses
travelling down neuronal axons—the chimp brain has 20 per cent of
adult myelin levels at birth. This disparity continues into adulthood, with
chimp brains being fully myelinated at puberty while human brains con-
tinue to add myelin until we are much older.
77
Such differences are important because myelination is guided by stimu

lation and learning. When neurons are more active, myelin is added to the
fibres between them, strengthening the connections. With a more pro-
tracted period of myelination, humans have a longer window of time to
strengthen these connections, which provides more opportunities for
our brains to be shaped by culture, socialization, and environment. This
would fit with the fact that compared to other primates, humans are more
dependent on culture, interaction, and group identity. According to
Sherwood, ‘the idea is that the more that human ancestors were dependent
on culture and the processes of social learning, the more that success and
fitness required having the kind of brain machinery that could sustain
ever more complex culture.’56
In humans, myelination moves in a wave, beginning in the cerebral
cortex nearest the back of the neck and gradually moving forward, finally
affecting the frontal lobes in our mid to late twenties.57 Since the frontal
lobes are important for planning, reasoning, and judgement, some scien-
tists have suggested that the limited myelination of these areas in youth
might account for the commonly held view that teenagers often make
relatively hasty and uninformed decisions.58 Of course, teenagers might
consider such a viewpoint a typical example of older people showing a
lack of understanding of young people and their thought processes! But
the myelin difference is real, and therefore it warrants further exploration.
Certain human disorders involve defects in myelination. In the auto
immune disease multiple sclerosis (MS), the immune system turns on a
sufferer’s own neurons and attacks myelin, causing a gradually worsening
weakness that can end in paralysis, and eventually death.59 And while MS
is primarily associated with abnormalities in the operation of the muscles
that control our movements as well as keep us alive, some people with
this disorder develop defects in decision making, showing an impact on
the brain.60 In addition, defects in myelination have recently been more
specifically linked to a number of psychiatric conditions. For instance, a
study led by Allen Fienberg of the Novartis Research Foundation in San
Diego investigated differences in genes switched on or off in the prefrontal
78
cortex of brains of schizophrenic individuals and found that 89 genes

were abnormally regulated, with 35 of those being involved in myelin
ation.61 As schizophrenia tends to develop during adolescence, a time
when the human forebrain is becoming myelinated, this provides one
explanation for the fact that the disorder tends to manifest itself at this
particular time in life.
Identifying differences in the size, structure, and development of the
human brain compared to other species still leaves the question of which
molecular mechanisms underlie such changes. Here though, we have a
valuable new resource, namely increasing information about the human
genome, the genomes of apes like chimps, and even those of extinct spe-
cies like Neanderthals. Such new information will be one of the topics
discussed in the next chapter, which focuses on the role that genes play in
the formation of human consciousness.
79
CH A P T ER 5
GENOME AND EPIGENOME

z
T o understand how the human brain works we must also understand

how genes regulate the functions of each neuron and glial cell in that
brain, for ultimately all cellular activity is governed by changes in the pat-
terns of ‘expression’ of the genes that are turned on or off in a cell. Here
though we face a problem, for while the genome has generally been
defined as the sum of the genes in an organism, the more we study real
genomes, the more we realize that viewing them in this way is a major
oversimplification of their true complexity.
Perhaps the most surprising outcome of the Human Genome Project—
which determined the sequence of the approximately three billion ‘letters’
in the human genome—was the realization that genes only represent a
small fraction—less than 2 per cent—of the total DNA sequence. The
remaining 98 per cent was initially largely written off as ‘junk’ DNA, but
more recently evidence has been accumulating to show that a significant
proportion of this ‘non-coding’ DNA plays key roles in gene regulation—
that is, determining which genes get switched on or off and when.1 In
addition, instead of DNA being seen as the sole controller of cellular func-
tion, there is now growing recognition that RNA—DNA’s chemical
cousin—also plays a key role.2 Moreover, the genome is increasingly
viewed as a complex 3D entity, with dynamic interactions between genes
and their control elements.3 Meanwhile, the new science of ‘epigenetics’ is
revealing that the DNA ‘recipe’ for each organism appears far more
responsive to the environment than previously thought, to both changes
in the cellular environment and those outside the organism itself.4 These
new ways of looking at the genome have important implications for our
ge nome a nd e pige nome
understanding of how the human brain works, and of some of the factors
that might make it unique compared to those of other species. But first, let
us review what a gene is, and how it is regulated.
Traditionally, a gene has been defined as a stretch of DNA that codes for
a specific protein. Proteins are the cell’s building blocks, but also perform
many other functions, such as transporting substances in and out of the
cell, turning food into energy, and producing the chemical signals that
regulate cell function. DNA acts as a linear code of four letters, the chem-
ical ‘bases’ A, C, G, and T,5 but proteins too can be viewed as a linear code,
with their letters being amino acids. The connection between the two
molecules is that a triplet of DNA bases codes for each amino acid. In fact
the DNA information in each gene is copied into an intermediate form—
a type of RNA called messenger RNA (Figure 13). This copying process,
known as ‘transcription’, is carried out by a catalytic protein, or enzyme,
called RNA polymerase, and it occurs in the cell nucleus. The messenger
RNA is then transported out of the nucleus and into the cell’s cytoplasm.
Here, the information within it is ‘translated’ by a cellular machine called
a ribosome into a linear chain of amino acids, which then folds into a 3D
structure—a protein. Because each of the 20 amino acids has a specific
RNA polymerase
DNA Transcription
mRNA
Ribosome
Translation
Polypeptide
Figure 13 DNA to mRNA to protein.
81
size, shape, and chemical property, each type of protein will have a unique
set of properties. Haemoglobin, for instance, is a globular protein exquis
itely suited for its role carrying oxygen around the body, while collagen is
a long, highly tensile protein that provides support for bones and tendons.
Yet both are produced by information provided by the linear DNA code.
Genes are turned on or off by proteins called transcription factors,
which attach themselves to regulatory DNA regions associated with a
gene. They then interact with RNA polymerase, enhancing or suppress-
ing its ability to transcribe the DNA information into messenger RNA.6
Such is the situation in all organisms, from bacteria to humans. But the
human genome is very different from the compact genetic entity in a bac-
terium, in that our genes make up less than 2 per cent of our genome. The
proportion of the remaining 98 per cent of DNA that has some function
is currently uncertain: it has been estimated at between 8 and 80 per cent
of the genome, with continuing debate about the exact figure.7
A major source of such new insights is the Encyclopaedia of DNA
Elements (ENCODE) project, a follow-up to the Human Genome Project
and the subject of my book The Deeper Genome.8 For geneticist Bing Ren of
the University of California, San Diego, ‘it’s not overstating to say that
ENCODE is as significant for our understanding of the human genome as
the original DNA sequencing of the human genome.’9 ENCODE sought to
map all the functional activity in the human genome. One of its revela-
tions was that the regulatory regions that switch genes on or off may
number as many as four million, in contrast to the approximately 20,000
genes in our genome. Rather than being on/off regulators these regions
are more like the many switches a sound engineer uses to control a band’s
live performance, since they control the expression of the messenger
RNA in a graded fashion.
Another revelation was that such switches are often far away—at
least in linear terms on the chromosome—from the genes they control.
At first, this discovery made little sense; however, recent studies have shown
that each chromosome in the living cell has an intricate 3D structure.10
Consequently, switches that appear distant if we think of a c hromosome
82
as a linear entity can be very close to their target genes in this 3D

conformation.
We have already noted that regulatory DNA switches work by interacting
with protein transcription factors, which enhance or inhibit the activity
of the RNA polymerase that generates the messenger RNA from each
protein-coding gene. However, a surprise in recent years has been the dis-
covery that various non-protein-coding RNAs also play important roles
in the regulation of gene expression. Such RNAs are expressed over a
large proportion of the genome and exist in various forms, some of which
are still being identified. As well as regulating gene expression, they play
important roles in the 3D architecture of the genome.11
Gene expression is now known to be far more sensitive to changes out-
side the cell, and indeed the organism, than previously suspected. For
many years, the only way that information in DNA was thought to change
was through mutations in the bases that make up the four letters of this
coding molecule. Such mutations can be detrimental by disabling the
functions of important proteins. But mutations are also important for
evolution: they provide the variation in a species on which natural selec-
tion can act.12 Mutations generally only drive evolution at a very slow rate.
However, more recently, other so-called epigenetic changes have been
shown to occur in the DNA, and also in proteins associated with it.
One such change involves the addition of methyl (−CH3) groups to the
DNA. Depending on where such changes occur in the genome this can
either inhibit or enhance gene expression. Other important epigenetic
changes affect the histones—proteins that wrap around the DNA to pack-
age and protect it.13 The addition of acetyl (−COCH3) groups to histones
makes them less tightly bound to the DNA, enabling regulatory proteins
to access the gene more easily.14 Other chemical modifications to the his-
tones allow them to ‘recruit’ regulatory proteins to a gene, just as an army
or political party tries to recruit individuals into its ranks. The diversity in
how histones can be modified, and thereby influence gene expression in
different ways, has led to the idea of a ‘histone code’, which works at the
epigenetic level alongside the genetic DNA code.15
83
The sensitivity, and rapid and reversible nature, of epigenetic changes

means that the environment of both the cell and organism can greatly
influence the type of changes that occur in the genome, and therefore its
pattern of gene expression. This has led to recognition that stress, diet,
and many other changes that occur during an organism’s lifetime have a
far more profound influence on the genomes of its cells than suspected.
Most controversially, there is increasing evidence that epigenetic changes
may be passed down through the generations, via changes in the sperm
and eggs, although the impact of this on evolution of a species in the long
term remains far from clear.16
While the epigenetic changes mentioned above involve chemical modi
fications to either the DNA or the histone proteins associated with it,
another change to the genome, whose importance is increasingly being
recognized, involves movement of DNA sequences around the genome.17
Such ‘transposition’ of mobile DNA elements known as transposons
challenges the view of the genome as an inherently stable entity. New evi-
dence indicates that transposition has played an important role during
evolutionary events in the past, such as the development of vertebrates,
and perhaps in our own human evolution, as well as occurring in brain
cells in the lifetime of an individual. Transposition may also play import
ant functional roles in the brain, and be implicated in certain kinds of
brain dysfunction. With that in mind, let us now look in more detail at
how all these different facets of gene expression relate to brain function,
and differences between the brains of humans and those of other species.
One important step forward since the completion of the Human
Genome Project in 2003 has been the dramatic growth in our ability to
study genomes and gene expression in both humans and other species.
Although it took over a decade and around $3 billion to sequence the first
human genome, thanks to ‘next-generation’ sequencing methods an indi-
vidual’s genome can now be sequenced in a matter of days for less than
$1,000.18 It is also possible to rapidly sequence the various forms of
RNA in a cell, which provides a snapshot of the genes that are switched
on or off, and of the expression of regulatory RNAs.19 At the same time,
84
epigenetic modifications like methyl groups on the DNA, or acetyl and

other additions to histone proteins, can all be analyzed across the whole
genome. Such ‘global’ analysis of gene expression and epigenetic infor-
mation is important for the study of a structure as complex as the brain,
for it can be applied to its different cell types, and also to brains at differ-
ent stages of embryonic or post-natal development.
The most obvious way to try to identify the genetic basis of the unique
characteristics that distinguish humans from other species is to compare
the genome of our species with those of our closest animal relatives—
apes such as chimps and gorillas. Here though, we face an apparent
conundrum. For when the protein-coding sequences of humans and
these apes were first compared, they showed a remarkable similarity
between the two. There is a 99 per cent sequence similarity in the protein-
coding genes between humans and chimpanzees, and a 98 per cent simi
larity between our species and gorillas.20 This poses the question—does
our uniqueness lie in that tiny 1 or 2 per cent difference and, if so, what can
we learn about the relevance of this difference for the function of an organ
like the brain?
One possibility is that certain genetic differences have a disproportion-
ate effect on the brain. For instance, Marta Florio and Wieland Huttner at
the Max Planck Institute in Dresden recently identified a gene that may
have played a crucial role in the development of the brain during human
evolution.21 The researchers made the discovery while studying embry-
onic development of the neocortex, which, as already mentioned, is
involved in higher-order brain functions. A particular feature of this brain
region is that it is densely packed with neurons. To better understand the
genetic basis of this dense neuronal packing, Florio and Huttner analyzed
gene expression when this region is developing—in 14- day mouse
embryos, and 13-week human embryos obtained from consenting women
at abortion clinics. The researchers identified a gene named ARHGAP11B
that was highly expressed in human neural stem cells—cells that give rise
to new neurons. Intriguingly, this gene is not present in the genomes of
any other mammals, including chimpanzees or other primates, but it was
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present in Neanderthals and another extinct proto-human species, the

Denisovans.22
When Florio and Huttner artificially expressed the ARHGAP11B gene
in mice, the brains of such mice grew larger neocortices and some even
began forming the characteristic folds, or convolutions, found in the
human brain, a geometry that packs a lot of dense brain tissue into a small
amount of space, and which is not normally seen with the mouse brain.23
Similar differences were found when this gene was expressed in ferrets;
moreover, this latter study showed that the enlargement of the neocortex
was due to enhanced action of a specific type of glial cells called
basal radial glial cells.24 This suggests a potentially important role for
ARHGAP11B in human brain evolution, and provides a specific mechan
ism for its action. However, the expansion of the brain during this pro-
cess, and importantly also the structural and functional changes that
occurred during evolution of the human brain, are likely to have involved
many other genetic changes besides this one, and these remain to be
identified.
In fact, novel genes only found in humans, or in closely related extinct
proto-human species, are currently thought to be rare. Instead a more
general cause of the differences between humans and a closely related pri-
mate like the chimpanzee is likely to be not novel genes but rather subtle
differences between the levels of expression of a gene in humans com-
pared to other species. For instance, a study led by Debra Silver of Duke
University in North Carolina has shown how changes in the regulatory
regions that control gene expression can play an important role in this
respect.25 Silver’s team focused on a regulatory region called HARE5,
because it was close to a cluster of genes involved in neural stem cell func-
tion and because it differs in sequence between mice and humans.26
Genetically engineered mice that expressed the human HARE5 regula-
tory sequence had enlarged brains, and the brain growth in such mice was
12 per cent greater than ones in which chimpanzee HARE5 was substi-
tuted. This finding may help explain why human and chimp brains
grow at the same rate for the first part of foetal development, but then
86
after 22 weeks, chimp brain growth levels off while human development
continues. Meanwhile, another recent study has shown that specific dif-
ferences in a gene called NOTCH2 increase the human brain’s production
of neural stem cells and delay their maturation into cortical neurons,
which may also help to explain why our brains keep growing far longer
than those of other primates.27
Size alone, however, is unlikely to explain the unique characteristics of
the human brain. Scientists are also trying to identify the genetic basis
of structural and functional differences between our brains and those of
other mammalian species, particularly primates. Studies such as those
above have identified novel human genes, as well as human-specific pat-
terns of expression of genes present in both humans and chimpanzees,
that may regulate unique human characteristics such as conscious aware-
ness. Yet, other findings suggest that a key difference between humans
and chimps is that our brains are less rigidly controlled by our genes,
allowing the environment to play a greater role in our brain development.
One such study led by Aida Gómez-Robles at George Washington
University in Washington, DC, compared hundreds of human and chim-
panzee brains using magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), which provides
a detailed image of the living brain.28 The researchers obtained family
trees for both humans and chimps, which meant they could measure
similarity in the brains of genetically related individuals, including identi-
cal twins. The study showed that related humans vary far more in the
shape and location of their neocortical folds than chimpanzees, with two
chimp brothers being far more similar than two human brothers in the
shape and location of these folds.29 This suggests that chimps are more
limited in the ways their brains can develop and their ability to learn new
behaviours or skills than humans. And with such a loosening of the
genetic ties in humans, our brains are probably more susceptible to exter-
nal influences; in other words, they are more ‘plastic’. This allows envir
onment, experience, and social interactions with other individuals to play
a more dramatic role in organizing the cerebral cortex. Mary Jane West-
Eberhard of the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute in Panama
87
believes these findings ‘illustrate and reinforce, using comparisons of

closely related species, something . . . doubted by some evolutionary biolo
gists in the past, namely the fact that plasticity itself can evolve.’30
If human brains are more loosely determined by genes than those of
chimpanzees, epigenetic mechanisms may play a heightened role in dif-
ferent aspects of human consciousness, both at a species level and in indi-
vidual human beings. And, indeed, new evidence is emerging for how this
could work. I mentioned earlier that epigenetic modifications to the his-
tone proteins that wrap around the DNA in the nucleus can affect the
expression of genes with which they are associated. In one recent study,
David Allis and his colleagues at the Rockefeller University in New York
showed that histone modifications may regulate genes involved in struc-
tural alterations to synapses in response to neural signals—a key cellular
mechanism underlying learning.31 Further investigation showed that such
histone modifications also play a key role in neuroglia. Allis believes that
this ‘may have implications beyond neurons, as a means for controlling
plasticity in adult cells that have a set identity, but still must respond to
their environment.’32 With our heightened capacity for learning, such
mechanisms could be particularly important in the human brain.
We met earlier DNA sequences called transposons, which can move
about the genome. Presumably because of the disruption this might
cause, there are mechanisms to supress transposon activity in the sperm
and eggs that give rise to the next generation.33 It was initially assumed
that this would also be true of other cell types, for although such activity
would not jeopardize the next generation as in the case of the sex cells, it
could still disable vital genes or cause uncontrolled growth leading to can-
cer, if left unchecked. It came as a surprise then, when in 2002 Fred ‘Rusty’
Gage and colleagues at the Salk Institute in La Jolla, California, discovered
high levels of transposon activity in the brain.34 Gage and his team were
studying a process called ‘neurogenesis’—the development of neurons
from stem cells in the adult brain. To understand this process better, they
surveyed the genomes of these stem cells and discovered to their surprise
that the most active elements were the transposons. This was a highly
88
unexpected finding, for if transposon activity can interfere with the struc-
tural integrity of the genomes of each new neuron, then each nerve cell in
the brain might be genetically different, conflicting with over a century of
scientific dogma that has generally viewed each cell in the human body as
having the same genome.
To investigate this possibility, Gage’s team obtained brains from
deceased people who had donated their bodies to medical research, and
sequenced the genomes of hundreds of individual neurons.35 Remarkably,
they found that cells in the same brain are indeed genetically distinct. So
what purpose might such genomic instability serve? Gage believes that
transposons may generate novel responses in neurons in ways that the
20,000 or so genes in the human genome alone cannot. One interesting
implication of his team’s discovery is that identical twins might differ far
more in brain function than suspected, since transposon events in their
neurons will increasingly diverge as they develop, and so may their
behaviour.
A puzzling aspect of the findings is how transposon movement could
play a positive role given that such activity is thought to be mainly disrup-
tive. One possible answer comes from a new type of transposon identi-
fied by Gage’s team that has the potential to produce hundreds or even
thousands of previously unknown proteins.36 This transposon, called
ORF0 and found in humans and other primates, can blend with the
protein-coding sequences of existing genes, and as a consequence these
can then form completely new proteins, with novel cellular roles. For
Ahmet Denli, a researcher on the study, ‘this discovery redraws the blue-
print of an important piece of genetic machinery in primates, adding a
completely new gear.’37 Yet whether ORF0 plays specific, unique roles in
humans remains to be shown.
Transposon activity is just one way that alteration of the genomes of
different neurons can occur. There is also increasing evidence that brain
cells can be altered genetically in a more subtle manner, via changes in the
individual letters of the DNA code. Such changes, which occur in brain
cells but also in cells in other organs, are termed ‘somatic mutations’ to
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distinguish them from the ‘germline mutations’ that affect the ‘germ cells’,
that is the eggs and sperm.38 Somatic mutations are caused by errors dur-
ing DNA replication, chemical damage to the DNA, or inefficient DNA
repair mechanisms. Recent studies indicate that such events occur in
brain cells much more frequently than previously thought, which means
that individual neurons may take on different properties than their neigh-
bours as a consequence.
Mutations in neurons may be a factor in a variety of brain disorders. A
study led by Christopher Walsh of Mount Sinai University, New York,
found somatic mutations in the brains of children with hemimegalen-
cephaly, a disorder in which one hemisphere is enlarged, causing epilepsy
and intellectual disability.39 These mutations cause specific cells in the
brain cortex to proliferate abnormally, which raises the question of
whether somatic mutations play a role in other brain disorders, including
psychiatric conditions. An even more intriguing question is whether
somatic mutations contribute to differences between individuals.
Neuroscientist Alysson Muotri of the University of California, San Diego,
believes this ‘might explain why everybody’s different—it’s not all about
the environment or genome. There’s something else. As we understand
more about [the role of somatic mutations], I think the contribution to
individuality . . . will become clear.’40
Another revelation of recent years is the discovery that RNA can travel
around the brain, transferring information. We have already seen how
genes work by being transcribed into a messenger RNA copy; this then
moves out of the cell nucleus and is translated into a protein in the cyto-
plasm. Initially it was assumed that both DNA and RNA remain firmly
within the cell. However, recent studies suggest that certain types of RNA
can leave one cell and end up in a different one. Such transport involves
structures called exosomes, which are particles secreted from many types
of cells (Figure 14).41 In the brain and peripheral nervous system, there is
growing recognition that exosomes can guide the direction of nerve
growth, control nerve connections, and help regenerate nerves. According
to Eva-Maria Krämer-Albers of the Johannes Gutenberg University in
90
Synaptic plasticity
& strength
neuron
Neuro-
transmission
Support
Degradation,
Neuroprotection immune function
micro
gllia
astrocyte oligodendrocyte
Figure 14 Communication in the brain via exosomes.
Mainz, Germany, ‘the neuroscience community is just catching on to this

relatively novel form of communication.’42
Felipe Court, of the Pontifica Universidad Católica, in Santiago, Chile,
has recently discovered that glial cells use exosomes to stimulate the
regrowth of axons from a damaged neuron.43 His team found that
exosomes secreted by glial cells are rich in messenger RNAs that code for
proteins involved in the assembly, organization, and regeneration of cells,
as well as in axon growth and regeneration. For Court, ‘this means that
the [glial] cells are making transcripts, putting them in exosomes, and
exporting them just for neurons to use.’44 As well as messenger RNAs, the
exosomes also contain regulatory RNAs that influence gene expression.
Court and his colleagues found that if they added exosomes from glial
cells to damaged neurons, their axons began to regenerate immediately.
The importance of such novel mechanisms of gene expression is that
they are starting to cast light upon key aspects of how the human brain
functions and its plasticity and responsiveness to the environment. Two
such aspects to consider are the linked processes of growth and develop-
ment, subjects that we will look at in more detail in Chapter 6.
91
CH A P T ER 6
GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT

z
E ach human life begins with the union of a sperm and an egg.
Embryogenesis is the process by which the fertilized egg divides
repeatedly to produce the 37 trillion cells that make up a person.1 But
embryo development is about far more than just this dramatic increase in
cell number. It also involves the formation of all the specialized cell types
of the body, and their organization into tissues and organs. Initially, the
embryo is just a ball of cells called a blastocyst. But then a dramatic trans-
formation takes place called gastrulation. The biologist Lewis Wolpert, of
University College London, has said that ‘it is not birth, marriage, or
death, but gastrulation which is truly the most important time in your
life.’2 This may be overstating things, but gastrulation is certainly a key
event in the formation of a human being, for at this stage the embryo
acquires the distinct cell layers that later give rise to different organs.
During gastrulation, three cell layers form—the ectoderm, mesoderm,
and endoderm.
From the ectoderm comes the skin and nervous system, including the
brain. The guts develop from the endoderm, and the other organs from
the mesoderm. The nerves and brain arise from a structure within the
ectoderm called the neural tube that forms three weeks after conception.3
The lower part of this becomes the spinal cord, while the brain develops
from the upper part (Figure 15). At four weeks, the part of the neural tube
that forms the brain is already divided into three regions which will
become the hindbrain, midbrain, and forebrain.
While these are the gross structural changes underlying brain develop-
ment, equally important are the cellular changes. The development of the
grow t h a nd de v e lopme n t
Neural tube
Cross section
Ectoderm
closing
Mesoderm
Endoderm
day 19 day 21
Midbrain Hindbrain
H
Forebrain
Spinal cord
day 28
Figure 15 Development of the embryonic human brain.
human brain occurs at such a rapid rate that, at times, 250,000 neurons
are added every minute!4 A newborn baby’s brain has almost the same
number of neurons as that of an adult. However, brain growth continues
after birth due to the creation of new glial cells and connections between
neurons.
Both neurons and glial cells originate from neural stem cells.5 The pro-
cess by which a stem cell gives rise to a more specialized cell type is called
differentiation, and is driven by chemical messengers such as hormones
and growth factors attaching themselves to receptors on the surfaces of
stem cells. These receptors then transmit signals inside the cell that turn
particular genes on or off, leading to changes in cellular proteins.
Differentiation is a multistep process, with neural stem cells first giving
rise to the prototypes of either neurons or glial cells, which then act as
precursors to more specialized cell types within these different classes, to
eventually form the hundreds of different cell types in the brain.6
A key feature of the brain is that incoming signals from the rest of the
body also shape its development. This was graphically shown by experi-
ments in the 1950s by David Hubel and Torsten Wiesel of Johns Hopkins
93
University, Baltimore, USA.7 Hubel and Wiesel decided to study cats

because they have well-developed visual centres, a reflection of their
being nocturnal hunters. Not surprisingly many people feel uncomfort-
able about the idea of scientists experimenting on a species kept as a
household pet. Yet these studies were central to shaping our understand-
ing of how the brain ‘sees’ objects outside the body.
Hubel and Wiesel investigated how neurons in the brain’s visual cortex
respond to different images.8 The experiments resembled something akin
to the film Clockwork Orange—the cats, anesthetized to feel no pain, were
strapped in chairs with their eyelids propped open, in front of a slide pro-
jector showing different images, while the electrical activity in neurons in
their visual cortex was recorded. Initially, Hubel and Wiesel tried stimu-
lating the cats’ neurons with visual stimuli such as dots, but with no suc-
cess. But then a chance accident took place of the sort that can sometimes
lead to great scientific discoveries—a slide jammed in the projector, and
one neuron began firing like a machine gun. Initially baffled, Hubel and
Wiesel realized that the neuron was responding to the shadow that the
jammed slide was making on the screen; in other words, it was respond-
ing to a vertical line.
Further studies showed that cells in the visual cortex responded not to
spots but lines and edges, each cell having its own preferred orientation.9
Such studies showed that the cortical neurons fire only when a line is in a
particular place on the retina; neuronal activity changes depending on
the orientation of the line; and sometimes neurons fire only when the line
is moving in a particular direction. Indeed Hubel and Wiesel’s studies
showed that cats—and humans—see moving images much more easily
than still ones.10 This makes sense from an evolutionary perspective
because it is probably more critical to detect moving objects—in a cat’s
case, dogs, mice, falling branches—than stationary ones, which can await
attention.
From a brain development perspective, however, the most important
finding by Hubel and Wiesel was made when they sewed shut one eye of a
newborn kitten and only reopened it after a certain period.11 Remarkably,
94
kittens with one eye deprived of vision for only the first three months
remain blind in that eye for their whole life. This showed that visual inputs
at this stage of life are critical to development of this part of the brain. This
feature of brain development was further explored by Colin Blakemore
and Grahame Cooper of the University of Oxford in the 1970s.12 They
placed kittens in enclosures whose walls were painted with only vertical,
or horizontal, lines. Kittens only exposed to horizontal lines could see the
seats of chairs and would jump on to them to sleep, but could not see the
chair’s legs, and were constantly banging into them. In contrast, kittens
only exposed to vertical lines were fully aware of the chair legs but could
never identify a spot to snooze above these legs.
Not surprisingly, such experiments are controversial. Indeed,
Blakemore endured years of attacks by animal rights supporters, despite,
or perhaps because of, his willingness to discuss what might seem like
barbaric experiments with the general public. According to him, ‘there
were times I was shocked by what happened to me—razor blades in enve-
lopes, bombs, threats against my kids—but I never doubted the principle
of public engagement.’13 His justification for the experiments was that
they revealed fundamental aspects of brain development and had poten-
tial relevance for treatment of human visual disorders.
Such studies show that the environment can shape the development of
the brain, but do not explain how this occurs. However, further investiga-
tions have begun to reveal the neural basis for this environmental influ-
ence. For instance, recently Blakemore and his colleagues investigated
how mice develop sensitivity in their whiskers.14 Such whiskers are con-
nected to clumps of neurons in the brain called ‘barrel structures’—
so-called because of their barrel-like shape. The researchers showed that
if a clump of whiskers is removed at an early age, the brain region linked
to that area never develops the barrel structure.15 Such findings might
suggest that the brain is merely a blank slate upon which the environment
imposes itself, but Blakemore believes that a more accurate way of under-
standing the interaction between brain and environment is to view it as a
complex feedback loop.
95
Intriguingly, studies of human beings with deficits in different senses

indicate that the brain is highly plastic in responding to such deficits. For
instance, it has been known for some time that people born blind or who
become blind early in life often have a more nuanced sense of hearing,
especially when it comes to musical abilities and tracking moving objects
in space. Ione Fine and colleagues at the University of Washington in
Seattle used functional MRI (fMRI) to compare the brains of blind versus
seeing individuals, and found that that the auditory cortex of blind people
showed narrower neural ‘tuning’ than sighted individuals in discerning
small differences in sound frequency. According to Fine, ‘this is import
ant because this is an area of the brain that receives very similar auditory
information in blind and sighted individuals. But in blind individuals,
more information needs to be extracted from sound—and this region
seems to develop enhanced capacities as a result.’16 Such findings show
how development of abilities within infant human brains is influenced by
the environment in which they grow up.
Conversely, an fMRI study led by Christina Karns at the University of
Oregon found that the brains of deaf individuals have enhanced capacity
in other senses.17 Given that we have seen how deaf individuals can
develop an inner dialogue that relies not on sounds, but on visual sym-
bols, it would be interesting in future studies to investigate how this is
reflected in molecular and cellular changes in the developing human
brain. However, here a major limitation is that scientists obviously cannot
do experiments on living human foetuses. Instead, as in other areas of
science, a variety of animal models are used to study the molecular and
cellular processes that underlie nerve and brain development.
One species used to investigate brain development is the fruit fly. An
advantage of studying the fruit fly brain is that it is much simpler than that
of a person, containing only 200,000 neurons compared to the 100 bil-
lion neurons in a human brain.18 And unlike mammals, fruit fly embryos
develop outside the mother’s body, and so can be studied continuously
during development. The fruit fly also has a short lifespan, speeding up
the analysis of its development, and gene mutants in this species can be
96
generated using X-rays, which mutate the DNA. By studying fly embryos
produced in this way, it is possible to identify mutants in which nerve and
brain development is disrupted. Studies of the genetic basis of such
mutants can then identify the genes involved.
Investigations of such fly mutants have identified genes that control
how neurons connect with each other.19 Recall that neurons possess a cell
body, but also dendrites and an axon. They receive incoming signals from
other neurons via their dendrites and in turn transmit messages to the
dendrites of other neurons through their axon. In the embryonic brain,
neurons must identify their correct partners in the brain’s wiring circuit.
Studies of flies have shown that neurons do this by expressing genes that
code for proteins on the surface of the developing axon which recognize
cues in the brain environment and guide neurons along molecular
pathways—like train tracks—to their correct connections.20 Other genes
control the formation of synapses. Such findings can increase our under-
standing of human brain development since related genes often exist in the
human genome and can play similar roles in the development of connec-
tions between human neurons cultured outside the body.
Because of this overlap in functional roles, genes that are linked to
brain disorders in humans and are also present in the fly genome have
been identified. In such cases, the fly can be used to study the functional
role of such genes in brain development. Such an approach was used to
study the gene associated with a condition called Fragile X, which is the
most common cause of inherited mental disability in humans and is asso-
ciated with a mutation in the FMR1 gene.21 Studies of the brains of people
affected by this disorder had indicated that they have slight differences in
the structure of the dendrites of their neurons, but the functional signifi-
cance of this difference was not clear. But investigations in flies showed
that this gene is involved in the formation of the neuron’s internal cellular
‘skeleton’, the cytoskeleton, and that defects in FMR1 affect the formation
of synapses, which may be one reason for the learning disabilities of
people with the disorder.22 Further studies may help identify drugs that
can offset some of the mental problems caused by this gene defect.
97
As well as providing a way to study the cellular architecture of the

brain, flies offer a way to study the development of the nerve circuits
underlying behaviour.23 By generating fly mutants and then subjecting
them to behavioural tests, it has been possible to identify the genes that
regulate the formation of the neural circuits that underlie the fly’s response
to different odours, its sexual behaviour, and the body clock that regulates
the sleep/wake cycle.
Although fruit fly studies have greatly expanded our understanding of
the molecular mechanisms underlying nerve and brain development,
there is clearly a big difference in complexity between the fly brain and
that of a human being. So researchers are interested in studying brain
development in more complex organisms. One organism that has proved
very popular in this respect is the zebrafish.24 Like humans, zebrafish are
vertebrates. But zebrafish embryos develop outside the mother, so, like
flies, they can be studied continuously as they develop. And because these
embryos are also transparent, this makes it possible to use fluorescent
probes to monitor the activities of the neurons in the developing embryo.25
Recently, ways have been developed to simultaneously record the activ-
ity of every single neuron in a zebrafish larva’s brain. The approach, pion
eered by Philipp Keller and Misha Ahrens at the Howard Hughes Medical
Institute in Ashburn, Virginia, uses genetic engineering to modify
zebrafish neurons so that they express a protein that fluoresces when the
neuron becomes activated.26 A sophisticated imaging system allows the
changes in fluorescence of the whole larval brain to be recorded. Studies
so far have recorded the global changes in activity that occur as a larva
moves or is exposed to a stimulus. Future studies could explore how
mutations in specific genes affect the activity of the whole brain.
Fluorescent probes can also be used to assess changes in the chemical
messengers that regulate gene expression in developing neurons. One
such messenger is calcium ions, changes in the concentration of which
can act as a ‘signal’ that modulates the activity of cellular proteins. Yusuke
Tsuruwaka and colleagues at the Agency for Marine-Earth Science and
Technology in Yokosuka, Japan, used this approach to study changes in
98
calcium signals in the embryonic zebrafish brain.27 This identified a

dramatic increase in such signals in the developing mid- and hind-brain
around the time that neural circuits are forming in these brain regions.
Such calcium signals may help form these circuits by activating the
calcium-sensitive protein CaMKII, which is already known to play
important roles in regulating many processes in the brain.28 To explore
this question further, the gene coding for CaMKII could be mutated to see
what effect this has on zebrafish brain development. Such a strategy has
been greatly facilitated by the development of new ‘gene editing’ tech
nologies, which make it possible to generate subtle genetic changes in the
zebrafish rapidly and economically.29
Despite the importance of zebrafish as a model of vertebrate embryo
development, there are important differences in brain development
between fish and mammals. For some years it has been possible to use
genetic engineering to delete, or ‘knockout’, the expression of a gene in
mice.30 An alternative approach introduces a more subtle ‘knockin’
change, for instance a single letter mutation, into a gene. New gene editing
methods now make it possible to produce knockout and knockin mice
more rapidly, and also to edit genes in other mammalian species, includ-
ing primates, humans’ closest biological relatives.31 Gene editing in pri-
mates has opened up the study of the role of genes in the development of
brain regions like the prefrontal cortex, a region involved in planning and
social behaviour, which is particularly prominent in humans but also in
other primates.
Recently Yong Zhang and colleagues at the Chinese Academy of
Sciences in Beijing used gene editing to knockout SHANK3—a gene
linked to autism in humans—in monkeys.32 SHANK3 protein is located at
synapses, where it anchors other proteins in place. The study showed that
monkeys lacking SHANK3 have fewer neurons in the prefrontal cortex,
thereby highlighting a new role for SHANK3 in neurogenesis. Intriguingly,
mice lacking this gene do not show this defect. The difference may reflect
the fact that in newborn monkeys, the gene is mainly expressed in the
prefrontal cortex, while in mice SHANK3 expression is highest in the
99
s triatum, a brain region governing movement and reward. Zhang believes

this shows that monkeys ‘have more prominent molecular and cellular
changes compared with mice [and also] the value of pursuing non-human
primate models further.’33
One major obstacle to studying brain development in mammals is that
the embryo develops inside the mother’s body; while embryos at different
stages of development can be removed from the mother and studied, this
can only occur at the expense of the embryo’s life. This makes it impos-
sible to observe embryonic development as a dynamic process, as is pos-
sible with fruit flies and zebrafish. The situation may soon change though,
as Magdalena Zernicka- Goetz and colleagues at the University of
Cambridge have recently succeeded in nurturing mouse embryos outside
the mother’s body for the first phase of embryogenesis.34
The mouse embryos survived for seven days, which represents a third
of the normal 21-day pregnancy period in mice. Perhaps, then, such
embryos could be cultured for a longer period of time outside the womb.
There are undoubtedly many practical problems to overcome to achieve
such a goal. An embryo growing inside the mother can only develop with
the support of a yolk sac, which provides nourishment for the embryo
and a network of blood vessels. However, such a support system might be
generated in the future with other types of stem cells. As a consequence,
it may be possible soon to study the development of the mouse brain and
nervous system at later stages of development, using methods similar to
those pioneered with fruit flies and zebrafish.
Zernicka-Goetz’s findings also raise the question of whether human
embryos might be nurtured outside the mother in a similar fashion.
Indeed the Cambridge scientists are already planning to pursue such a
line of investigation.35 And although Zernicka-Goetz’s team have said
they are only interested in studying the very initial stages of human
embryo development using this approach, it is hard to imagine that at
some point scientists will not want to push the boundaries of this new
technology. Currently, human embryo research in Britain is limited by a
ruling by the UK Human Fertilization and Embryo Authority that says
100
that such embryos should not be cultured for more than 14 days.36 But this
is a fairly arbitrary limit and it could be argued that to better understand
the biological factors that lead to miscarriage and developmental dis
orders, the limit should be extended. However, whether such an approach
could ever be used to study human embryonic brain and nervous system
development would clearly be a highly controversial ethical topic.37
Another area of stem cell research that poses both ethical and techno-
logical challenges is the study of human brain organoids, or ‘mini-brains’.
These can be generated from embryonic stem cells but also from induced
pluripotent stem (iPS) cells—ordinary skin cells transformed into a stem-
cell-like state. By growing such cells in a 3D matrix, it is possible to create
embryonic brain-like structures. An unexpected discovery of such stud-
ies has been the complex nature of such organoids. For instance, Paola
Arlotta at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology has shown that
mini-brains grown from iPS cells derived from healthy volunteers and
cultured for nine months contain many types of neurons ranging from
those that normally make up the cerebral cortex to ones that link the right
and left hemispheres of the brain.38 Glial cells were present as well as
neurons. The neurons created in this way even formed electrically active
neuronal networks. According to Arlotta, the neurons ‘connect with each
other, forming circuits, and once they’re connected, they can synchronize
their activity’, thereby potentially mimicking higher-order functions of
the human brain.39 Mini-brain studies have also revealed important dif-
ferences between those derived from individuals with specific brain dis
orders and those from unaffected people.40
Some scientists doubt the extent to which such mini-brains can ever
mimic the complexity of brain structure in a living human. But neurosci-
entists are working hard to improve the power of this approach via a
series of innovations. One involves growing relatively simple organoids
representative of different brain regions and allowing them to connect
with one another. For instance, In-hyun Park and colleagues at Yale
University grew two separate organoids, one based on the brain cortex,
the other on a structure called the medial ganglionic eminence (MGE) that
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in the embryonic brain produces inhibitory neurons which play a role in

normal human brain development.41 When placed together inhibitory
neurons from the MGE structure migrated into the cortical organoid and
began to integrate into the neural networks there, exactly as they do in the
embryonic brain.
Park hopes such studies will provide insights into the developmental
roots of conditions like autism and schizophrenia, for according to him,
one feature of these disorders is ‘an imbalance between excitatory and
inhibitory neural activity’.42 More generally this approach could allow
researchers to study the development of specific brain subregions, and
how cells from such regions interact once they start migrating and
encountering each other.43
Another innovation involves culturing brain organoids for greater
lengths of time. Sergiu Paşca and colleagues at Stanford University have
grown such organoids for nearly two years.44 This proved important in
allowing the maturation of astrocytes, the class of glial cells we came
across earlier. Astrocytes help neurons form synapses and prune them
when they are no longer required; they also make connections with blood
vessels and sense damage in the brain. But astrocytes also play a role in
neurodegenerative conditions like amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, and may
contribute to other brain disorders. However, a problem with brain orga-
noids has been the limited development of astrocytes within them.
Paşca’s team found that during the first five months of organoid growth,
the astrocytes multiplied rapidly, eating away at the synaptic connections
between neurons, much as they do in the foetus. But after nine months—
mimicking what occurs in the brains of newborn babies—they began
expressing a different set of genes, and switched to more supportive func-
tions, like boosting calcium signals in nearby neurons to facilitate their
maturation. By growing organoids for extended periods, Paşca believes
‘we can really start to ask questions about what could go awry later in
foetal development to lead to psychiatric disorder.’45
Studies like these are stimulating important new insights into the bio-
logical basis of brain development in the embryo and neonate. But our
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concern in this book is why human consciousness is qualitatively different

from that of other animals, so it would be odd in a chapter about brain
growth and development to solely discuss what happens in the womb or
even just after birth. For a key feature of being human is the extent to
which—unlike other mammals, including even our closest primate
cousins—a major part of our development continues to take place after
birth, in the growing infant and child.
Ironically, this feature of our species may have first arisen as a lucky
accident due to a contradiction between two other important human
features—our upright stance and our oversized brains. These two features
allowed our proto-human ancestors to first begin to distinguish them-
selves from apes, but they also created a problem, because to walk upright
efficiently the pelvis needs to shrink, and with it the birth canal in
females.46 Yet to develop a bigger brain, the skull of the developing baby
must also increase in size, which makes it harder to exit the birth canal.
This contradiction is one reason why giving birth as a human female is
excruciatingly painful and in past times could often result in the death of
the mother; indeed this remains a risk today despite advances in modern
gynaecological practice.47
Yet even with such extra risks there are limits to how large a human
baby’s brain can grow without making birth impossible through a pelvis
evolved for bipedalism. And here a fortuitous aspect of human evolu-
tion occurred—confirming that virtue can come from necessity—for
natural selection led to the birth of babies that are ‘underdeveloped’
compared to other mammals. While solving the problem of how to give
birth to a large-brained baby without dying in the process, the birth of
such premature infants may have been key to the further development
of humankind, by virtue of the fact that a baby born with an underdevel-
oped brain also possesses a plasticity amenable to another unique aspect
of humanity—our particular facility for learning, and in the process
sometimes transcending our teachers.48
The central argument of this book is that the human mind is the prod-
uct of an interplay between natural, biologically determined development
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and the cultural impact on such development of the interaction of a

growing individual with other people. According to this view, the process
by which a child’s mind becomes structured by society involves more
than the simple acquisition of the values, expectations, and competencies
of a specific culture. Rather, the entire system of naturally determined or
‘lower’ mental functions becomes restructured to produce higher mental
functions. Or as Lev Vygotsky put it, ‘when the child enters into culture,
he not only takes something from culture, assimilates something, takes
something from outside, but culture itself profoundly refines the natural
state of behaviour of the child and alters completely anew the whole
course of his development.’49
Vygotsky defined higher mental functions as behaviours mediated by
language and other cultural ‘tools’, and their development as a transition
from ‘inter-individual’—that is, shared between individuals—to becom-
ing a specific property of the individual. For young children, most higher
mental functions exist only in an inter-individual form, as they share
these functions with adults or other children. However, as a child devel-
ops, they begin internalizing these functions into their individual psyche.
As Vygotsky put it, ‘every function in the cultural development of the
child appears on the stage twice, in two planes, first, the social, then the
psychological, first between people as an “inter” mental category, then
within the child as an “intra” mental category. This pertains equally to
voluntary attention, to logical memory, to the formation of concepts, and
to the development of will.’50
This process can be observed during the development of memory.
Vygotsky distinguished between two types of memory in human beings.
On the one hand, there is the natural retention of stimuli that we share
with many other living organisms. On the other, there are the mediated
forms of memory unique to our species. According to Vygotsky the first
type of memory is ‘very close to perception, because it arises out of the
direct influence of external stimuli upon human beings.’51 However,
humans also have another, mediated form of memory, shown by the
‘use of notched sticks and knots, the beginnings of writing and simple
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memory aids [which] all demonstrate that even at early stages of historical
development humans went beyond the limits of the psychological func-
tions given to them by nature and proceeded to a new culturally elabor
ated organization of their behaviour.’52
During a child’s development, such mediated forms of memory come
to dominate over natural forms of remembering, as Vygotsky demon-
strated in a study carried out with children and adults of different ages.53
Participants were presented with a list of fifteen words to be memorized.
In the first stage of the study, remembering had to be done without any
help, but in the second stage, participants were also offered fifteen picture
cards that could be used as memory aids. The major finding of the study
was that the degree to which the picture cards helped memorization
depended on a participant’s age.
In preschool children the use of memory aids did not lead to significant
differences in remembering. However, the situation changed dramatically
with seven- to eight-year-old children, who recalled about 75 per cent of
the words with the help of the cards, but only 30 per cent without them.
Interestingly, adults recalled 93 per cent of the words with the help of the
cards compared to 60 per cent without them, showing that although the
cards were useful in memorization, their overall influence was less.
Vygotsky interpreted the findings as showing that external memory aids
can help children at a certain stage of development, and also adults, to
remember things, even in ‘unmediated’ conditions.54 However, adults can
additionally draw on memorization techniques that are internalized in a
way that young children cannot. What does such a transformation of
memory involve in terms of neuronal processes? To explore this ques-
tion, it is time to look at what modern research is uncovering about the
process of learning and memory in the animal, and human, brain.
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Part III
THE DYNAMIC MIND

CH A P T ER 7
LEARNING AND MEMORY

z
W ithout learning, there would be no human civilization. Learning

is central to the development of a child into an adult, but also to
the progression of human culture over time. But the ability to learn is also
bound up with the capacity to remember. Speculation about the nature of
human memory stretches back at least 2,400 years to Plato’s attempts to
understand this process. He believed that humans are born free of any
knowledge and compared memory to a scribe making impressions on a
wax tablet.1 The eighteenth-century English philosopher David Hartley
was the first to link memories to the nervous system. He proposed that
life experiences set up ‘neural vibrations’ in the brain which, by continu-
ing to resonate, persist as memories.2 It was an interesting idea, but not
one based on any actual observed process.
In 1949, Donald Hebb of McGill University in Montreal, Canada, sug-
gested that ‘neurons that fire together, wire together’, implying that the
encoding of memories occurs as connections between neurons are estab-
lished through repeated use.3 This was an intriguing suggestion with a
plausible mechanistic basis in the known properties of neurons, but at the
time there was no experimental evidence to support Hebb’s hypothesis
and it fell to others to demonstrate how such activity might lead to mem-
ory encoding at the molecular level.
A major pioneer in this work was Eric Kandel of Columbia University
in New York. He chose to study a marine organism—the sea slug Aplysia—
because its relatively simple nervous system and huge neurons made it an
ideal tool for studying the biochemical changes that occur during a
learned response.4 In the late 1960s and early 1970s Kandel and his team
l e a r ning a nd me mory
showed that the process by which Aplysia learns to withdraw its sensitive
gills in response to a stimulus involves production of a chemical messen-
ger called cyclic AMP. This then activates the enzyme PKA, and PKA acts
to modify the synapses between connecting neurons. Longer- term
changes are regulated by the gene regulatory protein CREB, which is acti-
vated by PKA. The switching on of specific genes that trigger the produc-
tion of new proteins leads to cellular changes such as an increase in
synaptic connections.5 This suggested that learning involves a physical
change in nerve connections.
Another important step forward in our understanding of the cellular
mechanism of memory formation was made in 1973 by Tim Bliss and
Terje Lømo, at the University of Oslo in Norway. They showed that
repeated stimulation of connected neurons in slices of the hippocampus
region of a rabbit brain increased the efficiency of signalling between the
cells by strengthening the synapses at which they communicate with each
other. They called this process long-term potentiation (LTP) (Figure 16).6
LTP leads to the long-term strengthening of the synapses between two
neurons activated simultaneously. When axons that connect with
neurons of the hippocampus are exposed to a high-frequency stimulus,
the neurons become super-sensitized for up to several weeks. Subsequent
work has shown that a strong input leads to more receptors for neuro
transmitters being directed to the surface of the receiving neuron beyond
the synapse, amplifying the signal it receives.7 And it turns out that this
movement of receptors to the cell surface is catalyzed by the calcium-
sensitive enzyme CaMKII, which we have met before. It is activated by an
increase in calcium ions in the receiving, or postsynaptic, neuron which
occurs when the neuron is stimulated repeatedly.
One potential problem with the idea that LTP is the sole basis of mem-
ory is that synaptic components are short-lived and yet memories can last
lifetimes. This suggests that synaptic information is encoded at a deeper,
finer-grained molecular scale. And indeed, in support of this idea, Ryohei
Yasuda and colleagues at Duke University in North Carolina have shown
that such hard-wiring of memory may involve changes to the neuron’s
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Figure 16 Long-term potentiation.
cytoskeleton that gives structure to synapses.8 Their findings suggest that

signalling molecules help to rearrange this framework, and give more
volume and strength to the synapses.9 Yasuda believes that a long-lasting
memory could possibly come from changes in the building block assem-
blies. His team found that certain proteins that regulate the cytoskeleton
are activated by CaMKII, and trigger long-term changes in the synapse.
Changes such as those identified by Yasuda and colleagues are in the
postsynaptic neuron. However, recently evidence has emerged that
changes in the presynaptic neuron may also be important. In particular, a
study led by Troy Littleton of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology
has identified an important role for spontaneous release of neurotrans
mitter by the presynaptic neuron in the absence of action potentials.10
These ‘mini’ neurotransmitter releases have previously been thought to
represent noise occurring in the brain. But Littleton’s team found that
mini events can drive synaptic structural plasticity, for when the
111
researchers stimulated neurons, these events, which are normally of very

low frequency, suddenly ramped up and stayed elevated for several
minutes before going down. The enhancement of minis stimulates the
postsynaptic neuron to release a factor, still unidentified, that causes the
presynaptic cell to stimulate the enzyme PKA.11 This enzyme in turn
stimulates growth of new connections between presynaptic and postsyn-
aptic neurons, making the latter even more responsive to future commu-
nication from the presynaptic neuron.
I mentioned previously that there is increasing recognition of the
important roles played by glial cells in the brain. Until recently such cells
were not thought capable of being involved in processes such as LTP,
because glial cells lack the electrical activity of neurons. However, there is
increasing recognition of a role for these cells in memory formation. For
instance, Dmitri Rusakov and colleagues at University College London
recently found that astrocytes release the amino acid D-serine, which
activates a protein on the surface of the neuron called the NMDA recep-
tor, which plays an important role in inducing LTP. Andrea Volterra of the
University of Lausanne in Switzerland believes this shows that while
neurotransmitter release and electrical changes at the synapse are import
ant for synaptic memory formation, also required is a ‘burst from the
astrocyte to complete the process’.12
While changes to the synaptic structure of a neuron clearly play an
important role in the initial formation of memories, there is increasing
evidence that altered expression of genes underpins long-term memory
formation. I mentioned previously that gene expression can be regulated
at a number of different levels. A central way is by gene regulatory pro-
teins switching genes on or off by altering their production of messenger
RNA transcripts.13 But recent studies suggest that gene expression can
also be controlled by regulatory RNAs. These are found in far greater
amounts and with much increased diversity in cells of the human brain
compared to other organs in the body.14 So it is worth considering how
this alternative control mechanism affects gene expression in neurons,
and how it relates to memory.
112
One class of regulatory RNAs called micro RNAs regulate the translation
of messenger RNAs into proteins.15 This is important because unlike
transcription, which occurs in the central cell nucleus, translation can
happen locally in different parts of a neuron, not only in the main cell
body but also in other cellular regions. And there is evidence that such
local translational activity is important in memory formation: the ribo-
somes on which messenger RNAs are translated accumulate at synapses
following strong neuronal activity.16 Other studies have shown that spe-
cific micro RNAs are generated at postsynaptic regions on dendrites in
response to signals at the synapse. Slices of hippocampus taken from a
mouse brain can undergo long-term potentiation in response to stimula-
tion, and slices that undergo such LTP also show an increase in the amount
of neuronal micro RNAs.17
Changes in gene expression mediated by regulatory RNAs in neurons
persist for weeks, suggesting a potential role in long-term memory for-
mation. An important feature of regulatory RNAs is that they can interact
with other such RNAs. This interaction affects their function and means
that a given regulatory RNA can either inhibit, have no effect upon, or
even enhance the activity of a messenger RNA, depending on which other
regulatory RNAs are present in its vicinity. This means that gene expres-
sion at individual synapses may be very sensitive to subtle changes in the
chemical signals at such synapses.18
While regulatory RNAs can be generated at synapses and act to control
the production of particular proteins at these sites, there is also emerging
evidence that some proteins produced at synapses are gene regulatory
proteins that can conversely travel to the cell nucleus and influence
expression of genes there.19 This could be a way in which local activity at
different synapses has an impact on the more long-term genetic behav-
iour of a neuron, which could be one basis for lasting memory formation.
As I mentioned previously, a surprising recent discovery about regula-
tory RNAs is that they can be secreted from the cell in membrane-bound
structures called ‘exosomes’ and then carry information to other cells.
There is evidence that such exosomes can travel from the postsynaptic
113
neuron to the presynaptic one, and help enhance the connection between
the two as part of the learning process.20 Exosomes are also able to travel
to other cells in the brain besides their synaptic partner neurons. They
may provide a way for neurons to influence the activity of not only other
neurons, but also of glial cells in their vicinity.
Neurons in the brain cortex are organized into functionally related
minicolumns, which tend to show highly correlated input and output
activity.21 Neil Smalheiser, a neuroscientist at the University of Illinois,
believes that ‘if neighbouring neurons that are activated together release
exosomes together, this may provide a means to “synchronize” their gene
expression.’22 This, in turn, may help establish or reinforce a circuit-level
memory representation that is retained by the minicolumn as a whole.
Communication via exosomes could allow cells to activate their neigh-
bours, but also inhibit them. This could be important in fine-tuning a
learned response by enhancing valuable synaptic connections while
eliminating inactive ones that have ceased to contribute to the learning
process.
If studies like these provide insights into the molecular and cellular
mechanisms by which memories can be stored, where in the brain does
such activity take place? One brain region that plays a particularly import
ant role is the hippocampus.23 The first recognition that the hippocampus
has a role in memory came in the 1950s because of the unfortunate conse-
quences of an operation on a man called Henry Molaison, of Hartford,
Connecticut.24 He suffered from a severe form of epilepsy—the brain dis-
order in which seizures occur that are caused by intense bursts of elec
trical activity across the brain. Molaison’s seizures were so frequent and
violent that as a teenager he had to leave school for several years, and
when he finally finished his studies in his early twenties, the only job that
he could manage with his disability was winding copper coils on electric
motors at a local factory.25
In 1953, a neurosurgeon called William Scoville proposed to drill into
Molaison’s skull, insert a metal tube, and suck out the hippocampal
region from which his seizures seemed to originate.26 At that time, almost
114
nothing was known about the functional role of the hippocampus, apart
from a suspicion that it was involved in mediating our sense of smell.
Losing such a sense seemed a small price to pay if Molaison’s violent seiz
ures could be stopped, and the operation was given the go-ahead. Initially,
the operation was judged a success since the seizures were greatly reduced.
But it soon became clear that Molaison—then aged 27—had been left
without the ability to store or recall any experiences after his operation.
From that point on, for the remaining 55 years of his life until his death in
2008, he was never able to remember anything for more than half a
minute after it had occurred.
While a personal tragedy for Molaison, his condition was a revelation
for scientists seeking to understand the biological basis of memory.27
Until this point, it was assumed that memory was a property of the whole
brain. But only Molaison’s capacity to store and recall new memories
appeared defective. In contrast, his memories of life before the operation
seemed to have been retained, but only in a very general fashion. So
Molaison could remember that his father was born in Louisiana and that
he had accompanied his parents on family holidays in Massachusetts. But
if asked about specific episodes in such holidays, he had no idea. This led
to the proposal that different parts of the brain play distinct roles in mem-
ory formation, with the hippocampus being the place where new mem
ories are formed, while long-term memory storage takes place in other
parts of the brain, particularly the prefrontal cortex, the region of the
brain involved in planning and problem-solving.
Intriguingly, Molaison seemed perfectly capable of learning new prac-
tical skills. For instance, in one study he was told to trace the image of a
star on a piece of paper while looking only at the image of the hand doing
the drawing in a mirror. Such a task is difficult to perform at first, but gets
easier with practice. And Molaison improved with each time that he
carried out the task, even though he had no conscious memory of ever
having tried it before.
Molaison’s memory defects suggested that the hippocampus acts to
knit together our experiences—which can encompass sights, sounds,
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smells, emotions, and every other aspect of a given moment, each

processed in a different part of the brain—into a single remembered event
that can be recalled in the future.28 This type of memory is called ‘epi-
sodic’, to distinguish it from ‘semantic’ memory, which is concerned with
general facts about the world or ourselves, such as where we used to go on
holiday as a child, or that Adolf Hitler ruled Germany during World War
II. However, there is also another type of remembering called ‘procedural’
memory. A classic example of this is learning to ride a bike—once learned,
you do it without thinking. The fact that Molaison could learn new skills
initially suggested that procedural memory did not involve the hippo
campus. But studies of another person with no hippocampal function—
Lonni Sue Johnson—have challenged this straightforward scenario.
In Johnson’s case, it was not surgery that caused the problem, but a
viral infection.29 Normally herpes simplex only results in cold sores, but
in Johnson’s case, the virus burrowed into her brain and completely
destroyed her hippocampus. Unlike Molaison, Johnson was already in
her late 50s when she lost the use of her hippocampus.30 As well as being
an accomplished artist whose commissions included drawing covers for
the New Yorker magazine, she was also a talented viola player and a pilot
who owned and flew two small planes. In other words, she had a lifetime’s
worth of experiences and skills and so provided an important subject for
tests to see how much the loss of her hippocampus had affected her abil
ities. One test involved Johnson sitting in a flight simulator and attempt-
ing to fly a ‘virtual’ plane.31 The test was complicated by the runway in the
simulation appearing in a different place each time, and the joystick of the
plane being programmed to resist Johnson’s movements; consequently
she could not rely on her previous experience of flying, but had to adapt
to the new conditions. In fact, Johnson did learn to compensate for the
changed situation, but only partially. This suggested that procedural
learning also involves the hippocampus, although to a much lesser degree
than for episodic memory.32
While studies of individuals with such a tragic loss of brain function
have revealed the importance of the hippocampus for human memory, it
116
is through animal studies that we have begun to learn how specifically

this brain region helps form memories. One way it does this is to build up
a map of a person’s surroundings. This feature of the hippocampus was
discovered by John O’Keefe of University College London in studies per-
formed in 1971.33 O’Keefe implanted microelectrodes in the hippocampal
neurons of rats, and then monitored neuronal activity as the rats moved
around a box. To his surprise, individual neurons fired when the rats
moved to a particular place in the box. O’Keefe concluded that such
‘place-cells’ help create a memory of the environment, so ‘that if you put
them all together, you could have something like a map.’34 These days we
would liken the brain cells to the global positioning systems (GPS) now
routinely used to make journeys by car, by bike, or on foot.
But a memory of place is only one of the features of neurons in the
hippocampus. Other neurons in this brain region seem able to recognize
memorable objects, or even people. Recognition of this fact came from a
recent study by Rodrigo Quian Quiroga and colleagues at the California
Institute of Technology.35 The study involved human patients suffering
from epilepsy whose brains had been implanted with microelectrodes in
different regions in order to try and identify the sites from which seizures
were originating, so that these could be removed surgically to prevent
them affecting the rest of the brain. Quiroga used the opportunity to
monitor the activity of different hippocampal neurons when the patients
were presented with various pictures, of animals, objects, landmark
buildings, and celebrities.
A surprising outcome of the study was just how specific certain
neurons seemed to be in relation to recognizing a particular picture.36 For
instance, in one patient, a particular neuron only became activated when
the patient was shown different photos of Bill Clinton, the US President at
the time. In another patient, it was an image of the actor Jennifer Aniston
who triggered a reaction in a particular neuron. However, this neuron
was not activated by a photo showing Aniston with her former partner
Brad Pitt! The actor Halle Berry also activated a specific neuron in the
hippocampus of one patient; intriguingly, this neuron also responded to
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photos of Berry playing the DC comic character in the eponymous film

Catwoman, released in 2004, in which her features were obscured by a
mask, as well as to a caricature cartoon of the actor, or even a picture of
the word ‘Halle Berry’.
Specific neurons in other patients were activated by famous landmarks
like the Eiffel Tower or Sydney Opera House, both as photos, caricatures,
or simply their written name.37 This suggests that a memorable person, or
landmark, is registered by a particular neuron in a way that unites their
visual image with more abstract representations. Moreover, neurons in
the hippocampus can also form associations, for instance between a
celebrity and a famous landmark. So when the patient with a specific
neuron that responded to Jennifer Aniston was shown photos of the actor
alongside the Eiffel Tower, it took very little time for that neuron to begin
firing in response to images of the Eiffel Tower alone. According to
Quiroga, this shows that a neuron will change its firing properties to
encode a new memory.38
How does such neuronal activity in the hippocampus contribute to
long-term memory formation? Based on studies of individuals such as
Henry Molaison, the initial view was that the hippocampus only acted as
a relay station, with more long-term memory formation being the respon-
sibility of the prefrontal cortex. But this idea of a rigid division of labour
in memory involving different brain regions has been challenged by a
recent investigation of memory formation in mice by Susumu Tonegawa
and colleagues at the Riken-MIT Center in Tokyo.39 They used an approach
that I have mentioned previously called optogenetics—in which neurons
in a mouse brain are genetically engineered to respond to a particular
wavelength of light—to activate or inhibit neurons in different brain
regions. Previous studies by Tonegawa’s team using this approach identi-
fied specific neural circuits involved in memory and showed that optoge-
netics can be used to artificially reactivate memories.
In the more recent study, Tonegawa and his colleagues used optogenet-
ics to show that memories can be formed simultaneously in the hippo
campus and prefrontal cortex.40 However, the long-term memories
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remain ‘silent’ for several weeks, as shown by the fact that the neurons in
the prefrontal cortex showed clear signs of remembrance of a painful
stimulus when artificially activated by optogenetics, but they did not show
any activation during natural memory recall. These findings suggest that
the hippocampus and the cortex act in a complementary manner. What
seems to be happening is that at first only a silent copy of a memory is
made in the prefrontal cortex, and then gradually this becomes cemented
as a long-term memory while the hippocampal one is erased. However,
the nature of this long-term cement still remains to be determined. And
the devastating effects of loss of hippocampal function in Henry Molaison
and Lonni Sue Johnson show that, at least in human beings, the hippocam-
pus can clearly not be bypassed for normal memory formation.
Other recent studies have suggested that the hippocampus acts as a
‘convergence zone’ that pulls together different bits of information stored
in the cortex that relate to distinct elements of an event into a coherent
whole. One such study was led by Ed Wu Xuekui of the University of
Hong Kong.41 His team used optogenetics to trigger low-frequency stimu-
lation of neurons in a part of the hippocampus known as the dorsal den-
tate gyrus and found that this increased functional connectivity between
different regions of the cortex.
Such a dynamic interaction of the hippocampus and the cortex may be
key to the ability of the brain to form new associations between people,
places, and objects. For instance, if you were to chance upon Halle Berry
at the Eiffel Tower, your brain would form an association between the two
different elements of this encounter, along the lines of the studies of the
epileptic patients mentioned earlier.42 Yet what still remains unclear is
how the brain manages to create an association between two separate
objects, like Halle Berry and the Eiffel Tower, yet still maintain a separ
ation between the two individual objects, so that if you visited this Paris
landmark on another occasion, but this time happened to bump into
Brad Pitt, your memory could nevertheless create a new association. And
it may be that the interaction between the hippocampus and cortex is
somehow key to this.
119
One feature of the low-frequency stimulation used by Xuekui on

hippocampal neurons, which triggered connectivity between regions of
the cortex, is that this produces electrical activity that is a characteristic of
slow-wave sleep, often referred to as deep sleep—a state we usually enter
several times each night.43 In fact there is increasing evidence that sleep
plays a very important role in memory consolidation.44
During slow-wave sleep, neuroscientists have identified brain waves
with three types of rhythms: slow oscillations, ripples, and spindles. Slow
oscillations originate from neurons in the cerebral cortex; ripples are
quick bursts of electrical energy produced within the hippocampus; and
spindles, electrical impulses that occur around 7–15 times per second, are
triggered by a brain structure called the thalamic reticular nucleus (TRN),
which is part of the thalamus. A study by researchers at the Institute for
Basic Science in Daejeon, Korea, has identified a central role for these
three types of brain waves, and a particular coordinating role for spindles,
in memory consolidation during sleep (Figure 17). According to Charles-
Francois Latchoumane, a researcher on the study, ‘often during the night
a regular pattern is manifested, where a slow oscillation from the cortex is
immediately followed by a thalamic spindle and while this happens, a hip-
pocampal ripple appears in parallel.’45 The correct timing of these three
rhythms appears to act like a communication channel between different
parts of the brain and thereby facilitates memory consolidation. The
Slow oscillat
ion from th
e cortex
Spindle from the thalamus
us
camp
the hippo
from
Ripple
Figure 17 Role of brain waves during sleep in memory consolidation.
120
researchers focused on spindles because their number has been shown to

increase following a day full of learning experiences, and to show a decline
in the elderly and in some patients with schizophrenia.
In the study, the researchers used optogenetics to trigger artificial spin-
dles in the TRN region in sleeping mice that had taken part in a memory
task while awake. Such stimulation led to the coordination of the three
groups of brain waves, and enhanced memory. In contrast, suppressing
spindle number had a negative impact on remembering. The implication
is that the thalamus mediates information exchange between the hippo
campus and cortex as a vital part of long-term memory consolidation.
Latchoumane believes that ‘memorization during deep sleep has to do
with time coordination.’46 If the hippocampus tries to exchange informa-
tion when the cortex neurons are not ready to receive it, the information
could be wasted. Slow oscillations might be the signal used by the cortex
to flag that it is ready to accept information. Then the thalamus would
alert the hippocampus via the spindles. In other words, different brain
regions seem to actively coordinate with each other during sleep.
As well as these findings by Latchoumane’s team relating to sleep, other
recent studies have confirmed the general importance of brain waves for
the memory process. I previously mentioned that Earl Miller of the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology has highlighted the importance of
brain waves as general coordinators of brain function. Such waves can be
categorized by their frequency (Figure 18). Alpha waves (8 to 12 Hz) are
dominant during quiet thoughts, and in some meditative states; beta
waves (13 to 32 Hz) dominate our normal waking state of consciousness
when attention is directed towards cognitive tasks and the outside world;
and gamma waves (33 to 100 Hz) are the fastest brain waves and relate to
simultaneous processing of information from different brain areas. In
addition, there are two types of slower frequency brain waves: delta waves
(up to 4 Hz) and theta waves (4 to 7 Hz), which are characteristic of deep
sleep and light sleep, respectively.
One topic that Miller has investigated is the involvement of brain waves
in working memory.47 This form of memory allows us to hold multiple
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Deep, Delta
dreamless sleep (up to 4Hz)
Light sleep, deep meditation, Theta

reduced consciousness,
(4–7Hz)
creativity
Physical and mental Alpha
relaxation (8–12Hz)
Normal waking state, Beta

thinking (13–32Hz)
Heightened perception, Gamma

cognitive processing (33–100Hz)
1 second
Figure 18 Different frequencies of electrical waves in the human brain.
pieces of information in mind—a telephone number, the time of an

appointment that day, or a grocery list for our evening meal—from a few
minutes to several hours. Miller notes that ‘working memory allows you
to choose what to pay attention to, choose what you hold in mind, and
choose when to make decisions and take action. It’s all about wresting
control from the environment to your own self. Once you have something
like working memory, you go from being a simple creature that’s buffeted
by the environment to a creature that can control the environment.’48
In one recent study, Miller and his colleagues found that the primate
brain uses beta waves to consciously switch between different pieces of
information. The findings add to insights that emerged from another
study by Miller’s team, which found that gamma waves are associated
with encoding and retrieving sensory information. They also found that
when gamma waves increased in intensity, beta rhythms decreased, and
vice versa. Previous work by these researchers has indicated that beta
waves are associated with ‘top-down’ information such as a current goal,
how to achieve this, and the rules of a task. Such findings have led to the
suggestion that beta waves act as a control mechanism that determines
which pieces of information are allowed to be read out from working
memory. Miller has proposed that beta waves act like a signal that gates
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access to working memory. They clear out working memory, and can act
as a switch from one thought or item to another.49
So far in our consideration of the biological mechanisms underpinning
memory, we have been focusing on the individual brain. But the main
focus of this book is the importance of social interaction in the develop-
ment of the human mind. An indication of the importance of social inter-
action in the formation of human memory capacity came from a study in
the late 1980s led by Hallam Hurt, a specialist in child development at the
University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia.50 She was concerned about
the effect that the crack cocaine epidemic devastating US inner cities at
that time was having upon the development of children of addicted
mothers. To investigate this, Hurt and her colleagues studied four-year-
old children from low-income families and compared the IQ of infants
who had been exposed to the drug with those who had not. Somewhat to
Hurt’s surprise, the study found no significant difference between the two
sets of children. Instead, the IQ of both sets of children was much lower
than average. According to Hurt, ‘these little children were coming in cute
as buttons, and yet their IQs were like 82 and 83. Average IQ is 100. It was
shocking.’51
This discovery led Hurt and her colleagues to investigate how a factor
that the two sets of children had in common—their poverty—might have
affected their intellectual development; for instance was it possible that a
lack of time, resources, and education, which could be characteristic of
parents of children in such a state of poverty, might have had an impact?
The researchers began to monitor how frequently the parents of children
in such families spoke to them affectionately, spent time answering their
questions, and hugged, kissed, and praised them.52 They also asked
whether the parents had at least ten books at home for the children, a
record player with songs for them, and toys to help them learn numbers.
They found that children who had received more attention and nurtur
ing at home tended to have a higher IQ. And the same children also did
much better at memory tasks. These included being asked to remember
people’s faces or a list of words, and to find a token hidden in one of a
123
number of boxes. The latter task measured working memory, as finding

the token quickly was helped by being able to remember the contents of
each box that had already been opened. Years later, when the children had
entered their teens, the researchers took MRI images of their brains and
then matched these with the records of how well nurtured the children
had been at both four and eight years old. They found a strong link
between nurturing at age four and the size of the hippocampus but no
correlation between nurturing at age eight and the hippocampus. A nurt
uring social environment at a very young age is evidently important in the
development of human memory capability.53
So how might social interaction have enhanced the memory process?
To address this question, let us return to the way that language helps
human beings to group, distinguish, and differentiate between things in
the world around them. In other words, what is the basis of conceptual
thought, and how does this relate to language capacity as a whole?
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CH A P T ER 8
THOUGHT AND LANGUAGE

z
C onscious awareness, the ability to think through a problem in a

rational way, the capacity to communicate with other human beings
through language—these are all key features of humans that make our
species unique. But what is the connection between thought and lan-
guage? And what can science tell us about the biological basis for our
species’ ability to think and talk, and the relationship between these two
characteristics?
Language may be defined as the ability to generate a limitless range of
expressions with a limited set of elements and rules. Other animals com-
municate, but human language involves more than just communication.
A key feature of language is that it allows humans to describe objects,
places, events, and people in the present, but also in the past and future.
I have previously mentioned two opposing viewpoints about language.
On the one hand, behaviourists like B. F. Skinner have argued that human
beings start life as a ‘blank slate’, and our language capacity is something
that we learn by exposure to the language of others.1 On the other, Noam
Chomsky proposed that humans are born with an innate capacity for
language, as shown by the ease with which children rapidly learn a wide
vocabulary, but also by their remarkable capacity for linking words
together in complex grammatical structures. So what have we learned
subsequently, if anything, about the molecular and cellular processes that
underlie this capacity? And is the ability of children to absorb language
and use it to structure the world around them really largely innate—a
‘language instinct’ as it has been called—or is there an important role for
t hough t a nd l a nguage
environmental influence, not just in learning a specific tongue, but in

general language acquisition?
An intriguing development in the search for a biological basis for
human language was the discovery of a British family with a language
disorder clearly inherited across three generations.2 Studies in the 1990s
by researchers at London’s Institute for Child Health showed that family
members with the disorder could not select and produce the fine tongue
and lips movements required to speak clearly. For Faraneh Vargha-
Khadem, who studied the family, the most obvious feature of affected
individuals was that they were ‘unintelligible both to naive listeners and
to other . . . family members without the disorder.’ Affected individuals
also had difficulty processing sentences, as well as poor spelling and
grammar.3
Subsequently, in 2001, geneticists at the University of Oxford led by
Anthony Monaco and Simon Fisher pinpointed the source of this lan-
guage defect to a subtle difference in the FOXP2 gene. According to Fisher,
the findings ‘opened a molecular window on the neural basis of speech
and language.’ But Monaco was keen to stress that ‘this is a gene associ-
ated with language, not the gene.’4 And this turned out to be wise advice.
One factor arguing against the idea that FOXP2 represents the sole
genetic basis of human language is that this gene is found not just in
humans, but in a range of other species. But there are subtle differences in
the gene between humans, chimps, and mice that may have functional
significance.5 So the human FOXP2 protein coded by the gene differs
from the chimp protein by two amino acids, and by three amino acids
from the mouse protein.
To further investigate the function of FOXP2, recently a team led by
Svante Pääbo at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology
in Liepzig have created mice whose FOXP2 protein was altered to be iden-
tical to the human version.6 Studies of such mice showed that they have
subtle changes in the frequency of their high-pitched vocalizations, and
distinctive changes to wiring in certain brain regions. Subsequent studies
of the mice have suggested that FOXP2 is involved in the brain’s ability
126
to learn sequences of movements. In humans this could be important for

the complex muscle movements needed to produce the sounds for speech,
but in other species it may have a different role, coordinating other move-
ments. And, indeed, while FOXP2 may well have a particularly important
role in language in humans, even in our species the gene also appears to
play a role in other parts of the body besides the brain, in processes ran
ging from reproduction to immunity.
In fact, the evidence points to FOXP2 having an influence on human
language capacity, but also suggests that it is far from being the only
factor; so Gary Marcus, who studies language acquisition at New York
University, believes that FOXP2 is almost certainly ‘part of a broader cas-
cade of genes’.7 This would fit with the FOXP2 protein’s most basic func-
tion being to switch other genes on and off. One gene it controls is SRPX2,
which helps some of the brain’s neurons enhance their connections to
other neurons. Richard Huganir, of Johns Hopkins University in
Baltimore, USA, first identified this connection.8 Huganir and his team
were trying to identify genes that play a role in forming synapses and
identified SRPX2 as such a gene. Further investigation showed that SRPX2
enhanced connections in a part of the mouse brain equivalent to a region
particularly associated with language capacity in humans. This discovery
prompted Huganir and his colleagues to look for a connection with
FOXP2. And, indeed, they found that the FOXP2 protein inhibits the
action of SRPX2. When the researchers artificially inhibited SRPX2 in a
living mouse, they found that this reduced the calls that baby mice make
to attract the attention of their mothers.
Findings like these suggest that language in humans involves a com-
plex interplay between a number of different genes which affect the con-
nections between neurons in specific parts of the brain. However, it still
remains unclear whether FOXP2 affects neurons involved in language
processing per se or those that control muscles involved in speech,
although it is worth remembering that human individuals with a defect in
the gene had problems processing sentences, as well as a poor capacity
for spelling and grammar.
127
Quite what we can learn from the mice studies mentioned above is also
far from clear, since in this species both the FOXP2 and SRPX2 genes may
be playing quite different roles to the situation in humans. Because of
such potential limitations of using the mouse as a model, scientists have
begun to look to other species to study the role of FOXP2 in language.
One interesting line of investigation is being pursued by Stephanie
White of the University of California, Los Angeles. She has focused on
songbirds, since these are one of the few animals besides humans that can
produce a wide variety of complex vocal sounds.9 In addition, much like
the situation in humans, songbirds have a critical period in youth when
they are best at learning vocal communication skills. In birds, this is when
they learn a song they will use later in life as a courtship song. After this
critical period ends, just as it is more difficult for human beings to learn
languages, so it is for songbirds to learn their songs.
White and her colleagues have shown that changes in the level of
FOXP2 protein in a part of the songbird brain involved in song led to
changes in the activity of thousands of other genes.10 White believes this
shows that the activities of these genes are being manipulated by FOXP2,
much like an orchestra is led by a conductor. According to her, ‘it’s not
that all the genes (or instrumentalists) became loud or became quiet; it’s
that they change in a coordinated way. We refer to these as “suites of
genes”, and one of these suites of genes is highly correlated to learning in
young birds.’11 Intriguingly, preventing such changes in FOXP2 disrupted
learning, which may mimic what happens in human beings with a FOXP2
defect. And, indeed, White hopes that studying the relationship between
FOXP2 and the genes that it controls in birds may lead to new insights
about FOXP2’s role in humans.
In another line of investigation, scientists are seeking to study the role
of FOXP2 in non-human primates. Although such primates cannot speak,
we saw previously how apes can be taught sign language; however, they
also seem to have natural limits to this capacity, with no indication that it
is comparable to the complex sophistication of human language. Yet given
that it is becoming increasingly possible, through the new technology of
128
gene editing, to create genetically modified versions of practically any

species, one potential line of investigation would be to create a monkey or
ape with the human version of FOXP2 instead of its normal form, and see
how this affects their capacity for learning sign language.
Indeed, Su Bing, a geneticist at the Kunming Institute of Zoology in
China, is already planning to use gene editing to make such a change to
FOXP2 in macaque monkeys. He remarks, ‘I don’t think the monkey
will all of a sudden start speaking, but will have some behavioural
change.’12 However, such a move would raise an obvious ethical issue,
if it turned out that the genetic change altered a monkey’s state of con-
scious awareness.
Another approach for studying the link between genes and language is
to continue to search for human beings with genetically based language
defects. Since the discovery of FOXP2, other genes with potential roles in
human language have been identified based on studies of individuals with
various abnormalities in their ability to express themselves verbally, but
also read and write.13 These genes have been shown to play important
roles in a variety of brain processes, including migration of neurons, con-
nections between brain cells, and cell signalling pathways. This further
confirms that it may be a mistake to imagine that genetic links to lan-
guage will necessarily reveal specific ‘language genes’. Instead the evi-
dence from recent studies suggests that those genes that, when defective,
can give rise to specific language abnormalities will also play multiple
roles in brain function.
What can we learn about the biological basis of language by moving
from genetic analysis to brain structure? One view is that specific regions
of the human brain are associated with our species’ language ability. This
view has drawn support from studies of individuals with a condition
called aphasia, from the Greek for ‘without speech’. In 1861, Paul Broca
studied a patient who could only say one word—‘tan’. When he died,
Broca carried out an autopsy on this patient and found that he had dam-
age to a region on the outer cortex on the left side of his brain. This region
subsequently became known as ‘Broca’s area’ (Figure 19).14 Some 15 years
129
Primary motor Primary somato-

cortex sensory cortex
Primary
visual cortex
Broca’s area Wernicke’s area
Figure 19 Broca’s and Wernicke’s language areas in the human brain.
later, Karl Wernicke studied other patients with language defects and
identified another region on the left side of the brain associated with lan-
guage, now known as ‘Wernicke’s area’.15 People with damage to Broca’s
area generally understand language but cannot generate intelligible
speech, whereas those with damage to Wernicke’s area cannot under-
stand language but can produce it. Findings such as these led to the idea
that discrete brain regions play defined roles in the language process.16
However, more recent studies of brain-damaged patients, experimen-
tal treatments that stimulate or inhibit particular regions of the brain in
patients, and imaging studies of the human brain have all undermined the
idea of such a simple division of language production and comprehen-
sion.17 Rather, they suggest that language is a dynamic process distributed
across much wider areas of the brain than had been suspected. Moreover,
while there is no doubt that regions such as Broca’s and Wernicke’s play
important roles in language, there is increasing evidence that they are also
involved in other aspects of brain function.18
Indeed, the idea that either a particular gene or a specific region of the
brain is responsible for human language capacity betrays an overly sim-
plistic view of how evolution works. One feature of evolutionary change
is its conservative character. Driven by trial and error, rather than a pre-
formed plan, evolution tends to co-opt existing processes and structures,
rather than generate completely novel ones.19 And there is good reason to
130
believe that a similar process may have occurred during the evolution of
human language.
One interesting recent finding is that Broca’s region—and its equiva-
lent in an ape brain—seems to be the main location of the ‘mirror neu-
rons’ that I mentioned previously. Mirror neurons, recall, become
activated when an individual performs an action, but also when the indi-
vidual observes someone else making the same movement. Their associ
ation with Broca’s region has led to the suggestion that these neurons
may play a role in language in humans.20 This would fit with the fact that
imitation plays an important role in the way that children learn lan-
guage. More controversial is the possibility that human language may
have its origins in the gestures that other primates use to communicate
with other.
While an attractive idea, allowing for a way for language to emerge
from an existing biological mechanism in our ape ancestors, one objec-
tion, voiced by linguist Robbins Burling of the University of Michigan, is
that such a transition would have required a ‘move from a visual lan-
guage to an audible one.’21 Yet since in monkeys mirror neurons can be
activated by sounds—for instance, the tearing of paper, or cracking of a
nut—the transition from a gestural to a sound-based language system
might still be feasible. Another factor in favour of such a transition is that
deaf people have developed sign language systems as sophisticated as
any other form of human language, without using sound. Of course
there is a world of difference between the language systems used by our
species—whether sign-based or verbal—and the gestures used by apes,
which as we have seen seem incapable of conveying abstract symbolic
information as human language does. But by providing an initial bio-
logical framework in the brain for language to develop, it is easier to
imagine how our amazing language capacity might have gradually
evolved by commandeering existing neural circuits, rather than appear-
ing, fully formed, out of nowhere.
Another interesting recent discovery about Broca’s region has come
from a brain imaging study of individuals with mutations in the FOXP2
131
gene. Brain activity in such people was compared to related family

members without the mutation when the two sets of individuals were
asked to perform different language tasks, such as thinking of verbs that
go with nouns.22 The study found that neural activity in Broca’s region was
substantially reduced in the individuals with the FOXP2 mutation. Interesting
questions to now explore would be whether FOXP2 plays a specific role in
mirror neurons in Broca’s area in humans, and how this compares to its role
in equivalent areas of the brain in ape species like chimps.
More generally, brain imaging has provided a new way to study the
neural mechanisms underlying human language ability. One recent study,
led by Jack Gallant, a neuroscientist at the University of California,
Berkeley, has aimed ‘to build a giant atlas that shows how one specific
aspect of language is represented in the brain, in this case semantics, or
the meanings of words.’23 Gallant’s team imaged brain activity in human
volunteers listening to stories read out on The Moth Radio Hour, a US radio
show. They then studied how words triggered neural responses in specific
regions across the brain cortex and found that conceptually related words
affect the same regions.24 For instance, on the left-hand side of the brain,
one region was stimulated by the word ‘victim’ but also by ‘killed’ and
‘confessed’. On the right-hand side, another region responded to terms
relating to the family like ‘wife’, ‘husband’, and ‘children’. The regions acti-
vated were similar in all volunteers, suggesting that their brains organized
the meanings of words similarly.25 Although indicating that words of dif-
ferent meaning can trigger activity in localized brain regions, the findings
also suggest that as a whole, language capacity is distributed across our
mental organ.
Brain imaging is having an impact on our understanding not only of
language processes in adult humans, but also of language acquisition in
children. Various approaches now make it possible to investigate this
question in children, in newborn babies, and even during foetal develop-
ment. One approach involves studying international adoptees—babies
adopted soon after birth who grew up hearing a different language than
they had heard in the womb. For instance, Anne Cutler and colleagues at
132
the Max Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics in Nijmegen in the

Netherlands investigated children who had been born in Korea, but then
adopted by Dutch couples.26 They found that such individuals could pro-
nounce Korean sounds significantly better than those born and raised in
the Netherlands. This suggests that the ability to recognize but also gener-
ate the different types of sounds in a particular language begins before
birth. Cutler believes this shows that babies are ‘picking up useful know
ledge about language even though they’re not actually learning words.’27
Another indirect way of investigating language acquisition during
foetal development is by imaging the brains of babies born prematurely.
Studies of full-term babies—those born after the normal 37 weeks in the
womb—show that such infants can recognize their mother’s voice, tell
apart two languages heard before birth, and remember short stories read
to them while in the womb. To investigate whether such language cap
acity develops in the womb or immediately after birth, a team led by
Fabrice Wallois of the University of Picardy Jules Verne in Amiens, France,
carried out brain imaging in babies born 2–3 months before the normal
gestation period.28 The researchers played soft voices to them while they
were asleep in their incubators a few days after birth, then monitored
their brain activity. This analysis showed that the babies could distinguish
between male and female voices, and similar sounds such as ‘ga’ and ‘ba’.
Moreover, the regions of the brain cortex that became activated were the
same as those used by adults for sophisticated understanding of speech
and language. Wallois believes the findings show that the neural connec-
tions underlying our species’ language capacity are already present and
functional at this foetal stage of development.29
Of course it is possible that the brain of a premature baby might differ
from that of a foetus of the same age. To address this concern, Moriah
Thomason and colleagues at Wayne State University in Detroit used fMRI
to study foetuses in the womb directly.30 This type of study was impos
sible until recently, as a moving foetus is hard to track. But new computa-
tional tools now make it possible to take into account such movement in
the analysis.
133
Thomason’s team have used such an approach to monitor the activity

of brain regions known to be involved in language and their connections
with other regions of the brain.31 For instance, they have shown that foe-
tuses that would later be born prematurely showed weaker connections
between a region that develops into a language processing centre and
other brain regions compared to foetuses carried to full term. This is
interesting given that babies born prematurely often suffer from language
problems later in life. Are the differences in brain connectivity a conse-
quence of underlying problems that lead to an early birth, or might they
actually contribute to a baby being born prematurely? In other words,
could abnormal linguistic connectivity between mother and foetus some-
how contribute to a premature birth? This is just one of the interesting
questions raised by such imaging analysis.
While imaging of language acquisition in foetal brains is still at an early
stage, the use of such approaches to study language development in
babies is already yielding some very interesting findings. Young children
have an amazing ability to learn new languages, and there is a cut-off for
this ability; it becomes much more difficult to learn a new language after
the age of ten.32 This feature of language development is so widely recog-
nized that it is easy to overlook how surprising such a state of affairs is
from the standpoint of human learning in general, in which the capacity
to learn tends to improve as we get past early childhood.
One reason for this difference is that language learning involves a
‘critical’ or ‘sensitive’ period.33 At birth, a baby can perceive the 800 or so
sounds—technically known as phonemes—that can be linked together
to form all the words in every language. The neonatal brain is most open
to learning the sounds of its native language from six months old for
vowels and nine months for consonants.34 This period lasts for only a few
months but is extended for children exposed to sounds of a second lan-
guage. But it is also becoming clear that the child’s social environment has
a major role to play in language development.
The role of social interaction is evident from recent studies which have
demonstrated that babies showing more ‘gaze shifting’—when a baby
134
makes eye contact with a parent or teacher and then follows their gaze to
an object—have enhanced brain responses to the sounds of a new lan-
guage. One such study by Rechele Brooks and colleagues at the University
of Washington in Seattle has led Brooks to conclude that ‘young babies’
social engagement contributes to their own language learning—they’re
not just passive listeners of language. They’re paying attention, and show-
ing parents they’re ready to learn when they’re looking back and forth.
That’s when the most learning happens.’35
A curious finding of such imaging studies is that babies first exposed to
their native language show activation not only in the brain areas involved
in hearing, but also in the superior temporal gyrus, Broca’s area, and the
cerebellum—‘motor’ regions associated with speech production. This
suggests that an infant’s brain starts laying down the neural connections
necessary for the formation of words long before it actually begins to
speak. According to Patricia Kuhl, who led the above study at the
University of Washington, ‘most babies babble by 7 months, but don’t
utter their first words until after their first birthdays. Finding activation in
motor areas of the brain when infants are simply listening is significant,
because it means the baby brain is engaged in trying to talk back right
from the start and suggests that 7-month-olds’ brains are already trying to
figure out how to make the right movements that will produce words.’36
The findings confirm the importance of adults speaking to babies during
social interactions even if the latter cannot yet respond in kind.
The consequences for language development of not being exposed to
such social interaction in the first years of life were tragically shown by
the example of children in orphanages in Romania.37 From the 1960s
onwards, the regime led by dictator Nicolae Ceausescu implemented a
drastic process of forced industrialization. To increase the working popu-
lation, contraception and abortion were banned and childless couples
taxed, while people from the countryside were pressurized to find work
in the cities. During these drives many newborn children were aban-
doned and subsequently ended up in state-r un orphanages. Only when a
revolution overthrew Ceausescu in 1989 did it become apparent how
135
appalling conditions were in these orphanages. Babies were left in

their cots for hours, with their only human contact being when a carer—
typically assigned to 15–20 children—came to feed or bathe them. As tod-
dlers, the orphanage children were virtually ignored. Unfortunately, even
following Ceausescu’s overthrow it took a long time for any positive
change to occur in these institutions, and by the end of the 1990s, children
were still being largely neglected.38
Three US researchers—Charles Zeanah, a child psychiatrist at Tulane
University; Nathan Fox, a developmental psychologist at the University
of Maryland; and Charles Nelson, a neuroscientist at Harvard—studied
the effects of such neglect on the orphanage children’s development.39
They found that most children showed no attachment at all to their carers.
According to Fox, ‘they showed these almost feral behaviours . . . aimlessly
wandering around, hitting their heads against the floor, twirling and
freezing in one place.’40 Imaging analysis showed that the children’s brain
activity was weaker than in children of a similar age in the general
Romanian population. For Fox, ‘it was as if a dimmer switch had been
used to turn their brain activity down.’41 Such differences were reflected
in a significantly lower IQ in the orphanage children, and an even greater
effect on language development. Nelson remarked that while ‘IQ was
deleteriously affected, language was clobbered.’42
In fact, increasing evidence points to the importance of language in
general intellectual development. This might not seem so surprising
given that a key way in which we humans express ourselves is through
words. However, as I have already mentioned, Lev Vygotsky and Valentin
Voloshinov, both of whom worked in Russia in the 1920s and early 1930s,
argued that there is a more fundamental relationship between thought
and language. In particular, Vygotsky believed that ‘inner speech’ is a cru-
cial motor of thought,43 while Voloshinov stressed the dialogical charac-
ter of both spoken and inner speech.44
Vygotsky viewed inner speech as a product of the internalization of
outer speech, a process that takes place during childhood. And as
we noted, he believed that an important intermediary stage in this
136
internalization process is ‘egocentric speech’, the phenomenon observed

in young children of talking to themselves as they play. Vygotsky argued
that far from egocentric speech reflecting a young child’s self-centredness,
it remained connected to the sphere of social communication. To test this
idea, Vygotsky placed children in situations that disrupted their sense that
their egocentric utterances could be heard and understood by others.45 So
children were placed in a room with children who were deaf-mute or
spoke a foreign language, physically separated from their peers, or loud
music was played in an adjacent room. In these circumstances, egocentric
speech was much reduced. Later studies revealed that children’s use of
egocentric speech is sensitive not only to the possibility of being heard
and understood, but also to the presumed attitudes of others.46 For
instance, children produce more egocentric utterances in the presence of
an adult perceived as willing to help them with a problem-solving task
than with one who is not.
The role of egocentric speech in assisting with problem-solving activ
ities in young children raises the question of why we do not generally talk
to ourselves in adulthood. Charles Fernyhough, of the University of
Durham, believes one reason why adult humans tend not to think out
loud is that ‘when we acquired language and when we started to use lan-
guage in out-loud private speech, we’d have learned pretty quickly that
it’s not a good idea to talk to yourself out loud when you’re in a difficult
dangerous situation. . . . [T]hen there’s a sort of social and cultural pres-
sure as well. If you’re going around saying what you think, your competi-
tors, your rivals, the other people around you will know what you’re
thinking and then it’s hard to fulfil your plans. So there are some good
reasons for doing it silently.’47
Another, more fundamental reason may be that inner speech has some
very important characteristics compared to external speech that suit its
role in thought and which cannot be replicated just by speaking out loud.
Fernyhough believes that inner speech can occur in two main forms:
expanded inner speech, which retains many characteristics of external
speech, and condensed inner speech, with characteristics like those
137
mentioned earlier.48 In fact, there is probably an organic connection

between these two forms, with condensed inner speech being closer to
what might be called pure thought, and expanded inner speech that which
takes place when we introspect our thoughts, or try and explain them to
others. The peculiar qualities of condensed inner speech—and how diffi-
cult it can be to express it verbally in external speech—was recognized by
Voloshinov when he characterized inner speech as ‘the still undifferenti-
ated impression of the totality of the object—the aroma of its totality, as
it were, which precedes and underlies knowing the object distinctly.’49
Unfortunately, this ‘fuzzy’ character of condensed inner speech poses
major challenges in trying to use introspection to report on its qualities.
William James, one of psychology’s original pioneers, recognized this
when he described reflecting on one’s own thoughts as ‘trying to turn up
the gas quickly enough to see how the darkness looks.’50 The very act of
trying to express our inner thoughts in external speech may therefore
misrepresent their true character.
Despite such problems, recent studies suggest that condensed inner
speech is highly fluid, with word meanings being dynamic rather than
static formations. Also, in line with Vygotsky’s view that ‘higher mental
functions appear on the inter-psychological plane before they appear on
the intra-psychological plane’,51 or Voloshinov’s belief that consciousness
is ‘a social entity that penetrates inside the organism of the individual per-
son,’52 inner speech appears not so much a monologue but closer to a dia-
logue in character. As Voloshinov noted, ‘the units of which inner speech
is constituted are certain whole entities somewhat resembling a passage
of monologic speech or whole utterances. But most of all, they resemble
the alternating lines of a dialogue.’53 Extending this idea, Fernyhough
believes that ‘a solitary mind is actually a chorus. We can go so far as to
say that minds are riddled with different voices because they are never
really solitary. They emerge in the context of social relationships and they
are shaped by the dynamics of those relationships.’54
Coupled with Voloshinov’s claim that different speech genres represent
the interests of different groups within society, this dialogic aspect of
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inner speech suggests that an individual consciousness also contains

perspectives drawn from different parts of society. As an individual devel-
ops from childhood to adulthood, such inner ‘voices’ may represent the
views of parents, siblings, friends, schoolteachers, or any assortment of
people who have had an influence over the years. Importantly, this dia-
logue may become argumentative and can also be influenced by new
voices as an individual’s personal circumstances change.
In fact, as I will explore later, the conversation going on in our heads
may often be far from straightforward, because of the role of the uncon-
scious. And if the dialogue becomes unbalanced this may lead to what are
characterized as disorders of the mind. In this case, according to
Fernyhough, ‘when somebody hears a voice, what’s happening is that
they’re actually producing some inner speech but for some reason they
don’t recognize that speech as having been produced by themselves. It’s
experienced as something that doesn’t belong to the self, that comes from
outside.’55 Why this might happen is something I will return to later when
we consider mental disorders in more detail. But for now, let us turn to
another crucial aspect of human uniqueness—the links between con-
sciousness, creativity, and imagination.
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CH A P T ER 9
CREATIVITY AND IMAGINATION

z
T he ability to think rationally is an essential feature of being human,

but it is hard to imagine how our species could have gone from living
in caves to sending rovers to Mars in the space of 40,000 years without
another crucial element—our creative impulse. Both Einstein and Picasso
believed that their respective genius in science and art was based upon an
ability to view the world as would a child.1 But clearly there is a difference
between an adult with a childlike ability to think outside the box, and
actually being a child. So what is the basis of human creativity and imagin
ation, and how does it differ between adults and children?
Human interest in imagination is at least as old as the ancient Greek
philosophers who pondered the link between the sacred statues—known
as ‘images’—in their public squares and the mental processes of represen
tation.2 William James also believed that imagination was the ability to
form images or ideas in the absence of sensations: ‘fantasy, or imagin
ation, are the names given to the faculty of reproducing copies of ori
ginals once felt.’3 Such a view suggests that mental images are essentially
copies of objects in the real world, but reproduced later when the object is
no longer there. Yet there is increasing evidence that remembered images
involve a transformation of objects in the real world, and that the process
of perception is a highly mediated mental action and therefore itself an act
of imagination.
Recent studies of vision challenge the view of perception as an activity
that produces images of real-life objects inside the brain. They show that
our eyes are in a constant state of motion, even if looking at a stationary
object.4 Such findings have led Etienne Pelaprat and Michael Cole of the
cr e at i v i t y a nd im aginat ion
University of California, San Diego, to claim that constant discoordination

with the world is a normal aspect of human perception.5 Pelaprat and
Cole’s views have been influenced by the ideas of Lev Vygotsky, who, as
you will recall, believed that our consciousness is transformed by social
interactions, particularly through language, in a fashion similar to how
tools have allowed us to transform the natural world.
Vygotsky saw imagination as no less influenced by this social input
than other aspects of consciousness, stating that it is ‘the means by which
a person’s experience is broadened, because he can imagine what he has
not seen [and] can conceptualize something from another person’s nar
ration and description of what he himself has never directly experienced.’6
A feature of the imagination is its ability to sometimes come up with the
unexpected. This makes evolutionary sense, because if the brain were
limited to retaining previous experience, a human being could adapt only
to familiar, stable conditions of the environment; new or unexpected
changes in the environment not encountered previously would fail to
induce the appropriate adaptive reactions.7 To deal with a changing envir
onment, Vygotsky argued that the human brain ‘combines and creatively
reworks elements of this past experience and uses them to generate new
propositions and new behaviour [making] the human being a creature
oriented toward the future, creating the future and thus altering his own
present.’8
Vygotsky thought that imagination was particularly stimulated in the
developing child through the process of play, which for him has three key
features:9 children create an imaginary situation; they take on and act out
specific roles; and they follow rules determined by those roles. Children
create imaginary situations initially by external actions, and then increas
ingly by internal ones. Importantly, the emergence of the internal actions
signals the beginning of a child’s transition from earlier forms of thought
processes—sensory motor and visual representational—to more advanced
and symbolic ‘higher’ forms of thought.
Play allows the child to achieve mastery of the object and furthers sym
bolic ability. Vygotsky believed that ‘play is a transitional stage in this
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direction. At the moment when a stick—i.e. an object—becomes a pivot

for severing the meaning of horse from a real horse, one of the basic psy
chological structures determining the child’s relationship to reality is
radically altered.’10 Play thereby acts as a transitional stage from a child’s
thinking constrained by a situation’s concrete properties to being free of
these constraints. Typically, young children at this stage of development
feel that a play prop must have properties similar to the real object which
it represents. So only things that can be rolled—for instance a pencil—
were considered by children in Vygotsky’s studies to be acceptable substi
tutes for a train. At this stage, the child cannot yet use symbols arbitrarily
but they are mastering the prerequisites of symbolic thinking.
In contrast to the common view that imagination precedes play and is
necessary for its emergence, Vygotsky believed that play in humans
instead acts as a transitional stage in the development of imagination,
which he described as ‘a new formation that is not present in the con
sciousness of the very young child, is totally absent in animals, and repre
sents a specifically human form of conscious activity.’11 A key aspect of
play is that it allows the child to reach further than their current stage of
development. As Vygotsky put it, ‘in play a child is always above his aver
age age . . . it is as though he were a head taller than himself.’12
If play is part of the process whereby the powers of imagination are
formed during childhood, how does this relate to creativity in the adult
and what we have said about the socially mediated nature of human con
sciousness? Here it is worth noting that some aspects of adult human cul
ture have attributes in common with play, including the link with
imagination. For instance, when as adults we read a novel or watch a film,
we can also imagine ourselves and others in the roles of the characters
experiencing situations within it.13 By identifying with a character in an
imaginary world created by the book or movie, we can become a ‘head
taller’ than we typically are—just as in childhood. The potentially greater
role for the imagination when reading the text of a novel as opposed to
seeing a movie may explain why filmed dramatizations of novels may
sometimes fall short of expectations.14 In such cases, the filmmaker has
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failed to match the power of the reader’s imagination. But of course it

takes great skill in both novel writing and filmmaking to really get the
reader or viewer to truly empathize with what are after all imaginary
characters. And it was in reference to such a skill that the novelist Albert
Camus noted: ‘The first thing for a writer to learn is the art of transposing
what he feels to what he wants to make others feel.’15
If play is central to the development of imagination during childhood,
but also has similarities to imagination in adults, what can modern neuro
science tell us about the imaginative process? The areas of the brain
involved in this process in adults are now beginning to be explored using
sophisticated brain imaging methods.
The potential of imaging approaches for investigating the neural mech
anisms of imagination and creativity has been demonstrated by Charles
Limb, of the University of California, San Francisco, and Allen Braun, at
the US National Institutes of Health. They used fMRI to study jazz musi
cians performing musical exercises that ranged from a memorized scale
to a fully improvised piece of music.16 They found that during the impro
vised pieces, a brain region called the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex
became less active. This region plays roles in planning, and self-censorship,
and is inhibited during daydreaming, meditation, and REM sleep. So does
a person’s mindset during the creative process just become less rigid
because of loosening control of this region compared to the rest of the
brain? In fact, the situation seems rather more complex, as shown by a
related study carried out by Charles Limb and Malinda McPherson.
This study also involved imaging the brains of jazz musicians playing
improvised melodies on the piano.17 However, in this case, the musicians
were given a photograph of a woman with either a positive or negative
expression, and then asked to match their musical compositions to the
photo’s mood. Based on Limb and Braun’s previous study, it might be
expected that the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex would be inhibited in all
cases. In fact, the inhibition was pronounced only in the musicians who
had seen the positive face. In contrast, those who had seen a negative face
showed greater activity in brain regions linked to control and reward.
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Such findings suggest that imagination is not a product of one specific

brain region or neural process and that emotion has a major impact on
the creative process.18 We will look in more detail at the role of emotion
in human consciousness later in this book.
Imaging can identify interesting changes in the whole brain during the
creative process, yet tells us little about what is happening at the cellular
and molecular levels. But another study explored the more granular pic
ture by returning to the idea of imagination as the remembrance of
images no longer directly in the field of vision. Julio Martinez-Trujillo of
Western University in Ontario and Diego Mendoza- Halliday of the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology recorded neuronal activity in
monkeys trained to use a keyboard to report the direction of movement
of a cloud of dots on a computer screen, or the cloud’s direction a few
seconds after it had disappeared, based on a memory of the image.19 The
findings of the study were surprising. According to Mendoza-Halliday,
‘we might have expected that the neurons that are active when we per
ceive a visual object are the same ones that memorize it; or, on the con
trary, that one group of neurons perceives the object and a completely
different group memorizes it; but instead, we found that all of the above
are true to a certain extent. We have perception neurons, memory
neurons, and also neurons that do both things.’20 This suggests that seeing
and remembering are closely linked, but in a complex fashion.
Yet, as already mentioned, true imagination is likely to involve more
than just remembering a past image, and therefore its neural basis may
also be different. Take for instance a scenario in which you are asked to
imagine a pineapple. This could involve remembering a pineapple you
once saw. But now try and imagine a dolphin balancing a pineapple on its
snout. Unless you have been to a very unusual show at the zoo, it is likely
that you will have never actually seen such a phenomenon, yet this should
not prevent you picturing it. This raises the question of how your brain
can do this, in the absence of any past images to draw upon. One possibil
ity is that the same neuronal mechanisms I mentioned previously that
allow us to combine a memory of meeting Halle Berry with the place
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where we met her, the Eiffel Tower, might also allow us to create completely
imaginary visions. In other words, by employing such mechanisms of
memory, the imagination allows us to juxtapose images that we have seen
separately in other contexts in completely novel ways.
In fact, most of us are far more likely to be able to conjure up an imagin
ary vision of Halle Berry at the Eiffel Tower than actually remember meet
ing her there. Yet from a neuronal point of view, it is potentially much
harder to conjure up the imaginary vision, for the simple reason that here
we have two juxtaposed images, like seeing a dolphin balancing a pine
apple on its snout, that are highly unlikely to have occurred at the same
time. And while an original memory of two juxtaposed objects could rely
on their physical association in the real world, a purely imaginative vision
has no such help from reality. Instead, it is left to the brain to make this
association. So how does it do this, and which brain regions are involved?
Traditionally the area of the brain assumed to be involved in mediating
a ‘higher’ function such as imagination has been the cerebral cortex, par
ticularly the prefrontal cortex, the section of the cortex that lies at the
very front of the brain, just under the forehead.21 This brain region is often
described as responsible for the ‘executive’ functions of human con
sciousness, with its role being to manage complex processes like reason,
logic, problem solving, planning, and memory, just as the chief executive
of a company is meant to guide and control the operations of the organ
ization. To do so, the prefrontal cortex is believed to direct attention,
develop and pursue goals, and inhibit counterproductive impulses.
A historical example often used to support this idea of the dominant
coordinating role played by the prefrontal cortex in human conscious
ness is the famous case of Phineas Gage, who was involved in a tragic
accident in the mid-nineteenth-century.22 In September 1848, Gage, a
25-year-old construction foreman, was in charge of men building a rail
way in Vermont, USA. The team employed explosives to clear a route for
the railway, and at one point Gage was using an iron rod to compact gun
powder in a borehole. Unfortunately, the iron produced a spark that
prematurely ignited the explosive, and the resulting blast propelled the
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rod—which measured 3.5 feet long and 1.25 inches wide—straight

through his head. Remarkably Gage survived, and made what initially
appeared to be a full recovery. However, subsequently, he was said to have
undergone dramatic changes in personality. Previously described as effi
cient, well-balanced, shrewd, and energetic, Gage was now apparently
‘fitful, irreverent, indulging at times in the grossest profanity, impatient of
restraint or advice when it conflicts with his desires, obstinate, devising
many plans of operation which are no sooner arranged than they are
abandoned in turn for others appearing more feasible.’23
In 1860, Gage began having epileptic convulsions of increasing s everity,
and he died that year. A post-mortem examination of his brain showed
that the rod had destroyed much of Gage’s left frontal lobe and prefrontal
cortex. This, and the reported changes in his personality after the acci
dent, has been used as evidence that the prefrontal cortex plays an organ
izing role in the ‘higher’ brain functions that distinguish us from ‘lower’
species.24
Yet recent reconsideration of this case and new evidence about how the
human brain functions have challenged this established view. One prob
lem with the standard account of Gage’s accident and subsequent life is
that he maintained several jobs in the years after his injury, working first
in a stables in Hanover, New Hampshire, later as a long-distance coach
driver on the Valparaiso–Santiago route in Chile, and finally on a small
farm in Santa Clara, California.25 This raises questions about whether the
effect of his accident on Gage’s personality was as far-reaching as has
been claimed. Second, the claims made about his personality suggest pos
sible effects of the injury on Gage’s ability to handle his emotions, but
they do not necessarily indicate an all-important executive function for
the prefrontal cortex.
Most importantly, recent studies have challenged the master coordin
ator view of the prefrontal cortex, pointing instead at a more distributed
role for many different brain regions in mediating higher mental func
tions. Imagination and creativity may similarly be more a product of con
nections between different brain regions than a function of one specific
146
region. For instance, a recent study led by Alex Schlegel of Dartmouth

College, New Hampshire, has provided evidence that this is the case. His
team used fMRI to investigate changes in the activity of different brain
regions in people asked to use their imagination.26 Participants were asked
to imagine specific shapes and then mentally combine them into more
complex figures, or dismantle them into their separate parts. The study
indicated that imagination requires a highly distributed neural network,
with 11 areas across the brain being activated when an individual is asked
to take part in creative acts. Schlegel believes that this network is equiva
lent to a ‘mental workspace’—that is the connected neurons provide the
basis for our ability to alter and manipulate images, symbols, and ideas
and give us the intense mental focus that allows us to formulate new ideas
and solutions to complex problems.27
One way of reconciling the original view of imagination and creativity
as being located in the prefrontal cortex with the possibility that such
higher mental functions are at the same time distributed across many dif
ferent brain regions is to return to something already mentioned, namely
recent evidence that suggests brain waves play a key role in coordinating
functions across the brain. As we saw, Earl Miller’s team at the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology have recently identified an import
ant role for such brain waves as mediators of working memory—the pro
cess that allows us to focus on several pieces of information in the mind
simultaneously. Interestingly, one brain region that Miller’s team have
been focusing on is the prefrontal cortex.28 Their studies indicate that this
brain region seems to help construct an internal model of the world,
sending ‘top-down’ signals that convey this model to lower-level brain
areas. Meanwhile, other regions of the brain send raw sensory input to
areas of the prefrontal cortex, in the form of ‘bottom-up’ signals.
Differences between the top-down model and the bottom-up sensory
information allow the brain to figure out what it is experiencing, and to
tweak its internal model accordingly. His team’s findings have led Miller
to compare the prefrontal cortex—somewhat ironically given the nature
of Phineas Gage’s accident—to a railway switch operator and the rest of
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the brain to railway tracks, with the switch operator activating some parts
of the track and taking others offline.29 This model would explain how
attention works—for instance, a person can focus on a particular picture
while ignoring a noise in the background. It may also explain how differ
ent pieces of information might be juggled around in the brain while we
try to solve a problem creatively. It suggests a directing role for the
prefrontal cortex in this process, but argues against the idea that this
region is all-powerful, for the fact that this brain region requires incoming
signals from these other regions shows it is also directed by them.
Another important aspect of Alex Schlegel’s study mentioned earlier is
that its findings contradict a common idea about creativity: that it is pri
marily concentrated on one side of the brain. According to this idea, the
right brain is the site of creative thinking and the left brain that of logical
thinking. Yet Schlegel’s team found evidence that both the right and left
parts of the cerebral cortex are involved in the imaginative process.30 But
perhaps the most intriguing aspect of this study was that it unexpectedly
highlighted an important role for a region of the brain called the cerebel
lum in imagination and the creative process.
Previously the cerebellum has been more linked to control of balance
and coordinated movement of the body’s muscles.31 Yet recognition of a
role for this brain region in higher mental functions should maybe not be
a surprise, given emerging facts about its contribution to brain function,
particularly in humans. For although it occupies only 20 per cent of
human brain volume, the cerebellum contains 70 per cent of its neurons.
And a sign that the cerebellum may have specific roles to play in our spe
cies is that it has increased three- to fourfold in size compared to that in
other primate species in just the past million years of human evolution.32
So how might this brain region influence imagination and creativity?
Surprisingly, it seems to do so in ways that are similar to its role in coord
inating movement.
Research indicates that the human cerebellum can enhance the func
tions of the cerebral cortex in four different ways.33 First, it increases the
speed, efficiency, and appropriateness of processes in the cortex by
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s ending it signals. Second, it develops neural routines in preparation for

both expected and unexpected circumstances—for example, playing the
piano without sheet music, memorizing multiplication tables, or throw
ing a basketball into a hoop. Third, by encoding serial events and then
reconstructing the sequence, the cerebellum can alert the cortex to what
may happen before it actually does, thereby predicting future events and
helping the cortex prepare for them. Fourth, the cerebellum aids in cor
rection of errors through extended experience and practice.
Evidence for a role for the cerebellum in the creative process, and
important insights into how it plays such a role, have come from a study
by Allan Reiss and colleagues at Stanford University.34 Volunteers were
placed in an fMRI scanner and asked to draw either ‘action words’—such as
‘vote’, ‘levitate’, ‘snore’, and ‘salute’—or, as a control, a simple zigzag line.
Drawing a zigzag line engaged the fine-movement and attentional-focus
areas of the brain, but did not require creative processing. Later, the draw
ings were rated by experts for creativity, accuracy, and other parameters,
and then compared to the brain scans.
The study produced two unexpected findings. First, greater creativity
displayed by individuals carrying out the tasks was associated with higher
levels of activity in the cerebellum.35 Second, although more difficult
drawing tasks increased activity in the cerebral cortex, higher creativity
scores were associated with reduced activity. Reiss believes the findings
show that the cerebellum is an important coordination centre for the
rest of the brain, allowing other regions to be more efficient.36 But he also
thinks they illustrate why a deliberate attempt to be creative may not be
the best way to optimize a person’s creativity. While greater effort to
produce creative outcomes involves more activity of executive-control
regions, it may actually be necessary to reduce activity in those regions in
order to achieve creative outcomes.37 In other words, trying too hard may
prove counterproductive when it comes to creativity. This has obvious
implications for education, for it suggests that teaching approaches that
are based on making the student consciously ‘work’ at learning may be
counterproductive. Indeed, Michel Thomas, who pioneered a unique
149
approach to language learning that I, like millions of other people around

the world, have used successfully to learn a variety of foreign languages,
specifically implored his students not to ‘try and remember’.38 The reason
was that he believed that the active decision to do so could actually impede
learning ability. And since the cerebellum is particularly adapted to
unconscious, repetitive acts, this provides an explanation for how it can
apparently play an important role not only in regulating movement, but
also in creativity and imagination.
Interestingly, given what I have said previously about the importance
of tool use in human evolution, Larry Vandervert, of American Nonlinear
Systems, has hypothesized that the great expansion of the human cere
bellum in the past million years coincided with a blending of neural
mechanisms of vocalization with visual and spatial working memory,
and that this blending was based on progressive tool use.39 Drawing on
Vygotsky’s arguments about the importance of play in the development
of imagination, he has also proposed that play in both animals and
humans is based on the same mechanisms of repetition in the cerebellum,
but play in humans has evolved from simple training for the unexpected
to long-term survival by predicting, mitigating, and preventing the unex
pected. As animal play evolved toward specifically human play, a cerebel
lum region called the dentate nucleus became a river of nerve tracts
running from the cerebellum to different regions of the cortex. And as it
increased the number of nerve tracts interconnecting with higher mental
functions, it may also have supported imagination in play and the devel
opment of creativity in the adult.
If imagination and creativity are a characteristic of all humanity, what
about especially gifted people? ‘The genius’, noted nineteenth-century
German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, ‘lights on his age like a comet
into the paths of the planets.’40 With no tools other than his own imagin
ation, Albert Einstein predicted that massive accelerating objects—which
at that time meant primarily regular stars and planets, but nowadays
could also encompass such phenomena as black holes and pulsars—
would create ripples in the fabric of space-time. It took one hundred
150
years, highly powerful computers, and massively sophisticated technol

ogy to definitively prove him right, with the recent physical detection of
such gravitational waves.41 In the arts, Michelangelo is often held up as an
example of a genius, based on his creation of some of the most famous
artistic works of all time—in a range of different mediums—which
include the statue of David and the frescoes in the Sistine Chapel.42 So
what makes a genius and how does this relate to brain function?
Einstein believed that a key part of his own creative process involved
unconscious intuition. As he put it, ‘a new idea comes suddenly and in a
rather intuitive way. That means it is not reached by conscious logical
conclusions. But thinking it through afterwards you can always discover
the reasons which have led you unconsciously to your guess and you will
find a logical way to justify it. Intuition is nothing but the outcome of
accumulated earlier intellectual experience.’43 Indeed, studies such as the
one above that implicate the cerebellum as well as the cerebral cortex in
the creative process (with the cerebellum dealing with unconscious
aspects, the cortex with the conscious) fit with the fact that a flash of
inspiration can arise at unexpected times—in a dream, in the shower, on
a walk, but also after a period of conscious contemplation of a problem.
According to this model, information arrives consciously, but the prob
lem is processed unconsciously, the resulting solution leaping out when
the mind least expects it.
All humans have a faculty for imaginative thought, but why do some
individuals have this faculty to such a degree that they see that much
further than the rest of us? What, in other words, is it about the mind
of a genius that makes them different? The study of Einstein’s brain
following his death in 1955 has revealed some potentially interesting
features. One was the fact, mentioned previously, that Einstein seemed
to have an unusually high proportion of glial cells compared to
neurons. Yet this difference, observed by Marian Diamond at the
University of California, Berkeley, was only found in one of four of the
samples of Einstein’s brain that she studied, casting doubt on its g eneral
relevance.44
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Further analysis by Britt Anderson at the University of Alabama,

Birmingham, indicated that the number of neurons in Einstein’s pre
frontal cortex was equivalent to brains in a control group, but they were
more tightly packed, suggesting that this might allow faster processing of
information.45 Meanwhile Sandra Witelson of McMaster University in
Hamilton, Canada, has claimed that the inferior parietal lobule—the brain
region responsible for spatial cognition and mathematical thought—is
wider than normal, and better integrated. Witelson has suggested that this
might relate to Einstein’s own descriptions of his thinking: ‘words do not
seem to play any role’, but there is an ‘associative play’ of ‘more or less clear
images’.46 Most recently, Dean Falk at Florida State University has studied
Einstein’s corpus callosum—the bundle of fibres connecting left and right
hemispheres of the brain—and claimed to have found evidence that it was
thicker than normal, which he thought might mean that the physicist had
enhanced cooperation between his brain hemispheres.47
As interesting as these findings might be, this type of analysis, and
resulting speculation about their relevance to Einstein’s genius, suffers
from several potential flaws.48 For a start, in the absence of the brains of
other ‘geniuses’ with which to compare, the relevance of findings relating
to one individual is unclear. Moreover, the differences identified above
were selected as being potentially interesting, yet those that did not fit the
picture of a genius—like Einstein’s slightly smaller-than-average brain—
were largely ignored. And finally, even if the differences identified are
unusual compared to the average, it remains to be shown that they have
relevance to Einstein’s scientific genius. Einstein was an amateur violin
player, bilingual, and, it has been suggested, autistic.49 So any differences
found might actually relate to these other aspects of his character. This
latter point is important because another unusual feature of Einstein’s
brain, his dramatically asymmetric parietal lobes, has also been identified
in musicians who use their left hands, and so could merely be a conse
quence of the physicist’s lifelong playing of the violin.50
There is another reason why we should not expect the brain of a person
of exceptional creativity to have unique features that stand out like a
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Eureka moment. This is the emerging evidence that there may be a thin
line between genius and mental disorder, which provides a demonstra
tion of the potential problems in trying to identify a clear biological
source for genius. In fact, the belief that creativity and madness are closely
linked goes back at least to ancient Greek times, when Plato drew atten
tion to the eccentricities of poets and playwrights, and Aristotle noted
that ‘those who have been eminent in philosophy, politics, poetry, and the
arts have all had tendencies toward melancholia.’51 The seventeenth-century
English poet and critic John Dryden observed that ‘great wits are sure to
madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.’52 Recent
studies have shown that such a link between creativity and mental
disorder may be based on actual neural mechanisms.
For instance, Andreas Fink and colleagues at the University of Graz in
Austria used fMRI of the brain to study a variety of human individuals,
including some that were prone to schizophrenia.53 While inside the brain
scanner, individuals were asked to come up with original uses for every
day objects—a common assessment of creativity. The researchers found
important similarities in the brain images of people who showed evi
dence of high creativity and those prone to schizophrenia, with both
showing higher activity in the right precuneus, an area of the brain that
helps us gather information. This suggests that creative individuals and
people prone to schizophrenia may both share an inability to filter out
irrelevant material. And the findings support a proposal by Shelley
Carson, a Harvard University psychologist, who believes that creativity
and mental illness are both characterized by a process that she calls
‘cognitive disinhibition’ (Figure 20).54 This involves a failure to keep
off-the-wall images or ideas out of conscious awareness. This failure may
make people with a tendency towards mental disorders like schizophre
nia or bipolar disorder more prone to delusional thoughts or mental
confusion, but it could also be a fertile source for the creative mind.
According to Carson, ‘you have more information in conscious aware
ness that could be combined and recombined in novel and original ways
to come up with creative ideas.’55 An individual with such tendencies
153
IUS PSYCHO
GEN PAT
IVE HO
E AT LO
C R
Cognitive
GY
disinhibition
Working memory skills Enhanced Working memory deficits
W
novelty salience
Hyperconnectivity
Cognitive flexibility Perseveration
Emotional
liability
Protective Shared Risk

factors vulnerability factors
Figure 20 Overlaps between creativity and schizophrenia.
could become either a highly productive creative person or a victim of

mental disorder, depending on the particular circumstances of their life
and the potential to express themselves in a positive fashion. I will look at
such possibilities in more detail when I examine the subject of mental
disorder. But before I do so, I want to explore an aspect relevant to discus
sion of both highly functioning and disordered minds: the relationship
between emotion and rational thought.
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CH A P T ER 10
EMOTION AND REASON

z
U ntil now I have been focusing on the human mind as a rational

entity, guided by rules. And indeed, a common, current view of the
mind is that it can be compared to a highly sophisticated computer.1 But
it does not take much familiarity with human behaviour to recognize that
much of it can also appear very irrational. To some extent such behaviour
can be regarded as abnormal and filed under the category of mental dis
order. But this raises the question of what is normal or abnormal, for it
would be hard to find anyone who has not acted in a reckless, thought
less, or ‘out-of-character’ manner at various points in their life or even on
a regular basis. Binge drinking, road rage, a lovers’ tiff, more serious
‘crimes of passion’, all are signs that even ‘normal’ human beings some
times behave in decidedly irrational ways. One important reason is that
far from being simply a computer, the human brain is also an organic
structure with an evolutionary history of hundreds of millions of years.2
As a consequence, our brains are guided not only by reason, but also by
what have come to be known as the emotions. In this chapter, I will look
at the physiological basis of emotions, and the role they play both in dis
tinct brain regions and in the brain as a whole.
The word ‘emotion’ comes from the French verb émouvoir, meaning to
move or stir up.3 This gives an idea of the strong sense of physical disturb
ance that can underlie an emotional response. But while emotions can
clearly affect the body as a whole, they also have an important effect on
the mind. So how are these two actions connected? Emotions have been
found to be linked to chemical changes that can affect both mind and
body. The brain is connected with the rest of the body through direct
e mot ion a nd r e ason
Blood levels influence the pituitary and hypothalamus

Hypothalamus
R el e a s i n g h
m
or
on
es Pituitary
P gland
Th id
Thyroid Adrenal
Ovaries Testes gland glands
Figure 21 Control of hormone production by the hypothalamus.
nerve connections to the organs, but also by brain regions like the hypo
thalamus, and glands linked to it such as the pituitary that secrete hor
mones into the blood (Figure 21).4 The pituitary gland in turn can influence
the activity of the adrenal gland, the thryoid gland, the gonads, and vari
ous other organs.
A revelation of recent years has been that many bodily regions both
receive signals from the brain and send reciprocal messages back to it.5
Research shows that the gonads, stomach, intestines, liver, kidney, heart,
and even fat tissue not only receive signals from the brain but also secrete
hormones that can influence it and, as a consequence, our mental state.
So when someone says that they have a ‘gut feeling’ about something, it
may have a real biological basis. In addition, we are beginning to realize
that these different parts of the body can communicate with each other in
a far more interactive fashion than had been realized.
For this reason, some scientists now argue that even human conscious
ness cannot be thought of as a product solely of the brain, but also of the
body. In what has become known as the ‘4Es’ theory of consciousness,
the human mind is said to be ‘embodied’, because of the reciprocal
156
i nteraction of the brain and the other bodily organs.6 For instance, Antonio
Damasio, a neuroscientist at the University of Southern California, has
argued that a crucial area of investigation for psychology should be ‘why
and how we emote, feel, use feelings to construct our selves . . . and how
brains interact with the body to support such functions.’7 The three other
E’s stand for ‘embedded’, meaning that the human brain/body also has an
interaction with the world around it; ‘enacted’, because this interaction is
an active process; and ‘extended’, because humans employ tools as part of
that interaction with the world.8 I will return later to this theory of con
sciousness, and how it relates to the theme of this book.
To complicate the picture further, a chemical defined as a hormone
because it is released into the bloodstream by a gland and subsequently
fulfils particular functions in the body may also be secreted directly into
the brain, where it can play quite different roles. One example of such a
hormone is oxytocin. For some years this hormone has been known to
play an important role both before and after a baby is born, by inducing
labour, and stimulating milk production by the mother’s breasts. But
more recently, oxytocin has also been shown to be released by the hypo
thalamus directly into the brain.9 There it influences behaviours including
social recognition, bonding, and parental behaviour.10 In addition, this
chemical plays an important role in orgasm, and its concentration in the
brain increases when a person falls in love, and decreases as a couple
become accustomed to each other. For this reason oxytocin is often
referred to as the ‘love hormone’. But this term is misleading, since the
chemical can also intensify memories of bonding gone wrong, such as in
men who have poor relationships with their mothers. It can also make
people less accepting of individuals seen as outsiders. In other words,
whether oxytocin makes you feel warm and trusting towards other
human beings or suspicious of them depends on the particular context of
the interaction.
One intriguing possibility recently put forward by Erich Jarvis of the
Rockefeller University in New York is that oxytocin may facilitate the
acquisition of language.11 I have mentioned that views about how chil
157
dren acquire the capacity for language have tended to be split between
behaviourists who see this capacity as a learned response and those, like
Noam Chomsky, who believe it is an innate ‘instinct’ in humans. However,
Jarvis believes the real situation is somewhere in between and that oxy
tocin may play a crucial role.12 He points to evidence that oxytocin is
active not only in the brains of mammals, but also in those of songbirds,
which, as we have seen, have been used as a model for the study of the
genetic basis of language in humans. Noting that oxytocin is particularly
active in the brain regions involved in song acquisition in songbirds, Jarvis
proposes that oxytocin might control the social mechanism of vocal
learning in both songbirds and human beings. As he puts it, ‘when a child
says “Daddy” and receives a pat on the back or a smile, that gives the child
a feeling of reward. That feeling may release oxytocin into the vocal-
learning circuits, to strengthen the memory in the vocal-learning path
way of how to say that sound.’13
Another chemical that plays dual roles in the brain and the rest of the
body is dopamine.14 Like the more commonly known adrenaline, this
chemical is a modified amino acid, the molecules that also serve as the
building blocks for proteins. Dopamine is known to be involved in regu
lating the activities of the kidney, pancreas, and immune system. However,
it is in the brain that this chemical has been shown to play its most import
ant roles to date.
Dopamine is vital for our control of movement, as shown by its deple
tion in people with Parkinson’s disease, a disorder associated with mobil
ity problems, tremors, and speech impairments.15 But it also regulates
many higher mental functions in humans, such as learning, concentra
tion, planning ahead, and pleasure-seeking behaviour. The role of this
chemical in the pleasure response was demonstrated in the 1980s by
Wolfram Schultz of the University of Fribourg in Switzerland.16 Studying
monkeys, he developed methods for recording activity from neurons that
use dopamine to transmit information to other neurons.
Schultz found that in an untrained monkey, the dopamine neurons
responded whenever a reward was given to the animal, but if it was shown
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various visual patterns to which it had to respond to secure the reward,

the pattern of response changed as the monkey learned.17 The dopamine
neurons now responded when the correct visual pattern appeared, and
the response to the reward itself disappeared. If no reward was given, the
activity of dopamine neurons actually decreased at the expected time
after the visual signal; but if the reward was delivered at an unexpected
time, the neurons responded to it. According to Schultz, ‘this is the bio
logical process that makes us want to buy a bigger car or house, or be
promoted at work. Every time we get the reward, our dopamine neurons
affect our behaviour. They are like little devils in our brain that drive us
towards more rewards.’18
One indication that dopamine has a particularly distinctive role to play
in our brains has come from a recent study led by Nenad Sestan of Yale
University.19 This compared gene expression in 16 different regions of
adult human brains with expression in these brain regions in other pri
mates. A striking discovery was that humans—but not other primates—
express a gene called TH that is involved in the production of dopamine
in the brain neocortex, as well as in the striatum, which is a region associ
ated with movement.
The significance of this discovery remains unclear, but Sestan has
speculated that since humans, but not chimpanzees, bonobos, or gorillas,
have a rare population of interneurons in the neocortex that is also cap
able of producing dopamine, it is possible that these are able to produce
dopamine locally and therefore have the capacity to modulate the local
circuitry in a more precise way.20 These findings show that although
humans have the same basic neurochemicals as other species, how these
chemicals modulate brain function may be qualitatively different in
humans, compared to even our closest animal relatives.
Such findings are worth considering in light of the central theme of this
book, which is that a crucial distinguishing feature of human conscious
ness is its mediation by ‘cultural tools’, a primary one being language.21
This idea can also be applied to our understanding of emotions in humans.
It has been common in psychology to distinguish two classes of e motions:
159
those with analogues in animals and human infants, such as joy or fear;
and those with no such analogies, such as guilt or pride. Yet for the cultur
ally mediated view of human consciousness I have been proposing in this
book, this is a false division; rather, all emotions have a social dimension
and develop as an individual human’s mind matures into adulthood.
A feeling so apparently basic as hunger can clearly be very different in
an adult human compared to an animal or for that matter a human child.
Imagine also the difference between a person lost in the wilderness des
perate for food compared to the hunger of someone about to eat at an
expensive restaurant with a partner or close friend. Clearly here context is
everything. This is also true of other feelings, like sexual desire. Far from
sex being merely a physical act, in humans it is closely entwined with the
idea of love, traditionally seen as a higher emotion. At the same time sex
in humans can take on a dazzling—and sometimes quite bizarre—num
ber of different forms. In both these cases, a biological desire becomes
transformed by the social context, but also by the intellect. And it seems
therefore possible that the chemistry of the brain may be subtly different
in humans.
While emotions are radically altered in humans because of the influence
of higher mental functions, equally higher functions cannot be separated
from emotional responses. Lev Vygotsky made this point in arguing that
‘when associated with a task that is important to the individual [and] that
somehow has its roots in the centre of the individual’s personality, realistic
thinking calls to life much more significant emotional experience than
imagination or daydreaming.’22 This may seem counterintuitive, as rational
thought is often counterposed to emotional responses, but this ignores
the importance of emotion for rational thought.
One way of examining how rational thought and emotional responses
are intertwined is to study how these two factors develop from childhood
to adulthood. Giovana Reis Mesquita of the University of Bahia in Brazil
has recently argued that, ‘in the field of emotions, one can draw a parallel
reasoning between thought and language, as Vygotsky proposed . . . the
child, when born, is endowed with thought, but a practical thought, very
160
focused on a concrete relationship with the environment. Similarly . . . the

child's innate emotions [are] basic, somewhat elaborated, common to all
human beings, composed of standardized facial expressions and, there
fore, [of] a distinctly biological determination.’23 However, when the emo
tional system meets language, there is a qualitative leap in the former.
This not only makes us unique in being able to name the emotions that we
feel, but also means that human emotions are highly influenced by the
society in which they arise.24
One interesting aspect of Vygotsky’s view of the interaction between
rational thought and emotional responses is its implications for educa
tion. I noted earlier that Vygotsky’s ideas have had particular resonance
among developmental psychologists, educationalists, and teachers,
because of their relevance for understanding the process by which chil
dren learn, and how this might be aided in the classroom. One important
concept in this regard is what Vygotsky termed the ‘zone of proximal
development’ (ZPD), defined as ‘the distance between the actual develop
mental level as determined by independent problem-solving and the level
of potential development as determined through problem-solving under
adult guidance, or in collaboration with more capable peers’ (Figure 22).25
Vygotsky developed this concept to counter the view that a child’s intel
lectual potential is fixed, like the amount of water in a bucket. In contrast,
Out of reach
oximal develo
of pr pm
ne
en
Zo
nt abilit
rre
Cu
ies
scaffold
Figure 22 Vygotsky’s zone of proximal development in learning.
161
he believed that learning is most effective when the child gets assistance
from a teacher, carer, or older child in such a way that the child can accom
plish tasks that would be outside their level of competence, if left unaided.
The ZPD is sometimes described as a kind of ‘scaffolding’ in aiding a
child’s learning.26
The ZPD is often discussed purely in terms of intellectual support.
However, Holbrook Mahn and Vera John-Steiner of the University of New
Mexico have argued that Vygotsky also saw emotional support of the
child as critical to successful learning.27 Such support includes encour
aging confidence and the sharing of risk in presenting new ideas, con
structive criticism, and creating a safety zone.
To facilitate such interactions, in studies carried out in schools in New
Mexico in the mid-1990s, Mahn and John-Steiner encouraged teachers to
use ‘dialogue journals’.28 These involved students writing for 10 to 15 min
utes at the beginning of class on whatever topic they chose. The teacher
then made their own comments in the journals. Students were encour
aged to focus on communication, not to worry about mistakes, and were
also free to jump topic and draw on their own interests and experiences.
As students became less anxious about their writing, they became more
fluent. A recurring theme in the students’ reflections about such journals
was that the responses they received from the teacher played an import
ant role in motivating them and giving them the confidence to take risks
with their writing.29
The example above shows that a caring school environment and
emphasis on meaningful communication between teacher and student
can help create positive emotional responses that facilitate learning. But
in some circumstances, emotional responses may become negative and
even dangerous to health and well-being. This is the situation with addic
tion.30 Earlier in this chapter, we saw how different chemicals play import
ant roles in brain function. These chemicals not only are crucial to life,
but also modulate key emotional responses. However, such responses are
also central to how recreational drugs work. While these drugs are an
important feature of human society, they also carry the risk of addiction,
162
which can lead to much misery, and even death. It is therefore worth
looking at how such drugs elicit the responses they do, and how individ
uals can become addicted to them.
Human beings have probably used naturally occurring chemicals for
both medicinal and recreational purposes since long before our species
developed writing and could thereby record our experiences. Indeed, Elisa
Guerra-Doce of the University of Valladolid in Spain has recently com
piled evidence from around the world which indicates that ancient human
societies were using recreational drugs at least as early as 13,000 years
ago.31 For instance, it seems that human societies were cultivating opium
poppies by at least 6000 bc. Discussing the cultivation of such poppies,
Guerra-Doce notes that ‘apart from its use as a food plant, there is also
uncontested evidence for the exploitation of its narcotic properties.’32
While opium dulls the senses, other drugs stimulate them, leading to
psychedelic effects. Guerra-Doce found evidence that between 8600 bc
and 5600 bc, inhabitants of caves in Peru’s Callejon de Huaylas valley
were using Echinopsis pachanoi—a cactus that contains the psychedelic
substance mescaline. The most ancient signs that Guerra-Doce uncovered
of recreational drug use were reddish stains on 13,000-year-old human
teeth found in a burial pit on Palawan Island in the Philippines, thought to
be caused by chewing the leaves of the betel plant, which is still used in
much of Asia as a stimulant. Other drugs that ancient societies appear to
have used include tobacco, cannabis, and hallucinogenic ‘magic’ mush
rooms, alongside the more commonplace alcohol.33
Such drugs are well known, in an often notorious way, in modern soci
ety. However, it is important that we do not assume that modern use of
narcotic and psychedelic drugs can necessarily be equated to the way
these drugs were used in the past. For instance, Elisa Guerra-Doce points
out that most traces of the drugs identified by this study were in tombs
and sites with ritual or religious significance.34 Because of this, she thinks
the substances were used either during mortuary rites, to provide susten
ance for the deceased in their journey into the afterlife, or as a tribute to
underworld deities, with use of such substances perhaps being restricted
163
due to their sacred role.35 However, given the often illicit way drugs are
used in contemporary society, it is also important not to disregard the
possibility that in ancient times, recreational drugs were taken more gen
erally for pleasure, even if religious rules meant they were only supposed
to be consumed as part of ritual ceremonies.
Recently, scientists have begun to realize that the brain mechanisms
that underlie the pleasure we can get from recreational drugs have roots
in the same ones that give pleasure in the rest of our lives.36 Essentially, the
brain’s reward system learns the actions that produce positive outcomes,
such as obtaining food or sex. It then reinforces the desire to initiate those
behaviours by inducing pleasure in anticipation of the relevant action.
But in some circumstances this system becomes oversensitized to pleas
urable but harmful behaviours, producing pathological impulses like
addiction, a term derived from the Latin for ‘enslaved by’ or ‘bound to’.37
Addiction exerts a long and powerful influence on the brain in three dis
tinct ways: craving the object of addiction; loss of control over its use; and
continuing involvement despite adverse consequences.38 In the 1930s,
when researchers first began investigating addictive behaviour, they
believed that people with addictions were morally flawed or lacking in
willpower. However, today addiction is recognized as a chronic condition
that changes both brain structure and function. Just as cardiovascular dis
ease damages the heart and diabetes impairs the pancreas, addiction
hijacks the brain. Recovery from addiction involves willpower, but it is
often not enough to ‘just say no’. Instead, multiple strategies—including
psychotherapy, medication, and self- care—may be required to treat
addiction. 39
Addiction can prove fatal. In the case of tobacco, an addict’s life can be
shortened by the increased likelihood of getting lung cancer or other
respiratory problems.40 A chronic alcoholic may die of liver cirrhosis or
cancer of the liver, although drinking far too much alcohol in one go—as
in binge drinking—can also prove fatal.41 In the case of an opioid like her
oin, although the drug is taken because of the pleasurable sensations it
produces, it has other effects, one being to supress the brain regions that
164
control breathing.42 Opioids additionally depress the brain’s ability to

monitor and respond to carbon dioxide when it builds up to dangerous
levels in the blood. According to Bertha Madras, a professor of psycho
biology at Harvard Medical School, ‘it’s just the most diabolical way to
die, because all the reflexes you have to rescue yourself have been sup
pressed by the opioid.’43
The potentially devastating effects of drug addiction were brought
home to me as a teenager when my 21-year-old cousin Thomas died of a
heroin overdose. He had been off the drug for months but some addict
friends persuaded him to try it again for old time’s sake. In typical fash
ion, after being off the drug for so long, the dose he had been used to
proved fatal, his body having become less tolerant compared to someone
taking heroin on a regular basis.
Although traditionally addiction has been associated with drugs, it has
become clear that excessive gambling, eating, sex, and even shopping can
also affect the brain in ways that can be viewed as addictive. Recently,
concerns have been raised about the possibility of individuals becoming
addicted to the Internet, with overuse of computer games of particular
concern, but also excessive use of social media. So how valid are such
concerns and to what extent can Internet addiction be explained by the
model of the mind proposed in this book?
That social media was designed to be addictive was acknowledged by
Sean Parker—the founding president of Facebook, although retired from
this role since 2006—when he admitted that the social network was
deliberately founded to distract its audience. Noting that ‘the thought pro
cess was “How do we consume as much of your time and conscious atten
tion as possible?” ’,44 to achieve this goal Parker explains that Facebook
exploits a ‘vulnerability in human psychology. Whenever someone likes
or comments on a post or photograph, we . . . give you a little dopamine
hit.’ According to New York Times columnist David Brooks, ‘tech compan
ies understand what causes dopamine surges in the brain and they lace
their products with “hijacking techniques” that lure us in and create
“compulsion loops”.’45 Social media sites create irregularly timed rewards,
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a technique also employed in slot machines, based on the work of

behaviourist B. F. Skinner who showed that the strongest way to reinforce
a learned behaviour in rats is to reward it on a random schedule. This is
the key to social media’s success—we compulsively check such sites
because we never know when the enticing stimulus of social affirmation
may next occur.46
Of course it could be argued that excessive time spent on social media
is quite different to drug addiction in that, while it may fritter away hours
that could be spent on more productive activities, this type of addiction is
not going to prove fatal, like a heroin overdose. Such a distinction is an
important one to make; however, it is also important to recognize that
addiction to Internet sites may have more profound effects than might be
supposed.
For instance, Earl Miller, whose studies of working memory I have pre
viously discussed, has pointed to the potential adverse effects of an indi
vidual being continually bombarded with information from the Internet,
whether social media updates, e-mail messages, or a 24-hour news net
work.47 Miller has criticized the view that being able to respond to all
these different inputs simultaneously demonstrates that an individual is a
good ‘multitasker’. Instead, he believes that our brains are ‘not wired to
multitask well . . . When people think they’re multitasking, they’re actu
ally just switching from one task to another very rapidly. And every time
they do, there’s a cognitive cost in doing so.’48 One reason for this ineffi
ciency is that such multitasking can increase the production of the stress
hormone cortisol as well as adrenaline, which then overstimulate the
brain and cause mental fog or scrambled thinking.49 To make matters
worse, the prefrontal cortex has a novelty bias, meaning its attention can
be easily hijacked by something new. Ironically, the very brain region we
need to rely on for staying focused is in fact very easily distracted!50
Of course, the Internet has also changed our lives in many positive
ways—allowing friends and family to keep in touch, facilitating exchanges
between work colleagues, and even playing an important role in political
campaigns.51 There is also a world of difference between someone so
166
hooked on social media that it begins to dominate their life and a person
who uses it occasionally. In addition, a major theme of this book is that
there is a danger of reducing human behaviour to simple biology, and this
applies to Internet addiction as much as any other form of human behav
iour. Instead, we should be sensitive to the negative social influences that
can fuel addiction in its many forms—whether to alcohol, heroin, or the
latest computer game or social media site. In particular, we need to con
sider whether excess use of a drug or excessive time spent in front of a
computer screen is a cause of social dysfunction, or rather a consequence
of estrangement from society.
Moreover, it is important that drugs themselves are not only considered
from a purely negative point of view. This is particularly true in a book
devoted to exploring the unique aspects of human consciousness com
pared to that of other species, given interesting new ideas about how
drugs may have played a role in the development of that consciousness.
Until recently it was assumed that consumption of alcohol by our species
on a regular basis only occurred with the agricultural revolution that
took place about 12,000 years ago, because only then would it have been
possible to stay sufficiently long in a place to grow and ferment the raw
materials for making an alcoholic beverage. But evidence has been emer
ging that production and consumption of alcohol not only may have pre
dated the agricultural revolution, but also may even have been a stimulus
for this key event in human history.52
Brian Hayden, an archaeologist at Simon Fraser University in Canada,
has recently found evidence of beer- making activities among the
Natufians—sedentary hunter-gatherers who inhabited an area of the
Middle East that is now part of Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon, and who are
thought to have acted as forerunners of the agricultural revolution—as
early as 13,000 years ago.53 Archaeological remains found in this region
include stones for grinding barley and brewing vessels that could have
potentially been used to make beer. Hayden believes that cultural factors,
not economic ones, stimulated the domestication of grains like barley, in
that once people understood the effects of alcohol on the mind, it became
167
a central part of feasts and other social gatherings that forged bonds
between people and inspired creativity. According to Hayden, ‘it’s not
that drinking and brewing by itself helped start cultivation, it’s this con
text of feasts that links beer and the emergence of complex societies.’54
Such consumption of alcohol in a social setting could have been import
ant in the development of human consciousness by allowing our ances
tors to become more expansive in their thinking, as well as more
collaborative and creative. A night of drinking may have ushered in these
feelings of freedom—although the morning after, instincts to conform
and submit may have kicked back in to restore the social order.55
According to this view, alcohol played an important role in the develop
ment of human consciousness, but only late in our evolution, at the dawn
of civilization. However, there have also been claims that drugs helped
shape our species’ consciousness much earlier in prehistory. For instance,
the ‘stoned ape’ hypothesis, put forward by Terence McKenna in his 1992
book Food of the Gods, proposes that the proto-human species Homo erectus
came across the ‘magic mushrooms’ that contain the psychedelic drug
psilocybin because of the tendency of this fungus to grow in the dung of
animals that they tracked for food, and that this chemical induced the
Homo erectus brain to reorganize and take on new mental properties; this in
turn kick-started an evolution of cognition that eventually led to the devel
opment of the sophisticated art, culture, and technology of Homo sapiens.56
Like all highly speculative theories of human evolution, a major prob
lem with the ‘stoned ape’ theory is the lack of direct supporting evidence.
It is also far from clear how such a behavioural change in a proto-human
species like Homo erectus would then manifest itself in the evolution of our
own much later species. Nevertheless, the evidence mentioned previously
that has been emerging about the important role of different frequency
brain waves in coordinating different regions of the human brain means
that it would be unwise to be totally dismissive about the idea that a drug
might have had radical effects on brain function—including such import
ant attributes as creativity and imagination—and therefore might have
played an important role in the evolution of human consciousness.
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Meanwhile, on surer scientific footing, modern methods of brain

imaging have recently been used to reveal the effects of psychedelic drugs
on human brain activity. The study led by Anil Seth of the University of
Sussex in Brighton examined brain scans of individuals exposed to the
psychedelic substances LSD, psilocybin, and ketamine—at drug doses
described by Seth and his team as having ‘profound and widespread
effects on conscious experiences of self and world’.57 Such drugs were
described by those taking them as ‘broadening’ the scope of their con
scious mind’s content, with accompanying vivid changes in imagination
during consciousness. The study found that administration of these drugs
led to an increase in neural activity in certain specific regions of the brain
compared to the situation with individuals who had not taken the drugs.
These are brain regions known to be important for perception, rather
than involvement in language and movement.
The increase in brain activity in this study accompanied a host of
peculiar sensations that participants said ranged from floating and find
ing inner peace, to distortions in time and a conviction that the self was
disintegrating. The researchers have speculated that the increased neural
activity in particular regions of the brain could explain the dreamlike
hallucinations some people experience when under the influence of psy
chedelic substances. Robin Carhart-Harris of Imperial College London,
who was involved in the study, believes the sudden increase in random
ness in brain activity may reflect a deeper and richer conscious state.
Other studies by Carhart-Harris’s team have shown that certain types of
meditation can have similar effects on the brain.58 He has noted that
‘people tend to associate phrases like “a higher state of consciousness”
with hippy speak and mystical nonsense. This is potentially the begin
ning of the demystification, showing its physiological and biological
underpinnings.’59
One hope is that such research could help scientists understand what
neural activity corresponds to different levels of consciousness in humans.
Another is that by understanding how people respond to the drugs, doc
tors might more accurately predict which patients could benefit from
169
t aking psychedelic drugs as therapeutic agents. This is important because

recent studies have shown that ketamine may have potential in treatment
of certain types of depression, in ways that I will discuss later. For Anil
Seth, ‘the evidence is becoming clear that there is a clinical efficacy with
these drugs. We might be able to measure the effects of LSD in an individ
ual way to predict how someone might respond to it as treatment.’60
Perhaps most intriguingly, study of the effects of psychedelic drugs on
the brain might provide insights into the relationship between the con
scious and unconscious aspects of brain function. And it is to a discus
sion of the role of the unconscious that we will now turn.
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CH A P T ER 11
CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS

z
U ntil now this book has focused mainly on the conscious human
mind. It is now time to delve deeper and look at the unconscious
aspects of our minds. The unconscious consists of those mental processes
that occur automatically and are not available to introspection. In fact,
increasingly, studies of brain function are revealing that a surprising
amount of that function is automatic and, therefore, unconscious.1
Obvious instances are breathing and control of the rate of our heart beat
and the functions of other organs, but as I have said, not only sporting
ability but also a certain amount of creativity and imagination may be a
partially unconscious process. Recent studies in this area are throwing up
some interesting, and unexpected, findings. For example, sophisticated
new imaging methods have shown that the processes that underlie the
decision to press a right or left button are, in fact, activated milliseconds
to seconds before we are actually consciously aware of making the
decision.2
Although such findings might appear to challenge the idea of ‘free will’,
maybe we should not be surprised to find that so much of the function of
the brain is automatic, given the many tasks that it must undertake in a
typical day. Take, for instance, just a small portion of that day when some-
one is making their way to work. As much of the journey—whether on
foot or by bike, car, or public transport—is part of a well-rehearsed rou-
tine, many aspects of it may be automatic. Even the thoughts we have on
that journey, whether about the work we expect to do that day, or some
argument we had the previous evening with a partner, friend, or c olleague,
will be on our mind, but perhaps at different levels of conscious experience.
conscious a nd u nconscious
In a sense then, there is nothing apparently too controversial about the

idea that human consciousness is to a large degree unconscious, if we
consider this to mean that it allows the brain to successfully combine a
number of different tasks at the same time, in an efficient manner. One
limitation of consciousness is its finite capacity, and here the unconscious
plays a vital role. An individual can only keep a certain number of items
or thoughts in consciousness, but the unconscious is potentially limitless.
If we were consciously aware of everything that was going on in our
unconscious, it would be overwhelming. The idea of a person completely
aware of their unconscious is inconceivable.
However, there are more controversial aspects to discussions about the
unconscious, particularly the idea that it may play a far more contradict
ory role in consciousness, even acting in opposition to conscious
thoughts. Such a viewpoint sees the unconscious as a force that may
supress unwelcome thoughts, but which might also make us carry out
actions that do not appear to have been planned by our rational minds
and may even appear wholly irrational. This view of the unconscious is
most associated with Sigmund Freud. Opinions about Freud tend to be as
polarized today as when he first put forward his controversial views about
the mind. A recent BBC television programme hailed Freud as a ‘genius of
the modern world’.3 Yet biologist Peter Medawar called psychoanalytic
theory ‘the most stupendous intellectual confidence trick of the twenti-
eth century.’4 When I first started working at the University of Oxford I
asked a psychologist colleague what he thought of Freud’s view of the
mind. He replied that the Oxford psychology department dealt in science,
not creative fiction!
We will look at Freud’s ideas in more detail shortly and try to identify
what, if anything, is valuable about such ideas for the view of human con-
sciousness that I have been seeking to develop in this book. But ideas
about the existence of an unconscious mind that might often be at odds
with the rational, conscious one did not begin with Freud. To understand
how these ideas arose, we need to return to another important thinker
about the mind—John Locke, who put forward the first mechanistic view
172
of the mind by comparing it to a blank slate.5 We noted earlier that this

view ignores the possibility that an individual’s biological make-up may
also have an important impact on their personality. But there is another
problem with it, which was recognized by some thinkers in the eight-
eenth and nineteenth centuries: much of human behaviour is not imme-
diately explainable in terms of experience alone. Rather, an individual’s
motives and reasons for acting in a particular way are often far from
transparent. This led to the idea of an unconscious side to the human
mind.
The most important exponents of such an idea in the early nineteenth
century were the intellectuals of the Romantic Movement. Sometimes
assumed to only consist of poets like William Wordsworth and painters
such as Caspar David Friedrich, this Europe-wide movement also included
scientists like Jean-Baptiste Lamarck—who proposed the first theory of
evolution—and the polymath Alexander von Humboldt, as well as indi-
viduals like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, who straddled both the arts
and sciences.6 A number of Romantic thinkers developed ideas about the
unconscious mind. Thomas De Quincey studied at Worcester College,
Oxford, where I now teach medicine, but left without graduating. This
abrupt exit may have been connected to his experiments with opium, but
the experience later brought him fame when he recounted it in his mem-
oir Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, in which he also speculated about
the possibility of an unconscious store of memories.7 De Quincey was far
from the only English Romantic interested in the unconscious. Samuel
Taylor Coleridge’s fascination with the creative sources of the imagin
ation, and Wordsworth’s with childhood recollection, also led them to
speculate about an unconscious aspect to consciousness.8
It was, though, the German Romantic tradition that pioneered the
most far-reaching notion of the unconscious as a formative principle
underlying human life. In particular, the philosopher Friedrich Schelling
saw the human mind as having two main aspects: one conscious, enquir-
ing, rational; the other unconscious, buried, but intimately connected
with natural forces.9 Carl Gustav Carus extended these ideas in his 1846
173
book, Psyche: On the Development of the Soul, in which he said that ‘the key
to an understanding of the nature of the conscious life of the soul lies in
the sphere of the unconscious’.10 Carus’s view fused—often rather
haphazardly—ideas about unconscious memory with the question of
unconscious biological and natural processes governing the development
of life, enveloping both in an aura of mysticism. ‘Can the free activity of
the conscious soul’, he asked, ‘ever match the perfection and abundance
of the creations of the unconscious soul?’11
Despite such important antecedents, it is Sigmund Freud who has
become the principal figure associated with the notion of an unconscious
mind. Freud was born in 1856, in Freiberg, Moravia—then part of the
Austro-Hungarian Empire, now in the Czech Republic; he originally
planned to study law at the University of Vienna, but opted instead for
medicine, with a particular focus on the new field of psychiatry. Freud
became interested in ‘hysteria’, a disorder commonly diagnosed in women
at this time, characterized by anxiety and irritability. With his colleague
Joseph Breuer, he began exploring the life histories of clients with hysteria,
which led them to the view that talking to such patients was a ‘cathartic’
way of releasing ‘pent up emotion’.12 They published Studies on Hysteria in
1895, and began developing the ideas that led to psychoanalysis.13
Breuer and Freud viewed the unconscious as the epicentre of people’s
repressed thoughts, traumatic memories, and fundamental drives of sex
and aggression. Freud saw it as a storage facility for hidden sexual desires,
resulting in ‘neuroses’—or what we would now call anxiety disorders. He
considered the human mind to consist of the id, the ego, and the superego
(Figure 23).14 He believed that the id forms our unconscious drives and is
not bound by morality but seeks only to satisfy pleasure; the ego is our
conscious perceptions, memories, and thoughts that enable us to deal
effectively with reality; and the superego attempts to mediate the drives of
the id through socially acceptable behaviours.15
Freud believed that we can learn much about an individual through the
interpretation of their dreams.16 He argued that when we are awake our
deepest desires are not acted upon because they are inhibited by
174
Conscious
EGO Preconscious
SUPEREGO
ID
Unconscious
Figure 23 Freud’s model of the mind (the iceberg metaphor).
c onsiderations of reality (through the ego) and morality (via the super-
ego). But during sleep these restraining forces are weakened and we may
experience our desires through our dreams. Freud also believed that our
dreams contain repressed or anxiety-provoking thoughts that cannot be
acknowledged directly even while sleeping for fear of anxiety and embar-
rassment, but which can enter our dreams in a disguised, symbolic form.
Although dreams may indicate supressed unconscious thoughts, there
are limits to how much we can learn from them, mainly because of the
difficulties in trying to recall dreams without at the same time supressing
their content. So Freud developed a method of analysis that he called ‘free
association’.17 The idea behind this was to get the patient to express any-
thing they might be thinking, however odd. The psychoanalyst notes
instances when the patient fails to free associate, because for Freudians,
this represents the unconscious disrupting the capacity for an individual
to express their feelings. And this can provide clues about the nature of
unconscious desires in the individual.
So what are the unconscious desires that an individual is driven to
supress? One of the most controversial aspects of Freud’s view of the
mind is the emphasis he put on sexuality. He felt that suppression of sex-
ual desires was the biggest motivating force behind human behaviour,
and particularly the cause of mental disorders. This is clear from his
175
theories regarding psychosexual development in children, which draw

on stories from ancient Greek literature.18 In what he named the Oedipus
Complex, Freud suggested that male children sexually desire their
mothers and resent their fathers, whom they see as competing for the
attentions of their mother. In the Electra Complex, female children desire
their fathers and wish to supplant their mothers. Because of these desires,
Freud believed that young boys fear that their fathers will destroy their
penises in punishment for their feelings towards their mother. For female
children, the realization that they do not have a penis and cannot have a
relationship with their mother leads to ‘penis envy’. Such feelings later
progress towards sexual desire of a daughter for her father. Freud believed
these anxieties will then be repressed and can lead to defence mechanisms
that may result in psychological problems.19
A big problem with such ideas is that although they are intriguing and
have undoubtedly affected the way we view family relations, there is very
little empirical evidence to support the idea that boys generally lust after
their mothers and hate their fathers, despite many investigations into the
question.20 As for Freud’s proposal that women suffer from ‘penis envy’,
this now seems a rather laughable and sexist notion. And there is no
evidence from modern studies of the brain that there is any biological
basis for an id, ego, or superego. There is also little evidence to support
another proposal by Freud that normal sexual development during
childhood requires progression through a defined series of stages—
oral, anal, phallic, and genital.21 Nor does it appear that problems in
progressing through these stages are at the root of differences in
sexuality between humans.
For instance, Freud proposed that homosexuality was a failure to pro-
gress beyond the anal phase, or overcome the Oedipal complex, although
he also showed a progressive side in replying to one mother who wrote to
him about her son’s homosexuality that his sexual orientation was ‘noth-
ing to be ashamed of, no vice, no degradation.’22 Freud also suggested that
only ‘mature’ women could orgasm from vaginal sex, and that women
who could only climax via clitoral stimulation were somehow stunted,
176
stuck at a latent phase. Such ideas now seem a product of a much more
backward era in terms of views of women and sexuality.
Criticisms like these have led to Freud’s view of the mind being often
disparaged in academic psychology and neuroscience. So does this mean
that Freud’s ideas about the mind—and particularly his proposals about
the unconscious—have nothing to offer the view of human conscious-
ness that I have been developing in this book? In fact, I believe we have
much to learn from Freud, but only if we go beyond the superficial frame-
work of his ideas, which were heavily influenced by the prejudices of his
time, and instead focus on what I consider the most important aspect of
his view of the mind: that it is a highly dynamic entity.
Previously I mentioned Valentin Voloshinov and his view that language
restructures the developing mind, in a dialogue with society. Voloshinov
acknowledged the importance of Freud’s discoveries about the uncon-
scious mind; however, he provided a very different explanation of the
material basis of the unconscious.23 Voloshinov believed that rather than
representing our repressed animal instincts, the complex and subtle
behaviour displayed by the unconscious suggests it is better understood
as that portion of the conscious which is not yet articulate, and also as an
ongoing struggle among various motives and voices within the con-
scious. And while Freud thought that the id and ego which emerge during
psychoanalysis are repressed inner realities in the process of discharge,
for Voloshinov they are rather reflections of real social tensions, including
potentially those between analyst and patient.
If the unconscious represents the least articulate part of a continuous
dialogue taking place within our minds, this is because the themes with
which it is concerned are those where the ‘official’ ideology of society is
most at variance with an ‘unofficial’ one based on a person’s actual experi
ence. For Voloshinov, the levels of consciousness ‘corresponding to
Freud's unconscious lie at a great distance from the stable system of the
ruling ideology. They bespeak the disintegration of the unity and integ-
rity of the system, the vulnerability of the usual ideological motivations.’24
Viewed in this light, it is perhaps no surprise that Freud discovered the
177
unconscious through his studies of sexuality. For it is hard to think of

another area of people’s lives where the gap between public pronounce-
ments and private feelings and practice are more divergent than those
concerning sexuality, especially in the late nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries, when Freud was developing his ideas.
Freud’s work is of importance in the context of this book in two further
respects. First, some of the findings of psychoanalysis concerning the
dynamics of the unconscious may help us better understand the unique
features of inner speech. I have already mentioned Voloshinov’s distinc-
tion between sense and meaning. This was a distinction shared by Lev
Vygotsky, who noted that ‘the senses of different words flow into one
another . . . so that the earlier ones are contained in and modify the later
ones.’25 This is remarkably similar to what Freud observed about words as
they manifest in dreams: ‘The process may go so far that a single word, if
it is specially suitable on account of its numerous connections, takes over
the representation of a whole train of thought.’26 And, secondly,
Voloshinov’s interpretation of Freud allows us to see how unconscious
themes in our minds may be made conscious by a process of articulation.
This occurs through a realization that the contradictory feelings and
desires which exist within our thoughts have a basis in a contradictory
social reality. Such articulation is powered by an individual’s personal
experience of the world, but may also require dialogue with a third party.
This may occur in psychotherapy, indicating that descriptions of therapy
as the ‘talking cure’ are not so far off the mark. However, such a possibility
also suggests that social and political activities that challenge the basis of
such contradictions in society may also prove therapeutic—not to speak
of the effect such activities have on the real world, as I will explore later in
this book.
We can also explore the extent to which Freud’s insights can be related
to findings emerging from psychology and neuroscience about the link
between mind and brain. One of Freud’s key claims was that memories of
traumatic events can be suppressed by the mind. Recent research has pro-
vided evidence for such repressed events in the brain. For instance, a
178
recent study led by Jelena Radulovic of Northwestern University in Illinois

showed how a neurochemical called GABA can suppress traumatic mem
ories.27 Together with another neurochemical, glutamate, GABA plays an
important role in regulating the emotional state of the brain. If we are
hyper-aroused and vigilant, a surge of brain glutamate helps the storage
of memories in our neuronal networks. In contrast, GABA calms us
down, aiding sleep and inhibiting the excitable potential of glutamate.
The most commonly used tranquilizing drug, benzodiazepine, activates
GABA receptors in our brains. There are two kinds of GABA receptors.
Synaptic ones work with glutamate receptors to balance the excitation of
the brain in response to external events like stress. In contrast, GABA
receptors on other parts of the neuron work independently of glutamate;
being internally focused, they adjust brain waves and mental states
according to the levels of internal chemicals like GABA, sex hormones,
and micro RNAs—regulatory RNAs of the type we have already come
across.
To explore the role of such ‘extra-synaptic’ GABA receptors in mem-
ory, Radulovic and her colleagues infused the hippocampuses of mice
with gaboxadol, a drug that stimulates such receptors.28 The mice were
then given a brief, mild electric shock, and when they were returned to
the same box the next day, they moved about freely and were not afraid,
indicating that they did not recall the earlier shock in the space. However,
when the mice were put back on the drug before returning them to the
box, they froze, anticipating another shock. The experiment indicated
that when the extra-synaptic GABA receptors were activated with the
drug, they changed the way the stressful event was encoded. In the
drug-induced state, the brain used completely different molecular path-
ways and neuronal circuits to store the memory. Vladimir Jovasevic, a
researcher on the study, believes that this indicates an entirely different
system even at the genetic and molecular level than the one that encodes
normal memories.29 This system is regulated by the micro RNA miR-33
and may be the brain’s protective mechanism when an experience is over-
whelmingly stressful.
179
Such findings suggest that in response to traumatic stress, in some

individuals, rather than the glutamate system being activated to store
memories, the extra-synaptic GABA system is triggered instead, and this
leads to the formation of inaccessible traumatic memories, exactly as
Freud’s theories would predict. Radulovic believes that the brain functions
in different states, much like a radio operates at AM and FM frequency
bands. It is as if the brain is normally tuned to FM stations to access
memories, but needs to be tuned to AM stations to access subconscious
memories. If a traumatic event occurs when these extra-synaptic GABA
receptors are activated, the memory of this event cannot be accessed
unless these receptors are activated once again, essentially tuning the brain
into the AM stations.30 Radulovic hopes the findings may lead to new treat-
ments for patients with psychiatric disorders for whom conscious access
to their traumatic memories might help them to recover.31 But of course,
access to such memories would need to be handled carefully.
While findings such as these are revealing potential molecular and
cellular mechanisms involved in the repression of unwelcome thoughts
in the unconscious, other research has begun to cast light on the regions
of the brain that are involved in such a process. Such research is revealing
that far from the unconscious having a specific location in the brain,
instead it seems to involve a dynamic interplay between its different
parts.
Further insights about this interplay have emerged from studies of
individuals with so-called ‘split brains’, an unfortunate consequence of
attempts to treat epilepsy. We saw earlier that damage to the hippocam-
pus during attempts to treat epilepsy in a patient called Henry Molaison
in 1953 led to the discovery of the key role that this brain region plays in
the process of memory. Another strategy used at this time to treat severe
epilepsy involved cutting the ‘corpus callosum’, the bridge of nerve fibres
that connects the right and left halves of the brain, to prevent the epileptic
‘electrical storm’ from spreading from one half of the brain to the other.32
This treatment generally cured the epilepsy, and initially it seemed to
make no real difference to the patients treated in this manner.
180
However, studies of such split-brain patients in the 1950s by Roger

Sperry of the California Institute of Technology, working with his PhD
student Michael Gazzaniga, began to indicate profound differences
between such patients compared to untreated individuals.33 An unin-
tended consequence of cutting the corpus callosum was that it seemed to
have left patients with two separate spheres of consciousness. For
example, one patient tried to button up his flies with one hand, while the
other hand tried to undo them. Another tried to embrace his wife with
one hand, while his other hand pushed her violently away, as if his con-
scious love for his wife was being opposed by an unconscious dislike.34
Sperry and Gazzaniga made their most interesting discoveries while
probing the visual properties of split-brain patients. A curious feature of
the brain that humans share with other mammals and even more diverse
animal groups is that the left side of the brain senses and controls move-
ments on the right side of the body, while the right brain does the same
for the left body. This is also the situation with incoming senses so that
inputs from our right eye enter the left side of the brain, and vice versa.
The researchers decided to see what would happen if split-brain patients
were shown an object they could only see with one eye—the other eye
being covered—and then asked to describe, or alternatively draw, what
they had seen.35 In one such experiment, if a patient viewed the word
FACE with their right eye and was asked what they had just seen, they
replied ‘face’. However, if they viewed the same word with their left eye,
they replied ‘nothing’. Yet if they were then asked to draw what came into
their mind, they drew a picture of a face.
Such findings confirmed previous suggestions that while the left side of
the human brain primarily controls our verbal language capacity, the
right side regulates more abstract human faculties, like reading, writing,
and drawing. Other studies by Sperry and Gazzaniga showed that if a
split-brain patient bumped into an object with the left side of their body,
this being controlled by the right brain, the patient was unable to verbal-
ize their complaint. Not only did the split-brain operation appear to have
given the patient two separate minds it also seemed to restrict their
181
identity—or ego—to the left side.36 Moreover, if a split-brain patient was

shown a picture of a nude person in such a way that it was only presented
to the right, non-verbal side of their brain, they often grinned, giggled, or
blushed. Yet when asked why they were responding in such a manner, the
patient could not explain their behaviour.
Such findings are often cited in support of the idea that the left brain is
the seat of logic and rationality, while the right side is the source of intu
ition and creativity. However, in reality the situation seems far more com-
plex.37 It is true that the functions of the two brain hemispheres appear
different, but the differences lie in how each side processes specific kinds
of information. For example, the left brain processes details of visible
objects whereas the right processes overall shape. Meanwhile, the left
hemisphere plays a major role in grammar and decoding literal meaning
whereas the right plays a role in understanding verbal metaphors and
decoding indirect or implied meaning. Yet this is far from providing back-
ing for the idea that the two halves of the brain have rigidly defined roles.
Indeed, Sperry himself warned that ‘experimentally observed polarity in
right–left cognitive style is an idea in general with which it is very easy to
run wild . . . it is important to remember that the two hemispheres in the
normal intact brain tend regularly to function closely together as a unit.’38
In other words, the two hemispheres normally have distinct, but highly
complementary, roles.
At the same time, the findings have implications for our understanding
of the unconscious, for they suggest that an individual might have quite
opposing points of view about a particular issue—and even different
emotional responses—coexisting in their brain, all of which are import
ant for providing a material basis for the idea of a dynamic unconscious.
Another way of viewing the unconscious from a neural perspective is
to see the brain as governed by two competing systems. On the one hand,
there are the subcortical areas that control basal drives for immediate
pleasure and avoidance of pain.39 These work outside of awareness. In
contrast there is the prefrontal cortex, which works to weigh up the future
consequences of a person’s actions. Usually these two systems are in
182
balance, which leads to adaptive behaviour balancing immediate rewards

with the possible future outcomes of action. However, when these two
systems are out of balance, people may have impulsivity problems where
they act on their basic drive for immediate pleasure, or avoidance of pain,
despite the consequences. This can occur when they have a lesion to the
prefrontal cortex, overactivation of limbic areas, or poor connectivity
between these two systems.40
When an individual is keeping memories at bay, unconscious processes
and thoughts are allowed to operate in the brain without any s elf-reflection.
But Heather Berlin, a neuroscientist at the Icahn School of Medicine at
Mount Sinai, New York, believes that unconscious thoughts may become
more accessible when the prefrontal cortex, which is normally suppress-
ing such thoughts and keeping them at bay, is inhibited by the use of tech-
niques like hypnosis, certain types of meditation, or during dreams.41 The
same may happen with certain drugs, including alcohol, which also lead
to inhibition of this region.
Linking to our previous discussion of the biological basis of creativity
and imagination, we can consider how different parts of the brain inter-
relate in people who are being spontaneously creative during improvisa-
tion. Recent neuroimaging studies have shown that when an individual is
in an improvisational state, for instance through playing jazz or taking
part in freestyle rap, there is decreased activation of the dorsal-lateral pre-
frontal cortex—the part that is active when people are suppressing infor-
mation.42 In addition, there is increased activation of the medial prefrontal
cortex, which is involved with the generation of new ideas. It appears
therefore that when the suppression of the prefrontal cortex is removed,
unconscious processes can be brought to the surface.
Such findings are important from the point of view of understanding
how the brain works. But they might also help in treating a distressed
mind. One idea is that challenging the thought processes of the brain
through the engagement that can occur between two individuals may
allow the brain to form new connections. For instance, consider a repressed
memory that is manifesting its effects behind the scenes and causing an
183
individual to act out a specific maladaptive pattern of behaviour.43 If that

memory can somehow be brought to the surface and reinterpreted, asso-
ciating it with a new positive or neutral emotion or feeling, that might
break a pattern of unwanted behaviour by creating new neural pathways.
However, this process can only occur if the repressed memory is brought
into consciousness and re-encoded so it can connect directly with the
prefrontal cortex.
I said earlier that approaches developed by Freud to identify repressed
unconscious desires included the interpretation of dreams. Recent studies
have begun to cast light on the brain processes that underlie dreams.44
They indicate that in the dreaming brain, the prefrontal cortex is massively
deactivated. In contrast, the limbic structures, which regulate instinctual
emotional responses, are switched on. As an individual emerges from
dreaming sleep, the frontal lobes come back online, and then there is an
inhibition and a removal from consciousness—a forgetting—of the dream.
Freud hoped that interpretation of dreams, or use of the free associ
ation method that he introduced into psychoanalysis to try and mimic the
dreamlike state, would make it possible to use the information obtained
in this way about a person’s repressed desires to treat disorders of the
mind. But this raises the question of what success psychoanalysis—or for
that matter other types of ‘talking cure’—has achieved in treating mental
disorders. To address this question properly, it is important that we take a
detailed look at what is known about the basis of such disorders. And this
will be the focus of the next part of this book.
184
Part IV
MIND IN TROUBLE
CH A P T ER 12
SANITY AND MADNESS

z
F or a species with such a unique gift of conscious mental awareness, it

is remarkable how often that gift can turn into a burden. Mental dis-
tress is recognized as a major problem in modern society, with around
one in four people treated for a psychiatric disorder in Britain, and a simi-
lar pattern in North America and mainland Europe.1 Because of this
prevalence, and a perceived lack of clarity about both the underlying basis
of conditions such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and clinical depres-
sion and the drugs used to treat them, some people believe that the very
designation of such conditions as ‘illnesses’ or ‘disorders’ is wrong.2
Instead, they are seen as understandable psychological responses to
trauma, stress, and other insults that an individual may encounter in their
life,3 or even as manifestations of normal differences within the human
population.4 In contrast, a dominant idea within mainstream psychiatry
is that conditions like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and severe depres-
sion are due to defects in the genetic make-up of affected individuals.5
Yet whatever their origin, what is surely inescapable is the misery and
suffering that results from such mental conditions. At the very least, such
conditions can result in an individual being unable to find the fulfilment
and happiness that should be accessible to everyone; at worst, they can
result in the premature ending of lives, through both individual suicide6
and acts such as mass shootings7—sadly increasingly common in the
USA over recent years. If we are to tackle this major social problem, we
badly need a better understanding of the causes of mental ill-health.
The central difficulty in diagnosing and treating mental disorders is
reaching a level of agreement about their underlying basis. In this respect,
sa ni t y a nd m a dness
proponents of the view that mental disorders are primarily biological in

origin were particularly excited by the Human Genome Project, as they
believed this would make it possible to truly get a grip on the nature of
such conditions. The way ahead seemed quite straightforward—identify
a large enough group of people with a particular mental disorder, and
then use sophisticated new approaches for screening the genome to
compare such individuals with those unaffected by the disorder. Such
genome-wide association studies (GWAS) have now been used to study
a range of mental disorders.8 The problem has been that far from identi-
fying a few clear associations with specific genes, GWAS findings have
challenged all those who imagined that the link between mental dis
orders and the human genome would be a straightforward one, and even
raised questions about the suitability of this approach to understand
such conditions.
Take schizophrenia, for example. A recent major GWAS of this dis
order studied over 36,000 patients and found association with 108
genomic regions.9 The discovery of so many genomic ‘hits’ itself con-
founds previous expectations by some people that there would be just a
few ‘schizophrenia genes’. It also raises questions as to whether schizo-
phrenia can be considered a distinct disorder if so many genomic regions
are involved in its development.
On the positive side, some GWAS hits do make sense with regard to
some of the previous scientific explanations for this disorder. For instance,
one dominant theory in psychiatry is that schizophrenia represents an
imbalance in the brain chemicals dopamine and glutamate,10 whose roles
in the brain we have already noted. This theory was originally proposed
on the basis that certain drugs used to treat schizophrenia have an effect
on these neurochemicals. And indeed some of the GWAS hits are in genes
linked to both the production and sensing of glutamate or dopamine by
brain cells.11 Yet many other GWAS hits show no such connection. But
these are only some of the problems raised by the findings. Another is
that each association only appears to increase the risk of succumbing to
the disorder by a small amount—less than 2 per cent.12 Equally confusing
188
at first glance is that the vast majority of GWAS hits—around 90 per

cent—are not even in protein-coding genes, but in regions between
genes.13 So how are we to make sense of such a confusing situation?
That most associations are not in protein-coding genes is actually not
as surprising as it might sound given recent findings by initiatives like the
ENCODE project.14 As already mentioned, and discussed at length in my
book The Deeper Genome, this project showed that a significant proportion
of the 98 per cent of the genome that does not code for proteins is far from
the ‘junk’ DNA it was once thought to be. Instead, within the non-coding
part of the genome, ENCODE scientists discovered about four million
genetic ‘switches’ that regulate the activity of the 22,000 or so protein-
coding genes.15 Many genomic hits identified through GWAS in schizo-
phrenics are in such regulatory regions.16 This points to a more subtle
influence of such GWAS hits on gene expression, and much more possi-
bility of environmental influence, than for single-gene disorders, for
which there is such a strong link between a gene and the disorder that the
latter will always tend to manifest itself, no matter to what environment a
particular individual is exposed.
Yet the problem remains that the individual genetic variants identified
by GWAS seem to contribute so little to the disorder. In fact this is also
proving the case with GWAS of other disorders, both those that affect the
mind like depression or bipolar disorder and those that affect the body
like diabetes and heart disease.17 Consequently, some scientists have
begun to question whether, despite the millions of dollars invested in this
method of analysis, it has anything useful to tell us. So Jonathan Pritchard,
a geneticist at Stanford University, has argued that many GWAS hits have
no particular biological relevance to disease and would not make good
drug targets. He notes that ‘the implicit assumption of GWAS has been
that when you find hits, they should be directly involved in the disease
you’re studying. When you start to think that all of the expressed genes in
a tissue can matter, it becomes untenable that there’s a simple biological
story for each one.’18 Instead, Pritchard believes that GWAS may be detect-
ing ‘peripheral’ variants because they act through complex regulatory
189
networks to influence the activity of ‘core’ genes that are more directly
connected to an illness.
GWAS proponents have countered that by identifying the components
of such networks, scientists can build up a clearer picture of how the cell
normally works, and how it can go wrong during the development of a
particular disease.19 But this does not address the possibility that GWAS
may be failing to identify the core genes that might be playing a much
greater role in a disorder than those so far identified.
One potential flaw of GWAS in this respect is its focus on ‘common’
variations—that is, single-letter differences in the human DNA sequence
found in at least 5 per cent of individuals.20 When this type of analysis
was first initiated, there was a good rationale for such a focus. For
reasons of cost, the only method of analysis for studying a large number
of individuals was not to sequence the whole genome but rather to iden-
tify the presence, or absence, of common variations in the genomes of
those individuals that were being assessed. But what if the common
variations being assessed have no role in the disorder? This then raises
the question of why they would show any association in the first place.
To understand this we need to look in a little more detail at how gene
association studies work.
GWAS make use of the fact that genes are linked to other parts of the
genome by virtue of belonging to the same chromosome, there being 23
pairs of chromosomes in a typical human cell. Each gene also comes as a
pair, with subtle variations in sequence between the two members of such
a pair, which is why scientists often refer to gene ‘variants’. Now it might
be expected that a gene on any particular chromosome would always be
linked to other genes on that chromosome. However, a process called
‘crossing over’ that occurs during the formation of egg and sperm cells
shuffles genetic information between any particular chromosome pair—
that is, between the chromosome derived from the mother and that which
comes from the father.21 This exchange of information swaps sections of
one gene variant with that of its pair, which is why no two eggs or sperm
from a particular individual are genetically the same, and why siblings
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can differ significantly in looks, personality, and other characteristics.

The process of crossing over means that genomic regions closest together
on a chromosome are more likely to be linked together over subsequent
generations than ones far apart.22 This has provided a way for scientists to
‘map’ genes on a chromosome. But when GWAS identifies certain
genomic regions as associated with a particular disorder, it does not
necessarily mean that such regions have a direct role in that disorder;
instead, they may merely be linked to other regions that do.23
Such a possibility could explain why genomic regions identified by
GWAS seem to carry such a small risk of the individual succumbing to
the disorder. Rather than representing an actual role in the condition,
such associations may reflect the existence of rare variants only present in
a few individuals, but whose presence greatly increases the risk of those
individuals having the disorder; this in turn skews the apparent import
ance of linked common variants. Until recently, it was impossible to test
such a possibility because of the prohibitive costs of identifying such rare
variants by sequencing the whole genomes of large numbers of individ
uals. However, with ‘next-generation’ methods of DNA sequencing result-
ing in a dramatic decrease in the cost of analysing a whole genome,24 it is
now becoming feasible to carry out such whole genome sequence ana
lysis for a variety of mental disorders.
In the meantime, other recent studies have indicated that genomic
changes known as ‘copy number variants’ (CNVs) may have a much more
significant impact on the risk of succumbing to schizophrenia than the
GWAS hits mentioned earlier.25 CNVs are defined as additions or losses
from the genome larger than one thousand letters of the DNA sequence,
but they can be much larger; they generally arise due to errors in the
crossing-over process that occurs during the formation of the eggs and
sperm that was mentioned earlier. Because of the relatively large size of
CNVs, it was possible to detect these changes even before it became eco-
nomical to sequence the whole genomes of many different individuals.
Although loss of such large segments of DNA, which may contain mul
tiple genes, can give rise to multiple abnormalities, interest has focused
191
on the fact that particular CNVs are associated with a greatly enhanced
risk of an individual succumbing to schizophrenia.
For instance, one CNV, in which approximately one and a half million
letters is lost from a region of chromosome 3, leads to a 40-fold increase
in the chance of an affected person becoming schizophrenic.26 This region
of the genome contains 22 protein-coding genes and there is now interest
in investigating whether any of these are involved in the increased risk of
schizophrenia. One particularly interesting discovery is that some of the
genes eliminated by CNVs associated with this disorder seem to play
important roles in the way that glial cells regulate inflammation—one of
the ways the body responds to infection—in the brain. This has led to the
idea that one factor that might trigger schizophrenia could be an inappro
priate response to trauma, resulting in damage to regions of the brain.
Other recent findings have suggested that schizophrenia may be trig-
gered by an inappropriate immune response. For instance Oliver Howes
and colleagues at the London Institute of Medical Sciences have shown
that the earliest stages of schizophrenia are associated with a surge in the
number and activity of glial cells in the brain.27 We observed earlier that
glial cells help to fight infection, so a surge in their numbers could typic
ally occur in response to an infective agent in the brain, but they also act
in a ‘gardening’ role, pruning unwanted connections between neurons.
But in schizophrenics, the pruning seems to become overly aggressive,
leading to vital connections between neurons being lost.
The most extensive pruning in schizophrenics occurs in the prefrontal
cortex, a region that as we have seen plays an important coordinating
role in the brain, as well as in regions involved in hearing, which may
explain why people suffering from this disorder often hear voices.28 The
prefrontal cortex also indirectly controls the brain’s levels of dopamine,
which could be important since, as we noted earlier, imbalances in dopa-
mine may underlie some of the symptoms experienced by schizophren-
ics. Most drugs used to treat schizophrenia work by blocking dopamine
release, which can bring psychotic symptoms under control, but
probably does little to address the underlying problem in the brain.
192
According to Howes, ‘the current drugs . . . all still work in exactly the
same way. They are only able to target the delusion side of things. It’s like
getting a sledgehammer and squashing it down.’29 In contrast, he hopes
that studying how an inappropriate immune response might play a
major role in the development of schizophrenia could lead to new drug
treatments in the future.
Another emerging idea about why certain individuals succumb to
schizophrenia is that while the symptoms of this disorder generally only
become obvious in early adulthood, the condition itself may be set in train
by changes in the brain at a much earlier stage of development. Evidence
for such a view comes from studies of the link between schizophrenia and
CNVs mentioned above. One intriguing aspect of such studies is not only
the new insights that they are generating about the underlying mechan
isms of this disorder, but also the revelation that quite different mental
disorders—as defined by their symptoms—may be more closely related in
terms of their developmental origins than had been suspected.
For instance, an interesting feature of many CNVs is that they can both
increase the chance of an individual becoming schizophrenic and make
them more likely to succumb to conditions like autism or attention def
icit/hyperactivity disorder (AD/HD), which first show symptoms in chil-
dren.30 And this raises an important question: what might have caused
such a change in the brain during its development—is it primarily due to
a genetic difference, or is the environment also an important factor?
In addressing this question, it is useful to look at a very different way of
explaining schizophrenia, one based on the idea that it is not genetics but
the social environment that determines whether an individual succumbs
to this disorder. One version of this hypothesis sees schizophrenia as pri-
marily the result of defective family relations, and the disorder as a conse-
quence of those distorted relations, but also as a response to wider
pressures in society. Such a view of schizophrenia is particularly associ-
ated with British psychiatrist R. D. Laing.
Ronald David Laing was born in Glasgow in 1927. In the 1960s he began
to define psychosis in terms of its relation to society, and psychotics as
193
individuals who in their own way are making sense of their social circum-
stances.31 One theory particularly associated with Laing is that of the
‘double- bind’. Although first put forward by British anthropologist
Gregory Bateson in the 1950s, it was Laing who popularized this theory.32
It proposes that a key factor in the development of schizophrenia is major
problems of communication within the patient’s family. The basis of the
theory is that the person who becomes mentally unwell is caught in a
situation in which messages from other family members are deeply
contradictory; however, the contradiction is never brought into the open,
and the unwell person is unable to leave the field of interaction with such
family members.33
The mechanics of the double-bind are best conveyed by real-life
examples, as in Laing’s 1964 book Sanity, Madness and the Family.34 The
book was based on studies by Laing and his colleague Aaron Esterson of
patients, their parents, and siblings, individually, in pairs, and as groups.
One case that shows some of the dysfunctional behaviour that can exist
in a schizophrenic’s family is that of a patient code-named ‘Maya Abbott’,
who believed her parents were trying to influence her by telepathy and
thought-control.35 While that may sound like a classic case of paranoid
schizophrenia, Laing and Esterson discovered on speaking to the girl’s
parents that for years they had indeed been trying to influence her
thoughts, believing her to be telepathic. Long before she became ill, the
parents had been sending each other signals which ‘Maya’ was not sup-
posed to perceive, in order to test their hypothesis. Yet when confronted
by ‘Maya’, the parents denied having made the gestures.36 More generally,
numerous studies carried out over the past few decades suggest that sex-
ual abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse, and a variety of other types of
adverse childhood experiences may be important factors in the develop-
ment of a schizophrenic.37
If schizophrenia can be a product of both differences in individual biol-
ogy and a dysfunctional or harmful social environment, how does it actu-
ally manifest itself in the brain? One confusing issue is that two people
can be diagnosed with schizophrenia with completely different sets of
194
symptoms. The officially defined symptoms for this disorder include

hallucinations, delusions, disorganized speech, disorganized or catatonic
behaviour, and ‘negative’ symptoms, which can include emotional flat-
ness, apathy, and lack of speech.38 But for a person to be diagnosed with
schizophrenia they only need show two of these five symptoms. This
raises the question of whether this mental condition is a single disorder,
or a collection of different ones. Nevertheless, that does not prevent us
trying to find an underlying structure to the way this condition affects
human consciousness, particularly from the view developed in this book,
which sees our minds as mediated by language and culture.
Lev Vygotsky, who as we have seen was a key proponent of such a view
of the mind, believed that since the development of human consciousness
follows a specific pattern, so its descent into a disordered state like that in
schizophrenia might also follow such a pattern, but in reverse.39 He
argued that compensation is an important process in the development of
this disorder, and what are often perceived as impairments in schizophre-
nia may actually be a consequence of this process. If a higher mental func-
tion is ‘switched off’, the mind tries to compensate by resorting to a
developmentally more archaic function, but finding itself without higher
levels of control, this may produce abnormal forms of behaviour and
thought.
Evidence for such a scenario comes from studies of conceptualization
in schizophrenics. Recall that Vygotsky identified the transition from pre-
conceptual to conceptual forms of thought as a key stage in adolescents.
To test whether this process might occur in reverse in schizophrenia, in
the late 1930s two US psychologists, Eugenia Hanfmann and Jakob
Kasanin, used the same block sorting test that Vygotsky had used to study
concept formation in childhood, to assess schizophrenic adults.40 Similar
to the way in which Vygotsky studied conceptualization in children, in
Hanfmann and Kasanin’s study subjects sorted blocks that differed in two
ways: in their physical properties—size, height, form, and colour—and
by their hidden ‘names’—nonsense triplets of letters attached to the bases
of the blocks that defined a particular concept; in this experimental test as
195
in Vygotsky’s original studies, these names always referred to a

combination of the height and the size of the object.41 Intriguingly, some
schizophrenics refused to accept the triplets of letters as names or con-
ceptual labels and were unable to use them as instruments to organize
their behaviour.
As Hanfmann and Kasanin noted, for such individuals the word on the
block was seen as mere ‘lettering’, one among many attributes that the
blocks happened to have.42 This reflected the fact that schizophrenics
showed a regression from true conceptual thought in their sorting activ
ities. Depending on the individual, this ranged from linking objects in an
inconsistent manner—such as one block linked to another by similar
colour, the second one to a third block by virtue of size, and so on—to
what Vygotsky had described as pseudo-conceptual reasoning.43 The lat-
ter type of reasoning was identified when the experimenter showed the
erroneous nature of an individual’s sorting selection by turning over a
block and exposing its inaccuracy by the nonsense word describing it. An
unaffected individual would respond that ‘something has been changed’
and begin searching for a new correct category. In contrast, a schizo-
phrenic person tested in this way typically continued to persevere with
the original method of grouping for a while, and then reverted to a trial-
and-error approach.
While pseudo-conceptual grouping superficially resembles concep-
tual classification, it lacks hierarchical organization. If such organization
is a feature of higher mental functions, lack of it may indicate a regressive
trend. Such regression may split a functional system of verbal thought
into communicative speech and nonverbal thinking. A schizophrenic
may retain an ability to communicate with the same words as an
unaffected person in terms of the objects they refer to; however, their
words will exist in different systems of meanings.
Such a breakdown in shared meaning may explain why schizophrenics
typically show peculiarities in their communication with others. An
illustration of this was provided by a study by Heinz Werner and Bernard
Kaplan of Clarke University, Massachusetts, in 1963. Schizophrenic and
196
unaffected subjects were asked to describe visual stimuli under different

conditions, such as a description for him or herself, one for a hypothetical
person, and another for a real individual.44 The schizophrenic subjects
used almost as many idiosyncratic references—that is ones that could
only be understood by themselves and not by others—while describing
stimuli for another real or hypothetical person as they did in descriptions
for themselves, and in all cases use of idiosyncratic references was more
than twice that used by unaffected subjects. Werner and Kaplan con-
cluded that in schizophrenics there is a lack of differentiation between
idiosyncratic inner-speech-for-oneself and social-speech-for-others. And
this may be one reason why people with severe schizophrenia can find it
difficult to understand what other people are saying to them, and explain
what they mean to others.
How do such findings relate to the typical symptoms of schizophrenia,
and can they help attempts to both diagnose and treat the disorder? One
point to consider here is Vygotsky’s claim that while the onset of schizo-
phrenia in specific individuals may have quite different biological and
social roots, its development as a regression from higher forms of human
consciousness may follow a specific pattern that can be studied.45 This
suggests that one way to treat schizophrenia might be to try and find a
way to reassemble the higher functions that have regressed. When it
comes to how such an endeavour could work in practice, something to
consider is that schizophrenics do not always show signs of such regres-
sion of higher mental faculties, but then ‘normal’ individuals do not
always think conceptually; instead, they can employ what Vygotsky
called ‘associative’ forms of thinking.
As an illustration, consider a TV advert for yoghurt.46 The advert first
shows an attractive young woman playing the piano with skill and pas-
sion. The voice-over tells us that the woman’s performance is ‘without
compromise’. Suddenly the image switches to a pot of yoghurt, and we
are now told that the yoghurt is also made ‘without compromise’. The
aim is to make the viewer conflate two different activities—piano playing
and yoghurt eating—to the extent that they might then subliminally
197
imagine that by buying and eating this particular foodstuff they are also
participating in the performance, and perhaps enjoying the attentions of
the woman herself. In this example the viewer is being asked to take part
in what Vygotsky called ‘complex’ thinking, not true conceptual thought.
Yet they are doing so on the clear understanding that what they are watch-
ing is a commercial, and they are not literally either participating in the
piano playing or engaging sexually with the attractive young woman.
In contrast, if a schizophrenic teenager says she is the Virgin Mary, it
is assumed that her logic is that ‘the Virgin Mary was a virgin; I am a
virgin; therefore, I am the Virgin Mary.’47 Here complex thinking is dis-
played, but the schizophrenic seems incapable of recognizing that the
conflation of herself with a religious figure is an illusion. Yet psychosis
can often coexist in schizophrenics with phases of apparent rationality.
One explanation is that the schizophrenic is still relying on a framework
of language established before the onset of their condition, so that even
their rationality may hide the fact that word meaning may be quite
altered in such an individual, but be partially hidden because of the
common language that they share with ‘normal’ individuals in the
population. But of course it may also be the case that the degree of
regression from conceptual thinking in a schizophrenic individual will
vary greatly depending on changes, for instance stressful incidents, in
their environment.
If different biological origins for schizophrenia might manifest them-
selves in common regressive behaviour at the conceptual level, can
Vygotsky’s views about this mental disorder help us better understand
the social triggers for schizophrenia? A study of schizophrenics and their
families by Bjorn Rund of the University of Oslo, published in 1985, found
that non-paranoid schizophrenics, but notably not paranoid schizo-
phrenics, generally came from families that displayed abnormalities in
their patterns of communication.48 For instance, the parents of such
schizophrenics were often highly egocentric in their behaviour, and they
tended to ignore what their children were saying, interrupt them, or send
mixed messages.
198
Rund related his findings to Vygotsky’s claim ‘that higher mental func-
tions are internalized social relations.’49 Rund claimed that this implies
that ‘many of the processes involved in the individual’s cognitive activity
are direct reflections of processes and patterns which characterize
interpsychological activity’ and particularly focused on attention, the
process whereby an individual’s awareness becomes focused, like a spot-
light, on a subset of what is going on in their head or their environment.50
Vygotsky thought that voluntary forms of attention emerge as ‘people
who surround the child begin to use various stimuli and means to direct
the child’s attention and subordinate it to their control.’51 However, in a
family situation in which normal communication has broken down,
Rund argued that the child has ‘no opportunity to establish a firm way of
focusing attention on the relevant stimuli in a given situation, because it
will never know which are the relevant stimuli. Instead, the attentional
styles that are internalized will be characterized by a steady wandering
from one stimulus to another, in a search for the most relevant one.’52
And in line with what I said previously about the importance of emo-
tions, Rund also believed that the ‘emotional climate’ within a family
could affect the development of schizophrenia within it.53 This is surely
even more the case if actual physical and sexual abuse are a part of family
life. So anxiety, insecurity, and instability tend to be a feature of the
families in which schizophrenics grew up.
Rund left open the possibility that if biological factors play a role in the
genesis of schizophrenia, this could explain not only why the condition
may run in families, as shown by the fact that unaffected family members
can still display abnormal forms of behaviour, but also why such behav-
iour may help precipitate the condition in a vulnerable individual in the
family.54 However, this also means that other factors outside the family—
racism, sexism, homophobia, problems at school or work, or simply the
pressure of living in a modern capitalist society—might combine to pre-
cipitate the disorder in a specific individual within that family. Finally, it is
also worth considering Laing’s proposal that the apparent irrationality of
schizophrenic behaviour might be an attempt to try and make sense, in
199
however distorted a fashion, of a social environment that may itself be

seen as irrational.
What does all this imply for finding new treatments for schizophrenia?
Since this disorder seems to be as much an environmental as a biological
condition, then treatments should address the social environments that
may have triggered the disorder, as well as finding ways to address the
dysfunctional aspects of brain function that underlie it. However, the
situation is complicated by environmental pressures manifesting them-
selves through biological mechanisms, which may occur long before the
condition becomes apparent.
So Daniel Weinberger of the Lieber Institute for Brain Development in
Baltimore, Maryland, recently studied the genomic regions linked to
schizophrenia and made the surprising discovery that some appear to
play a role not in the brain, but in placental function.55 Moreover, many
had previously been linked to a condition during pregnancy called ‘pre-
eclampsia’ in which foetal growth is restricted due to a malfunctioning
placenta. Weinberger believes that ‘the placenta is the missing link
between maternal risk and foetal brain development.’56 A less efficient
placenta might not allow the foetal brain to receive all the nutrients or
oxygen it needs. Ultimately the hope is that such studies could lead to
treatments to mitigate effects that a malfunctioning placenta might have
on a foetus’s brain.
Yet lest we suppose that all cases of schizophrenia are linked to prob-
lems that first affect an individual’s brain while they are still a foetus, it is
important to note other possible environmental links to this disorder.
These include exposure to the parasite Toxoplasma gondii, transmitted to
humans via cats; excessive use of high-strength cannabis; and, particu-
larly important, physical and sexual abuse. Acknowledgement of mul
tiple potential environmental triggers for schizophrenia, possibly each
leading to a psychotic state via different biological mechanisms, is com-
bined with increasing recognition that ‘schizophrenia’ as a discrete condi-
tion may itself be an illusion. Indeed, psychiatrist Robin Murray of Kings
College London believes we may soon see ‘the end of the concept of schiz-
200
ophrenia’, because the clinical definition of the disorder ‘is already begin-
ning to break down, for example, into those cases caused by copy number
[genetic] variations, drug abuse, social adversity . . . presumably this process
will accelerate, and the term schizophrenia will be confined to history,
like “dropsy” [the former term for complications of heart disease].’57
Coupled to this acknowledgement of the potential diversity of causes
is increasing evidence that the severity of schizophrenia may differ in
particular individuals. This is important because some health profes-
sionals have tended to only view this condition as a ‘hopeless chronic
brain disease’ and ignore individuals who make a full recovery, by argu-
ing that this ‘mustn’t have been schizophrenia after all’.58 Yet a recogni-
tion of schizophrenia’s heterogeneity suggests that individuals with a
milder form of the disorder may not show the same total breakdown of
conscious awareness found in someone with a severe form. It may also
be the case that the extent of such a breakdown is affected by the varying
levels of stress in an individual’s life, explaining how some people can
‘recover’ from such a disorder.
Importantly, not only might different types of schizophrenia show dis-
tinct responses to different types of drugs, but also some may be more
amenable to psychotherapy than to drug treatment. Indeed, recent studies
have suggested that people with a history of childhood trauma diagnosed
with schizophrenia are less likely to be helped by antipsychotic drugs.
One psychotherapy approach claimed to have a very good level of suc-
cess in the treatment of schizophrenia is called ‘Open Dialogue’.59 This
approach, first pioneered in Finland—which in the 1980s had one of the
worst incidences of schizophrenia in Europe—has over the past 30 years
of application in this country led to 74 per cent of patients with psychosis
being back at work within two years, compared with just 9 per cent in
Britain.60
An important feature of the Open Dialogue approach is that as well as
the patient, other members of their family are also involved in the therapy
sessions.61 Such an input could be important given the potential role of
dysfunctional family relations in the generation of the condition, but also
201
because I have been arguing that individual thoughts themselves form a

kind of dialogue. According to this perspective, not only conscious but
also unconscious thoughts may reflect tensions between an individual
and other members of their family. It might therefore be beneficial for an
affected individual to undergo therapy with other family members.
Engaging in a dialogue with them in a forum mediated by a therapist may
provide a space to tackle some of the familial tensions that may underlie
schizophrenia.
Another key aspect of the Open Dialogue approach is that it is not
anti-medication. Treatment, from drugs to different kinds of psychother-
apy, is agreed by everyone at the therapy sessions. But whereas the main-
stay of standard treatment is usually medication, in the Open Dialogue
approach the core is psychotherapy. As Russell Razzaque, a psychiatrist
using this approach in East London, has explained, ‘in normal treatment
you explore what has led to the crisis, but then the response is usually to
prescribe medication. Whereas with Open Dialogue the service user
takes the driving seat in understanding what are the factors that have led
them to be the way they are. That’s a very healing thing.’62
Perhaps the most effective aspect of the Open Dialogue approach is the
time it affords the patient to develop a dialogue about their condition with
the same set of therapists—and also with family members—over an
extended period of time. The importance of such continuity was
expressed by Annie Jeffrey, a British woman whose son committed sui-
cide in 2014 after suffering from psychosis for five years: ‘Many service
users say they feel like a parcel passed from one team to another: com-
munity services, in-patient services, crisis teams, psychiatric liaison . . . The
number of times I went to meetings with my son to see a team of people
we’d never seen before and we would never see again. How are you sup-
posed to start talking to someone you don’t know? My son just felt that he
wasn’t listened to.’63
One feature of the Open Dialogue approach is that it involves sus-
tained, high-quality interactions with other human beings. And given
how much I have stressed the importance of language in the formation of
202
human conscious awareness, and its role in our unique capacities of cre
ativity and imagination, it is maybe not surprising that such enhanced
social interactions can have a therapeutic impact. Intriguingly, there is
also increasing evidence that psychotherapy can lead to positive changes
in the neural chemistry of the brain,64 suggesting that it is a mistake to
only equate such changes with pharmacological interventions.
Here though we currently face a problem. As a consequence of the
ongoing economic crisis that has had such a devastating negative impact
on healthcare and other welfare services, provision of high-quality psy-
chotherapy for those with mental disorders is getting worse, at the same
time as societal pressures such as job insecurity, stagnating salaries, and
attacks on pensions are increasing. The result has been a dramatic rise in
the number of individuals suffering from such disorders. And this com
bination of rising social pressures leading to increased mental distress,
and a healthcare system increasingly unable to cope with the effects of
such distress, is having particularly tragic consequences with regard to
the next type of mental disorder I want to discuss—clinical depression
and anxiety.
203
CH A P T ER 13
DEPRESSION AND ANXIETY

z
A t Barcelona airport, on 24 March 2015, things were not going to plan

for two teachers of the Josef-König Academy, a school in Haltern,
Germany. The teachers, and sixteen 14- and 15-year-old students who
were in their care, were flying back to Düsseldorf, after an exchange trip
with a school in the Catalan town of Llinars del Vallès. But having man-
aged to get all the students to the airport for the early morning flight, the
teachers found that one schoolgirl had left her passport at the home of her
host family.1 Initially resigned to missing their flight, everyone was
delighted when the father of the host family offered to drive the 50 kilo-
metres back to his house and pick up the passport. After an anxious wait,
it was returned to its owner, and the school party boarded the plane on
time. The students set off at 10 a.m. as scheduled, excited at seeing family
and friends again, tinged no doubt with regret at leaving the students they
had made friends with, and maybe fallen in love with, in Llinars del Vallès.
They never reached their destination. The lives of the students, their
teachers, and the other passengers and crew on the flight, numbering
150 people in all, ended at 10.41 a.m. when the plane crashed into a mountain
in the Alps at more than 400 mph. As well as the school party, the passengers
on the plane included two opera singers, a pair of newlyweds, and three
generations of the same family—grandmother, mother, and daughter.2
The first sign that something was amiss began with air traffic control
noticing that the plane was descending far too early in its flight. Frantic
attempts to contact the pilot and co-pilot met with a total lack of response,
suggesting a major flaw in the plane’s communication systems. However,
after the crash, and the recovery of the airliner’s cockpit voice recorder
de pr ession a nd a nx ie t y
from the wreckage, the shocking actual unfolding of events on the plane
emerged.3
The recorder showed that at 10.30 a.m. the pilot, Patrick Sonderheimer,
left the cockpit to use the toilet, leaving co-pilot Andreas Lubitz in charge.
But when Sonderheimer returned he was unable to get back into the
cockpit, and Lubitz failed to respond to pleas to open the door. In the
minutes before the crash, Sonderheimer became increasingly frantic,
even using an emergency axe to try and break down the door, but to no
avail. Ironically, after the 9/11 atrocity, cockpit doors were strengthened to
prevent terrorists storming a plane’s cockpit and using it as a weapon of
mass destruction. Mercifully, most of the plane’s occupants seem to have
only become aware of the gravity of the situation just before the crash, for
only then did the cockpit recorder register sounds of passengers’ screams.4
The most obvious initial possibility was that Lubitz had somehow
fallen unconscious and could not therefore open the door. However,
while searching his apartment, detectives found a note from Lubitz’s doc-
tor declaring him unfit to work. Further investigations revealed that the
co-pilot was taking anti-depressant drugs and had been diagnosed with
suicidal tendencies. Meanwhile a study of his computer found web
searches that included ‘ways to commit suicide’ and ‘cockpit doors and
their security provisions’.5 It was looking like Lubitz had become so
depressed that he set out to kill not only himself but also everyone else on
the flight. One question was why Lubitz’s doctors had not informed his
airline of his condition. It transpired that under German patient confiden-
tiality laws, although doctors could advise the co-pilot not to fly, they
could not pass on their concerns to his employer.6
For campaigners against the negative stigma often associated with
mental disorders, the disaster represented a nightmare situation. Masuma
Rahim, a British psychologist, noted that coverage of the disaster was
associated with ‘a barrage of stigmatizing, fear-mongering media reports,
both in the UK and internationally.’7 As Rahim pointed out, ‘there is virtu-
ally no evidence to suggest that the depressed [generally] pose a danger to
others as a result of their illness. [Indeed], this is true of the full range of
205
mental health problems: the scientific literature is clear that people with
schizophrenia, long demonized and reviled by the press, are far more
likely to be harmed by others or themselves than to enact violence.’8
This is an important point given that media reports tend to focus on
atrocities like mass shootings, which particularly in the USA are now
almost commonplace and are often ascribed to mental disorder. Yet con-
centrating on the murderous actions of one individual against other
human beings obscures the fact that a far greater cause of death in the
USA is suicide, with the numbers of those deciding to end their lives this
way increasing over recent years. More than 100 US citizens commit sui-
cide each day, this being the tenth leading cause of death overall—third
among 15 to 24 year olds and fourth among 25 to 44 year olds.9 As well as
the tragic loss of the individual, there is the pain and heartbreak for rela-
tives and friends of that individual, with potential effects reverberating for
years to come.
I know this from personal experience. As I mentioned before, in 2015,
my sister Kay committed suicide, after a rapid decline into a severe depres-
sion that proved impervious to either drug treatments or cognitive behav-
ioural therapy. Yet she was the last person one might have expected to
take her own life. Sociable and outgoing, she was devoted to family and
friends, and capable of extraordinary generosity to others. A highlight of
my teenage years was when Kay received her first pay cheque from a
part-time job, and took me, her younger brother, for dinner at the Box
Tree restaurant in Ilkley, Yorkshire, then in possession of its first Michelin
star.10 Later as a health visitor in Bradford, my sister’s caseload included
heroin addicts who worked as prostitutes to fund their habit. It was typ
ical of Kay that she helped one prostitute to both kick her drug habit and
start a new life at university.
In 2013 my sister was diagnosed with skin cancer. As well as the cancerous
cells being removed surgically, Kay was given low doses of interferon—a
chemical produced naturally by the body, but also used as a drug to
treat viral infections and some types of cancer. For a while it seemed
that the surgery had been successful, but then my sister found a lump
206
under her arm. In response, her interferon dose was dramatically

increased. The first I realized something had noticeably changed in Kay
was when we met for a family holiday in Sicily at Easter in 2015. She was
completely different from her normal sociable and upbeat self; instead
she seemed to take no pleasure in either Sicily or our company.
This was the start of a descent into a severe clinical depression. My idea
of depression at this time was of a condition in which a person suffers low
mood, feels hopeless and helpless, and has low self-esteem. But I was also
aware that depression could be treated by drugs, Prozac being the most
well known. However, my sister’s depression proved a very different type
of condition. Increasingly concerned, we arranged for Kay to be admitted
to a psychiatric ward. She remained there for just a few weeks before being
discharged. Neither drugs nor CBT-style therapy seemed to have had any
impact on her condition, but with a pressure on beds and staff, she was
not judged a serious enough case to stay on the ward.
A few weeks later, my brother-in-law, who had taken compassionate
leave, had to return to work briefly to talk to his boss. Arriving home, he
announced his presence but hearing no reply, he went quickly upstairs.
There, in the bathroom, he found Kay hanging from the shower attach-
ment, an overturned stool at her feet. He immediately called the emergency
number, but attempts by the paramedics to revive my sister proved useless.
It was only later that we learned that interferon can trigger severe
depression. In fact, 40 per cent of patients have suffered from this d
isorder
after treatment. When journalist Niall McGee was treated with the drug
his doctor told him, ‘If you become depressed, please let me know.’ McGee
initially disregarded such advice, yet following the treatment, he rapidly
showed signs of severe depression. ‘I was put on an antidepressant and a
benzodiazepine, which, despite being highly sedating, did little to ease
my out- of-
control anxiety and insomnia,’ he recalled. ‘My depres-
sion . . . culminated in a complete loss of self.’11
Most worryingly of all, McGee wanted to end his life: ‘I thought about
hanging myself from the rafters in my basement, asphyxiation via carbon
monoxide poisoning in my car . . . Every time I rode the subway, I thought
207
about jumping in front of a train.’12 Such feelings persisted long after

McGee stopped taking the interferon treatment. Thankfully McGee’s sui-
cidal thoughts eventually subsided, either because of the interferon leav-
ing his system, or because he found a way to personally deal with his
depression.13 Sadly, not only did we get no prior warning that interferon
might have such a severe effect on my sister’s mental state, but we received
little help on how to deal with her situation. At the inquest, the coroner
concluded that my sister had been ‘discharged too informally by those
responsible for her with no paperwork and no advice to the family on
how to help her.’14
My sister’s depression was triggered by a specific adverse drug reaction,
but a more general problem in trying to understand why some people,
sometimes with no prior warning, decide to end their own lives, and in
very rare cases take other people with them, is that as with other mental
disorders like schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, we just do not have
enough knowledge. We still have only a partial understanding of what
makes people become so depressed that they become suicidal, or even of
the condition of depression as a whole. This lack of understanding has a
particular resonance for me given that my sister’s unnatural death is far
from the only one in my family. My first such experience was the death of
my paternal grandmother, who was found drowned in the nearby canal
when I was 15 years old.
My recollections of my grandmother are of a very large, opinionated
woman, who loved her food, her drink, but above all the joy of a social
gathering of family and friends. Only many years later—a month after
the death of my sister—did I learn from my mother that my grandmother
had suffered from depression in the last years of her life, often turning up
at our house in the early hours of the morning in a distressed state.
Unaware of this, as a teenager I was tortured with the uncertainty about
whether my grandmother had meant to drown herself or instead had
somehow slipped, accidentally, into the canal.
The death of my father, which occurred the year I graduated, left even
more unanswered questions. In September of that year I went to Scotland
208
for a walking holiday with my girlfriend. Arriving back at my parents’

house, we were surprised to see dozens of cars parked outside. Puzzled,
we entered the house only to be told that my father had been found dead
at the foot of the entrance shaft of Gaping Ghyll, a pothole whose interior
dimensions are larger than St Paul’s Cathedral. Having abseiled down the
shaft as an amateur potholer, I was completely aware of the depth of the
drop. I learned that rather than going to work, my father had travelled by
bus and train to the Yorkshire Dales, and then walked to Gaping Ghyll.
How he had ended up dead at the foot of the cavern was unclear, as noth-
ing found on my father’s body or at our home gave any indication why he
had gone to the Dales, or what had happened to result in his death in such
a manner.
Finding meaning after the sudden death of a loved one, particularly if
due to definite or likely suicide, is surely one of the biggest challenges of
life. While my grandmother’s death occurred too early in my life to con-
sider how I might have prevented it, the number of times I have mulled
over the different ways I might have acted to forestall the deaths of my
father and sister are too many to mention. Of course, such thinking leads
nowhere, since only with hindsight is it possible to see how such a tragedy
might have been prevented, but also because there is no way of reversing
what has already happened. But this obvious fact has not stopped me
from indulging in this incessant going over of past events.
How might we better understand depression and thereby prevent
deaths such as those in my family, in the future? One problem we face is
the lack of consensus in even defining this disorder. As a human condi-
tion, something similar to depression has been recognized for thousands
of years. In ancient Greece, people with ‘melancholia’ were thought to
have too much ‘black bile’ in their bodies, and the condition was treated
by altering their diet.15 Later, in the nineteenth and early twentieth cen
turies, those wealthy enough to be able to afford treatment for their
depression were subjected to ‘rest cures’, which mainly consisted of
being confined to their room for six weeks in isolation while being
grossly overfed.16
209
Serotonin
Serotonin
Serotonin transporter SSRI
receptor
NO DRUG WITH SSRI

Serotonin is deactivated in the synapse SSRI blocks the reuptake of serotonin,
by reuptake into the presynaptic neuron thus increasing the activation of
serotonin receptors
Figure 24 Proposed mechanism of action of SSRIs like Prozac.
What seemed like a major step forward in both our understanding of

the disorder and how to treat it occurred in the 1950s when evidence
emerged that depression might be due to low levels of the neurochemical
serotonin. In particular, neuroscientists discovered that certain chemicals
that alleviated the symptoms of depression appeared to work by inhibit-
ing the reuptake of serotonin into certain neurons in the brain (Figure 24).17
Prevention of such reuptake, after serotonin has been released at neuronal
synapses, is thought to enhance the ability of this neurotransmitter to
continue having its effects upon the brain.
The first set of drugs thought to work by enhancing levels of serotonin
in the brain were discovered completely by chance. Scientists at the
Munsterlingen Asylum in Switzerland, searching for a treatment to
control the mood swings of schizophrenics, identified a class of drug—
called tricyclics because of their three-r ing chemical structure—that
triggered bouts of euphoria in their patients.18 This only made the
schizophrenic individuals worse, but it suggested that tricyclics might
be a treatment for depression. And indeed when given to depressive
patients in 1955, some patients became newly sociable and energetic,
leading to claims that tri cyc
lics represented a ‘miracle cure’ for
depression.
210
Unfortunately, these drugs, which helped about three quarters of

patients, had serious side effects like lethargy, weight gain, and occasion-
ally death from overdose. But a search for chemicals with a similar effect
led to the discovery of the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs),
the most well-known being Prozac, released on to the market in 1987.19 As
their name implies, these drugs also increase brain serotonin levels by
preventing their reuptake into neurons. SSRIs provided relief for the same
percentage of patients as tricyclics, but they were easier to prescribe with-
out risk of overdose and had fewer side effects.
SSRIs have been a huge success for the pharmaceutical industry, with
Prozac earning Eli Lilly, the company that developed it, $1 billion a year by
1990. The initial excitement caught the media’s attention, with Time maga-
zine putting the drug on its front cover and asking, ‘Is Freud finished?’,
and describing SSRIs as ‘mental health’s greatest success story’.20 By 1993,
Prozac had been taken by some 10 million people worldwide and in 1994
Newsweek noted that ‘Prozac has attained the familiarity of Kleenex and
the social status of spring water.’21 SSRIs were now used to treat far more
conditions than clinical depression, with some doctors prescribing them
to everyone from pensioners to pre-teens for everything from premen-
strual stress to fear of public speaking. Yet recently, doubts have surfaced
about the appropriateness of doctors prescribing SSRIs for such different
conditions, the effectiveness of these drugs, and the mechanisms by
which they affect brain function.
The American filmmaker Sarah Gross, who produced the documen-
tary Prozac: Revolution in a Capsule, has pointed out that while the wide-
spread availability of SSRIs ‘has benefited the general depressed
population, and more people are receiving treatment, [it] may also have
created a backlash, as some people may feel like everything is being
pathologized.’22 Even more controversial is evidence that SSRIs may not
be as effective as claimed. For instance, a recent study found that the abil-
ity of SSRIs to combat mild or moderate depression appeared no better
than a placebo, although this did not generally appear to be the case if the
treated individual is suffering from a more severe form of depression.23
211
Another worrying aspect of SSRIs is that while these drugs are only
meant to be taken for a limited period, in practice many patients remain
on them for years, and for some it can be very difficult to stop taking
them, such are the severe effects of withdrawal, which for one patient
included ‘severe shakes, suicidal thoughts, a feeling of too much caffeine
in my brain, electric shocks, hallucinations, insane mood swings.’24
Another patient noted that ‘while there is no doubt I am better on this
medication, the adverse effects have been devastating when I have tried to
withdraw—with “head zaps”, agitation, insomnia and mood changes.
This means that I do not have the option of managing the depression any
other way.’25
One problem in determining the true effectiveness of SSRIs for the
treatment of depression is how little is understood about the biological
basis of this disorder and how drugs like SSRIs alleviate it. In particular,
doubts have been raised about whether the primary defect in depression
is really low levels of serotonin in the brain. So Alan Gelenberg, a depres-
sion and psychiatric researcher at Pennsylvania State University, believes
that ‘there’s really no evidence that depression is a serotonin-deficiency
syndrome. It’s like saying that a headache is an aspirin-deficiency syn-
drome.’26 The idea that reduced serotonin levels are the primary cause of
depression has been undermined in a number of ways.
For instance, a study in 2003 suggested that people with a variant of the
gene that controls serotonin uptake were not as well equipped to deal
with stressful life events and more likely to develop depression.27 Since its
publication, this study has been cited more than 4,000 times, and around
a hundred other studies have been published about links between this
gene, stressful life events, and depression risk, with some confirming a
link, others finding no such evidence. Yet a ‘meta-analysis’ of these
different studies failed to confirm the findings of the original study.
According to Laura Jean Bierut, who led the meta-analysis, this means
that ‘we still know that stress is related to depression, and we know that
genetics is related to depression, but we now know that this particular
gene is not.’28
212
If doubts are being cast on a simplistic ‘chemical imbalance’ model of

depression, are we getting any closer to better understanding this dis
order? One new theory of depression is that it is due to a lack of new
neurons being regenerated. We saw earlier how the idea that such ‘neuro
genesis’ only occurs during development of the brain in the embryo,
foetus, and child, but not in the adult brain, has recently been challenged.
And a study by David Gurwitz and colleagues at Tel Aviv University has
indicated that rather than a shortage of serotonin, a lack of growth of new
synapses and reduced generation of new neurons could cause depres-
sion.29 The researchers found that cells in culture exposed to the SSRI
drug paroxetine produce a protein called integrin beta-3, which plays a
role in cell adhesion and connectivity, new synapse formation, and neuro
genesis. It may be that lower serotonin levels are more a consequence
than cause of the disorder, since when the brain stops making new
neurons, or fewer neuronal connections are formed, this leads to a
decrease in serotonin release.
Intriguingly, the idea that depression is associated with problems of
neurogenesis may explain the mechanism of action of a new drug used to
treat depression—ketamine. This was developed as an anaesthetic, but it
is also used as an illegal recreational drug, particularly on the nightclub
scene, because of its tendency to make the user feel ‘out of themselves’ by
producing an apparent dissociation between mind and body. Ketamine
has recently been shown to have very positive effects in some people with
severe depression who had not responded to other treatments. John
Krystal, a psychiatrist at Yale University, sees such findings as ‘a game
changer’.30 And ketamine appears to act, according to Krystal, by trigger-
ing ‘reactions in your cortex that enable brain connections to regrow’.31
Other recent studies have suggested a link between depression and
inflammation.32 We saw earlier how abnormalities in how glial cells
respond to brain inflammation may be one factor in the development of
schizophrenia. In depression, inflammation may affect the brain in a dif-
ferent way, sparking feelings of hopelessness, unhappiness, and fatigue.
Such feelings may be caused by the immune system failing to switch off
213
after a trauma or illness, and triggering a severe version of the low mood
people can experience when fighting a virus like flu. Indeed, recent stud-
ies suggest that treating inflammation can alleviate depression, while
treatments that boost the immune system to fight illness can be accom
panied by a depressive mood—for instance, many people feel down after
a vaccination.33
Based on such findings, Ed Bullmore, a psychiatrist at the University of
Cambridge, believes a new field of ‘immuno-neurology’ is on the hori-
zon. For him, it is clear that inflammation can cause depression: ‘We give
people a vaccination and they will become depressed . . . In experimental
medicine studies if you treat a healthy individual with an inflammatory
drug, like interferon, a substantial percentage of those people will become
depressed. So we think there is good enough evidence for a causal effect.’34
If such a viewpoint is correct, it comes tragically too late for my sister,
whose ultimately fatal depression may have been triggered by the inter-
feron that was prescribed to protect her from skin cancer. Yet hopefully,
such new insights will mean that we should not only be able to devise
better treatments for depression, but also identify potential problems
with drugs that may have dangerous effects in certain individuals.
Other studies have supported the idea that in a depressive brain, the
ability of neurons to connect appropriately becomes abnormal, creating
or enhancing low mood, destructive thinking, and other symptoms.
Increasingly, neuroscientists believe that the key to understanding depres-
sion lies in identifying how the disorder affects neural circuitry and the
way that widely separated brain regions communicate through the
long-range projection of nerve fibres.35 According to this view, mental
disorders result from the disruption of the larger circuit wiring of the
brain. And indeed recent studies have shown that certain people with
depression have reduced volume in brain regions used for emotional pro-
cessing, and fewer neural ‘couplings’ within these regions.36
Yet confusingly, some depressed brains may in contrast use their con-
nections too much, as shown by other studies that indicate that the limbic
and cortical regions of the brain in certain depressed patients, which are
214
related to emotional processing, send a ‘barrage’ of messages at much

higher volume than normal.37 Not only are the connections haywire, but
also the messages coming down the lines are abnormal. Intriguingly,
given what I have said in previous chapters about evidence showing the
importance of brain waves as coordinators of consciousness, there is
evidence that such waves may be abnormal in depressed individuals.
What about the idea that certain individuals are biologically prone to
depression? This idea has more than scientific interest for me, given my
family’s history of unnatural deaths, which also includes my maternal
grandfather, who died in miserable circumstances in what was then
known as a ‘lunatic asylum’, after he lost first his hairdresser’s business
and then his sanity in the Great Depression of the 1930s. Yet attempts to
find a genetic basis for susceptibility to depression have proved even more
confusing than similar investigations for other mental disorders, with,
until recently, no clear gene variants being linked to depression.
One problem for such an investigation is that depression is a very com-
mon disorder, with more than 350 million people worldwide affected.38
The disorder’s symptoms and severity can vary widely from one person
to the next, and also between men and women. This means that there
may be a whole spectrum of different conditions that are being grouped
together that have quite different biological causes, complicating genetic
analysis.
To address this, a recent study led by Jonathan Flint of the University of
Oxford focused on depressed women in China.39 Flint reasoned that
because depression tends to be underdiagnosed in that country, women
identified as clinically depressed might have a particularly severe form of
the disorder. And, indeed, those taking part in the study were at the most
severe end of the spectrum. The study identified DNA sequence variations
in two genes—LHPP and SIRT1—as being clearly different in many of the
depressed women.
In fact, the findings did not initially cast much new light on the bio
logical basis of the disorder, since LHPP’s function in the cell remains
unclear, while SIRT1, one of a class of genes called sirtuins, is known to
215
play a role in mitochondria, the subcellular structures that produce

energy in our cells. Although this led Stanford University psychiatrist
Douglas Levinson to say this is ‘an appealing bit of biology for a disorder
that makes people tired and unmotivated’, there is surely more to depres-
sion than simply a lack of energy.40 But more recent studies suggest that
SIRT1 may act to protect neurons from ageing and death, so this could be
important given that, as we have seen, depression has been linked to
inflammation and also to defects in the brain’s ability to regenerate itself
through neurogenesis.41
Another problem in identifying a biological basis for depression in
humans is that there is a limit to the type of experiments that can be car-
ried out in our species, for both practical and ethical reasons. Therefore,
studies of brain biology and function in animals will surely continue to be
central to experimental psychology. And the development of new
gene-editing technologies is dramatically expanding the range of species
in which the role of genes in brain function can be investigated, as well as
increasing the ease with which genetically modified versions of such spe-
cies can be generated. It is important to restate the importance of such
‘models’ of human brain function and disorder, because while valuable
insights have been gained through the study of human neurons and glial
cells in culture, including human brain organoids, these remain pale sub-
stitutes of the actual living brain. Yet the view of human consciousness
developed in this book also raises questions about the extent to which
animal studies provide a route to understanding that consciousness.
One such issue is human uniqueness and how it affects the interpret
ation of studies of animal brains. For in contrast to views of conscious-
ness that see human consciousness as one end of a spectrum, the view I
have been developing suggests that while we can learn much from studies
of living animal brains and animal behaviour, the qualitative difference
between us and other species means there will be significant limitations
to what can be learned from animal studies alone. Unfortunately, some
neuroscientists have a tendency to talk about studies of ‘depression’ or
‘schizophrenia’ in, for instance, rodents in a rather uncritical way.42 Now
216
it is quite likely that new molecular and cellular mechanisms that play a
role in these disorders in humans can be uncovered in such studies, and
that is why throughout this book I have made my own references to ani-
mal studies. Nevertheless, it is also important to be cautious about the
interpretation of such studies, because whatever interesting insights we
might make about abnormal brain function and behaviour in a rodent, it
is a great leap to then say we have identified something equivalent to a
human mental disorder.
This caution seems justified when we consider what is being measured
in a study of say ‘depression’ in mice. Assessing such a condition in mice
is hampered by the fact that, as Michael Kaplitt of Cornell Medical College
puts it, ‘a mouse can’t tell you how it’s feeling.’43 Instead, mice are typically
subjected to a ‘forced swim’ test, in which they are placed in a water-filled
cylinder. The longer the mouse swims, the stronger it is judged to have a
will to survive. If it quickly gives up—at which point it is rescued—it is
deemed ‘depressed’.44 In another test, the mouse is held upside down by
its tail. The longer it struggles, the less it is judged to show ‘depressive’
behaviour.45 Such studies have been used to identify the role of genes in
depression, and also to test drugs, for instance new types of SSRIs—the
drug class mentioned earlier of which Prozac is a member.
Now clearly there may be differences in opinion among readers of this
book about the rights and wrongs of carrying out scientific experiments
on animals. My personal opinion is that if such studies take us closer to
understanding mental disorders such as the one that led to my sister’s
death, and therefore the possibility of identifying new types of drugs that
might save the life of someone suffering from such a condition, they are
entirely valid. However, given the emerging picture of the complex genetic
basis of depression, and the various social determinants of this condition
that I will discuss shortly, it seems wise to be critical about overly simplis-
tic assumptions about the possibility of modelling such complexity in a
mouse.
A complicating factor for any attempt to identify a biological basis to
depression, or for that matter any mental disorder, is the important role
217
that the social environment plays in the genesis of such disorders. In 1978,
George Brown and Tirril Harris of Bedford College studied the incidence
of depression in London and concluded that the best predictor of this dis
order is being a working class woman with an unstable income and a
child, living in a tower block.46 One conclusion is that such a stressful
environment is far more likely to precipitate depression than a less stress-
ful one. But another factor that might trigger depression, given what I
have said previously about the importance of social interaction in human
society, is some disruption to such interaction. And indeed Brown and
Harris found that 89 per cent of the depressed women they interviewed
had suffered a life-changing event such as family bereavement, a marriage
break-up, or loss of a job after a period of full employment.47 And while
all of these events would presumably be highly stressful, they could also
lead to a big reduction in an affected individual’s social interaction.
Another study that investigated the incidence of depression in New
York in the early 1960s found that this condition was more prevalent in
people of lower socioeconomic status, but the ‘loneliness, the isolation,
the lostness . . . of urban life’ was also an important factor.48 But this does
not mean that biological susceptibilities for depression can be ignored.
Moreover, it would be a mistake to believe that the influence of biology
and environment is easily separable, for as we have seen, it is becoming
clear that the environment can directly affect the genome through epi
genetic mechanisms. Not only can such environmental influence affect
the epigenome of a particular individual during their lifetime, but also
more controversially there is evidence that environmental effects can
affect the epigenomes of their offspring.
A dramatic illustration of how anxiety—a condition often associated
with depression—might be passed down through the generations in an
epigenetic manner came from a recent study led by Tracy Bale of the
University of Pennsylvania.49 This found that anxiety induced in male
baby mice by exposing them to stressful stimuli—such as fox odour,
restraint in a conical tube, and white noise—was passed down to future
generations. Bale and her colleagues showed that the anxiety is transmitted
218
to the offspring of the stressed mice by specific micro RNAs—one of the

classes of regulatory RNAs. Not only were nine specific micro RNAs
found at higher levels in the sperm of the stressed male mice, but also
injection of purified forms of these micro RNAs into a fertilized mouse
egg generated from unstressed parent mice led to the birth of anxious
mice in the next generation.50
A further study by Bale’s team showed that stress causes an increase of
the hormone cortisol in the blood, which triggers the release of
stress-inducing micro RNAs from a structure called the epididymis in
which sperm are stored after production by the testicles.51 In an intergen-
erational feedback loop, the micro RNAs transmitted to the next
generation affect genes that regulate blood cortisol in that generation.
Bale hopes that having identified ‘signals’ that carry stress to future
generations, it will be possible to study ‘how would you reverse those
signals, how dynamic are the cells to this environment . . . and how the
interaction of mom’s and dad’s genes affects [the transmission of stress].’52
Of course, people are not mice. And an obvious obstacle in trying to
study whether similar molecular mechanisms transmit anxiety across
generations in our species is that it would be hardly ethical to induce
stress in human baby boys and then see whether this is transmitted to the
next generation. So investigations of the role of epigenetic mechanisms,
acting across generations, as a possible factor in the genesis of human
mental disorders have had to focus on individuals who have been exposed
to extremely stressful situations and then assess what might be different
about their epigenomes and those of their children compared to
unaffected individuals and their offspring.
Undoubtedly, the most horrific event in twentieth-century history was
the Holocaust of World War II, in which the Nazis murdered as many as
15 million people—mainly Jews, but also Slavs, gypsies, LGBT+ individ
uals, the disabled, and political opponents of Hitler and his party—in
concentration camps across Germany and occupied Poland.53 Those who
survived the Holocaust were deeply traumatized by their experience,
resulting in an increased incidence of anxious and depressed individuals
219
among the survivors. But it has been claimed that Holocaust survivors’
children are also more likely to develop post-traumatic stress disorder,
depression, and anxiety, despite having grown up in a non-stressful envir
onment.
Moreover, a recent study led by Rachel Yehuda at the Icahn School of
Medicine at Mount Sinai, New York, claimed to have found evidence that
this apparent higher incidence of mental disorder is associated with epi
genetic differences in the DNA of Holocaust survivors’ children.54 In par-
ticular, Yehuda claimed that the children of male Holocaust survivors
who suffered post-traumatic stress disorder had higher methylation of a
gene involved in the stress response. Recall that such methylation changes
can affect the degree to which a gene is turned on or off. According to
Yehuda, ‘the gene changes in the children could only be attributed to
Holocaust exposure in the parents.’55
Subsequently though, Yehuda’s findings and conclusions have come in
for criticism from various directions.56 One criticism is that only a small
number of individuals—32 survivors and 22 of their offspring—were
studied. Another potential flaw is that the study did not consider the pos-
sibility that survivors might—deliberately or inadvertently—have com-
municated the horror of their experience to their children while the latter
were growing up, thereby exposing them to stress. As Josie Glausiusz, a
participant in Yehuda’s study, and whose father survived the Bergen-Belsen
concentration camp put it, ‘I was troubled by a question: How does one
separate the impact of horrific stories heard in childhood from the influ-
ence of epigenetics?’57 Finally, there has been criticism of the fact that the
study only investigated a small number of genes and only found a small
amount of change in the methylation states of the genes studied. Reflecting
such concerns, John Greally, a geneticist at the Albert Einstein College of
Medicine in New York, has remarked that ‘the story being told by the
Holocaust study is indeed fascinating as a scientific possibility, and will
no doubt prompt others to pursue similar studies. Unfortunately, the
story is typical of many in the field of epigenetics, with conclusions drawn
based on uninterpretable studies.’58
220
Claims about the role of epigenetic influences in the genesis of mental

disorders in humans will always need to be scrutinized carefully, and with
consideration of potential alternative explanations. Nevertheless, the
increasing number of robust findings emerging from animal studies
mean that we should pay attention to the possibility that social influences
might have impacts reaching beyond the individuals exposed to them.
But the way in which such influences might affect the mental state of an
individual, or future generations, also needs to take into account the par-
ticular structure of current society. This we will do shortly, but before we
do, I would first like to look at another important question relating to
mental disorders: whether some mental conditions characterized as dis
orders in the past are purely negative phenomena, or whether we run the
risk by such a judgement of discounting what may reflect important
diversity in the human population and might indeed be a vital compo-
nent of what makes us human and enriches our species.
221
CH A P T ER 14
NORMALITY AND DIVERSITY

z
T hroughout this book, I have mentioned two main ways of viewing

mental disorders. First, there is what is often known as the ‘biomed
ical model’, which sees such disorders as due to inherent biological differ
ences in individuals, and ultimately to differences in the genomes of such
individuals.1 Second, there is the view that mental disorders are a product
of disturbing events that happened to an individual in the past or are cur
rently a problem, whether trauma, problematic family relations, or the
general pressures of living in an advanced capitalist society.2 This latter
stance on mental disorders takes a number of different forms, ranging
from Freudian psychoanalysis, which views such disorders as products of
the repression of disturbing feelings—primarily sexual ones—to behav
iourism, which sees them as dysfunctional responses to past and current
events. To complicate matters further, we have seen that recent findings in
epigenetics make it likely that such a separation of biology from environ
ment is an illusion, since not only can an individual’s environment lead to
epigenetic changes in their genomes, but also these may even be passed
down to future generations.
Despite their differences, these approaches are united in viewing such
mental conditions as abnormal. Yet is it really the case that everything
termed a mental ‘disorder’ is indeed so? Or could it be that in diagnosing
conditions that affect the mind, we are ignoring the possibility that some
‘disorders’ may be part of the normal spectrum of human diversity? To
take this argument further, could it even be the case that such diversity is
an important component of human society and a source of some of its
richness and achievements? In this chapter I will look at these possibilities,
nor m a l i t y a nd di v e r si t y
Communication
Behaviour Social
functioning
Figure 25 Autism spectrum disorder and three main areas affected.
with particular reference to two quite different mental conditions—

autism spectrum disorder and bipolar disorder.
Autism spectrum disorder is estimated to affect 1 in 100 people of all
ages in Britain.3 Autism spectrum disorders have been described by Uta
Frith, a developmental psychologist at University College London, as
characterized by ‘impairments in social interaction and both verbal and
non-verbal communication, along with restricted, repetitive or stereotyped
behaviour’ (Figure 25).4 Studies in the 1980s by Frith and her colleagues
Simon Baron-Cohen and Alan Leslie led to the proposal that autistic indi
viduals differ in their ‘theory of mind’. This mental ability allows us to
anticipate other people’s behaviour in terms of their intentions—what
they think and/or want another person to do—and more profound mental
states: thinking, believing, knowing, dreaming, cheating, and so on.
Theory of mind allows us to explain and anticipate the behaviour of
those around us. Frith and colleagues argued that autistic individuals find
it much more difficult to anticipate the behaviour of others.5 This seems
to be due to the fact that most people can infer information about social
behaviour that is not explicit, but a person with autism has more diffi
culty doing so. Autistic individuals need to break the totality of social
behaviour into small units in order to understand and learn its often
unstated rules and inconsistencies.
Other theories have been put forward to try and explain the restricted,
repetitive, or stereotyped behaviour characteristic of many autistic
223
individuals. For instance, it has been proposed that the cognitive skills
that allow us to organize ourselves, be flexible, anticipate, plan, set
objectives and goals, control our impulses, and so on are altered in autis
tic individuals. In addition, such individuals seem more attuned to pro
cessing local information before global information. Because of this,
people on the autistic spectrum tend to first focus on specific details of
images or objectives rather than on their entirety. But their tendency
towards repetitive behaviour may also reflect their need to look for and
create patterns in order to find a safe space within a social world that they
may find threatening.
Autism was first described independently in 1943 by two paediatri
cians of Austrian origin: Leo Kanner, based in Baltimore, USA, and Hans
Asperger, in Vienna.6 For a long time, it was thought that Kanner’s autis
tic children were far more disabled by their condition, since they had
delayed or non-existent speech. In contrast, Asperger described his
charges as ‘little professors’—fluent if pedantic speakers with idiosyn
cratic interests.7 In reality, not all of Asperger’s autistic patients were so
academically gifted and they displayed a wide range of deficits as well as
strengths, but for tactical reasons he chose to focus on the four most tal
ented children, stressing their potential for great achievement, given
appropriate education.
Asperger may have been trying to protect his autistic charges at a time
when Nazi eugenic policy viewed physically and mentally disabled chil
dren as ‘lives unworthy of life’.8 Under the T2 ‘euthanasia’ programme,
more than 5,000 such children were murdered by means of lethal injec
tion or starvation. However, Asperger’s precise historical role is currently
a matter of controversy, with recently uncovered evidence suggesting that
he also helped identify some children with disabilities and sent dozens to
Spiegelgrund, a children’s ward in Vienna where adolescents were euthan
ized or subjected to brutal experimentation.9
Notwithstanding these new revelations, Asperger was definitely posi
tive about ‘autistic intelligence’, seeing traits in both artists and scientists,
and observing that ‘not everything that steps out of line, and is thus
224
“abnormal”, must necessarily be “inferior”.’10 However, his findings

languished in largely unread German texts until their translation into
English in 1981. In contrast, Kanner’s views on autism became well known
soon after their publication in the USA in 1943, and for a long while dom
inated discussion about the topic.
Initially, Kanner suggested that the basis for the social difficulties asso
ciated with autism lay in a child’s inability to form emotional ties with
their parents.11 This view—particularly influenced by Freudianism—
reflected a long-held assumption in psychology that children’s initial rela
tionship with their parents forms a blueprint for all other relationships.
Kanner, at first, suggested that an autistic child was biologically impaired
in this capacity. But subsequently he began laying a large degree of blame
for autism on ‘toxic’ parenting. He described the parents—particularly
mothers—who brought their children to him as ‘emotional refrigerators’,
whose lack of warmth contributed to their sons’ and daughters’ retreat
into their own worlds. Although Kanner eventually moved away from
this position and acknowledged that autism had a strong inborn element,
his initial viewpoint unfortunately shaped ideas about autism for dec
ades. Parents of autistic children had to deal with not only the challenges
of bringing up an autistic child in an era when few schools would accept
such children, but also battling their guilt on the psychoanalyst’s couch.12
Nowadays it is rarer to hear parents of autistic children blamed for their
child’s condition. However, recently a spotlight has been directed on what
has been called the ‘state scandal’ of treatment of autistic individuals in
some parts of France. Muhamed Sajidi, president of the French organiza
tion Conquer Autism, argues that ‘today everyone knows that autism is a
neuro-developmental problem. It is not a psychosis or mental disorder.
But in France it is the psychiatrists—heavily influenced by Freudian psy
choanalysis—who remain in charge. And they have shut themselves off
from all the changes in our knowledge of autism.’13 Sajidi set up the organ
ization after his life was ‘destroyed’, as he puts it, by the medical establish
ment’s failure to diagnose his son’s autism. He claims that in France blame
for autism is often still laid at the door of the child’s parents, especially the
225
mother. In a similar vein, Candy Lepenuizic, a British woman married to

a Frenchman, has noted that ‘the first time I went to see a doctor when my
(autistic) son Gael was three and we thought there was a problem, the
psychiatrist asked me . . . if it had been a wanted pregnancy! Then she
asked what sort of dreams I had had while I was pregnant with him . . . They
thought that if the child was failing to communicate with the outside
world, it was because of some trauma in the womb or in very early life.
There was a family malfunction, and we had to cure it!’14
Such instances apart, in general there is now much more acceptance of
the idea that autism has a strong inborn element. However, it remains
unclear to what extent this is due to genetic differences, or epigenetic or
other effects on the embryo or foetus in the womb. Such uncertainty
may reflect the fact that autism spectrum disorder is exactly that—a
spectrum—which may reflect different underlying causes for different
types of autism. Such complexity is indicated by the multiple regions of
the genome that have been linked to autism in the same type of genome-
wide association studies mentioned previously, and also by studies of
neurons derived from autistic individuals. We saw earlier how by taking a
skin cell from an individual, and using this to derive first a pluripotent
stem cell, then neurons, it is possible to assess how genetic differences in
individuals might affect neuronal and brain structure and function. And
two recent studies of this type have illustrated just how varied might be
the underlying molecular causes of even the most severe types of autism.
The first study, led by Lauren Weiss at the University of California, San
Francisco, derived neurons from people with a deletion, and those with a
duplication, of the same region of chromosome 16, both types of muta
tions being associated with severe forms of autism.15 In both cases
neurons have fewer synapses than do those from unaffected individuals.
But neurons derived from people with the chromosome deletion were
found to have unusually large cell bodies and very long dendrites (the
parts of the neuron that receive inputs) while those from people with a
duplication in this region were atypically small and had shortened den
drites. The findings are interesting given that people with a deletion of the
226
chromosomal region have macrocephaly (abnormally large heads), whereas

those with an extra copy of the region have microcephaly (small heads).
It is clear then that, although changes in chromosome 16 lead to some
common effects, the specific nature of the changes leads to effects charac
teristic of a particular type of autism.
The second study, led by Christian Schaaf at Baylor College of Medicine
in Texas, derived neurons from three people with a deletion of part of
chromosome 15, three with a duplication of this region, and three
unaffected individuals.16 One gene in this region, CHRNA7, codes for a
protein channel that allows calcium ions to flow into neurons, such flow
being essential for neuronal function. When the researchers exposed the
cells to compounds that cause the channels to open, less calcium flowed
into neurons lacking a copy of CHRNA7 than flowed into normal neurons.
This suggests that children with CHRNA7 deletions have too few func
tional calcium channels on neurons.17 However, surprisingly, neurons
from children with an extra copy of the CHRNA7 gene also show
unusually low calcium influx. In this case, too much CHRNA7 protein
impairs neurons’ ability to assemble the proteins and transport them to
the cell surface. The results illustrate that the effects of mutations are not
always predictable. Schaaf sees this as ‘kind of humbling. We actually
need to do that basic science research to understand the consequences of
these genetic changes.’18
Such studies are of severe forms of autism with a clear genetic link, yet
even so they reveal heterogeneity in molecular and cellular causes.
Identifying how these genetic differences manifest themselves will be
important in devising new ways to treat such forms of severe autism.
Indeed, a study led by Riccardo Brambilla of the University of Cardiff has
identified a drug treatment that reverses the effects of the type of autism
associated with a deletion in chromosome 16 mentioned above—in a
mouse model of this disorder.19
Brambilla’s team discovered that this deletion causes loss of expression
of a gene called ERK1, and this in turn leads to abnormal overexpression of
a related gene, ERK2.20 Drugs have been developed to inhibit ERK2 because
227
it plays a role in certain types of cancer, and using such drugs to treat mice
engineered to mimic this form of autism, Brambilla’s team reversed the
symptoms of the disorder. Moreover, female mice pregnant with foetuses
with this genetic defect, but treated with such drugs, gave birth to off
spring without autistic symptoms. Brambilla believes this shows that
while it would not be advisable to treat pregnant women carrying an
affected child, it might be possible ‘to permanently reverse the disorder by
treating a child as early as possible after birth. In the case of adults with
the condition, ongoing medication would probably be required to treat
symptoms.’21
Despite these findings, the majority of less severe autistic conditions
are not clearly defined genetically. There is therefore the possibility that
they have a less obvious biological mechanism underlying them, and are
more linked to environmental factors. In recent years there have been
highly misleading claims about such a link. Notably, a British doctor
called Andrew Wakefield published a paper in The Lancet in 1998—since
retracted by the journal—claiming a link between the vaccine for mea
sles, mumps, and rubella (MMR) and autism.22 This prompted large drops
in vaccination rates. One consequence was that measles cases were shown
to have risen by 300 per cent in Europe in 2017, the result of parents shun
ning vaccines following Wakefield’s claims.23 In fact, such claims have
been totally debunked and Wakefield’s UK medical licence was revoked.
Yet that has not stopped him building a successful career as a leading fig
ure in the ‘anti-vaccine’ movement in the USA; this movement was given
a boost by supportive statements by President Donald Trump.24
One reason why Wakefield’s claims resonated with anxious parents is
that the reported incidence of autism has increased over recent decades.
Parents desperate to find an easy explanation for the disorder that might
lead to some kind of ‘cure’ have become an easy target for people claiming
to have a simple remedy. For instance, some parents have resorted to giv
ing their autistic children a solution of chlorine dioxide, sold under the
name Miracle/Master Mineral Solution (MMS) but basically diluted
bleach.25 The popularity of MMS is attributed to Jim Humble, who heads
228
the ‘Genesis II Church of Health and Healing’. Humble claims that autism
is caused by viruses and bacteria, and that MMS kills off those pathogens
and cures the condition.26 Not only has this claim no scientific validity,
but giving bleach to a child is highly dangerous. Jeff Foster, a British clin
ician in Leamington Spa, is highly critical of this treatment: ‘Autism is a
neuro-developmental disease . . . developed in the womb or early stages of
life. You can’t just reverse it and anyone claiming that does not under
stand the condition. When you have very extreme measures like this to
“cure” a condition it’s just a roulette game. Eventually someone will die.’27
In fact, there is a different approach to autism that, far from seeing it as
a disorder to be ‘cured’, instead views at least less severe cases as part of
the natural spectrum of human characteristics. Such an approach high
lights the positive, rather than negative, aspects of autism. But it also sees
the development of the full potential of an autistic individual as a key
issue for society as a whole, rather than simply a problem for that indi
vidual or their parents.
In many ways the recognition that autism can have positive aspects is
not a new one. Ever since Asperger’s identification of high-achieving
autistic children became more widely known about in the 1980s, there
has been increasing recognition that some people with autism can be
highly creative individuals.28 For instance, actor Darryl Hannah has
spoken about her struggles with autism since she was a child. Tito
Mukhopadhyay is virtually mute, but the eloquent poems he writes by
hand or types out have provided a window into how an autistic person
can experience life. The artist Stephen Wiltshire has become well known
for his ability to draw landscapes in exact detail even after seeing them
only once. And many IT experts in California’s ‘Silicon Valley’ have been
noted to have autistic traits.29
However, there is a potential problem with a focus only on high-
achieving autistic individuals, since this can lead to the idea that people
who do not succeed in such conventional terms are somehow less worthy
of attention. Instead it is important that we consider ways in which the
potential of every autistic individual might be boosted. To do so, we
229
need to recognize the positive aspects of autism, but also consider how
educational measures might address the more negative features of the
condition. To some extent this means widening our definition of what it
means to be creative.
In general, autistic individuals have been perceived as being more rigid
in their behaviour. This rigidity is linked to the difficulty they often have
in judging the actions and intentions of others, and their tendency towards
restricted, repetitive, or stereotyped behaviour. Because of these charac
teristics, it is often assumed that autistic individuals will also be more
rigid in their imaginative and creative processes. Yet recent studies have
tended to undermine this idea, and instead have suggested that given the
right opportunities people with autistic traits can come up with unusually
creative ideas.
For instance, a study led by Catherine Best at the University of Stirling
assessed creativity in autistic and non-autistic individuals by asking them
to generate ideas about static objects such as paper clips and abstract
images.30 Participants were expected to create their own context; the
objects were not defined by their use in society. Those with autistic traits
offered fewer responses to problems presented, but their solutions were
more original and creative than those without such traits. For instance,
when asked to list possible uses for a paper clip, creative responses of
autistic individuals included using the wire to support flowers, creating a
paper airplane weight, or making a token for a board game.31
The finding that autistic individuals are better able to display their cre
ativity and imagination in situations that are less dependent on social
context makes sense given previous evidence that people with autism
often have trouble interpreting their experiences within such a context.
Most of us habitually identify objects by their relationship to other elem
ents of a social situation. For example, we might distinguish between a
salt and sugar shaker by the presence or absence of a pepper shaker or a
coffee pot. Autistic individuals can find it more difficult to use social cues
in this way. Intriguingly, this association of ‘opposites’ that is a character
istic of much ‘normal’ life—think also of the way we tend to picture a
230
knife and fork together—is reminiscent of what Lev Vygotsky termed

grouping into complexes, which he distinguished from true conceptual
thought. So autistic individuals may be identifying contradictions in a lot
of what passes for conceptual thought in many everyday situations. What
the findings do indicate is that when autistic people are shown images on
a context-less background, they can visualize contexts not usually associ
ated with those objects, which may be one, but not the only, explanation
for their higher degree of creativity.
Jolanta Lasota, chief executive of the charity Ambitious about Autism,
is enthusiastic about the findings of Best and her colleagues, remarking
that ‘there are many misconceptions and myths about autism, the biggest
one including being antisocial and having a lack of empathy. However,
what people with autism struggle with is fitting their feelings of sympathy
and caring into everyday interactions. While it is true that some people
with autism can have very specific interests and may struggle with abstract
concepts, this research helps to highlight the fact that seeing the world in
a different way can be a positive trait too.’32
It is one thing to recognize the potential of autistic individuals, but
this still leaves the question of how we develop such potential. For
although discussion of autism often focuses on highly talented individ
uals with this condition, the reality is that just 16 per cent of autistic
adults in the UK are in full-time work.33 What is more, this figure has
remained the same for the past decade, showing that autistic people are
not benefiting from British employment programmes. A similarly large
majority of autistic individuals fail to find full-time work in the USA.34
This suggests that either people with autism are being failed by their
schools or there is something else preventing such individuals from
entering the world of work.35
In terms of education, there is much of potential value in Lev Vygotsky’s
approach to learning disability.36 For although his interests in human
consciousness were many and varied, one particular area in which
Vygotsky played a key practical role was in developing educational pro
grammes for children with special needs in schools in the Soviet Union in
231
the 1920s and early 1930s.37 He argued that children learn best through
shared social activities and when education is geared towards everyday
experiences. Such an approach is especially important for children with
learning difficulties.38 An apparent lack of motivation and intellect in
some children may conceal an inability to connect the abstract content of
school lessons with their own experiences. Vygotsky also believed that a
vast potential exists in every child and was fond of mentioning the example
of Helen Keller, who, although she became a blind deaf mute at nineteen
months old as a result of scarlet fever, nevertheless grew up to become a
famous philosopher, scholar, and social activist.39
Vygotsky focused on three different areas of special needs education.
First were the children labelled ‘learning disabled’ but whose difficulties
stemmed from a deprived social environment.40 This was particularly
important in the nascent Soviet Union in the 1920s as the First World War,
then civil war and famine, had left as many as seven million homeless,
orphaned, abandoned, and neglected children, many of whom were
severely disturbed in their mental development. In extremely forward
thinking for this period of history, Vygotsky argued that addressing social
problems was central to solving children’s learning difficulties.
Second, there were children whose learning difficulties were an indir
ect consequence of a disorder like deafness or blindness.41 According to
Vygotsky, despite the physical origin of these conditions, it is nevertheless
their effect upon the child’s integration into society which is most import
ant. He campaigned for entry of disabled children into mainstream edu
cation and for their participation in the state youth movement, but also
stressed that such integration should not come at the expense of extra
resources for special education.
One of Vygotsky’s central ideas is that human consciousness has been
transformed throughout history by cultural innovations like reading and
writing. He believed that society has a duty to develop and propagate the
sort of innovations that would allow disabled children to benefit from the
wealth of human culture. In Vygotsky’s time there were only Braille
and various forms of sign language, but computers now surely have
232
r evolutionary potential as a powerful interface between severely disabled

children and the outside world.
That Vygotsky started from the potential of disabled children rather
than from their disability is shown most clearly in his work with children
with severe mental disabilities, the third area he dealt with.42 Such chil
dren are often ‘written off’ as incapable of complex reasoning and thus
are given only the simplest of learning tasks. Yet in Vygotsky’s opinion,
such an approach only reinforced their handicaps. Instead, if children
lack well-elaborated forms of abstract thought, the school should make
every effort to guide them in that direction.
Vygotsky found that such children best acquired the motivation to take
on abstract learning tasks in a cooperative learning strategy involving a
division of work in which children tackle different tasks in a group with a
shared motive for the entire activity.43 This provided both the opportunity
and the need for cooperation and joint activity by giving the children tasks
that were beyond the developmental level of some, if not all, of them.
Such an approach to learning disability has informed more recent
approaches to the education of autistic individuals, for instance that
developed by Pamela Wolfberg and colleagues at San Francisco State
University.44 Vygotsky viewed the individual and environment as factors
that mutually shape each other in an integrated process of growth. So as
a child grows older, they interpret the social environment differently
according to their development. Since children develop consciousness
through the mediation of culture, it is important through education to
create conditions in which culture becomes accessible to each child, no
matter what their particular needs. Wolfberg and colleagues argue that
‘one obstacle in achieving such a goal with autistic children is that their
peer interactions, and indeed social interactions in general, are character
ized by low rates of both initiation and response.’45
The use of non-verbal communication, including gestures and emo
tional expressions, is also different in autistic children, both expressively
and receptively.46 Such children use fewer non-verbal gestures and a more
limited range of facial expressions in their communications than children
233
with other types of developmental disabilities of the same developmental

and chronological age. Children with autism appear to pay less attention
to other people’s emotional displays than do comparison groups and
demonstrate fewer acts of empathy or shared emotion. They also engage
in less imitation of other people’s actions, movements, and vocalizations.
Finally, their relatively weak verbal skills, coupled with the social-
interactional differences characteristic of autism, can be factors that prevent
participation in the type of linguistically mediated social interaction upon
which inner speech is dependent, and which Vygotsky saw as so important
for development of consciousness.
Wolfberg believes that such factors mean children with autism may
benefit if included in cooperative learning groups working together with
their peers.47 Because of their social deficiencies an autistic child can be
stimulated with the help of a talented teacher, so that the child can develop
his or her skills which might otherwise be unrealized. Vygotsky criticized
psychologists and educators who are chiefly concerned with counting
and tabulating a child’s weaknesses, particularly when they use those
measurements as the whole basis for placing the child in one part of an
educational programme.48 In contrast, he argued that the only point of
tests should be to develop a child’s strengths and talents, which differ for
every child.
As an autistic child grows up they have specific differences that affect
their behaviour and contact with others in a social environment.49 Learning
in a cooperative group could eliminate the social problems of an autistic
child as the child learns how to be an active member of a team. The child
in such a group can begin to learn how to use speech in a meaningful
environment. The development of speech leads first to the child’s social
ization at a cultural level and subsequently to a natural development.
Unfortunately, there are still classrooms in which students with disabilities
are segregated physically, instructionally, and socially.50 In such class
rooms, students with disabilities may follow different schedules and have
separate physical spaces set aside for them. All of this can inhibit the devel
opment of social interactions between autistic children and their peers.
234
One particular challenge that autistic children face is during play.51

While typically developing children need little motivation or guidance to
play with peers, autistic children encounter significant obstacles gaining
equal access to, and benefits from, inclusion in peer-play experiences.
Without explicit support, they are likely to remain isolated and therefore
deprived of consistent interactive play experiences that encourage devel
opmental growth and meaningful peer relationships. Developmental
delays and differences in underlying capacities for joint attention, imita
tion, and social interaction are all closely intertwined with an emerging
capacity for play. In sharp contrast to the richly diverse social and imagin
ary pursuits of typical children, the play of children with autism is typified
by restricted, repetitive, and stereotyped patterns of behaviour, interests,
and activities, which they often pursue in isolation.52 With few friend
ships available to them and various social competency deficits, autistic
students may have limited ability to cope with the myriad of social inter
actions present in the school setting, making them susceptible to teasing
and bullying. As a result, they can often learn to avoid social contacts,
leading to more social rejection. For these students, time with typical
peers needs to be organized and planned into the school day.
A completely different mental condition to autism but one in which
there is increasing recognition of its positive aspects is bipolar disorder.
This condition affects 1 in 100 people in the UK and is characterized by
periods of depression followed by episodes of mania, during which
affected individuals can feel extraordinarily happy, ambitious, and cre
ative, but also sometimes in this phase they can become psychotic
(Figure 26).53 The high and low phases of bipolar disorder are often so
extreme that they interfere with everyday life; consequentially this can be
a highly debilitating disorder. However, there is also an association of this
mental disorder with great creativity and high levels of intelligence.
For instance, a study by Daniel Smith and colleagues at the
University of Glasgow highlighted the links between bipolar disorder
and intelligence.54 The researchers tested the IQ of individuals at age eight.
These same individuals were then assessed for manic traits when aged
235
Bipolar I
Mania
Hypomania
Normal
variation
Minor
depression
Unipolar
(depression)
Major
depression
Bipolar II
Figure 26 Mood changes in bipolar individuals compared to normal variation.
22 or 23. Each person was given a score related to how many manic traits
they had previously experienced. The study showed that individuals in
the top 10 per cent of manic characteristics had a childhood IQ 10 points
higher than those who scored in the lowest 10 per cent. This correlation
was strongest for verbal IQ. Smith claims that the study offers a possible
explanation for how bipolar disorder may have been selected for through
generations.55 He hopes the findings will help improve the earlier detec
tion of the disorder, which could then lead to measures ‘to help someone
at high risk of bipolar, such as making certain lifestyle changes, protect
ing sleep patterns, [and] avoiding certain stresses’.56
Bipolar disorder entails dramatic mood swings between extreme hap
piness and severe depression. How might this be linked to creativity?
James Fallon of the University of California, Irvine, notes that people with
bipolar tend to be creative when they are coming out of deep depression.57
When a bipolar patient’s mood improves, their brain activity does too:
activity decreases in the lower part of the frontal lobe brain region and
increases in a higher part of that lobe. Interestingly, the same shift hap
pens when unaffected individuals have creative bouts.58 Interpreting how
the brain patterns translate into conscious thought, Elyn Saks, a mental
health law professor at the University of Southern California, believes
that individuals in the manic phase of bipolar disorder do not filter stimuli
as well as other people. Instead, they can entertain contradictory ideas
simultaneously and become aware of loose associations that most
236
eople’s unconscious brains would not consider worthy of sending to the

p
surface of our consciousness. Saks believes that while the invasion of
nonsense into conscious thought can be overwhelming and disruptive, it
can also be quite creative.59 For example, word association studies, which
ask participants to list all the words that come to mind in relation to a
stimulus word, have demonstrated that bipolar patients undergoing mild
mania can generate three times as many word associations in a given time
period as the general population.60 As for how this leads to strokes of
genius, it could be that the sheer bounty of unsuppressed ideas means a
greater probability of producing something profound.
Of course, no one is bursting with creative energy during a severe bout
of depression. Above all, conditions like bipolar are debilitating and even
life-threatening, and although society benefits from the productivity of
its tortured geniuses, those individuals do not always consider their
moments of brilliance to be worth the extensive suffering. Indeed Saks
believes that ‘the creativity is just one part of something that is mostly
bad.’61 This is an important point to make lest it be thought that there is
anything glamorous about suffering from a mental disorder. As journal
ist Hannah Jane Parkinson, who suffers from bipolar disorder, has said
about the link between the condition and creativity, ‘the concept itself
isn’t a problem; rather, it’s the danger inherent in the tortured-genius
trope. What about those with mental illness who work in retail, or are
civil servants, or pull pints? Do these people not get a look in? How many
albums does a person need to make, how many prizes need to be won,
before mental health issues become acceptable?’62 Parkinson also notes
how Vincent Van Gogh wrote, ‘If I could have worked without this
accursed disease, what things I might have done.’
The fact is that the more we learn about mental conditions such as
bipolar, but also psychiatric disorders like schizophrenia and clinical
depression, as well as autism, the more we are beginning to realize that
such conditions seem to be linked to a broad spectrum of biological and
environmental triggers, but they are also highly varied in their effects on
the individual. What is clearly required, therefore, is more understanding
237
not only of the positive as well as the negative aspects of mental ‘illnesses’,
but also about the diversity of such conditions, and the fact that such
diversity overlaps with that of supposedly ‘normal individuals’. And,
indeed, one positive aspect of the past few years has been an increased
willingness for people to talk about their experience of having a mental
‘disorder’ as well as increased acceptance of people with such conditions.
There is, however, one exception to such acceptance, and that is when it
comes to the criminally insane, a subject we will now explore.
238
CH A P T ER 15
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

z
M y home city of Bradford, Yorkshire, is famous for a number of

things. There is its former textile industry, so important in past
times that the city was known as the ‘wool capital of the world’ and
T. S. Eliot could write in his 1922 poem The Waste Land, about people ‘on
whom assurance sits, as a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire’, satirizing the
city’s textile barons.1 Although that industry has now almost disappeared,
the people of the Indian subcontinent who came to work in its mills made
such an impression that now the city is often referred to as ‘Bradistan’,
and bills itself as ‘the curry capital of Britain’.2 One could also point to the
city’s artistic heritage, ranging from the novels of the Brontë sisters, who
were born in Bradford before moving to nearby Howarth, and the
nineteenth-century ‘model’ workers’ village in Saltaire—now a UNESCO
site, to David Hockney’s artwork.3 However, one association that Bradford
people are less happy to be reminded of is the city’s link with serial killers.
In the late 1970s and early 1980s, fear gripped Bradford citizens due to
the murderous activities of an individual the media dubbed the ‘Yorkshire
Ripper’, because of the horrific way he mutilated his female victims. In
1981, he was identified as Peter Sutcliffe, a Bradford lorry driver—but only
after he had murdered 13 young women and attempted to kill seven others
who survived, but were left scarred, both physically and emotionally, for
life.4 There has been subsequent criticism of the time it took to catch
Sutcliffe, and especially the fact that he was interviewed by the police nine
times as a potential suspect, but let go each time.
One problem was that the police saw the killer as a murderer of prosti-
tutes, despite the fact that many of the victims had no connection to the
cr ime a nd pu nishme n t
sex trade. This meant that detectives excluded evidence of attacks on

women unconnected with the trade, even if they shared characteristics
with the Ripper murders. In the end it was luck—he was stopped for a
traffic offence—rather than detective work, that led to Sutcliffe’s arrest,
prompting Joan Smith, a reporter who covered the case, to recently say
that ‘the original investigation was a fiasco, and women died as a result.’5
Unfortunately, Sutcliffe was not the only serial murderer to plague
Bradford in the 1970s. Donald Neilson was a builder who lived in
Thornbury, a suburb to the east of the city. I spent the first five years of my
life in Thornbury, in a house just around the corner from the street in
which Neilson lived, and my sister went to one of his daughter’s birthday
parties. Yet some years later Neilson was identified as a masked killer
named the ‘Black Panther’ who had become Britain’s most wanted man
because of his brutal murder of three postmasters during armed robber-
ies of post offices across West Yorkshire.6
Neilson acquired his nickname due to his habit of dressing all in black
but also because the wife of one of the murdered men described the killer
as ‘so quick, he was like a panther.’7 It was also surely not a coincidence
that the media adopted this nickname because of its association with the
Black Panther Party, the US black activist group that were particularly
prominent at the time.8 Indeed, the white, but masked and gloved Nielson
played along with this association by mimicking a Jamaican accent on
one raid.
While the murders of the postmasters were horrifying enough, it was
the manner of the death of Neilson’s final victim that shocked the nation.
Lesley Whittle, a wealthy heiress, was only 17 years old when she was
abducted by Neilson from her Shropshire home and imprisoned in a
drainage shaft while he sought money for her release.9 Finally, after vari-
ous attempts to deliver the ransom failed, Whittle was discovered, but in
horrific and tragic circumstances. She had been left by Neilson naked, in
the dark, on a ladder in the drainage shaft, without food or water, with
a wire noose around her neck. What happened next is unclear, but
Whittle was found dead, hanging from the noose. On Neilson’s eventual
240
arrest—again, mainly due to luck rather than detective skills—he was

sentenced to life in jail.10
So what was going on in the brain of Peter Sutcliffe when he killed and
mutilated women in such a horrific fashion? Or in that of Neilson who—
while his main motive was material gain—had such disregard for his vic-
tims that he could so brutally dispatch them, while leaving a teenage girl
the same age as his own daughter in such torturous conditions, leading
ultimately to her death? Was it some biological defect in these individuals,
or an event in their past lives, that led them to behave in such a vile and
despicable way towards their fellow human beings? These are questions I
will explore in this chapter, beginning with the question of whether brain
biology is significantly different in a serial killer.
One of the first people to suggest that criminality arose from abnor-
malities in the brain was Cesare Lombroso, an Italian surgeon who in 1871
conducted a post-mortem of a serial murderer and rapist. Lombroso dis-
covered an unusual hollow at the base of the man’s skull, which he claimed
was similar to that found in apes. For Lombroso, ‘at the sight of that skull,
I seemed to see all of a sudden, lighted up as a vast plain under a flaming
sky, the problem of the nature of the criminal—an atavistic being who
produces in his person the ferocious instincts of primitive humanity and
the inferior animals.’11 He subsequently identified other features that con-
firmed his prejudice that criminality was a consequence of a reversion to
animal and primitive human behaviour. According to Lombroso, thieves
had an expressive face, manual dexterity, and small, wandering eyes, mur-
derers had glassy stares, and rapists had ‘jug ears’.12 And to support his
belief that criminals display animal-like characteristics, he claimed that
they often had irregularly shaped earlobes like those of apes, or a hooked
nose, which ‘so often imparts to criminals the aspect of birds of prey.’13
While Lombroso’s theories can be dismissed as a product of a mis-
understanding of evolutionary mechanisms and the prejudices of his
time, this does not mean that the belief that criminality has a biological
basis is no longer held. Indeed, there has been a recent resurgence in
this view, focusing on the claim that criminality is a product of biological
241
differences in the brain. The claim is based on genetic analysis and

study of the brain itself.
One gene linked to criminal behaviour is monoamine oxidase A
(MAOA), which encodes an enzyme that destroys a particular type of
neurotransmitter as a way of controlling its activity. The link emerged
with a study of a Dutch family which, through five generations going
back to 1870, has been full of male criminals, including arsonists,
attempted murderers, and a rapist.14 Han Brunner, a doctor in Nijmegen,
examined the family and found a shared defect in the MAOA gene, which
is on the X chromosome. Since men have only one X chromosome, such
a defect could affect males, but be passed down by unaffected female car-
riers. When Brunner tested the men’s urine, he found low levels of MAOA
metabolic breakdown products. A further study suggested that violence
associated with the defective variant was significantly worsened if the
perpetrator had been sexually abused as a child, whereas abused children
with a normal MAOA gene were less likely to be criminals.
The link between violent crime and MAOA was strengthened by
another study, by Jari Tiihonen of the Karolinska Institute, Sweden, who
investigated almost 900 violent repeat offenders in Finland. Tiihonen
thinks one way MAOA deficiency might work is that it could result in
‘dopamine hyperactivity’ especially if an individual drinks alcohol or
takes drugs such as amphetamines (Figure 27).15 However, Jan Schnupp of
City University, Hong Kong, has criticized claims of a strong link between
MAOA and criminality, commenting that up to half the population could
have one of the gene variants involved. He notes that ‘to call these alleles
“genes for violence” would therefore be a massive exaggeration. In com
bination with many other factors these genes may make it a little harder
for you to control violent urges, but they most emphatically do not prede-
termine you for a life of crime.’16
Studies like those above highlight the potential pitfalls in trying to relate
a complex human behaviour—in this case criminality—to one or a few
genes that play roles in the brain. But what about studying the brain itself—
can this lead to insights into the mind of a criminal? One scientist
242
Adverse
environment?
Increased
negative Increased
Hyperactive emotional likelihood and
amygdala and salience and intensity of
underactive decreased aggressive
Biased ventromedial impulse response to
development prefrontal control provocation
of neuronal cortex
systems
MAOA
low
Figure 27 Proposal for how low levels of MAOA are supposed to be linked
to crime.
edicated to finding such a link is Adrian Raine, born in Darlington,

d
England, but now a professor at the University of Pennsylvania. Raine did
his PhD in Oxford with Richard Dawkins, author of The Selfish Gene, who
convinced him of the ‘all-embracing influence of evolution on behav-
iour’.17 Eager to apply this idea to the study of criminality, but finding little
support in Britain for such a project, in the 1980s Raine moved to the USA.
In 1994, Raine used positron emission tomography (PET) to scan the
brains of convicted killers and those of a control group of people of a
similar age and profile. Intriguingly, the analysis—which reveals changes
in metabolic activity in different parts of the brain—showed what
appeared to be a significant reduction in the development of the prefrontal
cortex in the murderers’ brains.18 This is a region which, as we have seen,
has been proposed to mediate higher mental functions. Raine suggested
that such differences may indicate that murderers have less control over
the limbic system that generates primal emotions such as anger and rage;
a greater addiction to risk; a reduction in self-control; and poor
problem-solving skills—all traits that might lead a person to violence.
Yet the difficulties in demonstrating that such differences determine an
individual’s likelihood of becoming a criminal became evident when
Raine scanned his own brain. For, somewhat to his alarm, he found that
243
he shared more characteristics with the murderers than with the control
group!19 Not only that, but Raine has other indicators that he believes pre-
dict future criminal behaviour, one being a markedly low heart rate—the
idea being that people with a slow resting heartbeat have lower levels of
what psychologists call arousal, or the feeling of being awake and alert,
and therefore seek out stimulating experiences, which could include risky
behaviours and criminal activities, to boost their arousal.
Indeed Raine has admitted that ‘from age nine to 11, I was pretty anti
social, in a gang, smoking, letting car tyres down, setting fire to mail-
boxes . . . [but then at] 11, I changed schools, got more interested in studying
and really became a different sort of kid.’20 But this surely raises questions
about whether biology can ‘determine’ criminal behaviour, if the same
biological and juvenile behaviour profile can occur in criminals, but also
in a neuroscientist studying such individuals. And make what you will of
the fact that I share with Raine not only our academic profession, but also
aspects of his youthful behaviour: as a teenager I too was a juvenile delin-
quent, being a prolific shoplifter for several years. And I also have at least
one of the biological features that Raine has linked to criminal behav-
iour—a pulse rate that is under 57 beats per minute.21
One problem in looking for biological differences as the primary cause
of criminality is that this could mean less acknowledgement of the role of
environment in the development of a criminal personality. Indeed, this is
admitted by Raine, who has said that ‘the sociologist would say if we con-
centrate on these biological things, or even acknowledge them, we are
immediately taking our eyes off other causes of criminal behaviour—
poverty, bad neighbourhoods, poor nutrition, lack of education and so
on. All things that need to change. And that concern is correct. It is why
social scientists have fought this science for so long.’22
But it also means that both Raine’s and my own social circumstances
could have had a major impact on how we turned out in life. While I can-
not speak for Raine, certainly my family’s love and support helped turn
me away from petty crime as a teenager. My sister in particular played an
important role, for when I was caught shoplifting by a store detective, it
244
was Kay’s pleas that persuaded her not to hand me over to the police. If I
had been charged with a criminal offence, who knows how different my
life might have turned out. And this raises important questions about
the role of biology versus environment, but also that of chance and cir-
cumstance, as important determinants of criminality and anti-social
behaviour.
Of course, trauma during childhood might itself affect brain function.
This idea has received support from anecdotal evidence that several
notorious US serial killers experienced physically traumatic situations
that may have affected their brains.23 For instance, Ed Gein, a murderer
who fashioned clothing and furniture out of women’s body parts, was
repeatedly beaten around the head by his father. Gary Heidnik, who kid-
napped, tortured, raped, and killed women whom he held prisoner in a
pit in his basement in Philadelphia (an activity recreated in the film The
Silence of the Lambs), fell from a tree at six years old and hit his head hard
enough to deform his skull. Jerr Brudos, who killed four women and had
sex with their dead bodies, was electrocuted as a 21 year old and com-
plained of recurring headaches and blackouts thereafter. And Edmund
Kemper, a murderer and necrophiliac who killed ten people, suffered a
head injury after crashing his motorcycle.
To investigate whether brain trauma might make an individual more
likely to become a criminal, a recent study led by Ryan Darby of
Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee, imaged the brains of indi-
viduals whose criminal activities ranged from fraud and theft to assault,
rape, and murder and who had also suffered injuries to their brains
because of trauma, stroke, or tumours.24 Darby claimed to have found
evidence that the injuries caused impairments in brain regions involved
in ‘morality, value-based decision-making, and theory of mind’—these
being mental attributes that allow us to understand the mental processes
and perspectives of others.25 Commenting on the findings, Winnifred
Louis, a psychologist at the University of Queensland, Australia, believes
they suggest that ‘the lesions are biasing people towards more utilitarian
decisions’, with the brain impairments leaving intact the ability of the
245
brain to make reward calculations for the self, but having a negative
impact on the ability to understand how it would feel to be in the pos
ition of the victims of crime.26
Yet before we get too carried away with the idea of a link between brain
injuries and criminal behaviour, it is worth re-examining the lives of some
of the US serial killers mentioned earlier. For as well as suffering injuries
to their heads, causing possible brain damage, many also experienced
substantial psychological trauma as children. Take Ed Gein. As well as
being regularly beaten by his father, Gein had an unhealthy relationship
with his mother, the nature of which partly inspired Alfred Hitchcock’s
film Psycho.27 Gein’s mother verbally abused her son and taught him that
all women, apart from her, were prostitutes and instruments of the devil.
Yet Gein worshipped his mother, referring to her as a ‘saint’. Edmund
Kemper’s mother belittled, humiliated, and abused her son, often making
him sleep in the basement. She refused to cuddle him for fear she would
‘turn him gay’, yet also told Kemper no woman would ever love him.28
Gary Heidnek was punished by his father for bed-wetting by being dan-
gled from a window by the ankles.29
In my home city of Bradford, Peter Sutcliffe was apparently deeply
affected by growing up in a religious Catholic background at the same
time as seeing his alcoholic father often abuse his wife, Peter’s mother,
including calling her a cheat in public.30 It seems possible that such abu-
sive environments may have contributed to shaping the individuals that
carried out such heinous acts, even if brain injury may also have played a
role in some individuals. And while the examples above are anecdotal, a
systematic study by Heather Mitchell and Michael Aamodt of Radford
University, Virginia, has found that serial killers are six times more likely
to have suffered abuse as children than the general population.31
Besides serial killers, maybe nothing is as likely to generate revulsion in
society as paedophilia. Although girls typically begin puberty at age 10 or
11, and boys at age 11 or 12, paedophiles are generally defined as individuals
attracted to children under 13. A person must be at least 16 years old, and
at least five years older than the prepubescent child, to be diagnosed as a
246
paedophile.32 This behaviour triggers revulsion in others not only because

of the perceived unnaturalness of the attraction, but also because if paedo
philes act upon their desires, they may wreck the future lives of the chil-
dren they target, with all the physical and psychological trauma that can
thereby ensue. But most of all, the revulsion is based on the fact that chil-
dren are seen as innocent and vulnerable compared to adults and the
paedophile threatens to exploit that vulnerability and destroy that inno-
cence. Important questions to address then are what causes paedophilia,
and whether a better understanding of it could help us diagnose and treat
those with the disorder.33
Understandably, some believe we should not even debate this issue. As
Paul Jones, father of April Jones, a five-year-old girl from Machynlleth,
Wales, who was abducted and murdered by a paedophile in 2012, has said,
‘people, they think “why should we help the paedophile? We should be
prosecuting them, throwing them in jail, having them castrated”.’34
Perhaps surprisingly, Jones does not believe in this approach. As he notes,
‘if we offer help to paedophiles we might save children who might have
been abused.’35 If we take this approach, we need to establish, as for other
mental disorders, whether paedophiles are a product of biology or envir
onment. And as also for other disorders, increasingly the evidence is that
both nature and nurture play a role in the genesis of paedophilia.
Certainly some people think the condition is primarily a product of
defective biology. For instance, James Cantor, of the Centre for Addiction
and Mental Health in Toronto, who uses magnetic resonance imaging to
scan paedophiles’ brains, believes that ‘paedophilia is a sexual orienta-
tion, [it’s] something that we are essentially born with, does not appear to
change over time and it’s as core to our being as any other sexual orienta-
tion is.’36 Cantor claims his studies show that the brains of paedophiles are
wired differently to non-paedophiles. According to him, ‘it’s as if, in these
people, when they perceive a child, it’s triggering the sexual instincts
instead of triggering the nurturing instincts.’37
But we need to know whether any differences detected in scans of
paedophiles’ brains are a cause of their behaviour, or its consequence.
247
It is worth mentioning in this context the case of a US citizen who sud-

denly developed a sexual attraction towards children. This man, who was
living with his second wife and his stepdaughter in 2000, became over-
come by troubling urges.38 Although harbouring a strong interest in
pornography since his teen years, he claimed to have never been attracted
to children. Yet now he began collecting magazines and websites focusing
on paedophilia and making sexual advances towards his prepubescent
stepdaughter. She told her mother, and the man was thrown out of the
family home. However, at this point, he began experiencing violent head-
aches and loss of balance.39 Rushed to hospital, a scan revealed that he
was suffering from a brain tumour.
Amazingly, once this was surgically removed, the man’s headaches and
balance problems disappeared, but so did his paedophilic urges. Seven
months later, he completed a sexual offenders’ rehabilitation programme
and was allowed to return home to his wife and stepdaughter. But he
became concerned when he again started to develop persistent headaches
and a renewed interest in child pornography. The tumour that apparently
had caused his paedophilia had returned. When it was removed, he was
once again cured. Scientists concluded that the tumour interfered with
the orbifrontal cortex which helps to regulate social behaviour and likely
exacerbated the man’s pre-existing interest in pornography, ‘manifesting
sexual deviancy and paedophilia’.40 Obviously this is an unusual case, and
paedophilia is clearly not generally caused by brain tumours, but it does
show that brain structure and biology should not be disregarded—as a
‘blank slate’ view of the mind might do—when seeking to explain why
some individuals show such horrifying sexual urges.
At the same time, it seems that an individual’s environment, particularly
when they themselves are still a child, can also have an important impact
on whether they will later develop paedophilic urges. Sadly, evidence shows
that many people who sexually abuse children were themselves abused as a
child. Take for example Nicholas, a married father-of-four who admitted to
being attracted to boys aged 12 to 14 in a 2016 report about paedophilia, but
says he has never acted on his urges. According to him, ‘no-one chooses to
248
be sexually attracted to children. And those of us who are unlucky enough

to be sexually attracted to children can’t [make it go away]. But many of us
can and do successfully resist our attraction.’41 Yet Nicholas knows what it
is like to be a recipient of such abuse. At 12 years old, he was molested by a
holiday camp counsellor. In fact, about half of child sex offenders appear to
have been sexually abused themselves as children.42
It is important to note that the vast majority of sexual abuse victims do
not grow up to become abusers. However, some scientists believe a bio-
logical predisposition to the condition, combined with the experience of
being molested as a child, might lead to someone developing the condi-
tion as an adult. According to James Cantor, ‘it could be that biology
causes paedophilia, but that environment makes a person more likely to
act on that sexual interest and molest a child.’43 Similarly, a combination
of both nature and nurture might be seen as producing a serial killer.
A common form such a viewpoint takes is that biology and environment
are separate, albeit able to produce a combined effect in an individual.
However, as we saw earlier, the idea that human behaviour is determined
by either biology or social environment, or a simple combination of the
two, is being challenged by new findings in epigenetics, a subject that a
recent article in Nature claimed provides ‘a molecular middle ground in
the centuries-old debate over nature versus nurture.’44
Epigenetic changes, recall, include anything that modifies a gene’s
activity without changing its DNA sequence. Such changes, which include
DNA methylation, chemical modifications in the histone proteins that
wrap around the DNA, and alterations in the proteins and RNAs that
regulate gene expression, explain why different cell types—for instance, a
heart cell or a neuron—differ greatly in their functional properties despite
having the same genome. More controversially, there is emerging evi-
dence that epigenetic changes can be passed down through several gen-
erations.45 So what evidence is there that epigenetic effects might be
involved in the development of criminal or anti-social behaviour?
Exposure to violent or criminal behaviour as a child might result in a
tendency for that individual to be drawn towards such behaviour as an
249
adult. That might explain why criminal behaviour often runs in families,
and why individuals abused as children may grow up to be abusers them-
selves. Of course, such patterns of repetition could simply reflect the fact
that crime tends to be concentrated in less affluent layers of society, or
that criminal behaviour can be learned. This latter point is after all what a
simplistic ‘blank slate’ view of human behaviour would predict. Yet a
recent study in rats suggests that exposure to trauma during adolescence
can also lead to epigenetic changes associated with aggressive behaviour
in adulthood. This study, led by Carmen Sandi at the Brain Mind Institute
in Lausanne, Switzerland, briefly exposed 28- to 42-day-old adolescent
rats to a fox odour or a bright light every day for seven days.46 Rats exposed
to such fearful stimuli grew up to become what Sandi termed ‘bullies’
who violently attacked any new rat introduced to their cage. In contrast,
rats not exposed to such stimuli as adolescents were significantly less
aggressive.
Imaging studies showed that rats stressed in adolescence had increased
activity in the amygdala—the brain region associated with fear
responses—and lower activity in the prefrontal cortex, involved in social
behaviour and conduct.47 In addition, stress-exposed rats displayed hor-
monal irregularities (high testosterone and low corticosterone levels)
which are associated with aggression and violence in humans. Studies of
the rats’ DNA showed epigenetic changes in the cells of the prefrontal cor-
tex, while adult rats exposed to the stressful stimuli did not show such
changes. This suggests that trauma incurred early in life—but not in
adulthood—can set the stage for aggression in adulthood. Sandi believes
her findings highlight ‘the importance of developing social programs and
scientific research initiatives to offer valid treatments for individuals that
have been victimized early in life.’48
Of course, this is a study of rat behaviour, and it is important to con-
sider the many differences between aggression in humans and that in rats,
and the danger of using terms such as ‘bullying’ to describe aggression in
an animal. Yet there is some evidence that epigenetic mechanisms may
also be at work in the development of violent and anti-social behaviour in
250
humans. For instance, Richard Tremblay of University College Dublin has

taken blood and saliva samples from ‘chronically violent offenders’—that
is, people who have committed murder and other serious crimes—and
used these to study epigenetic ‘marks’ across the genome.49 His finding
that several hundred genes, including some linked to aggression, were
marked by patterns of epigenetic activity that differed from those he saw
in a control group has led him to say that ‘it looks like there is an epigen
etic basis for the transmission of violence, and not only does it look like it
but it makes sense.’50
Not everyone accepts such a conclusion. Responding to claims about
the influence of epigenetic changes such as DNA methylation on the
body, Greg Miller, a psychologist at Northwestern University in Chicago,
has argued that ‘it’s a long way from differential methylation to behav-
iour, physical health or mental health.’51 Critics point out that while epi
genetics may be one reason why people abuse drugs or turn to crime, it
cannot explain the detailed trajectory of a person’s life, or their ability—
or inability—to change its course. For instance, Jaleel Abdul-Adil, a
psychologist at the University of Illinois in Chicago (UIC), who works
with at-risk youth, thinks that ‘if the funding stream for research and ser-
vices moves towards trying to classify people, then you’re going to evalu-
ate people based on their physical experiences to the detriment of not just
how these people look but how they suffer.’52
However, others think the findings should force a broad rethinking
about the origins of violence. For instance, Gary Slutkin, also at UIC, who
used to study infectious diseases in East Africa, but now runs Chicago for
Cure Violence—an organization he co-founded in 1995—argues that ‘we
used to think of people with leprosy as bad people because we didn’t
understand what was happening. Epigenetic damage is invisible, and
neuronal circuits are invisible—so until we start to talk about violence as
science we’re still in the Middle Ages.’53
If these are some of the factors that may affect the development of a
serial killer or paedophile, how can modern science inform us what might
be going on inside the mind of such a person? Trying to imagine how a
251
human being could not be inhibited from carrying out such despicable
deeds is made difficult by the revulsion that the overwhelming majority
of us feel when we hear about them. Psychopathic killers characteristic
ally have an apparent absence of remorse or empathy for others, coupled
with a lack of guilt or ability to take responsibility for their actions.54 At
the same time, many serial killers can be superficially charming, which is
one way they lure potential victims into their web of destruction.55 This
dissonance between the violence of their acts and the ability of such indi-
viduals to integrate themselves into wider society as apparently rational,
considerate citizens is one reason why serial killers are rarely considered
to suffer from a mental disorder to such a debilitating extent that they are
considered insane by the criminal justice system.
To be classified as legally insane, an individual should be unable to
comprehend that an action is against the law at the moment the action is
undertaken.56 Because of this, many reports about serial killers present
such individuals as rational—but totally evil—individuals. Yet surely a
truly scientific viewpoint needs to move beyond notions of original sin,
or narrow legal definitions of sanity, and consider instead how an indi-
vidual human can appear rational for much of their existence, yet commit
such horrendous crimes against other people.
One explanation for such cognitive dissonance is that psychopaths are
individuals in whom two minds coexist—one a rational self, able to suc-
cessfully navigate the intricacies of acceptable social behaviour and even
charm and seduce, the other a far more sinister self, capable of the most
unspeakable and violent acts against others. This view of psychopaths has
been a powerful stimulus in fictional portrayals ranging from Dr Jekyll and
Mr Hyde, to Hitchcock’s Psycho, and a more recent film, Split.57 For instance,
in Psycho we learn that the serial killer Norman Bates was so dominated by
his dead mother’s influence that ‘he began to think and speak for her, give
her half his life, so to speak,’ as explained by a ‘psychiatrist’ at the end of
the film.58 Yet there is little evidence that real-life serial killers suffer from
such a form of split personality—now generally referred to as dissociative
identity disorder (DID)—in which an individual has two or more
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ersonalities cohabiting in their mind, apparently unaware of each other.

p
Instead, DID is a condition more associated with victims, rather than per
petrators, of abuse, who adopt multiple personalities as a way of coming
to terms with the horrors they may have encountered, and the effect this
has upon their psyche.59
Of course a perpetrator of abuse may also be a victim, as we have seen,
but in general, serial killers appear not to be split personalities, but rather
people conscious of their acts. Despite this, there is surely a dichotomy in
the minds of such individuals perhaps best personified by US killer Ted
Bundy, who was a ‘charming, handsome, successful individual [yet also] a
sadist, necrophile, rapist, and murderer with zero remorse who took pride
in his ability to successfully kill and evade capture.’60 In Bundy’s case, this
allowed him to evade capture long enough to kill at least the 30 young
women whose murders he confessed to, but the real figure may be sub-
stantially higher. So what was going on inside the head of this ‘charming,
handsome, successful individual’ as he planned his next appalling crime?
One puzzling aspect of serial killers’ minds is the fact that they appear to
lack—or be able to override—the emotional responses that in other p eople
allow us to identify the pain and suffering of other humans as similar to
our own, and empathize with that suffering. A possible explanation of this
deficit was identified in a recent brain imaging study by Michael Koenigs
and colleagues at the University of Wisconsin.61 This showed that criminal
psychopaths had decreased connectivity between the amygdala—which
amongst its other functions as a primary mediator of emotional responses
processes negative stimuli and those that give rise to fearful reactions—
and the ventromedial part of the prefrontal cortex, which interprets
responses from the amygdala. When connectivity between these two
regions is low, processing of negative stimuli in the amygdala does not
translate into any strongly felt negative emotions. This may explain why
criminal psychopaths do not feel nervous or embarrassed when caught
doing something bad, or feel sad when other people suffer.
Yet serial killers also seem to possess an enhanced emotional drive that
leads to an urge to hurt and kill other human beings. This apparent
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contradiction in emotional responses needs to be explained at a neuro-

logical level. At the same time, we should not ignore social influences as
important factors in the development of such contradictory impulses. It
seems possible that serial killers have somehow learned to view their vic-
tims as purely an object to be abused, or even an assembly of unconnected
parts. This might explain why some killers have sex with the dead victim,
or even turn their body into objects of utility or decoration,62 although
that still does not explain why they seem so driven to hurt and kill their
victims. One explanation for the latter phenomenon is that many serial
killers are insecure individuals who feel compelled to kill due to a morbid
fear of rejection.63 In many cases, the fear of rejection seems to result from
having been abandoned or abused by a parent, often their mother, which
as already mentioned has been a feature of many infamous male serial
killers’ lives. Such fear of rejection may compel a fledgling serial killer to
want to eliminate any objects of his affections. He may come to believe
that by destroying the person he desires prior to entering into a relation-
ship with them, he can eliminate the frightening possibility of being
abandoned, humiliated, or otherwise hurt by someone he loves, as he was
in childhood.
Another factor to consider about the minds of serial killers is that such
individuals appear to lack a sense of social conscience. We saw earlier
how an individual human consciousness can be viewed as a kind of dia-
logue. Part of this dialogue involves the representation of acceptable
social behaviour in the mind of the individual. Through our parents, sib-
lings, teachers, peers, and other individuals who influence us as we grow
up, we learn to distinguish right from wrong. It is this that inhibits us
from engaging in anti-social behaviour. Yet serial killers seem to feel they
are exempt from the most important social sanction of all—not taking
another person’s life. Not only that, but some such killers have even
gloated about being exempt from normal social sanctions. For instance,
Richard Ramirez, named the ‘Night Stalker’ by the media, who killed at
least 13 people and possibly six others, claimed at his trial that ‘you don’t
understand me. You are not expected to. You are not capable of it. I am
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beyond your experience. I am beyond good and evil . . . I don’t believe in

the hypocritical, moralistic dogma of this so-called civilized society.’64
Meanwhile, British TV personality Jimmy Saville, who has not been
shown to have murdered anyone, but who sexually abused and raped
over two-hundred vulnerable individuals aged between 5 and 75, described
his behaviour as pursuing the ‘ultimate freedom.’65 Therefore any discus-
sion of the consciousness of the criminally insane needs to consider why
they might feel exempt from social norms. Additionally, to better under-
stand how such individuals arise, we need to move from just considering
the individual mind of the serial killer or paedophile, and also look at the
specific type of society in which such behaviour occurs. Indeed, overly
focusing on the individual criminal, whether in terms of their biology or
life experience, runs the risk of neglecting the fact that individuals live
within a specific society. This matters because the values of that society
may influence not only which types of behaviour are judged acceptable,
but also the different types of distorted behaviour that may develop in
certain individuals within it. We need to consider again the link between
mind and society, but in the context of the advanced capitalist societies
that dominate the world in the early twenty-first century. In particular,
that means recognizing that we do not live in a homogeneous society, but
one divided in very specific ways and particularly by class, that is a class
society. This is important because class may affect the behaviour of those
at the bottom of society, but also those at the very top of the current eco-
nomic system.
In this respect, my decision to mainly focus on the criminally insane in
this chapter, and therefore to look at serial killers, paedophiles, and the
like, may have skewed the discussion about the links between crime and
human consciousness too much away from a consideration of more
mundane forms of crime. Returning to the topic of my home city of
Bradford, I was saddened to read that a 2014 YouGov survey found that it
was judged by those questioned to be Britain’s ‘most dangerous city’.66
This view may have partly been influenced by the riots that took place in
Bradford in 2012.67 But there is also an ongoing problem of crime in the
255
city, often linked to widespread use of drugs such as heroin, and the street
gangs that make money selling such drugs to addicts. Yet lest anyone tries
to claim such a state of affairs reflects a natural disposition towards crime
in my fellow Bradfordians, it is worth pointing out the social backdrop for
this situation, namely that a third of adults in Bradford are out of work, 40
per cent of the city’s wards are among the poorest 20 per cent in Britain,
and the city has the highest level of child poverty in the country.68
In this context it is worth mentioning the words of the US writer and
social reformer Studs Terkel, who has said ‘you know [the phrase] “power
corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely?” It’s the same with
powerlessness. Absolute powerlessness corrupts absolutely.’69 Indeed, the
link between crime and poverty was recently highlighted by one of
Britain’s most senior police chiefs—London Metropolitan Police Assistant
Commissioner Patricia Gallan. In an interview in 2018, she argued that
‘children are not born bad’ and called for more effort to deal with inequal-
ities that leave people feeling like ‘they do not have a stake in society’.70
Asked about the link between poverty and alienation and people com-
mitting crime, Gallan replied that ‘I think if you are a young person and
you haven’t got opportunity necessarily—and this isn’t an excuse for it, it
is explanation—what’s your risk? You’ve got a sense of belonging if you
are in a group or a gang . . . and you get the material aspects that you would
like, so that’s part of the challenge.’71
Moving from drug-linked crime in places like Bradford to a different
set of activities, consider a recent article by Charles Ferguson, a former
adviser to the US White House, about individuals who have ‘tolerated,
and in some cases aggressively courted, money laundering by rogue
states, terrorist organizations, corrupt dictators, and major drug cartels’
over recent decades.72 Furthermore, these people also ‘created special
handbooks on how to evade surveillance, created special business units
to handle money laundering, and actively suppressed whistle-blowers
who warned of drug cartel activities.’73 Finally, Ferguson states that ‘we
now possess overwhelming evidence of massive securities fraud,
accounting fraud, perjury, and criminal . . . violations by [the individuals
256
in question] during the housing bubble that caused the financial crisis [of
2008].’74 At this point you may be wondering who these individuals might
be. Ferguson’s answer is senior executives of some of the world’s main
banking organizations. As he puts it, ‘over the past two decades, the finan-
cial services industry has become a pervasively unethical and highly
criminal industry, with massive fraud tolerated or even encouraged by
senior management.’75 Meanwhile, recent studies conducted by Canadian
psychologist Robert Hare have suggested that while 1 per cent of the gen-
eral population can be categorized as psychopathic, the prevalence in the
finance industry is 10 per cent.76 Yet the individuals mentioned above are
among the richest and most powerful people in the world. So what defines
one set of activities as criminal, yet another as a major route to riches and
the height of high society? And is it really true that so many people who
work in high finance can be classified as having a mental disorder? To
look at these questions further, it is necessary to bring a new factor into
our discussion of human consciousness, namely the question of class,
and the divisions that this gives rise to in current society.
257
Part V
THE SOCIAL MIND

CH A P T ER 16
CLASS AND DIVISION

z
W e currently live in remarkable, but troubling, times. At the start of

this book, I mentioned some recent, amazing technological
achievements of Homo sapiens, ranging from our ability to send robotic
probes to the far reaches of the Solar System, to new techniques in biol-
ogy that allow us to both read and precisely edit the genomes of living
cells. A defining feature of modern society is its continual transformation
by new technologies. Think for instance how advances in computing
have changed the world over the past few decades.1 A decade ago, smart-
phones did not exist. Three decades before that, hardly anyone owned a
computer. Yet today, nearly everyone in the developed world, and large
numbers of people beyond it, seem to be gazing at some form of glowing
electronic device. Meanwhile, the Internet, with its rapidly diversifying
new types of social media, connects billions of people across the planet in
a way that would have been unimaginable to past generations.
Yet despite such technological progress, there are increasing concerns
about where modern civilization is heading.2 Undoubtedly the biggest
concern is climate change, which raises questions about the very future of
civilization because of its likely impact on sea levels—threatening many
major cities—and agriculture, which we rely on to feed the almost eight
billion people on the planet.3 Others include rapidly escalating extinc-
tions of natural species, resistance of bacteria to antibiotics, increasing
military tensions between the major powers, and large numbers of refu-
gees on the move, fleeing war and famine. Even the coronavirus disease
COVID-19 that swept through human populations across the globe in
2020 is claimed to have first spread from bats to humans because of the
cl ass a nd di v ision
erosion of natural bat habitats and poor safety standards in the wild
animal markets that are now a billion dollar industry in some parts of the
world.4 Meanwhile, in many countries, political parties representing
the neoliberal consensus that has dominated politics over recent decades
are losing ground to organizations that offer more extreme solutions to
the current crisis.5
One factor fuelling unrest has been the continuing stagnation of the
world economy, with wage freezes and cuts in public services proposed
as the only solution to the crisis.6 Yet alongside this, the gap between the
super-rich and the majority of people is widening, with a recent report
predicting that by 2030, the richest 1 per cent will own two-thirds of
global wealth.7 All of this is likely to affect the minds of individual
human beings. At the same time, the current scenario raises questions
about the collective consciousness of humanity—as compared to that of
individuals—given the existence of such major divisions in society. In this
chapter I will look at such issues, but to do so, we need first to consider
how the current organization of society arose, and how it compares to
past human societies.
Homo sapiens is around 200,000 years old, but proto-human species
first became distinguished from apes around 6 million years ago.8 For the
vast majority of that time, our ancestors lived in so-called ‘hunter-
gatherer’ societies. In such societies, most or all food is obtained by for
aging for plants and berries and hunting wild animals, in contrast to
agricultural societies, which rely mainly on cultivated crops and domesti-
cated animals.9 Although only small numbers of people still live in hunter-
gatherer societies, studies of such existing societies, as well as a few past
ones, have identified some key features.
A common assumption about such societies is that they probably live
on the brink of starvation. Yet Richard Lee of the University of Toronto
studied the Ju/’hoansi ‘bush people’ of the Kalahari desert in the 1960s,
and found that they made a good living from only 15 hours’ work per
week.10 One source of this success is skill in exploiting natural resources
in a sustainable manner. The Ju/’hoansi consume over 150 plant species,
262
and can hunt and trap effectively any animal they choose, but they only
work to meet immediate needs, do not store surpluses, and also never
harvest more than they can eat in the short term.
Another feature of hunter-gatherers is their egalitarianism. Cambridge-
based anthropologist James Suzman believes that ‘the evidence of our
hunting and gathering ancestors suggests we are hard-wired to respond
viscerally to inequality.’11 A common characteristic of hunter-gatherers is
that they hate individuals showing off; for instance, bush people typically
‘insult’ a hunter’s kill. A Ju/’hoan man explained to Richard Lee why they
do this: ‘When a young man kills much meat, he comes to think of him-
self as a chief or a big man—and thinks of the rest of us as his servants or
inferiors. We can’t accept this. . . so we always speak of his meat as worth-
less. This way, we cool his heart and make him gentle.’12
Such societies also have no formalized leadership institutions.13 Men
and women enjoy equal decision-making powers, children play largely
non-competitive games, and the elderly, while treated with affection, are
not afforded any special privileges. This means that in these societies no
one sees any point in accumulating wealth or influence, or seeks to over-
exploit their marginal environment. Of course, it is important not to
idealize hunter-gatherer societies. Without the benefits of modern medi-
cine such societies are far more vulnerable to disease, whether this be
viral or bacterial infections, or disorders with a more genetic basis.
Yet while many people today live in an infinitely richer society than
hunter-gatherers in material terms—and this includes access to cutting-
edge advances in medical diagnosis and treatment—modern civilization
is deeply divided. Not only wealth divides the world; racism, sexism, and
homophobia can also incite people to hatred, and even murder, of other
human beings because of their skin colour, gender, or sexual choices.14 Yet
although such divisions are often assumed to be fundamental features of
humanity, both the immense power of modern society and its divided
status originated only around 12,000 years ago when certain human
groups first began tending cattle and growing crops—the so-called ‘agri-
cultural revolution’.15 In the ‘fertile crescent’ extending through what is
263
now Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq, the domestication of plants led to a more
sedentary life and fixed-field agriculture that, in turn, led to the develop-
ment of cities and the rise of the state.
The development of civilization was once thought to be very rapid;
however, recent studies have indicated a gap of 4,000 years between the
first domestications and the rise of the city as a dominant way of ordering
human affairs.16 Rather than embracing farming with enthusiasm, com-
munities initially adopted subsistence strategies that combined hunting
and gathering with a low level of domestication and cultivation. This
seems to be because, at least in its early days, agriculture was a rather
fraught process.17 Not only did crops sometimes fail, but with less time to
hunt and gather, diets became more restricted—which adversely affected
health—and with more people living in close proximity to their animals,
there were more possibilities for disease to spread. For this reason Jared
Diamond of the University of California, Los Angeles, has declared agri-
culture to be the ‘worst mistake in the history of the human race.’18 Yet
although an important corrective to the idea that the agricultural revolu-
tion was a smooth ladder of progress, this statement neglects the fact that
civilization, and all its later technological marvels, could only have come
about through this revolution.
In particular, agriculture allowed the growth of city states, which led to
the development for the first time of the civilizations that we take for granted
today. However, we should also be aware of the brutality involved in the for-
mation of such city states. James Scott of Yale University has argued that for
a state to exist it needed a crop that was easily taxed, and wheat proved ideal
in this respect.19 Because the fields were fixed and this crop ripened over a
short period of time it was impossible for the farmer to avoid the tax col
lector. Communities elsewhere in the world reliant on tubers or root veget
ables such as yams and manioc as their crop were more able to avoid tax
since these plants can be left in the ground and harvested over a long period,
and indeed such societies seldom developed into city states.
Another advantage of wheat was that it could be stored within the city,
from where it was doled out to slaves and soldiers or used to feed the
264
whole population during a siege.20 Through taxation the state became the
quartermaster and the producers subjects. Early states functioned as
‘population machines’ designed to control labour, with slavery a key
element. Maintaining the number of slaves was vital and if this fell a new
batch could be gathered through warfare. Raiding to acquire goods and
manpower became a normal part of life. Far from an aberration, slavery
was built into the first civilizations.21 Above all else, the rise of civilization
led for the first time in history to human beings being divided into ‘classes’.
Other classes besides slaves existed in ancient societies, such as ‘free’
workers—who tended the land or did other jobs in the cities—merchants,
priests, and rulers: either a king or pharaoh, or as in the case of the Roman
Republic, a governing body like a senate. However, the surplus labour
that provided the income and wealth of the ruling class was primarily
extorted from slaves, and there was a continual need to define them as
inferior beings. This was despite ancient societies like those in Greece or
Rome first establishing the principles of democracy: the democracy was
only for a small portion of society. According to Oxford historian
Geoffrey de Sainte Croix, ‘slavery increased the surplus in the hands of
the propertied class to an extent which could not otherwise have been
achieved and was therefore an essential precondition of the magnificent
achievements of classical civilisation.’22
Slaves, but also women of all classes, were excluded from democracy in
the first city states.23 This had an impact on general perceptions of what it
means to be human. For while in hunter-gatherer groups individuals
might have different roles in the group, but no one was seen as superior to
anyone less, in the new city states the idea grew that some human beings
were inferior to others, and that slaves were in many senses actually sub-
human. For instance, the Greek philosopher Aristotle argued that ‘the use
made of slaves and of tame animals is not very different; for both with
their bodies minister to the needs of life.’24
Class society also led to the idea—for the first time in history—that
women were inferior to men. Through their dominance in the warlike
city states, some men began to accumulate wealth and power. And as an
265
individual’s possession of property became a defining feature of their

status, so it became important to track the inheritance of property rights.
As a consequence, among the rulers, women became redefined primarily
as producers of children in a monogamous relationship, and as maintain-
ers of a stable household and family environment, rather than an equal
partner in the process of producing food and other resources, as they had
been in hunter- gatherer societies.25 While lower class ‘free’ women
remained an important part of the production process, the relegation of a
woman’s role in the upper layers of society also influenced perceptions of
women’s roles in the lower layers.
The next form of class society in history, feudalism, was different from
ancient societies in that absolute slavery was abolished in such a society.
While the specific features of this type of society varied in different global
regions ranging from Europe to India and China, a common characteris-
tic of feudal society was that while the peasant in theory owned their own
patch of land, in practice they were ‘tied’ to a particular lord, who also
took a proportion of everything they produced.26 Moreover, any peasant
who tried to rebel against the system could be quickly punished or even
killed for daring to challenge their status in society. Another crucial justi-
fication for this system, which we will consider in more detail later, was
the idea that everyone had their place in society, ordained by religion.
In contrast to such past situations, the ideology of our current, capital
ist society is that all human beings are born free and equal, as expressed in
the US Declaration of Independence of 1776, which states ‘that all men
are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain
unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness.’27 The French revolutionaries a decade later expressed this idea
even more succinctly with their slogan ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité’.28 Yet a
report in January 2018 by the Oxfam charity estimated that the richest
42 people in the world hold as much wealth as the 3.7 billion who make
up the poorest half of the Earth’s population. Mark Goldring, Oxfam UK’s
chief executive, commented that ‘the concentration of extreme wealth at
the top is not a sign of a thriving economy, but a symptom of a system
266
that is failing the millions of hardworking people on poverty wages who

make our clothes and grow our food.’29
So what is it that prevents the bottom half of the world’s population
challenging the privilege of those few individuals at the top? One reason
is the imbalance of power in society. The example of Chile in 1973, when
an army coup headed by General Augusto Pinochet overthrew an elected
left-wing government led by President Salvador Allende and murdered
Allende and an estimated 40,000 other individuals, shows that parlia-
mentary democracy is not as secure as one might assume, if it threatens
to directly challenge the interests of a capitalist ruling class.30 But it would
also be equally mistaken to assume that the maintenance of the power
structures of capitalism is primarily by force.
Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels—probably capitalism’s most well-
known critics—argued in 1848 that ‘the ideas of the ruling class are in
every epoch the ruling ideas . . . The class which has the means of material
production at its disposal has control at the same time over the means of
mental production, so that thereby, generally speaking, the ideas of those
who lack the means of mental production are subject to it.’31 By this, they
had in mind ideas put forward in schools and universities and by the
media, but also more generally the assumptions that govern the work-
place, the justice system, and other state institutions.
Yet such a state of affairs is far from being just driven by simple propa-
ganda. Those propagating ruling class ideas may sometimes be cynical
about their role, but in general they are as likely to believe in the ideas they
are propagating as the people they propagate them to. In this respect, an
important feature of capitalism is that unlike previous class societies, the
source of wealth in current society, and therefore its driving mechanisms,
are far less transparent than was the case in ancient slave civilizations, or
even in feudal society.
Marx believed that a key feature of capitalist society is that people
within it exist in a state of alienation. In its general sense, alienation refers
to a feeling of separateness, of being alone and apart from others.32
However, Marx’s more specific definition refers to the contradictions
267
that stem from workers in capitalist society selling their labour in return
for wages. The worker creates something—a plate of food, a piece of
clothing, or for that matter an office report or spreadsheet—and receives
a wage for doing so. The object is then sold for more than it cost to make,
or used to boost a firm’s overall income, which is the source of the
employer’s profit. At the end of the process the object produced no longer
belongs to the worker but to the employer; it now appears to the former
as akin to an alien object. This contradiction was expressed by Marx’s
statement that, ‘the worker feels himself only when he is not working;
when he is working, he does not feel himself . . . His labour is, therefore,
not voluntary but forced, it is forced labour . . . Its alien character is clearly
demonstrated by the fact that as soon as no physical or other compulsion
exists, it is shunned like the plague.’33 Adam Smith, one of the first theorists
of capitalist economics, believed that work required the worker to give up
‘his tranquillity, his freedom, and his happiness.’34 Yet in terms of the
propagation of capitalist society, alienation has the virtue that workers
may often underestimate—or even be totally unaware of—their centrality
to the production process.
One reason for the alienation of workers from the labour process is a
principle Smith identified as a key characteristic of capitalism—a ten-
dency to break down work into simpler sub-tasks, which he famously
illustrated through a detailed study of the manufacture of pins.35 The
industrialist Henry Ford later perfected such a division of labour in his car
plants, which is why this practice is sometimes referred to as ‘Fordist’.36
An important aspect of this approach is a continual drive to increase the
speed of production by putting pressure on each worker to perform their
part of the manufacturing process at the maximum speed.
The consequences of such pressures in a modern context were revealed
in a recent report in Business Insider, which interviewed workers at delivery
warehouses of the Amazon tech-giant.37 Amazon ‘pickers’ move around
such warehouses on a predetermined route to collect items for delivery,
scanning each with a handheld scanner, which monitors the length
between scans. Because of the pressure this puts on workers, one US
268
Amazon employee described the ‘awful smell’ that often emanated from
warehouse trash cans, due to workers urinating in these instead of using
the bathroom, because of fears about missing targets.38 Other workers
confirmed a general picture of constant surveillance and a crippling fear
of missing targets. Given what I have said previously in this book about
the link between stress and mental disorders, the likely risks of such work
practices should be obvious.
It might be argued that the conditions in an Amazon warehouse repre-
sent an extreme example, given that this is a non-unionized workplace
whose employees are often relatively unskilled, and on low wages and
temporary contracts. However, a similar increasing pressure to perform,
plus low pay and job insecurity, have been an increasing feature in recent
years even of such skilled occupations as my own area of work—university
teaching. Increasingly UK universities employ junior lecturers on insecure,
non-permanent contracts, which range from ones that typically elapse
within nine months to those in which lecturers are paid by the hour to
give seminars or mark essays and exams, with over 50 per cent of
university teaching now done in this way.39 How it feels to teach students
in such a context was recently summed up by one lecturer who said, ‘we
are seasonal labourers like fruit pickers. You have to e- mail every
September, cap in hand, saying: “Is there any work for me this year?” ’40
Alienation affects more than just workers under capitalism. Previously,
I mentioned claims that people with a ‘psychopathic’ personality are ten
times more likely to be found at the top of the financial industry than in
the general population.41 Yet even if true—and it is important to distin-
guish such a personality from that of a violent psychopath—there is a
danger of seeing such individual behaviour as the cause of the cut-throat
world of high finance, rather than as a consequence of the values of capit
alism at its most intense. It may well be that individuals with ‘superficial
charm, conning, and manipulative behaviour, lack of empathy and
remorse, and a willingness to take risks’—which is how psychopaths
were defined in this case—might thrive in such an environment.42 But it
could also be the case that such behaviour tends to emerge because this
269
industry tends to encourage competitive, short-term gain over long-term

benefit, aspects of capitalism at its most extreme. And the fact that ven-
ture capitalists may take decisions that might seem deplorable when
assessed in human terms—for instance, the takeover and asset-stripping
of a company, with its workforce ‘relieved’ of their jobs in a ‘down-sizing’
operation—might seem more permissible if judged only as figures on a
balance sheet, rather than something affecting real, living human beings.
Meanwhile, since under capitalism everything can be viewed as a com-
modity to be bought and sold, including human labour, this can lead
workers themselves to view their colleagues primarily as competitors for
a job, rather than fellow exploited workers. This tendency can become
particularly strong if linked to the idea that workers who are seen as ‘dif-
ferent’ pose a particular challenge to native workers. This difference might
be skin colour, but even a white worker from Ireland or Poland can be
viewed in this way.43 Such feelings are often stoked by sections of the
media, with headlines about ‘immigrants’ taking jobs, housing, and social
services, often laced with crude stereotypes about such immigrants.44
Alienation can also shape perceptions of the position of women in soci-
ety. I said earlier that because possession of wealth and property was key
to a person’s standing in ancient societies, the inheritance of such wealth
and property had to be along clearly defined lines, leading to the rise of
monogamous marriage. Because of this, upper-class women became
increasingly viewed as possessions, rather than subjects in their own right.
This view extended to feudal society, as shown by the way that ruling class
women often had little choice in their choice of husband and could be
betrothed as young as nine years old and be married by the age of twelve.45
Although boys could also be betrothed at a young age, in general girls of
the ruling order tended to be married to substantially older men.46
In peasant society, women were expected to take part in the same back-
breaking work as their menfolk. But the view that women were the lesser
sex extended to peasant life. In Russia, a country in which many ancient
feudal traditions continued up to the 1917 revolution, a popular ‘joke’ went
along the lines of ‘I saw what I thought was two people but then I realized
270
it was a man and his wife.’ A common object above the marital bed in
many Russian peasant households was a whip, placed there as a warning
to—and sometimes used on—women who started voicing opinions
deemed inappropriate to the status of their sex.47
In modern society, the status of women has changed in fundamental
ways, although such a change was far from automatic, nearly always
involving bitter struggles. A key step forward was the right to vote,
granted to women in Britain in 1918.48 Women are also increasingly seen
as key members of the workplace in modern capitalist society, at both the
highest and lower levels. However, women are still frequently judged as
inferior for two main reasons. First, they are expected to be the primary
individuals who care for children and look after the home.49 Second,
alienation under capitalism means that everything can be treated as a
commodity.50 Women’s bodies are used in advertising to sell everything
from cars to soft drinks. In the sex industries, a woman’s body is more
directly offered for sale. This affects the perception of women in society in
general, not only of prostitutes and porn stars. The allegations against the
movie producer Harvey Weinstein of the assault and rape of a number of
women in the film industry, for which he was later convicted, unleashed a
flood of others, not just in the entertainment industry, but in a whole
number of other sectors.51
So how might alienation manifest itself in the individual mind under
capitalism? One feature of the human brain that might explain why many
working people can accept and even acquiesce in their state of exploit
ation, and even sometimes see other workers as the primary threat, rather
than as allies in campaigns for better pay and conditions at work, is the
way our brains have evolved to respond to living in a potentially hostile
natural environment. In such an environment, from an evolutionary
point of view, any species, whether this be fish, fowl, bacterium, or even a
virus, has two main imperatives: one is to survive, the other is to repro-
duce. But to do both effectively, two, sometimes opposing, tendencies
need to be at work. One is the tendency to keep doing all the things that
have kept a species alive and reproductive across many generations; the
271
other is the ability to respond rapidly to any perceived threat to that status
quo. The first tendency, which encourages sticking with a certain set pat-
tern of behaviour and is rooted in the more primeval parts of our brain,52
may explain why it can take quite a considerable change in socioeco-
nomic forces for the majority of people to think that there can be any
point in challenging the status quo.
As for the second tendency, two brain regions that we have already
mentioned, the amygdala and the prefrontal cortex, are relevant. As a pri-
mary mediator of emotional responses, the amygdala is one of the main
ways that our brains respond to potentially threatening situations.53
Imagine walking down a dark alley and suddenly there is a noise. In such
a situation, the amygdala will immediately become activated. Yet as soon
as we realize that the noise is just a rustle of leaves, or a dog barking in a
neighbouring garden, our rational side, personified by our prefrontal cor-
tex, suppresses such irrational fears and the activity of our amygdala
returns to normal. Yet despite this, there is increasing evidence that many
unconscious fears about a perceived threat of people of a different colour
skin, sexual persuasion, or even male fears about female equality, involve
the amygdala.54 Because of this, although inflammatory speeches by poli-
ticians or media articles may enhance such fears, thereby dividing people
who have much to gain by working together for better pay and condi-
tions, they are helped by being able to trigger deep-seated impulses in the
human brain.
Another way that the structure of current society is relevant to discus-
sions about human brain function is through its impact on mental health.
Earlier in this book, I looked at how differences in individual biology, but
also tensions and stresses in family relationships, can influence whether a
particular person succumbs to a mental disorder. However, it would be a
major omission to ignore the role that modern society plays. People are
taught from an early age that the route to fulfilment in life is to make
themselves acceptable for the job market. Such concerns play upon the
idea that success in future employment is primarily down to individual
merit. Yet a person’s gender, ethnicity, and sexual persuasion still have far
272
too much impact on their success in the labour market. And another
factor affecting people’s status is the rapid and dramatic changes that
occur in the economy following economic crisis.
Demonstrating the impact of economic recession on mental health,
suicide rates in the USA jumped from 12.1 to 18.9 per 100,000 people after
the 1929 Wall Street crash. More recently, a study has found that after the
recession of 2008, suicide rates surged in the European Union, Canada,
and the USA. Aaron Reeves, of the University of Oxford, who led the
study, notes that ‘there has been a substantial rise in suicides during the
recession, greater than we would have anticipated based on previous
trends.’55 David Stuckler, a researcher on the study, drew particular atten-
tion to Greece, a country in which austerity policies imposed by EU insti-
tutions and the International Monetary Fund have meant that the country
‘has gone from one extreme to the other. It used to have one of Europe’s
lowest suicide rates; it has seen a more than 60 percent rise.’56 Each sui-
cide corresponds to around 10 suicide attempts and between 100 to 1,000
new cases of depression. In Greece, according to Stuckler, ‘that’s reflected
in surveys that show a doubling in cases of depression; in psychiatry ser-
vices saying they’re overwhelmed; in charity helplines reporting huge
increases in calls.’57
The COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent social distancing measures
as part of a general ‘lockdown’ in countries across the world in 2020 also
had major impacts on mental health.58 This was both due to the lock-
down’s effect on people’s ability to make a living and because lack of
social interaction proved very difficult for some individuals to deal with
and led to mental instability, which is maybe not that surprising given
that, as we have seen, social interactions are key to the development and
maintenance of human consciousness.
The divisions in current society, by ethnicity and gender as well as class,
also exert a heavy toll on mental health. The possible impact of racism on
mental health was suggested by a recent study that found that Afro-
Caribbeans living in Britain are nine times more likely to be diagnosed as
schizophrenic than white people.59 Arguing against this difference having
273
a biological origin, the incidence of schizophrenia among black people

in the Caribbean is identical to the white population in the UK. The
researchers also found no evidence that the increased incidence of schizo
phrenia amongst Afro-Caribbeans in Britain was due to brain injury or
drug abuse. One possibility is that racism could explain the difference;
however, the study found no evidence that other ethnic groups were more
susceptible to schizophrenia.60
There are a number of possible explanations for the study’s findings.
The experience of racism by Afro-Caribbeans might be more intense
than for other ethnic minorities, although given the way that many
Muslims have been subjected to racism in the guise of ‘Islamophobia’ in
recent years, it is not clear that this would be the case. There might also be
differences in those other ethnic minority communities, for instance in
terms of family structure, cultural or religious differences, or other fac-
tors that might somehow insulate individuals of such other ethnic groups
from succumbing to this particular mental disorder.61
Another possibility is that the greater tendency for Afro-Caribbeans to
be diagnosed as schizophrenic itself reflects racism in British society.
London-born psychiatrist Kwame Mackenzie believes one problem is
that the diagnosis of schizophrenia is based mainly on the experience of
white people. According to him, ‘the concept of schizophrenia was a con-
cept that really was generated out of the white, European tradition. It is
believed that you can use the same bunch of symptoms to diagnose
schizophrenia in African-Caribbean people in the UK. But nobody has
ever bothered to find out whether that is true, whether the diagnosis of
schizophrenia is as valid in the African-Caribbean community as it is
in the white community.’62 This shows the dangers of assuming that
increased diagnosis of a mental disorder in one ethnic group reflects
increased incidence of the disorder, rather than differing perceptions of
what constitutes ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal’ behaviour in a particular group.
The position of women in capitalist society is also likely to affect the
minds of both sexes in that society. Nowadays in countries across the
world, women have an equal right to vote and are increasingly represented
274
across various occupations. The election of heads of state such as Sirimavo

Bandaranaike in Sri Lanka, Golda Meir in Israel, Indira Gandhi in India,
and Margaret Thatcher in Britain first showed that a woman could reach
this pinnacle of political power, and women are now found at the highest
levels of professions such as finance and law. Yet a recent report showed
that British women still earn an average 18.4 per cent less than men.63
Globally, women receive only 63 per cent of the pay that men get.64
Unequal pay is only one of the challenges that women face. The
#MeToo movement spawned by the Weinstein case illustrated the scale
of sexual harassment women face at work and in society in general.65 A
recent study has found that even non-physical sexual harassment can
cause psychological harm.66 The study, by researchers at the Norwegian
University of Science and Technology, collected data from almost 3,000
high school students and showed that derogatory comments, unwanted
sexual attention, and unsolicited explicit images can lead to anxiety,
depression, negative body image, and low self- esteem. Leif Edward
Ottesen Kennair, a researcher on the study, notes that ‘people usually
don’t consider the effects of non-physical harassment without a certain
amount of physical harassment. [But] even when you control for [physi-
cal coercion and force], you still find an effect on mental symptoms due to
non-physical harassment.’67
Participation in social media is an increasingly important aspect of
people’s lives, and this is particularly true of young people. A recent
study of the effect of social media on mental health in 14 year olds in
Britain found that girls are twice as likely to show signs of social media-
linked depression compared to boys. One possible reason is that girls are
using social media at higher rates, with two in five of them spending
three or more hours a day on social media as opposed to one in five boys.
But girls were also more likely to have suffered online harassment or
online bullying than boys. Teenage girls are also more likely than boys to
be dissatisfied with their body image and being continually bombarded
with images of unattainable physiques on social media may play an
important role in this.68
275
The treatment of women as sex objects also affects male minds. Since
1999, feminist activist and writer Julie Bindel has interviewed men who
pay prostitutes for sex, as part of a re-education programme for such men
in my home county of West Yorkshire. Many men explicitly compared
their actions to buying goods at a shop, with one stating that ‘I made a list
in my mind. I told myself that I’ll be with different races, e.g. Japanese,
Indian, Chinese . . . Once I have been with them I tick them off the list. It’s
like a shopping list.’69 Another claimed that ‘selecting and purchasing has
something to do with domination and control.’70
Tragically, the vulnerable positions of many prostitutes means that
they are also far more likely to be beaten or even killed in the course of
their work, by men whose idea of ‘domination and control’ can extend to
murder.71 Previously I mentioned Peter Sutcliffe, the ‘Yorkshire Ripper’,
who murdered 13 young women and attempted to kill seven others who
survived, but were scarred, both physically and emotionally, for life. After
his arrest, Sutcliffe was diagnosed as a ‘concealed’ paranoid schizo-
phrenic, mainly based on his claim that a ‘divine voice’ had told him in
1967 that it was his mission to kill prostitutes.72
In fact, some believe that Sutcliffe was merely tapping into the domin
ant image propagated particularly by the media that his primary target
was this group of women. Yet a look at Sutcliffe’s proven and suspected
victims—for this may be a larger group than he has admitted to—under-
mines the idea that he only attacked prostitutes. For instance, one victim,
who escaped although with severe head injuries, was a 14-year-old school-
girl, Tracey Browne.73 What interviews with Sutcliffe have illustrated—
and this echoes a theme that has almost become a cliché in many reports
about male serial killers who prey on the opposite sex—is that in many
such people there seems to be a mental battle going on between seeing
women either as sacred objects, often demonstrated by an adoring but
uneasy relationship with their mothers, or as agents of vice or contamin
ation who must be eradicated like vermin.74 Tellingly, when Sutcliffe was
asked by his brother Carl why he had committed such horrendous crimes,
his response was that ‘I were just cleaning up the streets, our kid.’75
276
It is important though that while we may seek partial explanations for

the murderous activities of individuals like Sutcliffe in the objectification
of women that is a general feature of capitalist society, we also see this as
only one aspect of an explanation. For most men do not pay for sex with
prostitutes, and only a tiny number end up as murderous serial killers.
One good reason for this is that people are not machines. While we may
all be influenced by the values of a particular society, how we interpret
those values is very much affected by other factors in our lives, plus the
influence on our behaviour of our own specific personality.
That this is a complex question is shown by the many varied ways in
which different individuals have reacted to major crises in class society.
For at certain times in history, ordinary men and women have radically
challenged the society they live under. Not that such challenges are always
progressive. The twentieth century is a good example of how different
reactions to crisis can mean seeking a more progressive society, but may
also lead to the most horrendous abuse of other human beings in ways
that are the stuff of nightmares. Whatever the case, what is clear is that at
such times, far from individual consciousness being a static affair, instead
we find evidence that ideas and beliefs can rapidly, and radically, change.
277
CH A P T ER 17
RESISTANCE AND REBELLION

z
S ince the birth of civilization, people have at times come together to

resist exploitation and oppression. In the first recorded instance, in
ancient Egypt in 1155 bc, during the rule of Ramesses III, the skilled
artisans who worked on the Egyptian rulers’ tombs—the pyramids and
other monuments that to this day draw visitors from all over the world—
downed tools because of delays in receiving the wheat rations that were
the payment for their work. The scribe Amennakhte described how they
complained that ‘the prospect of hunger and thirst has driven us to this.’1
Such resistance had apparently never been heard of previously in ancient
Egypt, but after a lengthy dispute, the artisans were eventually granted
their delayed rations; indeed, these were now increased. Clearly, these
workers had risked a great deal in taking action in what was essentially a
military dictatorship. Yet having done so, they established a principle
seen as important to this day—the right to withdraw one’s labour.
Fast forward over three thousand years to Britain in April 2018, and
another group of skilled workers—lecturers and other university staff—
celebrated an important victory after their successful strike prevented
attempts to substantially downgrade their pension scheme.2 As a partici-
pant in that action, but also someone interested in human conscious
awareness, in this chapter I will explore how ideas can change in a mass
movement such as a strike, and why in some periods of history such
activities can seem few and far between, while in others widespread
industrial militancy is a central feature. I will also look at moments in
history when resistance to the status quo reached such a scale that a
fundamental shift occurred in the structure of society—so-
called
r esista nce a nd r e be l l ion
r evolutions. In so doing, I will aim to relate the actions of a mass movement

to what might be going on in the heads of its individual participants, and
ask what mental processes might underlie the apparently rapid shifts in
social consciousness that seem to be a key feature of any genuine mass
progressive movement of the people.
A survey of past protest movements reveals a number of typical char-
acteristics that may provide clues as to how human consciousness—here
particularly meaning conscious awareness of oneself and one’s place in
society—develops in such circumstances. One is that a sustained protest
may begin about a specific matter but can end up addressing much wider
issues in society. The artisans in Egypt in 1155 bc initially stopped work
due to concerns about delayed wheat rations, but as the dispute pro-
gressed, they began to raise much wider questions about the nature of
ancient Egyptian society.3 A key guiding principle at this time was ma’at—
a concept of universal, communal, and personal balance in society, so
that the latter could function in accordance with the will of the gods.
While artisans refusing to work might be seen to violate the principle of
ma’at, the strikers turned this argument on its head by arguing that they
had been forced into such drastic action by a serious breach of this prin
ciple, namely a failure of state officials to deliver the workers’ rations in a
timely manner.
It may not be a coincidence that the strike occurred following a series
of major battles with neighbouring powers that severely taxed Egypt’s
resources.4 The strikers might therefore have recognized that all was not
right generally in the Egyptian state; however, it took the concrete fact of
hunger to lead them to more general questioning of ruling ideology.
Meanwhile, the state officials’ realization that the dispute had tapped into
a more general discontent may have dissuaded them from trying to
brutally crush the strike movement.
Similarly, a feature of the recent British university strikes was how
quickly these generalized from a specific dispute about pensions to discon-
tent about other issues. Previously I mentioned the increasing use of tem-
porary, low-paid, junior academics for teaching in British universities.
279
This, and other recent negative trends—lack of funds for research, an

investment in new buildings but not in staff salaries, student fees, and the
general marketization of higher education—all became topics of discus-
sion during the strike.5
One way that strikes can lead to generalization is when strikers begin
to realize who supports them, and who does not. This can lead to changes
in perceptions that go beyond the demands of a specific dispute, as in the
year-long strike by British miners in 1984–5, precipitated by Margaret
Thatcher’s decision to close down a substantial section of the UK mining
industry.6 As the strike progressed, the miners began to realize that the
might of the establishment—from the police to much of the media—was
being marshalled against them.7 This led to changing perceptions in many
individual miners’ minds about their relationship with their local policeman,
or the newspaper they were accustomed to buying each day.8
At the same time, the miners received support from groups who—
while their support was welcome in material terms—presented a challenge
to the many prejudices typical of an overwhelmingly male workforce.
Before the strike, the mining community was largely defined by traditional
values, with a miner’s wife expected to have her husband’s dinner on
the table when he returned from work, despite herself often having a
full-time job. But during the strike, through organizations like Women
Against Pit Closures, miners’ wives and other female supporters played a
highly active role, and this affected their mindset.9 As one miner’s wife,
Marie Collins, later recalled, ‘for the first time the women had some con-
trol over their own lives. They weren’t just appendages of men—their
views mattered. You could see women’s confidence growing. They began
to challenge the men, to go picketing themselves . . . I went on speaking
tours around Kent and Scotland and even Germany.’10
Perhaps the most unexpected pairing during the strike was between
the miners and the LGBT+ community.11 The organization Lesbians and
Gays Support the Miners fundraised in gay pubs and clubs in cities and
took the proceeds to mining districts. The experience challenged homo-
phobic prejudice in the coalfields and increased understanding of the
280
strike in the LGBT+ community. Miners returned the solidarity by marching

with their union banners on the 1985 Lesbian and Gay Pride demonstration
in London.12
Instances like these raise questions about what is happening in the
brains of individuals taking part in social movements. Recall here Valentin
Voloshinov’s view of human consciousness as a boundary phenomenon,
having its origins in social discourse but situated in the individual mind,
as well as being a kind of dialogue.13 This view has important implications
for how the meaning of words develops and changes in different circum-
stances. As Voloshinov put it, ‘meaning does not reside in the word or the
soul of the speaker or the soul of the listener. Meaning is the effect of
interaction between speaker and listener produced via the material of a
particular sound complex. It is like an electric spark . . . Only the current of
verbal intercourse endows a word with the light of meaning.’14
One possibility this raises is that social interactions that occur outside
normal experience may have transformative effects on individual con-
sciousness. For instance, during the British university strikes, one striker
noted how on the picket lines ‘conversations arose and we had space to
discuss issues and talk together. It was the kind of time and space we don’t
get in our busy lives in the university.’15 Another described how ‘the local
community centre became our alternative university’, with free seminars
and workshops offered to all about a range of social and political issues.
Not only did such initiatives result in ‘interdisciplinary’ interactions, but
also they involved individuals of different ages and status within the uni-
versity.16 Perhaps most importantly, they created the sense of a ‘public
university open to everyone’, which contrasted with the current system
in Britain in which students now pay fees, and are increasingly defined
as ‘customers’.17
The creation of a more open and fluid space for debate may be one
reason why discussions among participants in this dispute often moved
from the specific issue of pensions to debates about other matters,
particularly those affecting women and black, Asian, and minority ethnic
(BAME) individuals. So at the University of Oxford where I work, there
281
were debates on the picket line and in ‘teach-ins’ about the gender gap in
pay and lack of childcare facilities, and also the fact that BAME individuals
are underrepresented as both students and senior staff in top British uni
versities like Oxford. Another issue discussed was the sense of an increas-
ing lack of democracy and representation in governance structures.
Notably, the very different social environment of the strike seems to have
helped create a space in which the nature of such institutional structures
could be questioned and challenged.
While clearly a very different dispute, the prominent role that women
played in the miners’ strike also led to transformative experiences.18
Before the strike, miners’ wives were mainly situated in the home. But by
becoming involved in the support networks that played a crucial role in
sustaining the strike, theirs became a collective experience, and also
brought them into contact with much wider groups of people than would
normally have been the case. This in turn created a space in which some
women began to contest assumptions about their place in society and to
raise questions in their minds about issues like gender and sexuality.
While the miners’ strike was ultimately unsuccessful, in other histor
ical eras individual struggles have acted as a catalyst for mass movements
that successfully challenged the very idea of what is possible in society.
One example was the ‘new union’ movement of the late nineteenth
century in Britain, partly because the workers who triggered it—the
‘match girls’ as they were known—were initially seen as unlikely to act as
a catalyst for anything at all.
If anyone had been asked at the start of 1888 which workers were most
likely to go on strike, the employees of Bryant and May’s match factory in
east London would probably have been very low on their list. The age of
the workers, who could be as young as 13 years old, their lower status as
females, and the ‘unskilled’ nature of their work—at a time when trade
unionism was the preserve of skilled, male workers—made the match
girls an unlikely spearhead of a new movement.19
In June 1888, a journalist called Annie Besant wrote an article exposing
the conditions at the factory.20 She drew attention to the fact that employees
282
worked 14 hours a day for less than five shillings a week, while exposure
to the white phosphorus used to make the match heads could cause
‘phossy jaw’, a degenerative disorder in which the whole side of the face
turned green and then black, discharging foul-smelling pus, and which
could lead to death. Initially, it seemed as if the article’s publication—
meant to highlight the match girls’ plight—had backfired, for certain girls
who had spoken to Besant were promptly sacked.
However, the company had not reckoned on the response of its young
workforce. Immediately, hundreds of girls stopped work and soon all
1,400 workers were on strike. Particularly interesting was the way the
girls themselves described their action. As one striker noted, ‘one girl
began, and the rest said yes, so we all went. It just went like tinder.’21
Looking to express what she and her fellow workers had done, the striker
had found a metaphor for their actions in the product—the fire-starting
match—produced in the factory.
This metaphor acquired an even greater resonance the following year.
For the success of the strike—after three weeks of intense activity involv-
ing regular mass meetings, a strike committee, and collections from other
workers—led to other unskilled workers also striking for better pay and
conditions. A report in the East London News and Advertiser in September
1889 gave a flavour of the movement: ‘The present week might not inaptly
be called the week of strikes . . . parcels postmen; car men; rag, bone and
paper porters and pickers. The employees in jam, biscuit, rope, iron,
screw, clothing and railway works have found some grievance, real and
imaginary, and have followed the infectious example of coming out on
strike.’22 But it was the initial action of the match girls, the report con-
cluded, that had precipitated this huge strike wave, and picking up on the
girls’ own metaphor, their action was described as the ‘proverbial small
spark’ that had ‘kindled a great fire’.23 Many British trade unions still in
existence today came into being during this period of action.
The speed with which people’s generalized mass actions can spread
means that some of the biggest strike movements in modern history
have often surprised even those sympathetic to the idea of such action.
283
In January 1968, the left-wing philosopher Andre Gorz wrote that ‘the
working class will neither unite politically, nor man the barricades, for a
10 per cent rise in wages, or 50,000 more council flats. In the foreseeable
future, there will be no crisis of European capitalism so dramatic as to
drive the mass of workers to revolutionary general strikes.’24 Yet only
months later in May, unrest began in France with a series of student
protests which then spread to factories with strikes involving 11 million
workers—more than 22 per cent of the population at the time. Eventually,
order was restored, but only following major concessions to the strike
movement, and to this day, the events of May 1968 are considered as a
cultural, social, and moral turning point in the history of France.25
Successful revolutions—events by which a society’s whole structure is
transformed—happen rarely, but when they do their consequences are
profound, so a common term used to describe the English revolution of
1642–9 was ‘the world turned upside down’.26 A sense of exhilaration is
also common in revolutions’ initial stages. The English poet William
Wordsworth expressed the hopes of a generation about the French revo-
lution of 1789 when he wrote, ‘Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. But to
be young was very heaven!’27 After the 1917 Russian revolution, Alexander
Luria, a psychologist who worked closely with Vygotsky, wrote, ‘I began my
career in the first years of the great Russian revolution. This single, momen-
tous event decisively influenced my life and that of everyone I knew.’28
Such views reflect the fast-moving pace of revolutions, the way they
can challenge long-held views about society and human relationships,
but also the unique space they can often offer to younger people to make
their mark on the world. Note that the frontal lobes—the areas of the
brain particularly involved in planning, reasoning, and judgement—are
still maturing in young people, and this may be one reason that individ
uals at this age can make decisions that may seem to be guided more by
emotion than cold rationality—behaviour generally considered a sign
of immaturity.29 However, in a revolution, it might mean younger
people are far less likely to be influenced by what Karl Marx called the
284
‘tradition of all dead generations [which] weighs like a nightmare on

the brains of the living.’30
Of course, revolutions can also disappoint, and this reflects the fact that
people who drive a revolution forward, especially in its early stages, are
not always those who ultimately benefit from it. These are complex polit
ical issues that I can barely touch upon here. What I would like to do
though is try to connect some general features of revolutions to the
sorts of changes that may be going on in the consciousness of individual
participants.
To an even greater degree than other types of mass movement, a
common feature of revolutions is that they rapidly progress from specific
and limited demands to ones that can challenge the whole structure of
society.31 So how is such a change, from the specific to the general,
reflected in individual human minds? To address this question, we need to
return to the notion of thought as a dialogue. This can mistakenly give the
sense that thought is as transparent as a conversation between two indi-
viduals. But the inner dialogue that drives an individual consciousness is
far less defined in terms of both its structure and the meaning of the words
and phrases. And we also have to consider the role that the unconscious
may play in the human thought process, and how this might be enhanced
during periods of upheaval.
All this means that a particular individual’s consciousness may contain
contradictory elements, and these are likely to be heightened during mass
movements, but particularly when such movements coalesce into a
full-blown revolution. The reason is that the ideas a person may have
grown up with through conversations in the family home, or their educa-
tion at school or university, can all be challenged by what they experience
in a major social movement. But this does not prevent a person having
contradictory ideas even at the height of such a movement—a point
particularly developed by the early-twentieth-century Italian political
activist and thinker Antonio Gramsci—and these can continue to coexist
for some time.32
285
One consequence of such a contradictory consciousness is that the

majority of people in a mass movement may initially be reluctant to ‘go
too far’ in their demands, and thereby look to leaders who espouse a more
limited change in society.33 However, as a revolution progresses and
throws up practical dilemmas and contradictions, this can lead to a more
questioning attitude amongst some people, and an increased willingness
to follow leaders of a more radical persuasion. This can explain how indi
viduals who are initially minor players in society can come to play a much
more prominent role as a revolution unfolds.
For instance, in the revolution of 1642–9 that ended feudalism in
England, Oliver Cromwell was initially quite a marginal figure. However,
his determination to defeat the Royalist forces, as opposed to the
half-hearted efforts of many other Parliamentary leaders, brought him to
prominence. One exchange between Cromwell and the Earl of Manchester—
the first Parliamentary commander—that showed such a difference in
attitude occurred after the battle of Edgehill in 1642. Manchester com-
plained that ‘if we beat the king 99 times, yet he is still the king . . . but if he
beat us but once we shall all be hanged,’ to which Cromwell replied, ‘if this
be so why did we take up arms at first? This is against fighting hereafter.’34
This determination to succeed led Cromwell to select officers based on
ability, and willingness to prosecute the war as ruthlessly as required,
rather than on their perceived social status. As Cromwell himself
expressed it: ‘I had rather have a plain, russet-coated Captain, that knows
what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than that which you call a
Gentleman and is nothing else.’35 Such a new approach radicalized the
constitution of the army, but itself reflected a radicalization taking place
in English society in general. And for a short while, this led to a very rad
ical group indeed, the Levellers, coming to prominence.36
Similar progressions in public feeling have typically occurred in other
revolutionary situations. For instance, in Russia in 1917, the initial benefi-
ciaries of the revolution which began in February were moderate political
parties. However, as these failed to deliver on key demands of many peas-
ants and workers—for bread, land rights, and an end to participation in
286
World War I—a more radical political group—the Bolsheviks—began to

gain support.37
Two common mistaken viewpoints exist regarding revolutions. Some
see them as purely spontaneous affairs; others consider them to be the
work of a few conspirators with the masses as mere spectators. Yet nei-
ther viewpoint adequately reflects the reality of how genuine revolutions
progress. Regarding spontaneity, it is true that revolutionary situations
can progress very rapidly, reflecting a radicalization among the mass of
people. This is one reason why revolutions often seem to come out of the
blue, surprising even many would-be revolutionaries. The Russian revo-
lution of February 1917 began with a demonstration led by women cam-
paigning for more bread for their families.38 Initially the women were
encouraged to return home by local Bolshevik male leaders, who feared
the demonstration might be used as an excuse for a crackdown. However,
the women ignored this advice and kick-started a movement that ended the
centuries-old Tsarist monarchy.
Important as spontaneity is, successful revolutions have also always
involved political leadership. A key aspect in the radicalization of the
English revolution of 1642–9 was the agitation carried out by the Levellers.
Through the use of petitions, pamphlets, and public demonstrations, this
group built a movement that influenced both members of the army and
the public as a whole.39 The Bolsheviks only gained a majority in the
‘soviets’—the elected bodies that became an organizing forum for the
revolutionary workers and peasants—after months of agitating in the
factories and streets.40 Having then achieved such a majority, the Bolsheviks
were able to use the soviets to mount a challenge for control of the state.
If mass social movements involve major changes in the ways people
perceive what is acceptable, and possible, in society, how might this relate
to brain function? In particular, two parts of the brain that we have already
mentioned seem to be important in this context—the amygdala and the
prefrontal cortex. As befits our status as rational beings, the prefrontal
cortex plays a particularly important role in humans in terms of our inter-
actions with others. Yet as we have seen there is increasing recognition
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that a lot of what we take for granted about the state of the world—and
this can include prejudices about others based on their skin colour,
nationality, sexual persuasion, or gender—also involves unconscious
feelings that stem mainly from the amydala.41 But the interaction between
these two brain regions is dynamic, and in a situation of rapid social
change as in a mass movement, I believe that there is the potential for the
prefrontal cortex to play a much more dominant role.
The reason for this is that mass movements force individuals into
unfamiliar situations and lead to new types of social interactions with
other people in which language plays a key role. And this restructuring of
neural impulses in the prefrontal cortex could then start to challenge the
type of ‘unconscious biases’ that are rooted in the amygdala. In fact recent
studies have shown that the prefrontal cortex itself is far from homogen
ous in this respect. Instead, such studies have shown that while the ventro
medial prefrontal cortex is involved in guiding our future actions based
on things that have happened to us in the past, the dorsomedial part of
this brain region in contrast allows us to adjust our behaviour to a rapidly
changing situation.42 This makes evolutionary sense for while past
experiences may be a good guide to action in a relatively stable environment,
they may not remain so in times of great uncertainty. And therefore the
dorsomedial prefrontal cortex is likely to play a more dominant role during
the rapidly unfolding events characteristic of major social upheavals.
Previously in this book we have looked at different types of mental
disorders, and whether they are a product of a defective biology or social
environment. So how is mental disorder regarded in mass social move-
ments? One interesting possibility, given the way revolutions are said to
‘turn the world upside down’, is that this radical disruption of the estab-
lished order may provide a space for individuals with views of the world
deemed unconventional, and perhaps even highly abnormal, to come to
the fore in a way that would be unlikely in a calmer social climate.
Théroigne de Méricourt was an activist in the 1789 French revolution.
Initially Méricourt was welcomed into the ranks of the radical Jacobin
party, so much so that she ‘was not relegated to the gallery with her s isters,
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but [allowed to sit] in the body of the hall with the men . . . wearing a
semi-military costume.’43 However, this relationship soured when Méricourt
tried to organize a radical organization for working women. In doing so,
she asked, ‘Fellow women citizens, why should we not enter into rivalry
with the men? Do they alone lay claim to have rights to glory . . . let us
open a list of French Amazons; and let all who truly love their Fatherland
write their names there.’44
Such feminist views were too radical even for the Jacobins. However,
this souring of relations did not prevent Méricourt being involved in key
further events such as the storming of the Tuileries Palace in 1792.
Ironically, her fall from grace in the revolution was precipitated by other
women, for in 1793, as she crossed the Feuillants Terrace to deliver a
speech, she was attacked by female supporters of the Jacobins, who
stripped her naked and beat her.45 After this, Méricourt never made
another public appearance. Tragically, in 1794, she was certified insane
and sent to the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris, where she was said to
crawl on the floor like an animal, eat straw, and strip off her clothes.46
According to novelist and commentator Hilary Mantel, Méricourt’s
‘madness was not without eloquence . . . She denounced her keepers as
royalists, and spoke of decrees and government measures, addressing her
words to the Committee of Public Safety. But the great Committee was
long since disbanded, its members guillotined or in exile. For Théroigne
time had stopped, some time in 1793.’47 Méricourt eventually died in the
Pitié-Salpêtrière in 1817, at the age of 54.
Méricourt’s life raises questions about madness and the passions
aroused during a revolution. Was her psychotic state triggered by the
trauma of her public beating? Or did elements of insanity exist in her
before this time, but in the context of the revolution made Méricourt a
bold and inspiring figure to others, at least for a while? In fact, the very
passions that made Méricourt an influential leader during the revolution
may in a different context have led to her later descent into madness.
Or alternatively, Méricourt’s madness may have been a way of dealing
mentally with the retreat, as Napoleon Bonaparte took power, from the
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original egalitarian ideals of the revolution. For someone said to have

lavished her love, not ‘upon a man or upon men, but upon an idea, the
passion for justice, for liberty’, perhaps psychosis was Méricourt’s way of
not having to come to terms with reality.48
Certainly, a feature of the French revolution in its first days was its
enlightened attitude to mental disorder, illustrated in Robert-Fleury’s
1876 painting Pinel Freeing the Insane, which shows the doctor Philippe Pinel
unchaining female patients after the revolution.49 As medical historians
Elizabeth Fee and Theodore Brown have observed, ‘the new “moral ther-
apy” developed by Pinel and his contemporaries in the reformed asylums
was fundamentally based on the idea of freeing the mental patients’
trapped humanity. In theory this allowed for a therapeutic doctor–patient
alliance that was sensitive to the life situations and social circumstances
of the “madmen” and “madwomen” who were formerly treated as sub
human.’50 Unfortunately, the reality turned out somewhat different.
According to sociologists David Pilgrim and Anne Rogers, ‘like the work-
houses, asylums quickly became large regimented institutions of last
resort, which if anything were more stigmatizing. Although they were run
by medical men, they failed to deliver the cures that a medical approach to
insanity had promised.’51 The new approach had run up against the limits
of medical knowledge, but also reflected the determination of those now
in power to separate out and segregate those individuals who were able to
work from those who were not.
That revolutions can end up disappointing and even murdering some
of their key protagonists is one reason why these events are often pre-
sented in a negative light in history lessons in schools and universities. Yet
those who see failure and disappointment as an inevitable aspect of
revolutions tend to ignore the reasons why revolutions often fall short of
expectations. One factor to consider is that those who play the most
active role in a revolution may not be its ultimate beneficiaries. This was
the case in the English and French revolutions in which groups like the
Levellers and the Jacobins played key roles in driving the revolution for-
ward, but were later sidelined by other interests. This reflects the fact that
290
at certain stages in history a particular class in society may be able to play

a highly important role in getting rid of the old order, but is then not in a
material position to reap the benefits of the revolution.
A key force in the English revolution was the so-called ‘middling sort’,
which encompassed shopkeepers, artisans, and the lower ranks of the
gentry.52 But although such people could put forward demands that
would reverberate for centuries to come—for instance, for universal suf-
frage and women’s rights—ultimately it was the new capitalist class, rep-
resented by individuals like Oliver Cromwell, who were best placed to
take control. And an important aspect of taking control in this way was to
limit the demands of the revolution.
A particularly radical demand of the English revolution was expressed
by the Leveller Colonel Thomas Rainsborough when he said, ‘I think that
the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live, as the greatest he; and
therefore every man that is to live under a government ought first by his
own consent to put himself under that government; and I do think that
the poorest man in England is not bound in a strict sense to that govern-
ment that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.’53 Yet since the
working class as we know it did not yet exist, and instead there were only
the ‘middling sort’ and peasantry, such expressions of universal rights
could ultimately not compete with more limited, but realizable goals.
In the Russian revolution of 1917 workers and peasants took power in a
country for the first time in history. Of course, the hopes for the revolu-
tion later ended in tragedy with the rise to power of Stalin. It is not clear
exactly how many people died in the Stalinist gulags or because of the
Soviet Union’s botched agricultural policies, but the total figure may run
into millions.54 This human tragedy is often used to back up the idea that
revolutions always end in tyranny, but it could also be used to illustrate
the terrible nature of reaction and counter-revolution. The radical break
between the original ideals of the 1917 revolution and the regime that sub-
sequently developed under Stalin is shown by the fact that of the 15 mem-
bers of the first Soviet government, ten were murdered on Stalin’s orders,
four died naturally, and only one, Stalin, survived.55 But the new regime
291
also marked a break with 1917 in other ways. For instance, the radical view
of human consciousness developed by Lev Vygotsky that has inspired
this book was also suppressed by Stalin after Vygotsky’s death in 1934, as
were the exciting new approaches to education and disability that
accompanied this view.56
In addition, far from developing new ways to help those in mental
distress, the repressive regime that developed under Stalin and his succes-
sors began to use the term ‘mental illness’ to label those who opposed the
regime. As Nikita Khrushchev remarked in 1959, since it should be
impossible for people in a ‘communist’ society to have an anti-communist
consciousness, ‘of those who might start calling for opposition to
Communism on this basis, we can say that clearly their mental state is not
normal.’57 In 1969, Yuri Andropov issued a decree on ‘measures for pre-
venting dangerous behaviour (acts) on the part of mentally ill persons.’58
Consequently, psychiatrists began to diagnose and confine anyone who
fitted the description of a political agitator. According to the archives of
the International Association on the Political Use of Psychiatry, at least
20,000 USSR citizens were sent to mental institutions for political
reasons, but the real figure may be much higher.59
A parallel tragedy had previously taken place in Germany in the 1930s
with the rise to power of Adolf Hitler. In what became a prelude to the
Holocaust that would eventually result in the murder of 17 million people,
a pseudo-scientific view that labelled people with mental health problems
and learning disabilities as ‘degenerate’ led to the extermination by the
Nazis of 200,000 such individuals by the end of World War II.60 In what
British psychiatrist Tom Burns has described as German psychiatry’s ‘most
shameful chapter’, the ‘extermination of the mentally ill is compounded
by several prominent psychiatrists leading it and none vigorously opposing
it . . . The broad mass of the profession probably did not share the extreme
views articulated, but they voiced no effective opposition.’61
Such historical developments raise the question of how all those p eople
who backed the initial revolution in Russia in 1917 with such high hopes
could allow it to end in such a state of terror. Or for that matter, why did
292
so many individuals in Nazi Germany either participate in genocidal

activities or remain passive while others carried them out? For some
commentators, the answer is simple—all mass movements are inherently
likely to end in violence and terror, because of the primeval passions
unleashed within such a ‘mob’.
This view is particularly associated with nineteenth-century French
psychologist Gustave Le Bon who argued that in a crowd the individual
yields ‘to instincts which had he been alone, he would perforce have kept
under restraint’.62 Like a hypnotized person, ‘he is no longer conscious of
his act . . . He is no longer himself, but has become an automaton who has
ceased to be guided by his will . . . In the crowd he is barbarian. He pos-
sesses the spontaneity, the violence, the ferocity and also the enthusiasm
and heroism of primitive beings.’63
In fact Le Bon had in mind a very specific type of individual when he
wrote about crowds: the ‘lower orders’, whom he considered simple
minded, as indicated by his claim that ‘ideas being only accessible to
crowds after having assumed a very simple shape must often undergo the
most thoroughgoing transformations to become popular. It is especially
when we are dealing with somewhat lofty philosophical or scientific ideas
that we see how far-reaching are the modifications they require in order to
lower them to the level of . . . crowds.’ Le Bon believed that such crowds are
particularly susceptible to the promises of demagogues, since ‘to know
the art of impressing the imagination of crowds is to know at the
same time the art of governing them.’64 Notably, both Hitler and Benito
Mussolini showed interest in Le Bon’s book The Crowd: A Study of the Popular
Mind, but then so did Sigmund Freud, who agreed with much of what it
said about the primitive nature of crowds.
Yet recent studies of the psychology of crowds have undermined Le
Bon’s claim that individuals in a crowd tend towards barbaric forms of
behaviour, or that they are dupes who will unquestioningly follow the
instructions of the first demagogue that comes along. Investigations over
recent decades of crowds at events including soccer matches, public
demonstrations, festivals, and riots, conducted by British psychologists
293
Stephen Reicher, Clifford Stott, and John Drury, have found that individuals
in crowds do not abandon their rationality or surrender their identity to a
mob mentality.65 Such individuals do, however, become highly sensitive
to what those around them are doing, and become strongly cooperative
as a result. In line with this, eyewitness accounts of the revolutions men-
tioned above confirm the high degree of creativity of individuals in such
movements as well as their tendency to show tolerance towards, and pro-
mote the rights of, more vulnerable members.66
Indeed, an important feature of any genuine revolution—in this case
meaning a progressive, fundamental change in society—is the extent to
which it tends to challenge divisions between people. Notably the
English revolution of 1642–9 was intertwined with a cry for religious
freedom. At a time when social relations tended to be defined in religious
terms, this was a radical development. The Levellers were particularly
forward-thinking in this respect, for they campaigned for the rights of
Protestants to worship as they saw fit, but also opposed Cromwell’s
subjection of the Catholic citizens of Ireland.67
The French revolution that began in 1789 expanded rights of citizen-
ship to minorities such as Protestants and Jews.68 Similarly, in 1776, the
revolutionaries who wrote the American Declaration of Independence
stated that ‘all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their
Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty
and the pursuit of Happiness,’ although in practice it would take 87 years
and a bloody civil war for most African Americans to gain their ‘unalien-
able Rights’, and a further 100 years of courageous protests before those
rights could be fully exercised.
In pre-revolutionary Russia, persecution of Jews was state policy, with
pogroms actively encouraged by the authorities.69 In contrast, on gaining
power, the Bolshevik government abolished all legal restrictions on Jews.
The role that Jews played in the Bolshevik party was shown by the fact
that the central committee of the party in October 1917 contained six Jews
out of 21 members in total.70 Lev Vygotsky and Alexander Luria were typical
of the many Jewish intellectuals who initially thrived after the revolution.
294
The position of women in society has been a central issue in revolutions.

Women made decisive interventions in the English revolution of 1642–9,
particularly in radical groups like the Levellers.71 In the French revolution,
women organized to move the revolution forward at some of its key
moments.72 Women also played major roles in the 1917 Russian revolution
as mentioned. This was reflected in the measures enacted after the revolu-
tion: women were given the vote, abortion and LGBT+ rights were legal-
ized, contraception was made freely available, and state-r un nurseries,
laundries, and restaurants were set up.73
If such examples appear to be from the distant past, it is worth men-
tioning a more recent example—the Egyptian revolution of 2011. A retired
businessman who travelled from Alexandria to join the protesters in
Cairo gathered to demand the fall of dictator Hosni Mubarak noted:
‘I found [there] something lovely. There were all kinds of people. From
universities, secondary schools, preparatory schools. Homeless people.
People from every religion. All divisions disappeared. Everyone had one
purpose. I was really crying, for this was the first time I saw the Egyptian
people unafraid of anything.’74 Sadly, this lack of fear turned out to be
brief, for although Mubarak was indeed deposed by the mass movement,
and a democratically elected leader—Mohamed Morsi—installed, a new
military dictatorship soon took power. Subsequently, there has been a
major crackdown by the new regime on human rights, particularly
against women, LGBT+ individuals, and religious minorities.75
A similar reaction took place in Russia in the 1930s under Stalin, with
women’s rights replaced by a celebration of motherhood and the family;
indeed, women were even given medals for having large numbers of chil-
dren. In addition, Russian Jews and other oppressed minorities once more
became a scapegoat for society’s troubles, and having championed the
right of nations to self-determination, the Soviet Union under Stalin
reverted to the same ‘prison house of nations’ that it had been under the
Russian Empire of the Tsarist regime.
Ironically, despite their claims to represent opposite poles of the polit
ical spectrum, both the Soviet Union under Stalin and the German Nazi
295
regime of Adolf Hitler were remarkably similar in their reactionary

attitudes to women, LGBT+ individuals, and ethnic and religious minorities.
But perhaps this is not so surprising, given that both regimes were based
on a totalitarian system that moved quickly and ruthlessly to quash any
dissent. Obviously one factor to consider here is the potential risk in voi
cing opposition to a dictatorship such as those led by Hitler or Stalin. But
it is also worth asking what psychological explanations there might be for
such apparent mass acquiescence with evil.
One possibility would be to return to the claims made by Gustave Le
Bon about the malleability of crowds, which by definition he considered
to be made up of lower class people of an inferior intellect. Yet a problem
with this viewpoint is that the Nazis in Germany, as well as Mussolini’s
Fascists in Italy, derived their main support from those respectable mid-
dle class individuals—doctors, lawyers, civil servants, and the like—that
Le Bon saw as the primary audience for his speculations about the defects
of the lower classes. And lest this be seen as purely a historical matter,
studies have shown that the alarming rise in support for far-right and fas-
cist parties in countries across Europe in recent years has been particu-
larly driven by the popularity of such parties among the middle classes.76
This then poses the question—why might fascism be particularly attract
ive to this layer of society?
One person who speculated about this issue was the German psycho-
analyst Wilhelm Reich. According to him, the middle classes in Germany
prior to Hitler’s rise to power both craved authority and rebelled against
it, this ambiguity being a reflection of a feeling of being caught between
wealthy capitalists on the one hand and the powerful workers’ movement
that existed in Germany in the 1920s.77 Reich believed that the intense
economic crisis of the post-war years brought these anxieties to a head.
Reflecting his psychoanalytic background, he also sought to link the
tendency of this social layer to submit to an authoritarian regime to the
sexual repression that Reich believed was a strong feature of middle-class
society at this time.78 Today, the economic crisis is not yet as severe as in
the Great Depression, yet the sociologist Oliver Nachtwey believes that
296
the German middle classes, after decades of upward social mobility, now
feel threatened by a ‘downward escalator’.79 Nachtwey believes that ‘for
the lower middle class . . . harsh social competition, the struggle for pros-
perous life, and the disappointed expectations of ascent and security
[has led] to a “brutalisation” of social conflict . . . [where] fear of downward
mobility produces a very specific authoritarianism.’80
Of course it is one thing to hold racist or authoritarian ideas; it is
another to take part in the murderous activities that characterized the
Holocaust. So what might have motivated people to take part in such
activities? One famous scientific study that has strongly influenced our
thinking in this area was carried out by US psychologist Stanley Milgram
from Yale University in the 1960s, who wanted to test the claim by the
German Nazi Adolf Eichmann, during his war crimes trial, that he and his
accomplices in the Holocaust were ‘just following orders’. Milgram
showed that it was possible to persuade volunteers to ‘electrocute’ other
human ‘learners’ by telling them that this was a necessary part of the
study.81 Although the learners appeared to scream in pain, in reality they
were only acting and there was no electric shock. More recently, Tomasz
Grzyb, from the University of Social Sciences and Humanities in Warsaw,
carried out a similar study and confirmed Milgram’s findings. In this
study, 80 volunteers were recruited, including women as well as men, and
90 per cent were shown to be willing to inflict the highest shock level of
450 volts to a complicit ‘learner’.82 Just as in Milgram’s experiment, volun-
teers were spurred on by prompts from the supervising scientist such
as ‘the experiment requires that you continue’, and ‘you have no other
choice, you must go on’. Interestingly, women were far less likely to obey
the orders than men. For Grzyb, the study ‘illustrates the tremendous
power of the situation the subjects are confronted with and how easily
they can agree to things which they find unpleasant.’83
On the face of it, studies such as these seem pretty damning in reinforc-
ing the idea that most people will acquiesce with authoritarianism and
evil. Yet although troubling, there is surely a danger in extrapolating from
a highly artificial laboratory study, without also surveying the actual ways
297
that individuals have reacted to real-life authoritarian regimes like that of

Adolf Hitler. What such a survey shows is acquiescence by many, but also
resistance and the greatest bravery by some individuals, even in the most
difficult of circumstances.
For instance on a recent visit to Munich, I was moved by the monument
to Sophie and Hans Scholl, who were part of the White Rose student
movement that secretly distributed anti- war leaflets in cities across
Germany from 1942 onwards. Captured by the Nazis in February 1943, the
Scholls were tried and swiftly executed. Just before her death, Sophie said:
‘Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter,
if through us thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?’84
I could also cite other examples, such as Oskar Schindler, the industrialist
and Nazi party member who nevertheless saved more than a thousand
Jewish individuals from the death camps, at great risk to himself.85 Or
there is my own personal favourite, the biochemist Jacques Monod, who
by day uncovered the mechanisms by which genes are switched on or off,
and by night clandestinely fought the Nazis by blowing up railway lines
and bridges as part of the resistance in occupied France.86
Such examples confirm that not only during progressive social move-
ments, but also at the heights of deepest reaction, individual actions can
make a tremendous difference to events. But we also need to explain in
terms of brain function how it is that some individuals react to such social
events in a progressive fashion, yet others acquiesce with, or even support,
reaction. And here, given what I said earlier about the likely changing
interaction between the amygdala and the prefrontal cortex in times of
social upheaval, there may be some fruitful future research to be done in
terms of studying how this interaction differs between individuals who
acquiesce and those who rebel during such upheavals.
The main argument of this book is that the human brain is unique
compared to those of other species because it has been transformed by
culture. What is evident from studying the influence of genuine revolu
tions in society, compared to less profound transformations, or indeed
movements that represent outright reaction, is their effects upon human
298
culture. For a feature of all genuine revolutions is the huge progressive

impact they have upon areas of human endeavour ranging from art and
literature to science and technology, whereas periods of reaction gener-
ally impede such progress. However, it is also important to recognize
there is a highly complex relationship between these areas of culture and
social change. Human creativity can thrive when society is moving for-
ward in a progressive fashion, but it can also be stimulated by the tensions
and problems thrown up by society. In the next few chapters, I will explore
how particular human societies, and the tensions within those societies,
have stimulated the various arts and sciences, and how these in turn have
affected the development of human conscious awareness. And to do so,
what better place to start than with what may be one of the first human
cultural pursuits—music.
299
Part VI
MIND AND CULTURE

CH A P T ER 18
MUSIC AND RHYTHM

z
W herever humankind exists on planet Earth, there music will also

be found. As musician Dave Randall, guitarist with the bands
Faithless and Slovo, has observed, ‘Look around any crowded street, bus
or subway carriage almost anywhere in the world, and you see people
experiencing music. It spills from a sea of headphones and reverberates
from shops, cars, buskers, bars, places of worship and homes . . . It’s part
of children’s play and expresses our identity as we navigate our way into
adulthood. It walks us down the aisle and marches us off to war.’1 Music
has been an important part of human culture for a very long time; the
earliest examples of musical instruments—pipes made of bone and
horns—date to around 40,000 years ago.2 And it is likely that other forms
of music making that leave no physical evidence, such as singing, or
musical instruments made of wood or other materials that have long
since decayed, date back far further than this, making music perhaps the
oldest art form.
At first glance, making music seems only remotely related to human
survival. Why, then, is it so important to us? I would argue that to ask this
question in such a form betrays a narrowness in thinking about human
existence and its motivating factors. For just as a central theme of this
book is that human consciousness differs qualitatively from that of other
species, so we should not be afraid to look for explanations for human
behaviour that go beyond basic needs. Instead, we should consider again
the specific features of humanity that distinguish us from other species,
and how these might affect different forms of culture.
music a nd r h y t hm
We have already noted that two key distinguishing features of Homo

sapiens are our ability to design and use tools to transform the world
around us, and our capacity for conscious awareness, which itself, I have
argued, is based on the framework of abstract symbols that constitutes
human language. At the same time, we should be open to the possibility
that our ability to produce and appreciate music might also be based on
some evolved characteristics of both mind and body that we share with
other non-human species.
Following Charles Darwin’s revelation that humans are as much a
product of natural selection as other species, there have been plenty of
attempts to try and explain our musical skills and appreciation of music
with reference to our link with the animal kingdom. Indeed, Darwin
himself suggested such a link in 1871. Noting that many male animal
features evolved not to aid survival directly, but for successful courtship
of the female—a famous example being the peacock’s tail—Darwin pro-
posed that some human features might also be selected in this way,
including music. As he put it, ‘primeval man probably first used his voice
in producing true musical cadences as do some of the gibbon-apes at the
present day; and . . . this power would have been especially exerted during
the courtship of the sexes.’3
As an idea, this has some plausibility. In animals ranging from birds to
whales and gibbons, the male’s song plays an important role in courtship.
And females in these situations can be demanding listeners. For example,
in some bird species females prefer more complex songs, putting males
under pressure to evolve mechanisms to create and sing them.4
The perceived link between love-making and music is not new; indeed,
it inspired Shakespeare’s famous lines: ‘If music be the food of love, play
on, give me excess of it.’5 And a common perception about rock stars is
that they are particularly good at attracting sexual partners. Jimi Hendrix
reportedly had sex with hundreds of female fans during his brief life, and
Robert Plant, the lead singer of Led Zeppelin, has claimed that ‘whatever
road I took, the car was heading for one of the greatest sexual encounters
I’ve ever had.’6
304
Supporters of a link between music and sex have also pointed to the
fact that human musical productivity seems to match the course of an
individual’s reproductive life. For instance, Geoffrey Miller, of the
University of New Mexico in Albuquerque, has studied jazz musicians
and found that their output rises rapidly after puberty, reaches its peak
during young-adulthood, and then declines with age and the demands of
parenthood.7
Yet such claims fall apart once submitted to proper scrutiny. In the
animal kingdom, only males use song to court females, but in human
society women are also excellent singers. Tying music too closely to sex
also seems at variance with the complex ways by which this art form
influences us.8 A man does not have to be gay to appreciate an all-male
choir, and a heterosexual woman can enjoy listening to a soprano. But
undoubtedly the biggest problem with the idea that our musical capacity
is analogous to animal courtship sounds is the fixed nature of the latter.
In contrast, a unique feature of music is its immense variety.
Another explanation for the centrality of music in human society is
that it plays a key role in coordinating activity. For instance, psychologist
Annett Schirmer of the University of Singapore has argued that rhythmic
sound ‘not only coordinates the behaviour of people in a group, it also
coordinates their thinking—the mental processes of individuals in the
group become synchronized.’9 This may explain how drums unite tribes
in ceremony, why armies used to march into battle accompanied by bugle
and drum, religious ceremonies are infused by song, and speech is punc-
tuated by rhythmic emphasis on particular syllables and words.
Schirmer’s claims are based on a study her team carried out in which
people were asked to study a series of images and then identify when an
image was shown upside down, while a drum tapped out a simple rhythm
in which the fourth beat was always skipped. Participants identified the
inverted image much more rapidly when it was shown at the same time as
the missed beat, rather than being out of sync with the beat.10 This sug-
gests that the brain’s ability to make decisions can be enhanced by an
external rhythm and heightened at precise points in synchrony with the
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beat. And an electroencephalogram (EEG) recording of participants’ brain

waves showed that the waves became synchronized around the external
rhythm, while also revealing a more surprising effect of rhythmic sound
on brain function.11 Normally, seeing a picture or hearing a sound gener-
ates a brain wave in the cerebral cortex region where such information is
processed, and indeed a wave in the visual cortex occurred each time the
image was presented. But if the image was presented simultaneously with
the missing drumbeat, the wave was bigger than when the image was
presented out of rhythm.
Schirmer believes the findings indicate that our brains evolved in such
a way that music can coordinate group activities, noting that ‘rhythm
facilitates people interacting by synchronizing brain waves and boosting
performance of perception of what the other person is saying and doing
at a particular point in time. When people move in synchrony they are
more likely to perceive the world in synchrony, so that would facilitate
their ability to interact.’12 Such findings are particularly interesting given
the recent evidence mentioned previously that brain waves can coordinate
the actions of different regions of the brain.
How might an ear for rhythm have helped our prehistoric ancestors?
One possibility is that it helped coordinate the social production of tools.
Another is that it could have aided primitive hunters; when humans walk,
we make noise, and the sounds of the footsteps of a group of hunters
could potentially mask the sound of a predatory animal or other auditory
indications of danger. Our ancestors may have evolved to synchronize
their steps to create predictable sounds as a group, improving their ability
to recognize external rhythms.13
If these are some of the theories about how human ability to produce
and appreciate music evolved, what can modern neuroscience tell us
about how music affects the brain? Valorie Salimpoor and colleagues at
the Rotman Research Institute in Toronto studied this question by using
functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) to analyse the brains of
participants while they listened to excerpts of songs they had never heard
before. The participants were then asked to say how much money they
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would spend on a given song. The study found a correlation between how
much people said they would spend and activity in a brain region called
the nucleus accumbens, which is involved in forming expectations.14
Salimpoor’s team also identified a link with another brain region, the
superior temporal gyrus. Studies have shown that the genres of music
that a person listens to over a lifetime have an impact on neural activity in
this brain region. This region alone does not predict whether a person
likes a given piece of music, but it is involved in storing templates from
what they have heard before. For instance, a person who has heard a lot of
jazz is more likely to appreciate a given piece of jazz music than someone
with less experience. Salimpoor believes this shows that ‘the brain kind of
works like a music recommendation system.’15
In another study, led by Daniel Abrams at Stanford University, partici-
pants listened to music by the late Baroque composer William Boyce,
chosen because he was unlikely to be familiar to the participants, while
their brains were imaged by fMRI.16 The study identified similar brain
activity patterns in the different participants. For Abrams, this shows that
‘despite our idiosyncrasies in listening, the brain experiences music in a
very consistent fashion across subjects.’17 Brain regions involved in move-
ment, attention, planning, and memory consistently showed activation
when participants listened to the music. As these regions are not directly
involved in auditory processing, Abrams believes this means that when
we experience music, many other things take place in the brain beyond
merely processing sound.18 These brain regions may help to hold particular
parts of a piece of music—such as the melody—in the mind while the
piece plays on. But it might also be the case that the study has identified a
neural basis for the capacity of music to unite different listeners.
As well as exploring evolutionary reasons for the centrality of music in
human society and the neural mechanisms that mediate this, it would be
a major omission in a book about the unique aspects of the human mind
to neglect the role that music plays in the creation of meaning. Previously,
I pointed to language as important not only for communication, but also
as something that allows us to make sense of the world, and even develop
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radical new ideas about that world. In other words, it allows us to create a
unique sense of the meaning of life. Yet while language is clearly the most
important of the ‘cultural tools’ that Lev Vygotsky proposed as mediators
of human consciousness and which account for the latter’s uniquely
‘extended’ character, music can be viewed as another such tool. Crucially,
music possesses the ability to speak to us in a non-verbal fashion, primar-
ily by manipulating our emotions.
Recent research has identified links between music, emotions, and
social behaviour. Autistic individuals, for instance, tend to perceive less
emotion in music, while those with a condition called Williams Syndrome
show a heightened interest in music.19 People with this syndrome have
learning difficulties, but are very cheerful and associate easily with
strangers. There is evidence that they have enhanced activity in the
amygdala, which, recall, is a brain region particularly associated with the
emotions, and increased brain levels of oxytocin, which as we have seen
mediates social interactions.20 It is interesting then they are also more
likely to look for and play music, and have heightened emotional
responses to music, which tends to reinforce the idea of a link between
music, emotional responses, and sociability.
In addition to expressing emotion, there are other similarities to be
found when we compare the characteristics of music across cultures. For
example, music of any genre nearly always involves some form of com-
plex sound event, such as structured rhythms, or pitch organization,
overlying a regular beat.21 Through allowing people to create something
together via such a regular beat, musical sounds may have provided a
means by which people could share experiences, thereby fostering social
bonds. Similarly, music’s capacity to generate emotions that are felt by
everyone, yet remain specific to an individual because of their own par-
ticular life history and experiences, suggests that it may have arisen as a
way of bringing together individual and group feelings, particularly in
times of social uncertainty.22
Indeed, this particularly seems to be the case in hunter-gatherer soci
eties, the form of society that human beings have existed in for the vast
308
majority of our time on Earth. Studies of such societies, including the

bush people of the Kalahari, whose way of life I have already discussed,
the Pygmies of Equatorial Africa, and the indigenous people of America,
coupled with archaeological evidence from prehistory such as cave
paintings, have allowed us to develop a picture of the role of music in this
original type of human society.23 In fact not only music but also dance
should be considered as these two activities are intertwined in hunter-
gather societies, unlike the situation in modern society where they can be
quite separate.24
Music and dance are central to hunter-gatherer societies. Previously
I have mentioned how labour—here defined as shared work using tools to
transform the environment—played a key role in human evolution, as
well as the importance of play in the development of conscious awareness
during childhood. In modern society, we tend to view play and work
as radically different, and even opposed. But in hunter-gatherer societies
there is much less distinction between these two activities, and indeed
there is a certain playfulness during work that may involve a musical
component such as singing or drumming.25 The music and songs that
accompany work in hunter-gatherer societies help to bind the group
members in shared activities and can even play a role in hunting, as
mimicry of animal sounds as part of a song may be used to lure hunted
animals into a trap.
Song and dance have a particularly important role to play in such soci
eties after nightfall. For instance, studies of the bush people of the Kalahari
have shown the importance of firelit activities that ‘steer away from ten-
sions of the day to singing, dancing, religious ceremonies, and enthralling
stories.’26 Societal concerns, as well as the personal gripes of individuals,
are put aside as everyone gathers to make music, dance, or tell stories.
These activities often close social rifts and facilitate bonding. Unlike mod-
ern society, where music and dance are generally the job of professional
performers, in hunter-gatherer societies all group members are expected
to take part in what is very much a communal activity.27 And in these
often mobile societies in which individuals have few possessions, while
309
there are dedicated musical instruments, music can also be made with
whatever is available, for instance a hunting bow. In addition music and
dance are central to gatherings of separate hunter-gatherer groups, where
they help dissipate inter-group tensions and cement alliances.
In terms of the effect of music and dance in enhancing social bonds in
hunter-gatherer societies, of central importance is the effect of such activ-
ities in stimulating the secretion of neurochemicals such as endorphins
and oxytocin—which promote well- being and social interaction,
respectively—in the brain. In addition, echoing Vygotsky’s statement
28
mentioned earlier that play allows a child to act as if ‘a head taller than
himself’, the role-playing element in song and dance can be an important
way for individuals in hunter-gatherer societies to explore deeper themes
than their concrete, everyday experience.29 It is not a coincidence that
music and dance in such societies play a major role in spiritual matters.
Spirituality is a topic that I will explore in greater detail later, but music’s
alliance with spiritual experiences seems likely to have added a profound
value to human life in prehistory.
If such is the role of music and dance in the original form of human
society, how have things changed in the class societies that have charac-
terized humanity since the birth of civilization about five to six thousand
years ago? Here two important factors need to be considered: first, the
divisions that characterize class societies and, second, the cumulative
development of technology to an ever accelerating degree in such soci
eties. I would argue that these factors have affected the position of music
in society, and its effects on human conscious awareness, in two notable
ways. First, the development of new technologies has increased the pos-
sible means by which human beings can produce sounds in ways that
have at certain times in history led to profound transformations in both
the type of music available to humanity and the effects of these on the
human mind. Second, changes in the social relations of human society
have often had a major—although often far from direct—influence on
music styles and their social impact, and thereby can be argued to have
310
increased the diversity and depth of the ways that music is able to speak
about what it means to be human.
That music may act as a barometer of social aspirations, but also dis-
content, in society has long been recognized. In 380 bc, Plato remarked
that ‘a change to a new type of music is something to beware of . . . [f]or
the modes of music are never disturbed without unsettling of the most
fundamental political and social conventions’, while the rulers of ancient
China set up an office to supervise court music and monitor the musical
tastes of the masses, in case these showed indications of social unrest.30 In
twelfth-century Europe, church authorities placed strict limitations on
music, with artists only allowed to play chords and patterns judged to be
pleasing to the ear. Intervals between notes that went against this idea of
harmony were banned. One banned interval, the flat fifth, or tritone, was
even branded diabolus in musica—the devil in music.31 Yet despite attempts
to stifle it, the dissonance that the authorities tried to prohibit in music
became a growing feature of society in the fourteenth century, a period
characterized by a wave of peasants’ revolts. To try to address the issues
that caused the revolts, concessions were made by the authorities—some
material, others cultural. One such concession was that the church
removed the ban on certain musical intervals.32
The progressiveness of such a move is shown by the diversity of human
emotions and situations that even a single musical interval like the flat
fifth can convey. For on the one hand, as its nickname suggests, this
‘devil’s tritone’ can create a sense of foreboding, and so has been used to
create a tense and sinister atmosphere by artists ranging from Richard
Wagner, who employed it in his opera Götterdämmerung, to the heavy rock
group Black Sabbath, who used it in their song of the same name.33
However, to only associate the tritone with the sinister underestimates its
potential range, since it also features in Jimi Hendrix’s song ‘Purple Haze’,
and in two love songs—‘The Girl from Ipanema’ by João Gilberto and
Stan Getz, and ‘Maria’ from the musical West Side Story.34 For Anthony
Pryer of Goldsmith’s College in London, these varied uses of the same
311
interval reflect the fact that it ‘is something that yearns to be resolved.
A very good example would be the opening of . . . Maria. It wants to resolve
into the next note. It is a special kind of tension.’35 Given the ultimate tragedy
of West Side Story, its use in this case may even have been a deliberate—
or unconscious—anticipation of future sadness to come. Such diversity
in the range of what a single musical interval can convey—often in
potentially unconscious ways in a listener—illustrates how music can
sometimes transcend what it is possible to convey through words alone.
Previously I mentioned how the French revolution that began in 1789
had a huge impact on human consciousness, with its slogan liberté, égalité,
fraternité. Yet a study of how this event influenced music demonstrates that
it is not necessarily revolutions per se, but rather the contradictions
within such moments of dramatic historical change that can prove most
productive in stimulating great artistic endeavours. A sign of this is that
far from being generated at the centre of revolutionary change in Paris,
the most profound music at this time was being composed in Vienna, a
relative backwater, by one Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
In Austria there was no decisive break with the old order as happened in
France in 1789.36 Although social progress was achieved during Emperor
Joseph II’s rule in the 1780s it came from above in an often half-hearted
manner. Yet the tensions produced by this contradictory situation were
the backdrop for one of the most fertile eras in the history of music, for
Mozart is widely considered by many as the greatest composer of all time.37
Unlike Johann Sebastian Bach, who worked for the church, or Joseph
Haydn, the servant of a local aristocrat, Mozart decided to attempt a
career as an independent musician, something almost unheard of at the
time. What helped Mozart in this pursuit of artistic independence was
that Joseph II initiated reforms aimed at forestalling a revolution like the
one in France.38 These included an attack on church privileges, legal
reforms, and less censorship in the arts. It was this more liberal environment
that allowed Mozart to live independently and create his masterpieces.39
Yet the precarious nature of his existence probably also helped hasten his
death, and burial in a pauper’s grave, at the age of just 35.
312
Both the revolutionary spirit of the age and its contradictions influenced
Mozart’s work. His opera The Marriage of Figaro was based on Beaumarchais’
play of a servant outwitting his master, which was banned in Austria
because of its perceived subversive character.40 Interestingly, for Figaro’s
aria of revenge on his master, the Count, Mozart set his words to a min-
uet—a dance form associated with the elegance of the aristocratic ball-
room.41 In this case form and content are clearly opposed, of note given
that Vygotsky believed a central feature of great art is that it always con-
tains an ‘intimate conflict’ between content and form.42 Here this conflict
adds a powerful element of irony to the situation.
Yet perhaps the greatest achievement of Mozart’s operas is the way that
music is used to portray the many psychological contradictions within
human character, behaviour, and intentions. Ever since Don Giovanni was
first performed there has been a debate about whether the central charac-
ter is a villain, a hero, or both of these things at once.43 And while The
Magic Flute is a thinly veiled celebration of the ideals of freemasonry—in
Mozart’s era a progressive movement of which the composer himself was
a prominent member—we are continually wrong-footed in our estima-
tions of the character, motives, and trustworthiness of the two ruling pro-
tagonists, the Queen of the Night and Sarastro. As critic Luke Howard has
noted, The Magic Flute ‘invites the viewer to look past first appearances,
and examine the premises and assumptions on which those appearances
are based.’44 Perhaps, writing in 1791 with the two-year old French revolu-
tion already throwing up complex practical and moral dilemmas, Mozart
was well aware that not everything is reducible to polar opposites.
Moving to a different century, previously I described how scientists are
using brain imaging to study the neural mechanisms underlying the cre
ativity of jazz musicians during an act of improvisation.45 But we should
also consider the social and psychological influences that affected the
development of jazz. The political activist Malcolm X linked together jazz
improvisation and the civil rights movement at a rally in Harlem in 1964
with his claim that ‘when a black musician picks up his horn and starts
blowing, he improvises, he creates, it comes from within. It’s his soul.
313
Jazz is the only area in America where the black man is free to create.’46 In
fact, the first truly improvisational jazz, bebop, was heavily influenced
by the radicalizing influence that fighting in World War II had upon a
generation of young black men.47 The war had supposedly been fought
against Nazi racism, yet returning black soldiers found themselves con-
fronted by the same institutionalized racism and public prejudice as
before. This had an important impact on the form and content of jazz in
the post-war years.
In contrast to the big bands that characterized jazz in the pre-war years,
bebop was played by small groups in which the drummer and bassist
were on a musical par with the horn and piano soloists, producing a more
democratic structure in the band setup.48 This democratization was also
aided by the improvisational style, in which the music was guided by an
equal interaction of different musicians, rather than by a sole band leader.
Bebop was also played at a much faster tempo than swing. One reason for
this was a desire to be taken seriously. Many jazz musicians felt that
during the swing era, they were often reduced to providing ambient back-
ground music and forced to take a back seat to their audiences—which
were often predominantly white. In contrast, Billy Eckstine, who led a
bebop band in the 1940s and 1950s, noted that he deliberately rearranged
many popular songs to have fast tempos so that the audience could not
dance to them, forcing them to pay more attention to the musicians. Here
bebop tried to create an equality that wider society still denied to blacks.
Another important development in music since the birth of civiliza-
tion and class society, compared to that in prehistoric hunter-gatherer
societies, is that technological innovations have transformed music in an
increasingly rapid fashion over the centuries. And I would argue that this
has had an important impact on the range of ideas, feelings, and emo-
tions that music is able to convey, and therefore the influence that it can
have on human conscious awareness. One example of this is the way that
changes in musical technology in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth
centuries—particularly the transition from the harpsichord to the
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piano—affected the range and power of first Mozart’s music, and then
Beethoven’s.
These two types of instruments differ in that despite being both key-
board instruments, a harpsichord’s sounds are produced when a series of
quills pluck the instrument’s strings, a mechanical process that allows for
only limited dynamic variations, while on the piano the strings are struck
by hammers, with the varying force exerted on the keyboard by the pian
ist providing superior dynamic contrast and responsiveness, allowing for
unbroken melodic lines and greater emotional expression.49 Because of
this, unlike its predecessor, the piano was able to transmit a far wider
spectrum of dynamics, musical colours, and emotions.
A sign of the rapidly growing importance of pianos in Mozart’s lifetime
is shown by the fact that in 1756, when he was born, pianos were still rare
in Germany, had barely arrived on Britain’s shores, and were basically
unknown in France, but by 1791, when he died, they were being widely
produced in all three countries.50 And this transition was important in
Mozart’s musical development, shown for instance in the piano sonatas
he composed that reflected the new instrument’s potential, leaping
exuberantly from loud to soft, high to low.
Ludwig van Beethoven, coming on to the world stage just after Mozart,
was even more able to realize the true potential of this rapidly developing
instrument. The innovations in piano design that continued after Mozart’s
death provided Beethoven, along of course with his own musical genius,
with the means to express his extraordinary creative impulses and the
capacity to further break from the confining musical conventions of the
eighteenth century.51
Of course while noting the influence of technological developments on
the development of musical styles may be seen as important from a socio
logical point of view, how does this relate to conscious awareness and
specifically the central thesis of this book, that human consciousness has
undergone a qualitative shift compared to that of an animal? We noted
previously that music is another cultural tool besides language that has
315
had an important impact on the development of human conscious

awareness. This may include new ways of making music. In the case of
the piano played by a virtuoso like Beethoven, it allowed him to radically
transform the variety and scope of emotional responses that it was pos-
sible to elicit in a listener using a musical instrument.52
Another demonstration of how an individual can transform our per-
ceptions of the potential of a musical instrument, with regard to not only
the listening experience but also the potential impact on the human psy-
che, can be found in the music composed and played by Jimi Hendrix in
the 1960s. Hendrix pioneered the use of the guitar as an electrical sound
source. Players before him had experimented with feedback and distor-
tion, but Hendrix turned those and other effects into a controlled, fluid
vocabulary.53 One of his most famous live performances was at the
Woodstock festival, held at a rural location north of New York in August
1969—at the height of the Vietnam War—in which he played an instru-
mental version of the patriotic US anthem ‘The Star Spangled Banner’.54
However, during his performance, Hendrix used electrical feedback to
mimic explosions, machine gunfire and a wailing siren—musical images
of the horror of war. Hendrix believed his use of the electrical guitar in
this way allowed him to tap into emotional responses in ways that trad
itional playing had not, and indeed he claimed that ‘technically, I’m not a
guitar player, all I play is truth and emotion.’55
It is one thing to select examples of music linked to social and political
unrest. But is this really how music in our advanced capitalist society
generally connects with people’s consciousness? For isn’t music’s main
function nowadays to make money for the billion-dollar industry that
manufactures it on a vast scale and act as a distraction from most people’s
humdrum lives? This was certainly the view of German philosopher
Theodor Adorno, who argued that ‘the frame of mind to which popular
music [appeals] and which it perpetually reinforces is simultaneously one
of distraction and inattention . . . Distraction is bound to the present mode
of production, to the rationalized and mechanized process of labour to
which, directly or indirectly, masses are subject. This mode of production,
316
which engenders fears and anxiety about unemployment, loss of income,

war, has its “non-productive” correlate in entertainment; that is, relax
ation which does not involve the effort of concentration.’56
Yet it is surely an oversimplification to claim that music—even generic
pop music—acts only as a distraction from social issues and does not
involve concentration. For pop songs can engage with their audience in
quite profound ways through both music and lyrics. Indeed the message
coming from the music in such songs may often be at variance with the
lyrical content. Consider John Lennon’s song ‘Imagine’.57 Lyrically, the
song is a plea for equality, and an end to private property, nations, and
religion, yet because this is all wrapped in a sweet harmony, it became one
of the most popular songs of the twentieth century. As Lennon himself
put it, the song ‘is anti-religious, anti-nationalistic, anti-conventional,
anti-capitalistic . . . but because it is sugar-coated, it is accepted.’58 In fact,
‘Imagine’ is far more complex harmonically than its air of simplicity
suggests, and this helps to create a sense of serenity, yet at the same time
of restless musing,59 but the basic point applies.
While Lennon was making a very direct political point, pop songs can
still speak of unease and discontent with existing society even without an
obvious political message. In the soul song ‘Drift Away’, Dobie Gray
begins with a plea about the pressures of the modern world and the pain
of living in such a world—alienation in other words—but also notes
music’s potential to heal in this respect, by allowing our minds to ‘drift
away’.60 Dave Randall believes that one reason lyrical expression of ‘feel-
ings of alienation’ can have an impact is that ‘by describing them, they
reassure us that we are not the only one with those feelings. At the very
least, this consoles us making our days more bearable. But at its best,
music can prise open the cracks that let in the light . . . By reminding us
how good it feels to emotionally connect with others, it invites us to
imagine a less alienated future . . . It enables us to locate our very personal
and subjective feelings within a kind of collective consciousness.’61
In fact, this sense of collective consciousness contains many contradic-
tions. One is the power imbalance between musicians and their audience.
317
After a concert or festival, fans go back to their humdrum existence, while

the artist’s life is perceived as one of excitement and glamour. In contrast
to the general alienated state of society, ‘performers seem to express
themselves through their work. They appear to combine their physical,
intellectual and creative attributes—even their soul—in a tangible, imme-
diate act of production. They present us with the tantalizing mirage of
unalienated labour—work that is actually deeply satisfying—and leave us
enviously speculating about their glamorous lives.’62
In fact Randall sees the reality for a performer like himself as more
complicated: ‘those of us who tour are actually more removed from the
collective—in some senses, more alienated—than most. We may bring
people together, but we do so as itinerants removed from society and placed
in a bubble of tour-buses, hotels, dressing rooms, and VIP areas.’63 Even
someone as famous as John Lennon remembered the height of the Beatles’
success as ‘complete oppression. I mean we had to go through humiliation
upon humiliation with the middle classes and showbiz and Lord Mayors and
all that. They were so condescending and stupid. Everybody trying to use us.
It was a special humiliation for me, cause I could never keep my mouth shut
and I always had to be drunk and pilled to counteract the pressure.’64
One feature of modern popular music is its bewildering number of dif-
ferent genres. To the more traditional categories of rock, country, blues,
soul, reggae, and folk, we can add punk, disco, hip-hop, rap, house, rave,
drum’n’bass, grime . . . the list continues. Yet an ideal common to all of
these genres is the importance of ‘keeping it real’. In other words, to truly
connect to the fears, hopes, and desires of their audience, an artist needs
to remain rooted in the society that first inspired their music and lyrics.
But this poses a problem, since the more fame a musician achieves, the
less connected they are to the life that helped create their art.
The fear of losing touch with one’s roots is a common one in many
genres of music. In his 1975 hit ‘Country Boy’, Glen Campbell sang about
the material benefits of success as a famous musician but contrasted this
with the feeling that as a ‘country boy’, his heart was still in Tennessee,
where he once sang his songs for free, but felt freer and h appier for it.65
318
In fact, such fears are surely not so different from those voiced by
Eminem—the pseudonym of the rapper Marshall Mathers—in his 2017
song ‘Walk on Water’. In the late 1990s, Eminem became famous for
expressing the hopes, fears, and frustrations of life in the poor white
‘trailer trash’ society in which he grew up in Detroit.66 And in 2017 the
fears and feelings of inadequacy clearly remained, as shown by Eminem’s
mention of his insecurity about whether his latest lyrics might tarnish the
‘legacy, love or respect of his fans.’67 The question is whether such lyrics
can have the same resonance now that Eminem is a multimillionaire.
Richey Edwards, guitarist and chief lyricist with Welsh rock band the
Manic Street Preachers, showed literally how passionately he felt about
the need to ‘keep it real’ when he carved ‘4 REAL’ into his arm with a knife
in response to a journalist who questioned the band’s integrity.68 In fact,
this was just one of several incidents of self-harm by Edwards, who also
suffered from anorexia. Demonstrating the potential of music to provide
insight into mental disorder, the Manics’ song ‘4st 7lb’, which appeared on
their album The Holy Bible, movingly and disturbingly took us inside the
head of an anorexic, although its lyrics were also considered problematic
because of the risk of glamorizing the condition.69
In fact, this double-edged portrayal of mental disorder would become
an epitaph for Richey Edwards himself. Soon after the completion of The
Holy Bible, his car was found abandoned near the Severn Bridge, which
separates Wales and England.70 With his history of neurosis and self-
abuse, an obvious conclusion was that he had committed suicide by
jumping into the river Severn. However, because Richey’s body was never
found and he had withdrawn a significant sum of money from his bank
account before his disappearance, for many years his family, the other
band members, and many fans have clung to the idea that he simply
decided to quit the limelight and start a new identity somewhere else.71
While an obvious way for those grieving to cling to the hope that Richey
is still alive, this belief may also have been influenced by the idea that such
an outcome was more fitting for this unique and talented individual than
a lonely death in the cold, murky waters of the Severn.
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CH A P T ER 19
ART AND DESIGN

z
W hen I was a child, in the school holidays my friends and I would

often disappear for the day, intent on finding out more about the
slivers of countryside that encroached on the urban landscape of north
Bradford where we lived. We explored fields, woods, rivers, and even
disused railway tunnels. From my current viewpoint as a parent in the
twenty-first century, it seems amazing that my own parents let me roam
all day unsupervised, but a positive feature of such an attitude was that it
fuelled my sense of independence and, most of all, adventure. These for-
ays were partly driven by a search for freedom from the restrictions of
home and school, but also by a sense that we might make a great discovery,
or stumble upon a mystery of the sort we had read about in books like
Enid Blyton’s Famous Five series. Yet while my friends and I had a great
deal of fun on our travels, we never did make that great discovery we had
hoped for. However, this was not the case for another group of children
who, in September 1940, made a discovery that would revolutionize our
view of the origins of human culture.
The four boys—Marcel Ravidat, Jacques Marsal, Georges Agnel, and
Simon Coencas—lived in Montignac, a village in the Dordogne region of
France. Inspired by a local legend about a tunnel containing hidden treasure,
they set out to explore the woods near Montignac to try to find the tunnel,
and when their dog found an opening at the foot of an uprooted tree, the
boys decided to enter it.1 What followed was a steep and hair-raising
descent down 15 metres of tunnel, but at its foot the boys found themselves
in a large underground chamber. Holding up the oil lanterns they had
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brought, they were astounded to see revealed in the flickering light, not gold
or silver, but a cultural treasure that would prove far more valuable.
As Marsal described it, the boys had discovered a ‘cavalcade of animals
larger than life painted on the walls and ceiling of the cave; each animal
seemed to be moving.’2 The chamber, now known as ‘The Hall of the
Bulls’, was just the start of a series of passages covered with amazing cave
paintings, which featured not only scenes of hunted animals, but also a
figure of a man with a bird’s head—perhaps a shaman who carried out
rituals in the cave. Later analysis would show that the paintings were
created over 15,000 years ago.
Today the paintings of Lascaux are just one of many examples of pre-
historic art discovered not only in caves, but also above ground, as in the
Côa valley in Portugal where exploration in the 1990s as part of a plan to
create a dam revealed hundreds of engravings in the overhanging rock
walls of the valley.3 Thankfully, the construction of the dam was stopped,
and the area made a UNESCO protected site.4 Most recently, cave paintings
of animals found on the island of Sulawesi, in Indonesia, were estimated
to be at least 35,400 years old, making this the oldest-known example of
figurative art anywhere in the world.5
Quite what motivated our ancestors to descend into the bowels of the
earth or venture into isolated valleys to adorn rock walls with such intri-
cate drawings remains open to interpretation. Some believe the art was
important for its content, while others assert that its primary significance
was in the ritual act of producing it, for since hunting was critical to early
humans’ survival, such art may have been part of a magic ritual whose
aim was to influence the success of the hunt, or increase the fertility of
herds in the wild. Images that seem to have been clawed or gouged with
spears favour the former idea, while a painting of a pregnant-looking
horse in the Lascaux cave supports the latter.6 What is clear is that the
birth of figurative art marked a significant shift in our species’ ability to
represent the world around us, and, presumably, a step forward in our
capacity for conscious awareness.
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The ability to draw a familiar object such as a cat or dog develops so

naturally in children that it is easy to forget what a remarkable human
capacity this is. For unlike tool use, spoken language, or perhaps even the
capacity to make music, which may all have evolutionary precedents in
the actions or sounds made by other species, the ability to draw appears to
have no relationship to anything found in the rest of the animal kingdom.
And certainly for the view presented in this book of the uniqueness of
human conscious awareness, the ability of humans to both produce and
appreciate visual art is something that deserves a wider discussion. In
particular, abstract symbols, mathematical systems, planning diagrams,
and other forms that constitute visual art can all be viewed as further
examples of the ‘cultural tools’ that shape our minds besides language.
Indeed, recent studies have shown that the production, and appreciation,
of visual art can play an important role in the development of conscious
awareness in children. For instance, Margaret Brooks of the University of
New England in Armidale, Australia, has shown that encouraging chil-
dren to draw what they see around them can be a major stimulus to the
development of conceptual thought in such children. Brooks has noted
that when such children were ‘encouraged to revisit, revise and dialogue
through and with their drawing, they were able to explore and represent
increasingly complex ideas.’7
We may wonder, given our present understanding of the role of different
brain regions in human consciousness, how such different regions might
be involved in both the production and appreciation of visual works of
art. To investigate this question, Steven Brown and colleagues at McMaster
University in Hamilton, Canada, carried out a meta-analysis of 93 different
studies that had used neuroimaging to identify regions of the human
brain involved in artistic appreciation.8 They found no evidence that
artworks activate brain areas distinct from those involved in appraising
everyday objects important for survival. Brown believes this shows that
the aesthetic system of the brain evolved first for the appraisal of objects
of biological importance, including food sources and suitable mates,
and was later co- opted for artworks such as paintings and music.
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As he puts it, ‘much as philosophers like to believe that our brains contain
a specialized system for the appreciation of artworks, research suggests that
our brain’s responses to a piece of cake and a piece of music are in fact quite
similar.’9 This finding fits with other studies mentioned in this book that
failed to find specific brain regions dedicated to language, mu sic
al
appreciation, or other ‘higher’ human abilities. However, this does not mean
that neuroscience cannot provide important insights about the ways in
which the human brain perceives artworks and their impact in our minds.
One recent study, led by David Freedberg of Columbia University in
New York, tried to understand more about the neural mechanisms that
might underlie an aesthetic response to a work of art. Freedberg’s team
used an imaging method called transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS)
to monitor the brains of participants as they viewed a detail from
Michelangelo’s Expulsion from Paradise, a fresco panel on the ceiling of the
Sistine Chapel at the Vatican. The detail was of a fallen-from-grace Adam
warding off a sword-wielding angel with his eyes averted from the
blade and his wrist bent back defensively. The study found that viewing
this detail stimulated regions in the brain’s primary motor cortex that
controlled the observer’s own wrist movements.10 Such a feeling could
form an important part of the aesthetic response that makes viewers of
the fresco feel they are right there with Adam fending off the angel’s
blows. Freedberg believes this may also explain why some viewers of
Edgar Degas’s paintings of ballerinas have reported that they experi-
ence the sensation of dancing. Given what we learned previously about
mirror neurons, which are stimulated when we observe another per-
son carrying out an action and have been proposed to play a role in
allowing us to understand the intentions and emotions behind such an
action, further research should explore whether these neurons play a
role in such aesthetic responses.
Rather than investigating the viewers of artworks, another imaging
study looked for differences in the brains of artists compared to non-
artistic individuals. The study, by Rebecca Chamberlain and colleagues at
the Catholic University in Leuven, Belgium, used an approach called
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voxel-based morphometry to scan the brains of art students compared to

non-artists.11 This revealed that artists had increased neuronal matter in
areas relating to fine motor movements and visual imagery. Notably, the
artists had significantly more neurons in a part of the parietal lobe region
of the brain that Chamberlain says ‘is involved in a range of functions
but potentially in things that could be linked to creativity, like visual
imagery—being able to manipulate visual images in your brain, combine
them and deconstruct them.’12
Participants in the study also completed drawing tasks and those
best at drawing were found to have greater numbers of neurons in the
cerebellum—a brain region that as we have already seen is involved in
fine motor control and performance of routine actions, but is also increas-
ingly recognized as playing a key role in creativity and imagination.13
Such findings leave unanswered the question of whether the differences
reflect innate differences between artists and non-artists, or changes that
have occurred as individuals learned to produce their first artistic creations.
This is important, given the complexity of the interaction of nature and
nurture that, as I have stressed throughout this book, shapes an individual
human consciousness. As a follow-up to this particular study, the next
step might be to examine changes in the brains of young people as they
begin to produce artistic works. Indeed, Chris McManus from University
College London, who was also involved in the study, has said that the
researchers have plans ‘to do further studies where we look at teenagers
and see how they develop in their drawing as they grow older.’14
Studying how different brain regions are involved in the production
and appreciation of art may reveal some of the mechanisms underlying
these processes but there is clearly more to art production and appreci
ation than simple mechanics. In particular, in line with what I have been
arguing elsewhere in this book, there is good reason to believe that a
central aspect of producing and appreciating art is our human ability to
abstract the properties of the world in a symbolic fashion—and thereby
create new meaning—that is unique to our species. This symbolism is
clear—some might say personified—in the Lascaux cave paintings. With
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just a stick and some pigment, whoever created what has been referred to
as the ‘Sistine Chapel of prehistoric art’15 nevertheless managed to convey,
in a few strokes, not only the animals’ shape, but also their movements, in
such a way that this made a deeply memorable impression on some
teenage boys 15,000 years after the paintings’ creation.
While this capacity of art to speak to human beings across the gulf of
time is one of its key features, it would be mistaken not to recognize that
art has also undergone change and development over the centuries, and
that what an artwork says to future generations may be radically different
from what its original creator intended. Yet whether there can be any
sense of ‘progression’ in the visual arts remains controversial. At the same
time, we have other issues to consider, such as whether artistic creativity
is primarily a product of the rational mind, or whether it flows more from
unconscious impulses, and even from thoughts that in other circum-
stances might be considered odd or even insane. Finally, I will consider
how visual art is being affected by newer technological developments like
cinema and the Internet.
On the subject of the development of artforms over time, which now
includes moving images, clearly on one level great works of art, whether
from prehistory or any subsequent period following the birth of civiliza-
tion, can be considered equally worthy of our respect. In particular, we
can compare an image such as one of the bovine species depicted in the
Lascaux cave paintings mentioned earlier with the cows rendered in beau-
tiful detail by sixteenth-century Dutch painter Aelbert Cuyp, or Pablo
Picasso’s much more abstract images of bulls.16 Such a comparison shows
that all of these artistic creations have been drawn with tremendous skill,
and as such it would be hard to justify the claim that any of the images are
in any way superior to the others. And indeed a recent study has shown
that the Lascaux paintings of animals are more accurate in their depiction
of how such animals walk, based on photographic evidence of this process,
than similar animal images by later artists.17
Yet on another level I would argue that at certain periods of history,
there have been important steps forward in the capacity of visual art to
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say novel things about the state of the world and the human condition.
This has particularly been the case during periods of major social
upheaval, but may also reflect widening global horizons as humanity has
developed, as shown by the work of the fifteenth-century Dutch artist
Hieronymus Bosch. When I first saw The Garden of Earthly Delights, by
Bosch, in the Museo del Prado in Madrid, my initial feeling was how
modern the painting seemed, despite being half a millennium old, and
that Bosch might have been high on some psychedelic drug when he
painted it. With its lurid colours and hallucinatory images—which
include a bird-headed creature eating a naked man, a pig dressed as a nun,
and a hollowed-out giant with trees for limbs and an inn inside his pale
egg-like torso—this tryptich painting seemed closer to the twentieth-
century surrealist painter Salvador Dali than to other late medieval art.18
Yet Bosch was very much a product of his society, while at the same time
being highly attuned to radical changes in that society.
Bosch lived in the Netherlands during the transition between the late
medieval period and the Renaissance. Trade and urbanization were
increasing, weakening the feudal system, and increasing the demand for
art.19 At the same time the gap between rich and poor was expanding in
the cities. In the late fifteenth century, perceived misbehaviour by reli-
gious leaders led some ordinary people and clergy to set up a religious
reform movement known as Modern Devotion. Their aim was to change
the relationship between church and society, and they created small com-
munities in which participants shared property. There is evidence that
Bosch or his sponsors were influenced by their ideas, which, according to
art historian Jos Koldeweij, emphasized that ‘all human beings have to
think, themselves, about good and evil . . . [and] to read the Bible in our
own language, [and] take the message out of it for our own lives.’20
The influence of this way of thinking is shown particularly clearly in
another of Bosch’s tryptichs, The Haywain. In this, he shows people of all
classes following a hay wagon.21 Some are fighting each other in order to
seize some hay. Tellingly, members of the clergy are also stuffing their bags.
Meanwhile, demons are pulling the wagon towards hell. The message is
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clear—people’s greed is leading them towards a world full of agony. And

in a historical period of rapidly changing social relations, and consequential
changes in different individuals’ material status and wealth, such images
may have had a special resonance.
But Bosch was at his most striking when he conjured up fantasy crea-
tures as in The Garden of Earthly Delights. In this he merged the characteris-
tics of nature, animals, people, and machines into a new absurd reality.22
In the first two panels, naked people are frolicking in a heavenly land-
scape with huge flowers, fruits, and animals. But in the third panel, the
dark landscape is of a hell inhabited by demons, and sinners desperately
trying to flee their tortures. This vision reflected the real difference that
ending up in heaven or hell represented for people in a society defined by
religion, and which Bosch portrayed so viscerally.
However, the specific content of this vision also hints at another pos
sible influence, namely the important advances in science and technology,
and the fruits of European voyages to the Far East and the New World that
were just beginning to occur at this time.23 For example, the presence in
Bosch’s paintings of architecture that seems to be modelled on human
organs suggests an interest in anatomy; the giant fruits suggest opulent
places far away. Meanwhile, the ecstatic nudes may be inspired by stories
of ‘naked peoples’ brought back by travellers to the Americas. In this sense,
far from being a vision totally at variance with the spirit of the times, Bosch
may have been engaging with a new and exciting reality. And as such, this
vision may be seen as the beginning of a truly global human conscious-
ness, although it should be said, one which at this stage was still only avail-
able to a small section of the world’s population, the privileged few in a
colonizing nation, and not to the colonized peoples themselves, or even
for that matter, the vast majority of ordinary Dutch citizens.
Previously in this book I have criticized two polarized views about
human consciousness: the first sees differences in individual human per-
sonality and behaviour as ultimately a product of differences in biology,
while the second views human beings as blank slates and the subsequent
development of an individual’s character as purely a product of social
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influence. In contrast, I have sought to develop a view of individual human

consciousness that sees nature and nurture as equally important, with the
two contributing to personality and behaviour in a highly interactive
fashion. This is surely highly relevant for our discussion of Bosch’s
work, for while this reflects a highly personal and distinctive way of
looking at the world, it was also clearly influenced not only by ideas
within society at that time, but also by new influences on that society. In
addition, I have discussed evidence that there seems to be a narrow
dividing line between creativity and mental disorder, with many neural
processes that enhance the former also often seeming to play a role in
the latter. And we will now further look at how such considerations can
affect our understanding of art.
Michelangelo Buonarotti’s reputation as an artistic genius is based not
only on the quality of his creations but also on his versatility, since he
excelled not only in painting and sculpture, but also in architecture. And
recently, it has been claimed that a key ingredient in Michelangelo’s genius
is what has been interpreted, retrospectively, as his autistic personality.
So Muhammad Arshad, a psychiatrist at Whiston Hospital in Merseyside,
England, and Michael Fitzgerald, from Trinity College Dublin, have
claimed that ‘Michelangelo’s single-minded work routine, unusual lifestyle,
limited interests, poor social and communication skills, and various
issues of life control appear to be features of high-functioning autism or
Asperger’s syndrome.’24 Such a claim would fit with the fact that people
with Asperger’s syndrome have difficulties with communication and
social interaction but can show an unusual, often obsessional, talent or
skill in a particular area.
In Michelangelo’s case, Arshad and Fitzgerald believe that this explains
how the artist was able to generate, in such a short time, many hundreds
of sketches for the Sistine ceiling. But not everyone agrees with this claim,
with the art historian James Hall countering that ‘the character traits they
are referring to—obsessional behaviour, fiery temper, propensity to be a
loner—could be linked to many artists.’25 In fact there are other reasons
for rejecting the idea that a great artist’s genius can be seen as primarily a
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product of their biological character—‘abnormal’ or more conventional

in nature—and that is the ample evidence that, as with Bosch, social
environment can also play a tremendous role in nurturing such an artist.
In understanding Michelangelo’s art, the rise of Florence as an eco-
nomic power from the twelfth century onwards is of major importance.
This rise was connected to the financial and transport facilities of the
Crusades being organized from the city; free competition first developed
there in opposition to the guild ideal of the Middle Ages; and the first
European banking system arose in Florence. The economic growth of the
city helped fund the beautiful Florentine art created at this time, but was
also accompanied by a new ‘humanist’ approach to life, which helped to
shape this art. This influence is shown in Michelangelo’s statue David.
The artist himself said that he carved the statue of David from a block
of marble by hewing ‘away the rough walls that imprison the lovely appar
ition to reveal it to the other eyes as mine see it’, implying that the form
was already waiting there in the stone.26 And the pioneering sixteenth-
century art historian Giorgio Vasari argued that Michelangelo’s particular
genius arose from his peculiar ability to imitate ‘the most beautiful things
in Nature in all forms, both in sculpture and in painting’.27 This idea is in
line with a view of imagination that I mentioned previously, namely that
this human capacity is a process whereby the mind copies objects in the
real world and combines the elements in various different ways. However,
while it would surely be difficult to stand before the artist’s David and not
be awestruck at the level of sheer technical skill involved in its creation,
there are good reasons to question the view that Michelangelo’s prodigious
skill in shaping stone—or paint—according to his will was merely a case
of skill in ‘imitating’ nature or representing ‘reality’.
The social backdrop to the creation of the statue of David is worth
mentioning, for while based on the biblical story, the motivation behind
the statue was highly secular and political, being commissioned in 1501 by
Florence’s new republican government to celebrate the recent ousting of
its Medici rulers and the city’s independence from Milan and the Roman
Papacy.28 The symbolism is obvious, and the social aspirations of Florence
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at this time also influenced the way Michelangelo carved David. For unlike
his predecessors Donatello and Verocchio, who sculpted David after the
defeat of Goliath with the giant’s head at his feet, Michelangelo portrayed
him before the battle, thereby making this a work that looks to the future,
not the past. What is more, Michelangelo’s David is not in fact in ‘perfect’
proportion; the head and hands, especially the right hand holding the
stone, are slightly too large, which has the effect of making David a brain
as well as a body, and a doer and maker as well as an object of beauty.29
Therefore, the statue may be seen to celebrate not one specific ‘man’, but
a vision of the ideal that humanity has the potential to become in a new,
republican society.
Today we live in the era of contemporary art, which began with
modernism. In fact the modernist movement—which is often defined as
occurring between the 1890s and the mid-twentieth century—included
not only visual art, but also architecture, poetry, novels, theatre, and
cinema.30 While general definitions are difficult, modernist work tends to
be formally experimental and highly self-conscious—think of Pablo
Picasso’s cubist paintings or the ‘stream of consciousness’ of James Joyce’s
novels. A key characteristic of modernism is an emphasis on dislocation
and fragmentation. This characteristic can be seen to reflect the social
events that took place between 1900 and 1930—a time of great upheaval
in which dreams of peace and prosperity were shattered by war, slump,
revolution, and reaction.31 The accelerating development of technology
and penetration of mass production methods into every sphere of life
also added to a deep sense of uncertainty. In the visual arts, a crucial dis-
tinction between modern art and ‘traditional’ art is that the latter tends
to be more representational and naturalistic, while modern art either
wilfully distorts physical appearances or, in abstract art, abandons them
altogether. And just as with music, this has been accompanied by the fact
that a successful visual artist in modern times is no longer viewed as a
paid servant of relatively lowly stature, but rather an ‘artist’ in the modern
free sense, namely someone that is most interesting when provocative
and pushing at boundaries.
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A contender for the first, truly ‘modern’ work of art is Les Demoiselles
d’Avignon, painted by Picasso between 1906 and 1907.32 In terms of its
impact on future art, Les Demoiselles can be viewed as having opened the
doorway, first to cubism and subsequently to futurism, synthetic cubism,
expressionism, vorticism, abstraction, suprematism, Dadaism, and more
besides.33 Within just ten years artists were producing works, such as
Malevich’s Black Square on White and Duchamp’s ‘found objects’, which
would not previously have been regarded as art at all, but which have
subsequently achieved classic and iconic status. So what was it about Les
Demoiselles that made it such a catalyst? And what might have been going
on inside Picasso’s brain during the production of such a radical vision?
We mentioned earlier that Picasso claimed that his genius as an artist
was based upon an ability to view the world as would a child. And cer-
tainly some of his works have an astonishing childlike simplicity. Take for
instance the ‘bull’s head’ that Picasso created much later in his career in
1942, from a discarded bicycle seat and handlebars.34 And certainly to
someone used to the art of the great masters of the Renaissance, Les
Demoiselles might also appear at first sight childishly crude in its compos
ition and harsh in its treatment of the subject. Yet nothing could be further
from the truth, and it is worth considering some of the complex neuro-
logical and psychological factors that might have been involved in the
creation of this iconic work.
One factor is what might be called Picasso’s ‘intensity of vision’. As
neuropsychologist Christine Temple has pointed out, Picasso had a
fantastic visual memory, but he also spent many hours staring at an object
that he wanted to paint, whether this was a famous artwork of the past that
he was reinterpreting or a living model.35 And according to Temple, con-
sequentially Picasso tended to ‘overlearn’ such objects. As she explained
this term, ‘When you overlearn something, you don’t just look at it,
think about it and try to learn from or remember it. You look at it (or
listen to it) again and again until it becomes completely familiar. Overlearning
enables memory to work much better and in much greater detail.’36 Now
all of this has potential relevance to what we said earlier about the mechan
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isms of human memory, but also creativity and imagination. For as we

noted, the ability to come up with imaginative solutions to problems
seems to involve not merely a memory of past images, but rather an abil-
ity to combine these in radical and unexpected new ways. And we also
saw how the cerebellum—the part of the brain that plays a central role in
the unconscious learning of repetitive movements—is increasingly being
recognized as also playing an important role in creativity and imagination.
So it seems possible that the many hours Picasso spent gazing at an object
were all part of his radical reappraisal of that object, by allowing his cere-
bellum to run through different ‘takes’ on the object that, in unconscious
communion with other parts of the brain, thereby produced a revolutionary
new perspective.
So how does any of this relate to Les Demoiselles? At its most basic level, the
painting depicts five nude women, prostitutes in a brothel, as indicated by
the painting’s orginal title, Le Bordel d’Avignon. However, the women appear
rather menacing and are rendered with angular and disjointed body
shapes. Notably, given what we have said about the imaginative reinter-
pretation of seen objects, the depiction of three of the women seems to
have been influenced by ancient Iberian sculptures that Picasso had seen
the previous year in the Louvre, while the two other women have heads
that resemble the African sculptures or masks that the artist had observed
in the Musée d’Ethnographie du Trocadéro.37
We can speculate about the individual factors that led Picasso to com-
pose Les Demoiselles but how did this relate to what was happening in soci-
ety as a whole? Here we need to consider how that society was changing
technologically. An important characteristic of traditional art, closely
bound up with its naturalism, was the high level of craft skills that it
involved and demanded. These skills, particularly developed in the six-
teenth and seventeenth centuries, lay especially in the precise rendering
of surfaces: lace, satin, velvet, sable, glass, silver, feathers, flesh tones, the
folds in drapery or robes and so on. However, the introduction of photog-
raphy made such skills largely redundant. In retrospect, the premium on
reproducing life in paintings was clearly waning from Claude Monet and
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impressionism onwards, but Les Demoiselles marked the decisive break.38

In 1907 it would have looked like not just a move away from the trad
itional skills, but a full-scale assault on them.
However, there was more to Les Demoiselles than simply its non-
naturalistic approach. In particular one could argue that it represented a
radical new approach to the portrayal of women. Previously, I mentioned
how the rise of class society led to the subjugation of women, and also the
fact that under capitalism, even sex can be treated as a commodity. And
because of this, in the tradition of nude painting that stretches through
Botticelli, Giorgione, Titian, Rubens, Velázquez, Goya, Ingres, and Renoir
the artists’ aim was always to present their female subjects as passive,
beautiful objects of male desire. This reflected the fact that these paintings
were paid for by men and often hung in their bedrooms.
Women’s greater entry into the workforce and their growing political
demands in the nineteenth century had an impact on the portrayal of
women in art. So already there were signs of change in Manet’s Olympia,
Paul Cézanne’s Bathers series, and Toulouse Lautrec’s brothel scenes, but it
is with Les Demoiselles that the sharpest confrontation with tradition
occurs. The art historian John Molyneux has argued that Picasso broke
with traditional forms of naturalistic representation and launched an
assault on conventional standards of beauty, to smash and eliminate any
traces of sentimentality and glamorization. So Picasso not only makes no
attempt to make the women ‘beautiful’ but, by the use of African masks,
he broke away from conceptions of conventional European views of
beauty.39 And Molyneux has argued that Picasso created a flattening—an
extreme foreshortening of space—in the painting to stage a confronta-
tion between the painting and its audience, representing the client and the
prostitutes, to cut through the ingrained habit of evasion of the reality of
prostitution.40
However, this is only one reading of Les Demoiselles. Some feminist
critics have responded far less positively, seeing it as highly misogynistic.
For instance, Carol Duncan has argued that in this work Picasso ‘dredged
up from his psyche the terrifying and fascinating beast’ that women
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represented for him: ‘whore and deity, decadent and savage, tempting and
repelling, awesome and obscene, looming and crouching, masked and
naked, threatening and powerless . . . no other work reveals more of the
rock foundation of sexist anti-humanism or goes further and deeper to
justify and celebrate the domination of woman by man.’41
The possibility of multiple interpretations of modern art is enhanced by
its very abstractness. This reached a peak in the work of Kazimir Malevich.
Born in Kiev in 1879, Malevich developed a style—‘suprematism’—which
took abstraction to an ultimate extreme.42 The idea behind this was that
by sticking to simple geometric shapes and a limited range of colours the
artist could focus on the painting itself and not be distracted by represent-
ing a scene, or landscape or a person. Malevich’s Black Square, exhibited in
Kiev in 1915, is exactly that: a painted black square on a white back-
ground.43 The painting might be viewed as the height of formalistic, non-
representational objectivity, yet Malevich himself saw it as liberated
self-expression. In his 1919 essay ‘Non-Objective Art and Suprematism’ he
concluded that ‘I have overcome the lining of the coloured sky, torn it
down and into the bag thus formed, put colour, tying it up with a knot.
Swim in the white free abyss, infinity is before you.’44 So what might be
the basis for such an ambitious claim for this abstract work?
In seeking to answer this question, it is worth looking again at what we
have learned about how visual perception works, and also the importance
of meaning for our species. Recall that Hubel and Wiesel’s experiments
first showed that a key way by which the visual cortex in our brains allows
us to make sense of the world is by breaking it down into lines and edges.
Because of this, the neurobiologist Semir Zeki has argued that Malevich’s
Black Square—and all the other coloured squares and rectangles that came
after it in abstract art—have a particular resonance because they ‘stimu-
late cells in the visual cortex, and the properties of these cells are, to an
extent, the pre-existing “idea” within us.’45 So there is a potential neuro-
logical basis to the power of such artforms to attract our attention. Yet it
is impossible to fully understand the power of a work of art like Black Square
without also recognizing its symbolic content. In particular, Malevich’s
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decision to hang the painting high on the wall against the corner of the
room where it was first exhibited might mean nothing to a non-Russian
viewer today, but this was the same sacred spot that a Russian Orthodox
icon of a saint would sit in a traditional Russian home.46 And not only
would this have symbolic value in its own right, but the fact that it was
happening in 1915, against the backdrop of the slaughter of the First World
War, and with continuing unrest following the failed Russian Revolution
of 1905, all contributed to the painting’s power. This shows that shared
symbolic meaning is vitally important both for ordinary life and for art
appreciation.
More generally, modernist art may be seen as a celebration of the new
technologies made possible by capitalism and at the same time a critique
of the alienation characteristic of this form of society. The challenges of
representing new experiences of speed well beyond customary horse
power, of rendering multiple other novel ways of viewing the world on an
immobile flat canvas or page—absorbing the insights from science—and
the advent of photography and cinema focused young artists’ minds and
provided their motifs.47 Yet despite their appreciation for new technolo-
gies, many modernist artists remained critical of the capitalist system
itself. For cultural critic Perry Anderson, this double-edged character of
modernism reflected the fact that it ‘flowered in the space between a still
usable classical past, a still indeterminate technical present, and a still
unpredictable political future.’48
The unpredictability of such a future, and the ambiguity at the heart of
modernism, can help to explain the very different political currents with
which modernism became associated in the early twentieth century. In
Italy under Mussolini, the modernist art movement celebrated the
inhuman power of technology and the destructiveness of war.49 In con-
trast in Russia, most modernist painters, composers, and poets supported
the 1917 revolution, which seemed to offer untold freedoms, a chance to
use bold new forms—cubism, abstraction, street art, film, jazz, satire,
fantasy—and share in the making of a new type of society.50 Not only
Malevich, but also the mystical Wassily Kandinsky and Marc Chagall and
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the constructivists Vladimir Tatlin, Alexander Rodchenko, and Lyubov

Popova, all responded with equal euphoric intensity. Kandinsky’s sizzling
Blue Crest and Chagall’s The Promenade showing himself whirling his bride
Bella through the air capture this heady exuberance, while the Cyrillic
alphabet itself takes colourful flight in Ivan Puni’s Spectrum: Flight of
Forms.51
The poet Vladimir Mayakovsky argued that ‘we do not need a dead
mausoleum of art where dead works are worshipped, but a living factory
of the human spirit—in the streets, in the tramways, in the factories,
workshops and workers’ homes . . . Let us make the squares our pallets,
the streets our brushes.’52 He and his fellow writers and artists produced
posters and decorations for anniversaries, pageants, street theatre, and
agit-prop trains during the civil war that engulfed the country. A glimpse
of how all this looked in practice was provided by filmmaker Sergei
Eisenstein, who on a visit to Vitebsk was amazed to see the ‘strange pro-
vincial city’ transformed by its artists: ‘Here the red brick streets are
covered with white paint and green circles are scattered across this white
background. There are orange squares. Blue rectangles. This is Vitebsk in
1920. Its brick walls have met the brush of Kazimir Malevich. And from
these walls you can hear: “The streets are our palette.” ’53
Eisenstein is of particular interest for the view of human consciousness
being developed in this book, because of his close interaction with the
psychologist Lev Vygotsky, and then after the latter’s death, with
Vygotsky’s colleague Alexander Luria. This interaction helped shape the
theory and practice of Eisenstein’s cinematography, and as the filmmaker
was one of the most influential early pioneers of this visual artform, it also
has relevance for the future of the medium itself, with practical implica-
tions that reverberate to the present day.
Today Eisenstein is most remembered for early-twentieth-century
films such as Battleship Potemkin, October, Alexander Nevsky, and Ivan the
Terrible.54 But he also pioneered many radical approaches and techniques
in film-making for the first time, one being montage—a film-editing tech-
nique in which a series of short shots are sequenced to condense space,
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time, and information. For Eisenstein, the power of the edit was that film
shots could be cut together to create brand new meaning that was not
present in the original shots.55 The practical use of this approach was first
demonstrated in the film Battleship Potemkin. This tells the true story of the
mutiny of that vessel’s crew during the 1905 Russian Revolution and the
subsequent brutal response of the Tsarist regime. A highlight of that film
is the montage sequence showing the massacre of civilians on the steps of
Odessa, in which editing created a dynamic, tense, violent, and deeply
allegorical set piece.56 The impact of Eisenstein’s ideas can be seen today
in the rapid cutting of modern action sequences or the rhythmic edits of
music videos. A recent example of the power of this approach is a montage
sequence in Bong Joon-ho’s award-winning 2019 film Parasite, which both
rapidly and skilfully develops a key moment in the storyline, and also
surreptitiously foreshadows coming events and references previous ones
within itself.57
In developing his use of montage, Eisenstein was influenced by Vygotsky’s
belief that human consciousness differs from that of an animal in that
only the former is mediated by cultural tools, a primary one being lan-
guage, and that this is also true of our emotional responses. But while this
was a general influence, a more specific one was the substantial amount
of work Vygotsky devoted to the psychology of different artforms.
Vygotsky argued that ‘art is the social technique of feelings’, and Eisenstein
developed this idea in a practical direction by using film-editing tech-
niques to organize and control viewers’ responses in order to optimally
produce aesthetic effects in his audience.58 He proposed that a piece of
art’s effectiveness works simultaneously at the level of the structural
organization of that artform, and that of its emotional and broader intel-
lectual and psychological effects on the viewer.
Eisenstein believed that a central issue for any work of art is the para-
doxical coexistence of opposing dimensions in the viewer: logical and
sensuous, cognitive and emotional, rational and irrational, conscious
and unconscious. He argued that ‘while the conventional film directs
the emotions, this suggests an opportunity to encourage and direct the
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whole thought process as well.’59 Building on Vygotsky’s views about

the importance of inner speech in the thought process, Eisenstein noted
that in contrast to outer verbal speech, inner speech is closer to image-
based thinking; even though it shares fundamental similarities with
language, it can involve not only words but also pictures, sounds, and
even writing. As such, this offers possibilities for a film to manipulate
thought in a multi-modal fashion.
One phenomenon that particularly interested Eisenstein in this respect
was a medical condition called ‘synaesthesia’. Whereas normally we have
five clearly defined sensory classes—touch, sight, hearing, smell, and
taste—in people with this condition there is a blurring of the divisions
between these classes. For instance in his work as a clinical neuropsych
ologist Alexander Luria treated a patient called Solomon Shereshevsky,
who claimed to ‘see sounds as colours, and colours as sounds’.60 Becoming
familiar with this case through his friendship with Luria, Eisenstein
proposed that while synaesthesia in its natural form is an abnormality
affecting only a few individuals, film could seek to provoke such a blurring
of the senses in an audience in order to heighten the aesthetic response.
One reason why Eisenstein viewed such blurring as particularly effective
was that he saw the aesthetic experiences that this provokes as taking
‘one back to the early evolutionary phases of sensuous thought, where
no differentiation of perception yet existed.’61 In other words, despite our
species being unique in having a delineation of perception that is a prod-
uct of rational, conceptual thought, for a deeper experience we may
benefit from temporarily losing some of this delineation. And Eisenstein
sought to create such an impression by manipulation of visual images
and sound in his later films, for instance in Alexander Nevsky, which fea-
tured music by Sergei Provokiev, in particular during its famous ‘Battle on
the Ice’ sequence when Russian defenders repel an invading German
army.62 Released in 1938, there were clear parallels with a contemporary
situation in which the Soviet Union was about to fight a war with Nazi
Germany. But this film can also be viewed as one of the first truly audio-
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v isual cinematic experiences, and as such it had a major impact on later

film-making.
So much for Eisenstein’s impact on film-making in the past, but perhaps
of even greater importance is the way that his and Vygotsky’s views about
the nature of aesthetic experiences might help us to understand, and
perhaps shape, the visual arts in the future. In particular, the digital revo-
lution that first came to prominence in the 1990s and increasingly defines
our lives today continues to open up new avenues for artistic production
by increasing and enriching the range of available technologies of pro-
duction and modes of delivery through which moving images and sound
can operate.63 All this has implications for our understanding of human
consciousness, because such technology offers new means of portraying
the fragmented and often unconscious nature of a lot of human thought
in ways that may both further such understanding and potentially prod
uce great future art. And while this poses challenges for film-making, it
also seems clear that this revolution could have implications for the devel-
opment of other forms of art, which includes literary fiction.
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CH A P T ER 20
FACT AND FICTION

z
L ike so many others, one of my main influences in life from a young

age has been the fictional world as expressed in stories and novels. At
primary school, I progressed rapidly through the ‘Peter and Jane’ books
that were a key component of teaching literacy at the time,1 partly because
of a desire to read the more interesting stories further on in the series.
Perhaps appropriately for someone who was an amateur cave explorer in
their youth before beginning a scientific career, I was later drawn to
factual accounts of the lives of famous scientists and explorers, and to
adventure stories and science fiction. However, by my early teenage years,
I was already beginning to thirst for more challenging novelistic fiction,
and this thirst was satisfied and further fuelled by the books I found in my
local library.
I can still recall the musty smell of the small library that was just a mile
from my home in the Bradford suburb of Idle—famous for its ‘Idle
Working Men’s Club’.2 My quest for reading matter was aided by the
librarian, who was the sister of novelist John Braine, author of Room at
the Top. This novel’s gritty story of working-class life and aspirations cap-
tured the frustration and anger at the lack of opportunity in 1950s Britain
where people, especially those from the back streets of northern indus-
trial towns, ‘knew their place’.3 The novel was also frank in its description
of sex at a time when people were not supposed to talk about such things
in public. Maybe that is why John Braine’s sister never prevented me bor-
rowing ‘adult’ novels, while only in my early teens, including Vladimir
Nabokov’s Lolita. I cannot fully remember what my first impressions were
of this novel whose central character is a paedophile, but something that
fac t a nd fic t ion
did strike me even at that age was the way that a great writer can use
language to manipulate the thoughts and emotions of the reader, in this
case drawing us into the mind of, and even making us empathize with, a
twisted individual.4 I also developed a love for the novels of William
Golding, particularly his Pincher Martin, ostensibly about a shipwrecked
sailor’s struggle for survival on a rock in the Atlantic, but actually a pro-
found discussion about the human condition, what it means to live but
also to die, and how even a highly unlikeable human being may possess
qualities with which we can empathize, and wish for him to achieve some
kind of redemption.5
How much can novels tell us about the various mechanisms under
lying human consciousness? Some might say, very little, and argue that
only scientific study can uncover such mechanisms. I do not agree with
this viewpoint; my reasoning is that because language plays such a key
role in shaping human consciousness, the fictional explorations of the
human condition that we find in novelistic literature can greatly add to
our scientific understanding by concretizing that condition in its diverse
forms. And it seems that I am not alone in this belief, for as influential a
thinker as Noam Chomsky has said that, ‘It is quite possible . . . that we will
always learn more about human life and personality from novels than
from scientific psychology.’6 Personally I believe these two approaches to
be equally valuable, each providing insights that the other cannot, in
ways I will explore in more detail in the rest of this chapter. And I will
also explore a related question: how much do novels draw on new
insights about the nature of consciousness, so increasing their ability to
inform us about the human condition, and its relationship to changing
forms of society?
In pondering such questions, a feature of novels worth noting is how
they differ from a form of artistic expression such as a play which relies
not only on the written text of the playwright, but also on how this is
interpreted by the play’s director—with the possibility of leaving out
or altering parts of the text—the actors’ own interpretations, and the
interactions between actors, and with the audience. Unfortunately a
341
consideration of staged drama, or for that matter that other key area of
literature, poetry, is outside the scope of this book. But my point here is
that unlike staged drama, a novel is a fixed piece of text with a readership
that has no necessary contact with the author, or with other readers. And
given what I have said previously about viewing human consciousness as
a kind of dialogue, this might suggest that novels are less dialogic, and
therefore less representative of consciousness, than plays.
Yet such a view neglects two important features of great novels. One is
the fact that as novelist David Lodge has noted, ‘the silence and privacy
of the reading experience afforded by books mimick the silent privacy of
individual consciousness.’7 And given that we have seen that such a con-
sciousness is dialogic, this gives ample capacity for a dialogue to form
between the reader and the words that they are reading on a page or
screen. Interestingly, both the neuroscientist Antonio Damasio and the
literary critic Ian Watt have argued that the very idea of an individual con-
sciousness is a recent concept, dating back only a few hundred years, and
linked this to the rise of the novel as a form of mass entertainment. So
according to Watt, the idea of society being composed of a ‘developing
but unplanned aggregate of particular individuals having particular
experiences at particular times and in particular places’ echoes the fact
that unlike earlier narrative fiction, which tended to recycle familiar stories,
‘novelists were the first storytellers to pretend that their stories had never
been told before.’8
A second important feature of great novels is the capacity for
characters—and interactions between them—to take on a life of their
own that can go way beyond the original intentions of the novelist. This
was expressed by the novelist Somerset Maugham when he wrote that ‘a
character in a writer’s head, unwritten, remains a possession; his thoughts
recur to it constantly, and while his imagination gradually enriches it, he
enjoys the singular pleasure of feeling that there, in his mind, someone is
living a varied and tremulous life, obedient to his fancy and yet in a queer,
wilful way independent of him.’9 Of course, it is impossible for an invented
character to literally have a life and thoughts of their own, independent
342
of the author. So how do novelists achieve such an illusion? Here it is

important to recognize that both conscious and unconscious processes
may be at work in the creation and development of fictional characters
in a novel.
One way in which characters can take on an apparent life of their own
is through their interaction with other characters. It is through such inter-
action that both dialogue and actions can develop beyond the bounds of
the author’s will. Mikhail Bakhtin, whose ideas about the dynamics of
language and thought I have mentioned previously, believed that the
novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky was particularly skilful in this approach to
fiction, which he called ‘polyphonic’ (Figure 28). Bakhtin counterposed
this to ‘monophonic’ fiction, in which the author’s opinions and world
viewpoint tend to dominate the utterances of the different characters. In
contrast, he argued that Dostoevsky played a pioneering role by creating
characters that were ‘not voiceless slaves . . . but free people, capable of
standing alongside their creator, capable of not agreeing with him and
even of rebelling against him.’10
For Bakhtin, an essential feature of Dostoevsky’s novels is that no one
individual’s ideas dominate; instead, it is how the words of each character
relate to the other characters that gives these novels their power. For
instance, in The Brothers Karamazov, Ivan Karamazov is distinguished not
by his philosophy as such, but by the way that philosophy is shaped in the
face of objections and additions from other characters, each capable of
mounting powerful arguments of their own. As Bakhtin put it, ‘every
thought of Dostoevsky’s heroes . . . senses itself to be from the very begin-
ning a rejoinder in an unfinalized dialogue. Such thought is not impelled
Monophonic novel Polyphonic novel
Multivoiced Dialogical
Author as an omniscient expert Author as a spectator Author as a partner
Figure 28 Bakhtin’s view of the difference between monophonic and polyphonic

novels.
343
towards a well-rounded, finalized, systematically monologic whole. It

lives a tense life on the borders of someone else’s thought, someone else’s
consciousness.’11 Not surprisingly given the close links between Bakhtin
and Valentin Voloshinov, this echoes what I have noted previously about
Voloshinov’s idea of individual human consciousness as a boundary phe-
nomenon. Importantly though, it shows that great novels can have a role
to play in depicting that phenomenon, giving it concrete life, and thereby
giving us insights into our own minds.
Another intriguing possibility given our focus in this book on brain
mechanisms is that Dostoevsky’s great skill in creating a polyphonic
world might have been linked to the fact that he suffered from epilepsy.12
Reflecting his experience of his condition, a number of characters in
Dostoevsky’s novels are epileptic, the most famous being Prince Myshkin
in The Idiot. As we have seen, epilepsy can be an extremely debilitating
condition. However, Dostoevsky identified a more positive aspect to the
disorder when he felt ‘a happiness unthinkable in the normal state and
unimaginable for anyone who hasn’t experienced it . . . I am then in perfect
harmony with myself and the entire universe.’13 This feeling preceded a
full-blown epileptic seizure. Could this feeling of harmony with the rest
of the world have somehow helped Dostoevsky to more easily imagine
the thoughts and desires of others?
One potential response to Bakhtin’s view of Dostoevsky’s fiction is that
if his characters are as independent as the former suggests, then surely the
novelist was being somehow passive or irresponsible in his role as author.
In fact this was not Bakhtin’s opinion, for he argued against the idea that
Dostoevsky ‘only assembles others’ viewpoints, completely rejecting his
own viewpoint’. Instead, he saw the novelist as creating ‘a completely new
and special interrelation between his truth and that of others’.
To highlight the significance of this shift, Bakhtin compared it to the
Copernican revolution in physics. Much as Copernicus shifted the focus
from the Earth to the Sun as the centre of planetary movements in the
Solar System, so Bakhtin believed that Dostoevsky effected a ‘small
Copernican revolution’ in removing himself, the author, from the centre
344
of the textual world, to make way for a dynamic in which characters have
more capacity to exert their own forces.14 Given that such characters are
fictional, this raises the question of what drives them.
One possibility is that important social issues of the time—for instance,
as heard in conversation, debate, and argument by the author of the
novel—inform the dialogue that is, after all, still placed in the mouths of
different characters by the author. From this perspective it is surely no
coincidence that Dostoevsky’s novels have been described as teeming
with ‘thwarted characters on the verge of exploding—Raskolnikov in
Crime and Punishment, Ivan Karamazov, the radicals of The Possessed’15—
given that when he was writing, basic democratic rights and freedom
of expression were suppressed by the Tsarist state. And cultural critic
Marshall Berman has argued that Dostoevsky was driven to produce
what are arguably the first truly modernist works of literature because of
the stark contradiction in late-nineteenth-century St Petersburg between
the façade of modernity as expressed in the city’s new architecture and
fashions, which offered the prospect of an exciting freedom from the
shackles of the past, and the actual reality of an autocratic society still
deeply moored in the feudal era.16 However, it would be mistaken to
assume that there is any simple, direct link between social circumstances
and the dynamic of a good novel; indeed, it seems fair to say that if there is
such an obvious link, the novel is likely to be the worse for it, becoming
crude social commentary or thinly veiled propaganda rather than great art.
Instead, I believe that the best novels have a complexity and ambiguity
of meaning—and this might be said to be increasingly a feature of litera-
ture in the modern era—that itself reflects the many contradictions in
society and the individual psyche within that society. Importantly, this
means there can be multiple readings of great novels, with different
readers interpreting them in various ways, some of which may be distinct
from—or even go way beyond—what the original author might have
intended. And in what follows we will examine several novels that have
multiple interpretations and which I also believe illuminate and enhance
our understanding of different aspects of consciousness.
345
One example of a novel with many different possible interpretations is

Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Although it was published in 1847, this
novel is surprisingly modern in both its outlook and structure. At its
centre is the passionate, doomed love affair between Cathy Earnshaw and
the foundling Heathcliff, but the novel is also noteworthy for its themes of
revenge, betrayal, and instances of sadistic cruelty, all set against the sav-
age beauty of the Yorkshire moors. Such themes help explain why the
novel received many negative reviews when it was first published in 1847,
with some critics finding it ‘coarse’, ‘disagreeable’, and ‘a compound of
vulgar depravity and unnatural horrors’.17 Used to fiction in which char-
acters fell clearly into categories of good versus evil, what seems to have
particularly offended such reviewers was the moral ambiguity at the
novel’s heart. Yet for successive generations of readers this ambiguity has
been part of the book’s enduring appeal.
The ambiguity in Wuthering Heights is characterized by some of the nov-
el’s central characters. It would take a hardened soul not to be moved by
the intensity of the passion of Cathy and Heathcliff for each other and also
for the wild untamed moor, yet in other respects this pair are cruel and
manipulating, and Heathcliff is capable of acts of the utmost brutality. But
this ambiguity is also true of some more peripheral characters. In a novel
with multiple layers of storytelling, it was surely a stroke of genius to have
such tales of passion, violence, and unearthly goings-on relayed by the
insipid, emasculated narrator Mr. Lockwood. At first, helped by the fact
that this is his own account, we primarily view Lockwood as a victim,
since when he first visits Wuthering Heights, he is treated inhospitably,
attacked by Heathcliff’s dogs, has icy water splashed down his neck, sleeps
in a haunted chamber, and sinks up to his neck in snow.18 Yet it is
Lockwood who, during a dream or an actual supernatural visitation in
which Cathy’s ghost begs to be let in at the window of his bedroom, tries
to drive the childlike apparition away by rubbing her wrist over the shards
of broken window glass until the blood flows freely and stains the bed-
clothes.
346
The ambiguity at the heart of Wuthering Heights has complicated

attempts to understand its underlying meaning. One interpretation seeks
to locate it in the social and political tumult of the time. The time between
1801, when the novel begins, and 1847, when it was actually published,
was after all a period of British history when the Industrial Revolution
was in full swing, but so was the Chartists’ campaign for universal (male)
suffrage—the first mass working-class political movement in history—
that increasingly found itself in a direct, often violent, confrontation with
the forces of the state.19 Meanwhile, this period saw the abolition of
slavery, but also an influx of Irish immigrants fleeing famine, who were
also often radicalized by the experience of living in an occupied nation.20
Heathcliff is living in Liverpool, centre of the slave trade and the port of
entry for Irish immigrants, when he is discovered as a child by the elder
Mr Earnshaw and brought to live at Wuthering Heights.21 Because of this,
some critics have suggested that Heathcliff represents the oppressed Irish,
or black, masses, and his struggle against Hindley Earnshaw a symbol of
rebellion against such oppression. For instance, literary critic Arnold
Kettle has argued that the basic motive force of the novel is social in origin,
and located the source of Cathy and Heathcliff’s passionate attraction for
each other in the rebellion forced on them by the injustice of Hindley and
his wife Frances. For Kettle, Heathcliff is ‘the outcast slummy [that] turns
to the lively, spirited, fearless girl who alone offers him human under-
standing and comradeship. And she, born into the world of Wuthering
Heights, senses that to achieve a full humanity, to be true to herself as a
human being, she must associate herself totally with him in his rebellion
against the tyranny of the Earnshaws and all that tyranny involves.’22
There is a problem though with viewing Heathcliff primarily as a rebel
against oppression. First, this would be quite at variance with Emily
Brontë’s own often quite reactionary political views,23 and, secondly, on
his return to Wuthering Heights—having found wealth in an unspecified
way—Heathcliff becomes an oppressor himself in many respects. This is
true not only in his expropriation of Hindley, which might be justified as
347
revenge for past ills, but also in the abusive and exploitative manner with
which he treats Isabella Linton and Hareton Earnshaw.24 Heathcliff may
well express the social tensions of his time, but he surely cannot be
reduced to them, and this is surely part of his fascination.
A quite different reading of Wuthering Heights, relevant to what I said
previously about the potential link between creativity and mental dis-
tress, sees evidence of neurosis in the structure and content of the novel.
Here it is worth noting Freud’s view that works of literature represent the
external expression of the author’s unconscious mind and a key motiv
ation for writing a novel is to satisfy repressed wishes that might have
developed during the writer’s infancy and were instantly suppressed and
dumped in the unconscious. Notably, Freud believed that the creative
writer, like a child at play, creates a world of fantasy that is the fulfilment
of unconscious wishes expressed in a disguised form.
Freud surely overstates his case in trying to explain everything according
to his theory of the repressed unconscious, yet it is also true that Emily
Brontë had many reasons to create a fantasy world as a buffer against real-
ity. After his wife died aged only 38, Patrick Brontë sent his girls to the Clergy
Daughters’ School in Cowan Bridge in the Yorkshire Dales, which ‘was run
on spartan lines, designed to encourage resignation and humility’.25 The
terrible conditions at the school—vividly portrayed in Charlotte Brontë’s
Jane Eyre—almost certainly contributed to the deaths of Emily’s sisters
Elizabeth and Maria, from tuberculosis in 1825.26 Later, in 1848, Emily’s only
brother, Branwell, also died from the disease, in his case as a consequence of
his body being weakened by his addiction to alcohol and opiates.27
That Emily Brontë’s fiction may have been driven by neurosis is based
upon the claim that her writing became a compulsive ritual that allowed
her to offset her anxiety about the misfortunes of her family. In support of
this claim, critic Moussa Pourya Asl has pointed to a repetition in
Wuthering Heights involving violent men, a cycle of names, a system of
masters and servants, and reincarnation of character types.28 Orphanhood
and abandonment also characterize the novel and may reflect the losses
Emily experienced in her life. Certainly, many of the characters—including
348
Cathy, Edgar Linton, Hareton, Isabella, and the younger Catherine—share

with her the traumatic experience of their mother’s early death.
There is also a repeating theme of sadism in the novel, which might be
one way of unconsciously channelling desires of revenge as a response to
misfortune. So at one point we learn that Hareton has hanged ‘a litter of
puppies from a chair-back’, while at another, Heathcliff hangs Isabella’s
‘little pet springer’ dog.29 Meanwhile, Edgar Linton, for sport, tortures cats
to death and Lockwood finds ‘a heap of dead rabbits’ in the Heathcliff
household.30 And of course, there is the scene already mentioned, in
which Lockwood drags the wrist of Cathy’s childlike apparition against a
broken window to escape her presence.
Yet focusing only on the ‘monstrous symbolic conflicts’ in the novel
ignores another central element, namely the air of homely domesticity
that forms the backdrop both to the telling of the story and to Wuthering
Heights itself. Of key importance here is servant Nelly Dean, actually the
principal narrator, Lockwood’s own account acting as the key that
unlocks this interior narrative. As the only person with first-hand know
ledge of all three generations of the linked Earnshaw and Linton families,
through serving both at Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange,
Nelly is well placed to tell the families’ tragic tale. Yet what is most striking
about Nelly’s account is her ‘matter-of-fact’ telling of this fantastical, and
at times unearthly, story. As literary critic David Daiches has noted, ‘at no
point does Nelly throw up her hands and exclaim: “for God’s sake, what is
going on here? What kind of people are they?” ’31 Instead the story is
related quite casually as she goes about her daily business.
The importance of domestic routine is an often underappreciated fea-
ture of Wuthering Heights itself. Despite the intensely passionate and
possibly supernatural nature of the events that we learn have taken place
at this isolated farmhouse on the bleak and windswept moors, our first
impression of the sitting room at Wuthering Heights as related by
Lockwood is of a ‘huge, warm, cheerful apartment’, which ‘glowed
delightfully in the radiance of an immense fire’.32 This counterposition of
the homely and the fantastical plays an important role in the believability
349
and power of Wuthering Heights as an illustration of the human condition.

As Daiches puts it, ‘in fact, throughout the novel, the homely and the
familiar and the wild and extravagant go together, the former providing
a setting for the latter, with the result that the simplest domestic detail
can, in virtue of being made the scene of such monstrous conflicts of
passion, become symbolic. Conversely, passion set in such scenes
becomes credible.’33
This juxtaposition of the ordinary and the fantastical, the matter-of-fact
and the supernatural, is sustained until the famous closing lines of the
novel. Significantly, it is the naïve and superficial narrator Lockwood
who, happening upon the adjacent graves of Cathy, Heathcliff, and Edgar
Linton, tells how he ‘lingered around them, under that benign sky;
watched the moths fluttering among the heath and hare-bells; listened to
the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone
could imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.’34
Such lines encapsulate the ambiguity at the heart of Wuthering Heights, for
while this peaceful ending may be viewed as fitting for the spirit of recon-
ciliation at the end of the novel—particularly personified by the union of
Hareton Earnshaw and Catherine Linton—there seem plenty of reasons,
given the unearthly passions described in the story, to imagine things will
not be quite so peaceful and straightforward.
If ambiguity is a feature of Wuthering Heights, then it could be said to be
the defining characteristic of The Turn of the Screw by Henry James.
Published in 1898, the novel’s unnamed narrator is a young woman, a par-
son’s daughter, who is engaged as governess to two angelic children—
ten-year-old Miles and eight-year-old Flora—at Bly, a remote English
country house.35 However, what initially seems to be a pastoral idyll soon
turns harrowing, as the governess becomes convinced that the children
are consorting with a pair of malevolent spirits. These are the ghosts of
former employees at Bly: Peter Quint, a valet, and Miss Jessel, a previous
governess. In life, scandalously, the pair had been illicit lovers and both
died young—Quint after falling and hitting his head while leaving the
pub, and Miss Jessel possibly by committing suicide after discovering that
350
she was pregnant with Quint’s child. Their phantom visitations with the
children hint at Satanism and possible sexual abuse.
The governess becomes convinced that her primary mission is to save
the souls of the children; yet in trying to shield them from the ghosts, she
ends up traumatizing Flora and possibly contributing to the death of
Miles from a heart attack. The novel has perplexed readers and critics ever
since it was first published, with the key unsolved question being whether
the ghosts are real or merely delusions of the governess’s mind.36 In fact,
literary critic Brad Leithauser has argued that ‘all such attempts to “solve”
the book, however admiringly tendered, unwittingly work toward its
diminution; its profoundest pleasure lies in the beautifully fussed over
way in which James refuses to come down on either side . . . the book
becomes a modest monument to the bold pursuit of ambiguity.’37
However, this does not mean that we cannot learn a lot both about the
novel’s underlying power and about the workings of the human mind, by
exploring different interpretations of the story, for the ambiguity of the
story itself reflects some of the ambiguous nature of thought processes.
From the point of view of seeing the unconscious as a crucial part of
human consciousness, the idea that the ghosts are products of the govern-
ess’s deluded mind is both plausible and potentially highly suggestive about
the workings of that unconscious. For instance, one interpretation of the
novel views the governess as driven by both sexual and economic motives,
being attracted sexually to the children’s aloof, absent guardian uncle on
their initial meeting and entertaining thoughts that if he were to reciprocate
such feelings, she might end up as mistress of a grand estate.38 However,
because such feelings clash with her strict religious upbringing, which has
taught her that both sexual attraction and coveting material wealth are sin-
ful, she represses such feelings, instead projecting them on to the ‘ghosts’
conjured up by her unconscious. This possibility is suggested by scenes
such as one in which the governess accidentally sinks down on a staircase
in the same spot where she had seen Miss Jessel’s ghost earlier, and
then in the schoolroom, where both women seem to have a certain right to
be present; indeed, the governess even feels like the intruder at one point.
351
Fear of the lower classes may also be a factor in the governess’s

unconscious feelings.39 It is significant that the novel was published in
1898, only a decade after the mass unionization of London’s East End that
began with the match girls’ strike in 1888 which I mentioned previously,
and also a decade after the horrific murders of prostitutes committed by
the serial killer ‘Jack the Ripper’ in East London, which occurred in the
same year as that strike.40 For many middle-class individuals, fears about
the political radicalism of the working class could be combined with
prejudiced beliefs about the supposed sexual licentiousness and violent
nature of this class. For both the fictional governess and many middle-
class readers of the novel, Miss Jessel’s crime would have been not only
the illicit nature of her sexual relationship with Peter Quint, but also the
very fact that she was consorting with such a lower-class individual.41
As persuasive as the argument is that the ghosts are constructions of
the governess’s own repressed desires, a powerful aspect of the story is
that an equally persuasive case can be made for the opposite view. In par-
ticular, the possibility with which the governess becomes obsessed,
namely that both children can see the ghosts as clearly as she can and are
complicit in their corruption by the latter, is kept alive right to the end of
the novel by both their behaviour and the ambiguity in their language. For
instance, when Miles asks the governess to send him back to boarding
school, stating that he is ‘a fellow, don’t you see? who’s—well, getting on,’
is he showing a guileless desire to be with boys his own age, or the preco
city of the abused child? And when Flora says to the governess, ‘I don’t
like to frighten you,’ is she confirming why she is universally admired for
good behaviour, or making a covert threat?42
Importantly, given how much I have placed language at the centre of
human conscious awareness, a good deal of the power of The Turn of the
Screw stems from the way it uses language to unsettle us. The governess
herself gives us a sense of the nature of what is to follow at the start of her
account when she says, ‘I remember the whole beginning as a succession
of flights and drops, a little see-saw of the right throbs and the wrong.’43
And as literary critic William Penny has noted, the account continues as a
352
‘series of equivocations, provisos, and meanderings that further cloud

our understanding of the young woman’s motivations.’44 Moreover, in her
interactions with the elderly housekeeper Mrs Grose—her only adult
companion in the house—the governess’s sentences often go unfinished,
and the whole text is littered with the presence of hyphens and dashes. It
is almost as if the absence of language is as important as words in convey-
ing the ambiguity at the heart of this novel.
This ambiguity is so powerful that Brad Leithauser believes it ‘provides
an unrivalled opportunity to read in a bifurcated fashion, to operate para-
graph by paragraph on two levels. Logically, the effect of this ought to be
expansive. James is trafficking in openness; readers can shift, at whim,
from ghostly tale to character study.’45 Yet as Leithauser goes on to say,
paradoxically the ultimate effect is the opposite of openness, turning it
‘into the most claustrophobic book I’ve ever read. Yes, you’re free to shift
constantly from one interpretation to the next, and yet, as you progress
deeper into the story, each interpretation begins to seem more horrible
than the other . . . If the governess is mad, she has unwittingly killed a
bright and beautiful little boy; this is a tragedy, but a local one. If the
ghosts are genuine, however, there are jagged cracks in the firmament
above us all, and nobody is safe.’46 The chink of doubt as to whether such
spirits might actually exist, exposing our rational explanations as illu-
sions themselves, helps to give this story its enduring power.
The idea that reality itself might be just an illusion of human conscious-
ness in certain circumstances is dealt with in William Golding’s Pincher
Martin. Published in 1956—the year of the Suez Crisis and the Hungarians’
revolution against their Stalinist regime—this novel takes us inside the
head of a sailor battling to survive after his ship is blown apart by a
German torpedo during World War II.47 We follow the sailor, Christopher
Martin, as he first tries to keep afloat in the freezing, turbulent seas of the
north Atlantic, and then, after miraculously finding a rocky island, his
battle to stay alive on it, while hoping to be rescued.
However, in the very last line of the novel, we realize that Martin
drowned almost immediately after his ship was sunk and it now becomes
353
clear that the whole battle to survive on the island was merely an illusion
of his dying moments. In fact, clues are scattered throughout the course
of the novel that all was not as it seemed. For instance, we learn that the
‘island’ bears an uncanny resemblance to a tooth that Martin once had
extracted.48 Meanwhile, increasingly odd events begin to occur as the
novel progresses that make us begin to question Martin’s sanity and
therefore the reality that he seems to be experiencing.
Pincher Martin is interesting in several respects in terms of the ideas
about human consciousness that we have been considering in this book.
One is the difference between sanity and madness.49 We expect a sane
person to have a more coherent consciousness than someone who is
mentally disturbed, but the closer that Martin gets to realizing his true
predicament, the more confused become not only his thoughts, but also
the whole ‘reality’ of the island. We realize that the carefully constructed
battle to survive that we have been experiencing with Martin is really just
his conscious mind refusing to accept what is actually happening—that
he is drowning.50 And it is the unconscious that gradually begins to make
itself known, with increasing force, as a way of conveying the reality of
the situation.
Another important aspect of Pincher Martin is that it powerfully illus-
trates how great literature can allow us to identify with the thoughts and
desires of another human being, even one who should be highly unlike
able. In creating Christopher Martin, Golding deliberately went out of his
way to create a deeply objectionable person.51 In flashbacks that occur
with increasing frequency as the novel progresses, we learn that Martin
was selfish, greedy, and a potential rapist and murderer.52 Yet it is very dif-
ficult for the reader not to feel deeply caught up in his struggle to survive,
and to suffer as he suffers, as we share in his plight.53 One reason for this
is that not only does the novel manipulate our sense of empathy for a fel-
low human being, but also Martin’s attempts on the rock to fashion a
shelter for himself, then acquire food and drink, and finally to try and
order the world around him mimic how human beings have distinguished
themselves from animals. In particular, the way that Martin seeks to make
354
sense of his rock by naming things on it plays on the importance of lan-

guage in our lives.54
Previously in this book, I looked at the role that dreams play in human
consciousness, particularly their link with creativity. Dreams have many
curious aspects, one being that although they can allow us to indulge in
hidden fantasies that we might not admit to when awake, our desires can
also often be thwarted in dreams. Another aspect is the way that objects,
people, and situations that would not normally belong together can do so
in a dream.55 This reflects the fact that dreams do not have to respect the
normal rules of time and space. The possibility that dreams may provide
insights into the nature of human consciousness is explored in The
Unconsoled, a novel by Kazuo Ishiguro published in 1995.
Ostensibly, the novel is about a famous pianist called Ryder who arrives
in a nameless European city where he is to play an important concert.56
Yet as the novel progresses we come to realize that this is a far from real
environment. At times Ryder feels like the character ‘K’ in Franz Kafka’s
novel The Castle, caught up in a mysterious and vaguely sinister plot that
surpasses his understanding.57 His efforts to get to the concert hall where
he is to play often seem like a parody of K’s struggles, just as his attempts
to cope with a host of dithering acquaintances recall the other character’s
frustrating encounters with an incompetent bureaucracy. Yet at other
times, Ryder is more like Alice on a visit to Wonderland: he finds himself
going in and out of strange little doors that apparently lead him in circles,
and he meets an assortment of curious people who draw him into a series
of intrigues that threaten to distract him from his appointed duties.58
Indeed, practically everyone that Ryder meets has an important favour to
ask him that steals more of his precious time. An elderly porter at the
hotel asks him to mediate a family problem; a woman named Sophie begs
him to talk to her troubled son; and the hotel manager asks for advice
about his own son, an aspiring musician.
Yet as the novel progresses, Ryder experiences momentary flashbacks
during which he realizes he does seem to know things about many of
these people, including their most intimate thoughts.59 The woman
355
named Sophie appears to have once been Ryder’s girlfriend or wife; her
son, Boris, is his child or stepson, and the elderly porter at the hotel turns
out to be Sophie’s father; however, we also learn that he has not spoken to
his daughter in years. At first glance, it seems counterintuitive that Ryder
might be in such a predicament. He is an accomplished artist, renowned
concert pianist, and respected public figure. Yet there is an increasing feel-
ing that his life has come to nothing—at least in terms of personal rela-
tions. This sense of lack of achievement is enhanced by Ryder bizarrely
bumping into a succession of characters from his youth in England—per-
haps echoing the idea developed previously in this book that an individ-
ual consciousness is heavily shaped by the interactions we have with our
peers as well as parents and teachers—who involve him in more distrac-
tions through their demands on his time, and rarely seem in awe of what
he has achieved so far professionally.
In this sense, the novel reads as a catalogue of wasted opportunity, a
failure to seize the moment, an inability to communicate, inconclusive
wondering, and general time-wasting. Crucially, Ryder seems to continually
miss his chance to connect as a human being. This becomes a book, as one
critic has put it, about the ‘destructive power of love without empathy’.60
Ryder always falls short in comprehending the minds of those around
him. He forever misinterprets, misunderstands, and misdirects. And so it
is that Sophie, the mother of his child, says to him in the end, ‘Leave us,
you were always on the outside of our love.’61
In fact, it is not just Ryder himself, but everyone he encounters, who
seems to be suffering from an inability to connect or communicate with
a loved one.62 Brodsky, a local drunk rehabilitated and cast in the role of
resident artistic genius, has been estranged for years from the woman he
loves. And the hotel manager, Hoffman, appears to be seriously out of
touch with the feelings of his wife, and also with their son, Stephan, a tal-
ented young pianist.
Ishiguro himself has claimed that in writing The Unconsoled, he wanted
to ‘present a biography of a person, but instead of using memory or flash-
backs, you have him wandering about in this dream world where he
356
bumps into earlier, or later, versions of himself. They’re not literally so;
they are to some extent other people.’63 In line with what I have said
previously about the fluidity of meaning within the inner dialogue that
constitutes an individual person’s thoughts, Ishiguro believes that in
dreams an individual consciousness can ‘bend and twist the whole world
into some big expression of his feelings and emotions.’ This also fits with
another idea put forward in this book: that individual consciousness is a
boundary phenomenon, uniting both our inner thoughts and the influ-
ence of wider society.
By presenting the story in this way, Ishiguro is able to ask profound
questions about our relationships with others, our responsibilities and
obligations, and how we can progress through life without facing up to
our real thoughts and desires. To some extent, for Ryder, any realizations
he makes about the negative features of his life and interactions with
others, and how he might overcome these in future, remain only partial.
For displacement in dreams may be precisely there to shield us from
unmediated confrontation with painful truth.64 Yet in other respects,
there is definitely a sense of resolution and moving forward in this novel.
It is true that the concert never happens, but we do get a firm conclusion
about whether Ryder will make his family relations work. We also find
out what has been happening in hotel-owner Hoffman’s marriage, and a
way into a fulfilling future for his son, while even Brodsky’s troubled life
hastens towards a conclusion. It is impressive, in fact, how many loose
ends are tied up in the concluding pages. Even the series of bizarre
encounters with figures from Ryder’s past lead to a certain sense of clos
ure in finally dealing with problematic issues from his youth. Because of
this, the novel ends on a surprisingly uplifting note: that although life and
relationships may often seem difficult and seemingly intractable, through
perseverance and a willingness to tackle such difficulties and face up to
our thoughts and desires—but also our responsibilities and obligations to
those around us—we all have the possibility to progress in life and per-
haps find real happiness in the process.
357
CH A P T ER 21
SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY

z
P erhaps more than many, I think I can say that I have been fairly
consistent in my chosen career path. At the age of fourteen, I decided
I wanted to be a biochemist—or more specifically a French biochemist, as
I had just been on my first French exchange trip, and fallen in love with the
country and its culture, food, wine, and general ambience. My goal at that
time was therefore to end up working in France, ideally in a renowned
scientific institution such as the Pasteur Institute in Paris. Reality con-
spires against our childhood hopes and desires in various ways, and
I never made that step of moving abroad. But I did achieve my dream of
becoming a biochemist, albeit in Oxford rather than Paris. By curious
coincidence, my wife, who is Portuguese, also wanted at the age of four-
teen to eventually become a biochemist in the Pasteur Institute. As a step
to that goal she did a PhD at the Imperial Cancer Research Fund in London,
where I also did my PhD, and where we met. As a consequence she decided
to remain in Britain and build her career here rather than moving to Paris.
Today, I like to tell my son and daughter that they owe their lives to cancer
research!
My wife and I have had ups and downs in our research careers, but we
have retained our passion for science; today it is what occupies a good
deal of our working hours, and sometimes keeps us awake at night. Above
all though, our research is also just the job that we do, and we both con-
sider ourselves fairly ordinary people. Such a viewpoint is not shared by
the majority of the population. A common stereotypical view of scientists
is that they are very clever, but also rather odd—the typical absent-minded,
socially inept, nerdy individual personified in popular culture through
scie nce a nd t echnology
TV shows such as The Big Bang Theory.1 While scientists can be viewed as
doing great good—such as discovering new treatments for cancer—
they may also be seen as responsible for environmental catastrophes
and consequently as irresponsible people, willing to risk all in their
search for knowledge or lacking concern for the consequences of their
actions.2 Whether good or bad though, a common perception is that
scientists as a group think and behave in very different ways from the
rest of humanity.
In this chapter, I want to challenge that perception, and argue that while
scientists may occupy a very specific niche in society in their role in the
construction of new knowledge, they are prone to the same strengths and
weaknesses in terms of their individual minds, and are affected by the
same social prejudices, as the rest of humanity. Moreover, far from being
an alien activity, the pursuit of scientific knowledge is something that is a
key resource for humanity as a whole, and everyone with an interest in
the origins and fundamental nature of human conscious awareness
should have a strong interest in knowing more about the process of scien-
tific discovery, and an input into debates about both the direction and
application of scientific research. To understand why, it is worth looking
at how science first developed.
Ever since our proto-human ancestors first began using and designing
tools to manipulate the world around them, it seems fair to say that
humankind has been practising a form of science and technology. And
unlike other animals ranging from crows to chimps which have been
observed to skilfully use natural objects as tools,3 a distinguishing feature
of our species is that we not only use tools, but also are continually
improving on them and developing new kinds.4 Our ability to develop
different tools over time is closely bound up with our creativity and
imagination, for in order to design a new tool, it is necessary to have some
preconception of something that does not yet exist. Karl Marx recognized
this in relation to creation of animal and human habitats when he noted
that ‘a spider conducts operations that resemble those of a weaver, and a
bee puts to shame many an architect in the construction of her cells. But
359
what distinguishes the worst architect from the best of bees is this, that
the architect raises his structure in imagination before he erects it in reality.’5
We humans have another unique quality: our ability to discover new
things about the world and how it functions. The development and use of
novel tools may be described as technology, while finding out new things
about the world can be considered as science. Yet it would be unwise to
draw too narrow a dividing line between these two subjects. We can only
develop new technologies by gaining greater insights about the world
around us and how it works. At the same time, new technologies drive
scientific discovery by making it possible to investigate the world in more
varied and fundamental ways. Indeed, the molecular biologist Sydney
Brenner once stated that scientific progress ‘depends on the interplay of
techniques, discoveries and new ideas, probably in that order of decreas-
ing importance.’6
Scientific discovery generally requires observation but also experi-
mentation. Crucially, the scientific method involves putting forward a
hypothesis and then studying whether reality corresponds to our pro-
posed view.7 Humans and even our proto-human ancestors have probably
been carrying out such observation and experimentation ever since we
first began interacting with nature in novel ways, something made pos
sible by the development of tools. Once we developed language, and an
ability to think in a complex fashion about objects and people, cause and
effect, time and place, and to communicate such ideas to other humans,
we were able to frame questions about the world and test them.
Imagination and creativity are crucial features of humankind, whose
links to the rest of consciousness I discussed previously. Yet when asked
to name creative individuals, most people would tend to think of a musi-
cian, a novelist, or a painter—in other words, artistic individuals—not a
scientist or a technologist.8 Bill Wallace, a science teacher at Georgetown
Day School in Washington, DC, thinks that one reason for this is the way
many people are taught about science. According to him, ‘a lot of kids
think that science is a body of knowledge, a collection of facts they need
to memorize.’9 Wallace believes that allowing students to come up with
360
their own solutions to open-ended questions can foster creativity in the

classroom. For instance, he asked his students to design experiments to
investigate how sensitive fruit flies are to alcohol. He notes that ‘I had
seven groups of students, and got seven different ways to measure inebri-
ation. And that’s what I would call creativity in a science class.’10 Wallace
thinks an approach to science that emphasizes only facts and concepts
leaves little room for the creative thinking central to science. He believes
that ‘if instead, you teach science as a process of learning, of observing
and of gathering information about the way that nature works, then
there’s more room for incorporating creativity.’11
One way of demonstrating the importance of creativity in science is
to redefine what it means to be creative, in contrast to common percep-
tions. For Robert DeHaan, a biologist at Emory University in Atlanta,
Georgia, ‘creativity is a new idea that has value in solving a problem, or
an object that is new or useful.’12 That can mean composing a piece of
music that is pleasing to the ear or painting a mural on a city street for
pedestrians to admire, but it can also mean dreaming up a solution to a
challenge encountered in the lab. Many scientists describe science not
as a set of facts and vocabulary to memorize, or a lab report with one
‘right’ answer, but as an ongoing journey, a quest for knowledge about
the natural world.
One theme that emerged from our earlier exploration of creativity and
imagination is the importance of unconscious brain activities in the cre
ative process. It is interesting then that recent thinking about creativity in
science has emphasized the importance of ‘associative thinking’—the
process whereby the mind is free to wander, making possible connections
between unrelated ideas. The process runs counter to what most people
would expect to do when tackling a challenge. Most would probably
think the best way to solve a problem would be to focus on it—to think
analytically—and then to keep reworking the problem. Yet Robert
DeHaan believes that ‘the best time to come to a solution to a complex,
high-level problem is to go for a hike in the woods or do something totally
unrelated and let your mind wander.’13
361
An occasion where a walk in the woods did lead to a major scientific

breakthrough happened on Christmas Day in 1938. An unsolved puzzle at
this time was the mechanism by which unstable radioactive elements
break down into smaller, more stable ones. Interest in this problem was
first stimulated by Henri Becquerel’s discovery in 1896 that uranium emits
radiation, followed by Marie and Pierre Curie’s identification of the even
more radioactive elements polonium and radium, and finally by Ernest
Rutherford’s demonstration that these elements are intermediates in a
chain of disintegration starting with uranium and ending with lead.14
Such studies showed that the old alchemist’s dream of transforming one
element into another was not so far-fetched. And they also led to the real-
ization that atoms are composed of even smaller particles—electrons,
protons, and neutrons.15
One individual whose imagination was stimulated by such findings was
the German physicist Lise Meitner, who decided to devote her life to trying
to identify the mechanism by which one element could change into
another. However, Meitner had to battle against many obstacles in her
career. For instance, when Rutherford visited her he first exclaimed, ‘Oh, I
thought you were a man,’ then went off to talk science with her colleague
Otto Hahn, leaving Meitner to go shopping with his wife.16 But far greater
challenges faced Meitner, for she was a Jew, and therefore in great danger in
Hitler’s Germany. Fleeing the country to Sweden in July 1938, she was lucky
to escape alive, but had lost her laboratory, house, life savings, and home-
land. She did, however, continue communicating with Hahn in Berlin,
who kept her up to date with his research findings. On 22 December 1938
he reported that having irradiated uranium with neutrons, he produced
two much smaller elements—barium and krypton. This apparent division
into two made no sense given the view of atomic structure at the time.17
However, while walking through a forest near the town where she was
staying, on her way to visit friends who had invited her for Christmas din-
ner, Meitner suddenly realized the findings could be explained if the
nucleus of the uranium atom was like a wobbly, unstable drop of water
that could divide at the slightest provocation.18 Sitting down on a tree
362
stump with pencil and paper she realized through a series of equations
that this ‘splitting of the atom’ was mathematically feasible and, accord-
ing to Einstein’s equation E = mc2, would release huge amounts of energy.
Meitner’s revolutionary insight was a transformative moment in physics
but it also opened the door to the development of the atomic bomb and
the terrible loss of life that resulted when it was used on the Japanese cities
of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. While some physicists helped develop the
bomb because of fears about the Nazis getting there first, Meitner
remained adamant that ‘I will have nothing to do with a bomb!’19
The practical application of the discovery of nuclear fission for pur-
poses of mass destruction demonstrates the double-edged character of
science in modern society, on the one hand leading to great good through
new medicines or novel ways of feeding humanity, and on the other, fuel-
ling the development of new forms of warfare or environmental pollu-
tion. In fact, this double-edged character of science has been true ever
since the birth of class society. It is important not to forget, however, that
we owe the very development of science to this type of society. Previously,
I pointed to some oppressive features of class society and that it brought
with it not just class divisions, but also sexism and racism, war and other
forms of destruction. However, it is also true that this form of society is
responsible for the amazing knowledge that we now possess, not only
about our own planet, but also about the whole Universe. At the same
time, we have gained important insights into the factors that govern not
just our bodies but also our minds, and finally about human society itself.
One way that class society led to the development of science and tech-
nology was through the birth of the city, and subsequent new types of
production and trade between cities. Both writing and the first forms of
mathematics were initially developed to allow cities to track food supplies
and other goods that for the first time in history formed a surplus.20
Meanwhile, the development of agriculture led to increased interest in
predicting the weather and the seasons. This was particularly important
in a society like ancient Egypt whose agriculture relied heavily on the sea-
sonal flood of the river Nile to fertilize the land.21
363
One of the advantages of slave societies such as those of the ancient

world was that—freed from having to do any menial work—the upper
classes now had the leisure time to sit and think. This allowed the devel-
opment of new ideas about the natural world. However, a negative feature
of such societies was that being unaccustomed to getting their hands
dirty, upper-class individuals rarely did experiments to test their ideas,
and therefore the practice of science lagged far behind scientific theory.
Having said that, certain areas of technology that were deemed particu-
larly important for ancient society, like the architectural advances
required to build the monuments that celebrated these societies’ achieve-
ments, but also the war weapons required to defend the cities, did see
much progress at this time.
There is often a tendency to distinguish between pure and applied
science. But the distinction between these two forms has always been
somewhat blurry. Today Archimedes is famed for his discoveries in geom-
etry and, increasingly, for the realization that he came close to developing
calculus, the mathematics of movement. Yet in his own era, Archimedes
was better known for the war machines he designed to defend his home
city of Syracuse in Sicily—then one of the world’s greatest cities—against
the Romans.22 In fact, it may have been his development for this purpose of
new types of catapults, and study of the dynamics of the ballistic missiles
they fired, that led to Archimedes’ interest in the science of moving objects.
In general though, the separation between the free artisans and slaves
who made things and the leisured class who just sat and thought stifled
the development of science and technology in ancient societies. This sep-
aration between the leisured class and the people who did the work was
also a feature of feudal society. Another limitation of both societies was
that the main point of producing a surplus in these societies was to feed,
pamper, and entertain their rulers. This limited scientific development,
because once ruling class needs had been satisfied there was little impetus
for further development of the productive forces.
In contrast, the rise of capitalist society gave a new impetus to science
and technology by giving birth to a society founded solely on commodity
364
exchange. Since any object—including people—can be a commodity

under capitalism, this led to a fantastic expansion in the types of objects
produced, but also a drive to develop new means of production. There is
a direct link here with science and technology, as shown by the way that
development of steam engines for the production of textiles and new
forms of transport such as the train and the steamship led to the birth of
the science of thermodynamics. This not only had repercussions for the
development of further technologies such as electricity, but also trans-
formed our view of the material nature of the Universe, culminating in
Einstein’s theory of relativity.
Science does not develop independently of the society in which it
arises. The impact of societal values on science can be seen, for example,
in the scientific questions that are deemed worthy of asking, and the fund-
ing available to study such questions.
Scientific understanding itself is sometimes said to be neutral of soci-
ety; however, this is only partially true. By putting forward hypotheses
about the natural world and then testing them against reality, scientists
gain a better understanding about the true nature of the world. Indeed,
the philosopher Karl Popper claimed that science can only disprove, not
prove anything.23 In fact the biggest breakthroughs in science often occur
when a hypothesis about the world is proved wrong. For while confirm
ation of a hypothesis by an experiment does not change the hypothesis,
when the opposite happens this can force scientists to reconsider and put
forward new hypotheses. Sometimes the realization that a view of nature
is wrong can have revolutionary implications, such as when Einstein
showed that Newton’s mechanical view of the Universe only partially
explained the behaviour of mass in space and time.
Although science ought to progress by new findings demonstrating the
invalidity of a hypothesis, there is often a huge amount of resistance by
scientists to giving up a false idea. Sometimes it takes several different
pieces of evidence to result in what US philosopher Thomas Kuhn called
a ‘paradigm shift’, in which a new way of looking at the world finally
becomes acceptable.24 However, just because a key part of scientific
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progress involves testing hypotheses against reality, this does not mean
that society’s values do not have an influence on scientific ideas them-
selves. Darwin’s discovery that all species are a product of evolution by
natural selection was a revolutionary step forward in our understanding
of life, and indeed the origins of our own species. However, the emphasis
on competition—the survival of the fittest—detracts from the fact that
cooperation is as much a feature of the natural world and of the evolu-
tionary process.25 In this case, Darwin’s objective view about the dynam-
ics in nature was overly influenced by the values of free-market economics
that tended to dominate all discussions at that time in Victorian England.
I mentioned previously that a key idea at the heart of the revolutions
that took place in the Netherlands and England in the sixteenth and seven
teenth centuries, and in France and America at the end of the eighteenth
century, was the importance of the primacy of the individual. The view of
society as being just a collection of individuals had an influence on per-
ceptions about the physical world. For instance, it inspired Newton’s view
of the Universe as being akin to a piece of clockwork, that is, something
reducible to its separate parts. Such an approach to understanding the
natural world is known as reductionism. It was the guiding principle for
the British renaissance in science that occurred in the seventeenth cen-
tury following the revolution in 1649 that brought the capitalist class to
power. As well as leading to Newton’s great discoveries in physics, this
period saw major steps forward in biology and medicine. In fact, this is
not the only example where a social revolution has acted as a major cata-
lyst for dramatic changes in the sciences. The period around the French
revolution of 1789 was associated with major scientific discoveries and
technologies that included the isolation of chemical elements, a better
understanding of human metabolism, the physics of electricity, and the
first theory of evolution.26 Remarkable technical innovations at this time
included the metric system, ballooning, the invention of canned food,
and the semaphore telegraph.
While reductionism has been an immensely powerful approach for
understanding the natural world, it also suffers from important limita-
366
tions. Here we should distinguish reductionism as a tool for dissecting the

natural world and making it more comprehensible, and reductionism as a
philosophy about the structure of that world. As a molecular biologist, I
use reductionist methods routinely. For instance, they allowed my col-
leagues and I to show that a human egg is kick-started to develop into an
embryo by a chemical ‘signal’—a rise in the concentration of calcium
ions in the egg—induced by a protein, PLCzeta, produced by the sperm
and injected into the egg at fertilization.27 And this led to our subsequent
discovery that certain types of infertility in men are caused by a defect in
this molecular process.
Reductionism as a philosophical idea is allied to the reductionist
method, but takes it further, in proposing that if we could only catalogue
all the different parts of the system, then we would be able to fully describe
its operation as a whole. In biology, this idea informs approaches such as
the Human Genome Project, whose aim was to map and obtain the DNA
sequence of all the genes in the genome, or the current Connectome
Project,28 which seeks to identify all the neurons in a human brain and
also the synaptic connections between them.
The Human Genome Project has indeed become a vital resource for
those studying the functional roles of genes in specific biological pro-
cesses, and it is possible that the Connectome Project may also prove very
valuable for those wanting to know more about the basic architecture of
the brain. Yet increasingly, for complex processes like the development of
a fertilized egg into the different cell types, tissues, and organs of the foetus,
or the way that different organs interact in metabolic processes, or indeed
how our brains work, the path to understanding is now seen by many to
require going beyond simply identifying a complex system’s parts.29
Instead, there is growing awareness that the whole determines the parts as
much as the parts determine the whole. This has particularly important
implications for understanding human consciousness, and it is significant
that Lev Vygotsky, whose ideas have influenced many of the proposals
about consciousness developed in this book, also put forward some more
general ideas about the best approach for studying complex systems.
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Vygotsky believed that rather than seeking to explain the operation of

a complex system as the sum of its most basic parts—which in the case of
the body as a whole could mean the genes, or in the case of the human
brain its individual neurons—instead, we should be seeking to identify a
‘unit of analysis’ that somehow makes it possible to represent the proper-
ties of a system at not only the microscopic but also macroscopic level.30
In biology we can say that, to some extent, such a unit of analysis was
identified by Charles Darwin through his theory of evolution by natural
selection. Importantly, this principle governs both the macroscopic—the
interrelationship of species in a complex ecosystem—and the micro-
scopic—the way that the amino acid sequence of a particular protein
changes over millions of years because of mutations in the gene that codes
for the protein.
Similarly, the development of the periodic table by Dimitri Mendeleev
transformed chemistry by identifying a pattern that explained both the
macroscopic properties of different elements—for instance, why chlorine
is a reactive gas, while gold is an inert metal—and later their differences at
the level of atomic structure.31 Meanwhile in physics, quantum mechanics
can explain phenomena at not only the subatomic, but also higher levels.
Computers and smartphones, lasers, GPS tracking devices, and MRI scan-
ners are all technologies based on our scientific understanding of the
quantum world.32 Finally, in terms of understanding things at a cosmic
level, Einstein’s theory of relativity has played a revolutionary role.33
However, despite such successes, it would be mistaken to assume that
there is nothing more to be done in terms of identifying more fully
encompassing units of analysis for these different branches of science. In
biology, the discovery of the gene as the basic unit of inheritance by
Gregor Mendel, and the subsequent identification of DNA as the molecule
that genes are composed of, played a highly important role in connecting
the microscopic and macroscopic worlds.34 In a sense, while natural selec-
tion still provides the overarching structure of explanation, these other
discoveries, together with a more detailed understanding of cellular struc-
ture, has helped to ‘flesh out’ the unit of analysis in this case. This example
368
shows how such a unit is not necessarily a fixed entity, but one that can
expand in meaning.
This is important because one of the revelations of recent years—out-
lined previously in this book and in more detail in my book The Deeper
Genome—is that there is far more to genes than simply stretches of DNA
coding for proteins.35 In particular, there is now increasing recognition
that genomes can only be understood as 3D entities, and that chemical
modifications to the DNA and the proteins associated with it also play key
roles in gene expression, as do the newly discovered class of regulatory
RNAs. Finally, tying all these discoveries together is the new field of epi
genetics, which has revealed that both the cellular and bodily environ-
ment, working via the control mechanisms just mentioned, can influence
not only genome function in an individual organism but also in its off-
spring. Importantly, this suggests that the twentieth-century ‘modern
synthesis’ of Darwinism and traditional genetics needs modernizing if it
is truly to explain the multiple levels of biology.36
Meanwhile, in physics, we currently face a curious schism in explanatory
power. On the one hand, Einstein’s theory of relativity explains the struc-
ture and dynamics of the Universe at a macroscopic level, accounting for
gravity and all of the things it dominates: orbiting planets, colliding galax-
ies, the dynamics of the expanding Universe as a whole.37 On the other
hand, quantum theory, which handles the other three forces—electromag-
netism and the two nuclear forces—is extremely adept at describing what
happens when a uranium atom decays, or when individual particles of light
hit a solar cell.38 However, the problem is that relativity and quantum
mechanics are fundamentally different theories with different formula-
tions. It is not just a matter of scientific terminology; it is a clash of genu-
inely incompatible descriptions of reality.39 Relativity gives nonsensical
answers when scaled down to quantum size, eventually descending to
infinite values in its description of gravity. And quantum mechanics runs
into serious trouble when blown up to cosmic dimensions.
Here the problem is that two plausible units of analysis have been iden-
tified that each explain nature across a wide sphere of influence, but then
369
somehow break down at a universe-wide level. Therefore, if a unit of

analysis is to be found that encapsulates the microscopic and the macro-
scopic in the physical world, then it must somehow reconcile these two
approaches, or identify a completely different way of understanding
this world.
One of the goals of Lev Vygotsky was to identify an all-encompassing
unit of analysis for the study of human consciousness. As we have seen,
he did this by showing that it was the ‘mediation’ of the human brain by
cultural tools—particularly language—that created the self-awareness
unique to our species. In addition, Vygotsky saw this as a social process,
in which ‘higher mental functions appear on the inter-psychological
plane before they appear on the intra-psychological plane’; that is, ini-
tially as social interactions between individuals before they become
internalized as part of the formation of the individual psyche.40 This led
Vygotsky to propose that the unit of analysis for human consciousness
should somehow reflect this dynamic interaction. In his view, ‘word
meaning’ could represent such a unit since ‘the word is related to con-
sciousness as a miniature world is related to a large one, as a living cell is
related to an organism, as an atom to a cosmos . . . The meaningful word is
a microcosm of human consciousness.’41 At first glance, this seems like an
odd choice for a unit that is supposed to be so expansive. However, if we
interpret word meaning to encompass not just the complex interactions
that bind words together in a framework shared by interacting individ
uals, their relationship to the inner speech of thought, and their link to the
wider values and tensions of a particular society, but also the uncon-
scious, emotions, and creative impulses, then it may be easier to see what
Vygotsky had in mind.
Yet word meaning as expressed in this expansive way must also some-
how connect with specific neural processes and with the particular biol-
ogy and architecture of the human brain. One important emerging
insight, highlighted at various points in this book, is the recognition that
while our brains may share the same basic molecular and cellular pro-
cesses as those of our closest animal cousins such as chimpanzees, there
370
is increasing evidence of radical restructuring of the human brain. This

restructuring seems to have occurred not only at the level of novel neural
connections between different regions of the brain, but also through
important differences in the expression of genes in these different regions,
compared to the situation in our primate cousins. This therefore could be
seen as evidence that, while such differential expression of genes shapes
the neural activity of the human brain, that activity—which reflects not
just the basic biology of the brain but also social influences—in turn may
affect brain function at its most basic level, that is, through gene expression.
Perhaps most importantly, as shown by recent evidence for the import
ance of brain waves in coordinating the activity of different regions of the
brain, it is possible to see how language—and other forms of culture that
we have mentioned such as music, art, and literature—might work
through such means to coordinate our unique human conscious awareness.
For electrical waves—as well as rapid changes in chemical messengers
through the brain—provide a material route for language to mediate
brain function in exactly the sort of manner that Vygotsky predicted with
his idea of a culturally mediated consciousness.
Identifying such connections only constitutes the very beginning of a
major research project. A key question for future research will be how
such molecular and cellular differences relate to the distinct aspects of
human consciousness, and an important challenge will be to find ways to
study this question given the limits to which we can experiment on actual
living human brains. These are issues that I will return to in the final
chapters of this book, but before I do that, I want to consider two further
aspects of human consciousness that are often posed as a diametric
opposite to science—namely religion and spirituality.
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Part VII
THE FUTURE OF MIND

CH A P T ER 22
MIND AND MEANING

z
D espite being an atheist since my mid-teens, when in a city I love to

visit its old religious buildings. As a child growing up in Bradford, a
visit to York with its minster was always a treat. Later in life Westminster
Abbey and St Paul’s in London, Winchester Cathedral, and then Notre
Dame in Paris, and the great cathedrals of Milan and Florence in Italy were
a revelation. In Spain I encountered the beautiful Islamic architecture of
the Alhambra in Granada and the Mesquita at Cordoba. And like so many
others before me, I was awed by the grandeur and beauty of such architec-
ture, the planning that went into these monuments, the back-breaking
toil involved in their construction, and the thought of all those who have
entered them over the centuries, each with their own fears, desires, and
hopes for the future.
If these are the positive feelings I experience towards places of worship,
the negative ones stem from the fact that I also associate churches with
funerals, and that particular awkwardness that an atheist can feel when
paying their respects to a loved one’s memory while at the same time being
uncomfortable about the religious ceremony associated with the event.
Such was definitely the case with my sister’s funeral. For despite the best
efforts of family and friends to celebrate the life of someone who had
lived and loved life to the full, it was impossible to escape the fact that she
had decided, aged 53, to end her life in the most horrific fashion. But what
also struck me forcibly was that my sister had been characterized as
mentally ill because of her psychotic delusions, and yet we were now
being asked to pray to some invisible supernatural being for the salvation
of her immortal soul. This brings me to the question of how religion
mind a nd me a ning
might have originated and why it still maintains such a strong hold on
the human mind, even amidst the science and technology of the twenty-
first century.
Of course, a religious person could answer that their feelings stem from
the existence of God. But since this book is concerned primarily with
aspects of consciousness that can be examined scientifically, my approach
here will be solely to ask what material reasons we can find to explain
belief in the supernatural and link this to this book’s theme, which is how
culture has shaped the human mind. One suggestion is that such belief
arose as a by-product of response mechanisms that evolved to protect our
species in its first phase of existence. For instance, consider a scenario in
which one of our prehistoric ancestors walking in the African savannah
heard a rustling in the grass. While this might be just the wind, it could
equally signify the presence of a predator, such as a lion. Kelly James
Clark, of the Kaufman Interfaith Institute at Grand Valley State
University in Michigan, has argued that those of our ancestors who
recognized that other organisms have ‘agency’—an ability to act of their
own accord—could have been more likely to survive than those without
this recognition.1
Another feature of human beings is what has been called our ‘theory of
mind’—the capacity to understand that other humans have thoughts and
desires and to have some idea what these might be.2 In particular, only
people, through the way that language has uniquely transformed our
brains, have a true sense of ourselves as individual rational beings but also
possess the ability to decipher the thoughts of other people, either by
observing their actions and words or through direct interrogation of
others through a series of questions.
Yet while helping humans to survive, such attributes may have led to
supernatural beliefs. For as well as attributing agency to predators, and
rationality to each other, our ancestors may have started extending them
to things with no agency or rationality at all. As Clark notes, ‘you might
think that raindrops aren’t agents. They can’t act of their own accord.
They just fall. And clouds just form; they’re not things that can act. But
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mind a nd me a ning
what human beings have done [in the past] is to think that clouds are
agents.’3 Similarly, as our ancestors could see that other human beings
had rational minds, they might have started to wonder whether such
rationality was more widespread in the world than just within our species.
And such a misplaced perception of agency and rationality in nature
could have given rise to the idea of conscious, powerful, and unruly invis-
ible spirits that need placating by ritual ceremony.
Indeed, a characteristic feature of hunter-gatherer society—the type of
society in which our species lived for the vast majority of its existence—is
‘animism’, the belief that objects, places, and animals all have a distinct
spiritual essence.4 To some extent, this belief may have helped to develop
the sustainable manner in which hunter-gatherer societies interact with
nature, by engendering feelings of respect for other organisms. And in a
world in which floods, lightning, disease, and other natural disasters
could strike out of the blue, it may also have helped our ancestors make
sense of an unpredictable, often unkind, world in which loved ones might
meet their end in the prime of life, or even in early childhood.
The associated idea that human beings might somehow survive in
some form after death—what might be called the ultimate comfort—
seems to have been a feature of our species from early in its existence.
Indeed, recent finds have indicated that belief in an afterlife may even have
been shared by Neanderthals. For instance, Enrique Baquedano and
colleagues of the Regional Archaeological Museum of Madrid discovered
that in a cave 93 kilometres north of Spain’s capital city, the jaw and six
teeth of a Neanderthal child had been buried, and surrounding the burial
site were several blackened hearths, within which the researchers found
the horn or antler of a herbivore, apparently carefully placed there.5
Baquedano has argued that this arrangement ‘may therefore have been of
ritual or symbolic significance.’6 He believes that the fires were lit as a sort
of funeral ceremony.
Today, a belief in life after death is a central feature of most religions,
although in some Eastern faiths, such as Hinduism or Buddhism, there is
instead a belief in reincarnation on Earth until perfection of the soul
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mind a nd me a ning
results in release from the cycle of death and rebirth into some sort of
Nirvana.7 The fear of one’s own death, and the pain of losing someone
dear, can fuel hope that something of oneself and one’s loved ones per-
sists after death. Following my father’s sudden death, my mother and
sister, both formerly atheist or agnostic, became deeply religious. In my
mother’s case, this followed a visit to a spiritualist church where she
claimed she had been presented with evidence that my father still existed
in an afterlife.
This is not the place to consider the evidence that some spiritualists
have deliberately sought to trap and deceive bereaved individuals desper-
ately searching for some sign that a loved one still exists in some spiritual
plane. Of course, not all mediums are necessarily frauds; some may actu-
ally believe they are channelling messages from the dead. What is clear is
that during periods of great tragedy, such as World War I in which millions
of young men lost their lives in battle, there has been an increase in the
number of people seeking to communicate with the dead. So a British
commentator wrote in 1919 about ‘mothers and friends of fallen soldiers
resorting to table-rapping, creakings, automatic writing through the medium
of the planchette, Ouija, heliograph, etc., in the hope of once more com-
municating with their loved ones.’8 A desire to believe in the supernatural
can rely upon a human tendency to seize upon an unlikely chance occur-
rence as meaningful, rather than just coincidence. If a medium calls out to
their audience, ‘I have a message for someone called John’, if there is
someone in the audience of that name, they may believe that the message
is for them, and the medium may subsequently respond to a bereaved
person’s questions in such an ambiguous fashion that they may really
think they are communing with a dead loved one.
Of course, there will be people who will swear that the messages or
signals they believe they have received from a dead loved one only make
sense if there is an afterlife. I once had a highly unlikely encounter that
certainly tested my sense of scientific rationality. As I related earlier, a
week prior to my father’s death from a fall down the pothole Gaping
Ghyll, I had set off for a walking holiday in the Scottish Highlands with
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mind a nd me a ning
my then girlfriend, only learning of his death when I returned home.

What I did not mention is that on our return to Bradford, my girlfriend
and I broke our journey by staying a night in the Yorkshire Dales. While
there, we climbed Ingleborough, the mountain on whose slopes Gaping
Ghyll is located, and even passed the pothole during our ascent. While
descending the mountain, an ambulance belonging to the Cave Rescue
Organization passed us, and I remarked to my girlfriend that I hoped it
was not attending a serious incident. It was only on arriving home and
learning about my father’s death that I realized his dead body had been in
the ambulance.
Now clearly, the chance of my happening to have unwittingly made a
detour to a mountain where my father had recently died seems a very
unlikely one indeed, and certainly my mother saw this as a sign that my
father was trying to communicate with us after his death. For myself,
my rational viewpoint makes it impossible to see the event as anything
other than an amazing coincidence, but it has made me more aware of the
factors that might lead a person to believe—against all scientific evidence—
in a world beyond the grave.
Of course, there is far more to religion than a belief that human beings
survive in some form after their death. In particular, the idea of a single
all-powerful supernatural being—a god—is a key feature of monotheis-
tic religions such as Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, while Hindus for
example worship multiple gods, though these are recognized as facets of
a single all-pervading spirit. Multiple gods were also a key feature of the
religions of ancient societies like those of Egypt, Greece, and Rome. It
might therefore be expected that belief in an all-powerful supernatural
being, or beings, has been a feature of human societies since their incep-
tion. Yet studies of hunter-gatherer societies have shown that although
they typically believe in a variety of supernatural spirits, these have only
limited powers, are generally not omniscient, and usually lack concern
for morality and human affairs.9
Interestingly, the concept of sin as an offence against a supernatural
being does not seem to be a feature of hunter-gatherer societies. Instead,
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individual human wrongdoing against other humans is considered to be

something for humans themselves to deal with.10 This suggests that a
belief in all-powerful gods who make moral demands on humans is a
relatively recent development within human society, and raises the ques-
tion of its origins.
Assessed on their own terms, the great religions might be viewed as a
highly positive aspect of human society. All stress the importance of liv-
ing a ‘good’ life—meaning one that avoids negative behaviours such as
boastfulness, greed, jealousy, anger, and laziness—and typically preach
the importance of peaceful behaviour, caring for those who are hurt or in
distress, and giving to those in need. Yet sadly throughout the history of
civilization religion has also been used to justify the persecution, and
sometimes execution, of those who transgress the moral code or are con-
sidered to hold heretical views, as well as outright warfare. While major
religions may sometimes be pitted against each other, as in the Crusades,
there has also been much strife within different denominations of a
religion like Christianity, ranging from the Thirty Years War to the
situation in Northern Ireland today. As the character Louis Cyphre—a
thinly disguised Devil—cynically expressed it in the 1987 film Angel Heart,
it seems that ‘there’s just enough religion in the world to make men hate
each other, but not enough to make them love.’ So what might explain
this aspect of religion?
One explanation is that modern-day religions originated in the first
class-based societies as a way to justify the inequality of such societies
and keep the mass of people in their place, and to some extent they still
play this role. And indeed, the religions of ancient class societies did
largely replicate the hierarchical nature of such societies, but also their
warlike nature. Moreover, the promise that good behaviour by a person in
their lifetime would be rewarded by a blissful life after death, coupled
with the threat that bad behaviour would mean a descent into eternal
damnation within some form of hell, can be seen as a highly effective form
of self-discipline.11 For instance, ancient Egyptians believed that if a deceased
person was found wanting after a series of tests in the underworld, they
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were deprived of their sense organs, and forced to walk on their heads and
eat their own excrement.12
Today, we could laugh at such beliefs as a product of their time were it
not that the notion of hell remains an important aspect of many modern
religions, as shown by the outcry in the Catholic Church when a news
paper article in 2018 quoted Pope Francis as apparently saying that ‘bad
souls’ are not punished. Instead the Pope was supposed to have said that
‘those who repent obtain God’s forgiveness and take their place among
the ranks of those who contemplate him, but those who do not repent
and cannot be forgiven disappear.’13 Vatican officials quickly rebuked the
newspaper, saying that it had misquoted the Pope, and affirmed the view
that hell ‘really exists and is eternal’.14 Clearly, the prospect of sinning
souls quietly ‘disappearing’ does not have the same impact as eternal suf-
fering. Yet to only focus on religion as a ruling class form of control
beyond the grave—with the reward of a blissful heaven balanced against
the threat of eternal damnation—or for that matter, to solely concentrate
on the irrational and superstitious aspects of religion does not do justice
to the fact that religion has at times also been associated with much
more progressive aims.
The idea that religion simply acts to keep ordinary people in their
place is sometimes supported by a famous quote from Karl Marx, in
which he spoke of religion being ‘the opium of the people’. Yet focusing
on this phrase in isolation is misleading, since it was part of a longer
statement: ‘Religion is . . . the expression of real suffering and a protest
against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the
heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the
opium of the people.’15 This double-edged character of religion means
that while it may sometimes be used to stifle ideas of struggle against
oppressive conditions in society, and even be used in highly reactionary
ways, at other times it can act as a very powerful stimulus to revolts
against earthly injustices.
One factor that has allowed religion to play such a dual role throughout
history is the ambiguity at the heart of all major religions regarding their
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attitude to exploitation and oppression. An important reason for such

ambiguity is that such religions’ widespread appeal is based on being able
to voice the interests of all classes in society, yet by definition this leads to
potential contradictions, given that the interests of such classes may often
be diametrically opposed. The Bible’s New Testament is a good example
of such contradictions.
Christianity was originally a movement of oppressed people: it first
appeared as a religion of slaves and emancipated slaves, of poor people
deprived of all rights, and of peoples subjugated or dispersed by Rome.16
But once subsumed as the dominant religion of the Roman Empire, it
underwent substantial revision, as reflected in the often contradictory
messages of the four Gospels, which, far from being the work of Jesus’s
disciples, were written years after their death. Multiple authorship and
editing, but also the transition from a religion of the oppressed to one
backed by the state, may explain why in the Gospels Jesus can overturn
the tables of moneylenders in the temple, and yet when asked what he
thinks of Roman taxation, also reply, ‘Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s.’
In fact given what we have said about the fact that human conscious-
ness can itself often be contradictory, this makes it easier for such mixed
messages to be accepted by the human brain. And while the altruism that
is supposed to be at the heart of every great religion builds upon the fact
that social cooperation seems to be wired into the human brain in ways
that we have already discussed, the unconscious bias against things con-
sidered to be out of the ordinary, mediated in particular by the amygdala
region of the brain, means that believers may be easily swayed to see those
labelled unbelievers or heretics as a threat to society.
In medieval Europe, all discussion about society was framed in reli-
gious terms, for that was the only philosophical framework available. The
dominant view was that everyone had their place in society, ordained by
God, and those accused of heresy faced often violent retribution. Yet feu-
dal society also witnessed periodic revolts by the poor, for instance the
Peasants Revolt in England in 1381. During this revolt one of its leading
participants, the radical preacher John Ball, asked, ‘when Adam delved
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and Eve span, who then was the gentleman?’ He added that ‘from the
beginning all men by nature were created alike, and our bondage or servi-
tude came in by the unjust oppression of naughty men.’17 This reinter
pretation of the Book of Genesis expressed the peasants’ dreams of liberty
and equality. During the armed peasants’ march on London, Ball preached
that ‘things cannot go right in England and never will, until goods are held
in common and there are no more villeins and gentlefolk, but we are all
one and the same.’18 What is interesting for the current discussion is how
the rebellious peasants in this case developed an ideology that subverted
the traditional reading of the Bible so that instead of upholding the exist-
ing rigid feudal order, the stories in this religious text were used as a plea
for a much more progressive society.
The years following the English Revolution of the mid-seventeenth
century saw a flourishing of new scientific theories and discoveries ran
ging from Newton’s laws of motion to the discovery of the cell as the
biological unit of life by Robert Hooke.19 Yet it would be a mistake to
separate the English Revolution from the religious fervour that inspired
its activists. For although groups like the Levellers can appear remark
ably modern, with their demands for a form of universal suffrage, their
use of newspapers, petitions, mass demonstrations, and particularly the
involvement of women in their movement, in other ways many of their
followers were a clear product of their time, believing in magic, proph
ecies, and miracles.20
We can get a sense of the fervour of such activists from the work of a
particularly gifted individual of this era—John Bunyan. A soldier in the
Parliamentary army during the English Civil War, but then imprisoned
for his beliefs during the religious clampdown that accompanied the
monarchy’s return in 1660, in jail Bunyan began writing The Pilgrim’s
Progress.21 Portrayed as a dream, Bunyan’s book became an instant clas-
sic with its story of Christian’s pilgrimage to the Celestial City that
takes him through many adventures, dangers, and false turns.22 One
particularly powerful aspect of Bunyan’s allegory is the way he renders
abstract moral dilemmas concrete through encounters with characters
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like Mr Worldly-Wiseman, Mr Facing-Both-Ways, Lord Time-Server, and

so on.23 Bunyan also sees an individual’s direct communion with God as
more important than obeying the rules of a repressive society if the two
contradict each other, thereby providing a holy licence for the struggle for
a better world. For this reason historian E. P. Thompson saw The Pilgrim’s
Progress as one of the ‘foundation texts of the English working-class
movement’.24
By default religion played a central role in human conscious awareness
and communication between people in past times, but what about the
situation today? Here we face an apparent conundrum, for while in the
past, belief in the supernatural could be excused as ignorance of the fact
that droughts, floods, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, plagues, and other
challenging phenomena have scientifically explainable natural causes and
are not the work of an angry god, then surely today religious views should
be just as untenable as the idea that the Earth is flat. Moreover, we now
have no need for creation myths given the evidence that human beings,
and all other species on Earth, are products of an evolutionary process
that can be explained in a purely materialist manner. Yet today, religion
continues to be a source of inspiration for billions. So how do we explain
the persistence of religious beliefs? One obvious reason, if religion can
indeed be ‘an expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffer-
ing’, is that such suffering is very much still alive in the world. And in such
a situation, religion can not only offer solace, but also may inspire radical
action. Such was certainly the case in the black civil rights movement of
the 1960s.
Martin Luther King’s speech at the end of the ‘March on Washington’ in
1963, which drew around a quarter of a million people, is rightly cele-
brated as one of the greatest speeches of the twentieth century.25 It was
centred on the unforgettable plea ‘I have a dream.’ The speech is notable
for the way the rhythmic pattern of King’s words becomes stronger with
each repetition of the phrase, and also for the poetic character of his lines.
For instance, he described the ‘valley of despair’ faced by black Americans,
and the southern US states ‘sweltering with the heat of oppression’, but
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also a future in which ‘one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of
former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down
together at the table of brotherhood.’26 Perhaps most importantly, King
looked forward to a world when religious divisions themselves would be
a thing of the past, with his concluding sentence that when ‘we let free-
dom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from
every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of
God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants
and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old
Negro spiritual: Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free
at last!’27 In this respect it is interesting that King employed the language
of religious fervour, but used it to make a highly rational plea for a unified
form of humanity that was not divided by skin colour or particular faith.
From a consistently scientific point of view religion can only be seen
ultimately as a form of illusion, being based on a belief in supernatural
forces, yet it provides both meaning and sometimes a justification for
action in ways that cannot simply be dismissed as irrational. But what
about people who do not believe in the supernatural? Is there a way for
non-believers to find deeper meaning in life while at the same time main-
taining that everything in the Universe, including human consciousness,
can be explained in purely material terms? For surely, finding such deeper
meaning is a highly important aspect of human conscious awareness, if
that awareness is to rise beyond the mundane reality of daily existence.
To some extent, merely recognizing the connection of human beings,
with our conscious awareness, to the rest of nature can provide a sense of
deeper meaning. Addressing critics who believed that his theory of evo-
lution by natural selection diminished our sense of wonder about the
world around us, Charles Darwin replied that ‘there is grandeur in this
view of life’.28 Knowing that the intensity of what we feel when we fall in
love or experience the birth of our first child is partially based on a surge
of brain chemicals like dopamine or oxytocin should not undermine the
experience, but rather can help us connect it to the rest of nature.
Similarly, recognizing that great human cultural achievements—whether
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the pyramids of Giza, the music of Mozart, Michelangelo’s art, or the

writing of Emily Brontë—are ultimately the product of the actions of
interconnected neurons and glial cells in different parts of the human
brain should not lessen the importance of these artistic creations.
Yet while accepting that our minds are based on brain matter and noth-
ing more, an important aspect of finding deeper meaning in the world
also means recognizing that human consciousness has unique properties
that distinguish it from the rest of nature. This position is different from
that of Christof Koch, of the Allen Institute for Brain Science in Seattle,
who has argued that ‘consciousness is . . . probably present in most of
metazoa, most animals, [and] it may even be present in a very simple system
like a bacterium’.29 In contrast, I have argued that a proper understanding
of human consciousness requires not only an awareness of qualitative
differences of the human brain, in its interconnections, internal divisions
of labour, and even patterns of gene expression, but also identifying the
material basis of this consciousness. This means moving beyond a crude,
mechanical understanding of the material basis of human consciousness,
without at the same type lapsing into an unscientific idealism.
In fact mechanical materialism and idealism are far more closely related
than might at first be imagined. For a model of the human mind that fails
to take into account the true complexity of the material basis of human
consciousness inevitably ends up bringing in non-materialist explan
ations to compensate for this deficit. For instance, we saw previously how
René Descartes failed to extend his mechanical model of the body to the
mind, arguing instead that this was an unknowable supernatural soul.
Meanwhile, John Locke and later behaviourists like B. F. Skinner simply
ignored the material basis of human consciousness, treating it instead as
a ‘blank slate’.30 But this not only failed to explain in material terms why
human beings have a conscious awareness that other species lack, it also
provided no explanation for why individual humans can differ so much in
terms of personality, aptitude, motivation, and so on. Being unanchored
in this way, it was an idealist vision.
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This tendency to lurch from mechanical materialism into idealism is

true even of some thinkers who specifically set out to provide a material-
ist view of the mind. Daniel Dennett of Tufts University in Massachusetts
has strongly argued against the idea that consciousness can be viewed as
if a ‘homunculus’ or little human being sits inside our skulls. A major
problem with such a scenario, which also echoes what the philosopher
Gilbert Ryle has called a ‘ghost in the machine’ view of consciousness,
is that one might justifiably ask what is going on inside the mind of such
a homunculus (Figure 29).31 Instead Dennett proposes a ‘bottom-up’
approach, which views the human mind as the combined product of
unconscious, evolved processes that somehow come together to provide
the appearance of an individual ‘I’, but which in reality has no conscious
entity at its core. While a valuable and considered approach to the prob-
lem of consciousness, one problem with his account is Dennett’s espousal
of the ‘meme’ theory of the evolution of human culture.32
functions
emotions
actions
bodily
sleep
Figure 29 Cartesian dualism and the idea of a homunculus controlling the brain.
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While today memes tends to mean those images or video clips—often

humorous, cringeworthy, or carrying some life message—that spread
rapidly on social media, the term was first introduced in the 1970s by
Richard Dawkins in his book The Selfish Gene, where he used it to describe
an idea, behaviour, or style that spreads from person to person within a
culture—examples of memes being ‘tunes, ideas, catch-phrases, clothes
fashions, ways of making pots or of building arches’.33 By analogy with
biological inheritance, Dawkins argued that ‘just as genes propagate
themselves in the gene pool by leaping from body to body via sperm or
eggs, so memes propagate themselves in the meme pool by leaping
from brain to brain via a process which, in the broad sense, can be called
imitation.’34
Now as a description of the way that popular images can spread rapidly
across the Internet, almost like a viral infection, this was a remarkably
prophetic and insightful vision. However, the potential idealism at the
heart of Daniel Dennett’s belief that meme theory provides a scientific
explanation for human consciousness is exposed by science writer Jonnie
Hughes’ uncritical claim that this theory demonstrates that ‘ideas are, to a
very real extent, “alive” in their own right—surviving, reproducing, evolv-
ing, going extinct, just like living things,’ and that we humans are ‘little
more than their hosts, their habitats’.35
Such a view turns reality on its head by seeing ideas themselves as
free-floating entities that exist separate from human beings, and to some
extent even dominate them, rather than being the creation of real, living
human individuals, and the social interactions between them. In fact, the
tendency to substitute ‘the fantastic form of a relation between things’ for
actual relations between human beings is a feature of an ‘alienated’ view
of the world.36 And as I discussed earlier, this has developed within capit
alist society because of the tendency of people within such a society to
view the products of their labour not as their creations but as ‘alien
objects’ standing above, and often in oppressive opposition to them.
However, we also saw how such an alienated view of the world affects
relations between all human beings in society, so that even something as
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fundamental to human nature as sex can be viewed as a commodity,

rather than as a source of individual pleasure and fulfilment. And as
shown by Hughes’ comment above, alienation can mean that our very
ideas end up being seen not as the creative products of our individual
brains and interactions with other human individuals, but as objects over
which we have little control and that can even dominate and oppress us.
Such a sense of alienation from our own minds can manifest itself in
some odd ways. One is the idea that consciousness is not a unique prod-
uct of human minds, but rather something distributed across nature as a
whole. For instance, Christof Koch, whom I mentioned earlier, sees con-
sciousness as a quantitative measure of an organism’s awareness of itself
and the world, with humans only at one end of this spectrum.37 Not only
does such ‘panpsychism’ not explain the qualitative shift that human
self-awareness represents compared to other animals—demonstrated by
our technology, our civilization, and our impact on the planet, something
evident for no other species—but it can easily slide into a mystical view of
the Universe. For if consciousness is something distributed across nature,
it is not a great leap to see conscious awareness even in the basic fabric of
the Universe. For instance, Gregory Matloff, a physicist at New York City
College of Technology, has argued that a ‘proto-consciousness field’ may
extend through all space, with stars being thinking entities that deliber-
ately control their paths.38 Put more bluntly, the entire cosmos may be
self-aware. This is surely only a short step to belief in the idea that ‘god is
in everything’.
Comparing the different theories of human consciousness mentioned
above, one general problem is that they tend to underestimate—and yet
also overestimate—the task of explaining consciousness while maintaining
a materialistic mode of explanation. To begin first with underestimation
of the problem, theories of consciousness generally fail to properly explain
the importance not only of size, but also structure, in distinguishing the
human brain from those of other species and relating this to the distinctive
features of human consciousness in such a way as I have been seeking to
do throughout this book.
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This underestimation of the role of structure also extends to the cell

and the genome. Far too often theories of consciousness refer to the basic
structural units of the brain that we share with other species—our
neurons and glial cells—as if we can treat these as black boxes, whereas in
fact our deepening understanding of the complex nature of these cell
types and the way that they interact as a network in the brain as a whole
through genetic and epigenetic mechanisms has an important impact on
our understanding of how ideas form and change. And these structural
considerations mean that the distinctive type of conscious awareness that
I have often referred to in this book by the term ‘human consciousness’
cannot be something that we share with other animals and certainly not
with inanimate objects.
In terms of overestimation of the problem of consciousness, one source
of confusion in attempts to explain the human mind is a failure to prop-
erly identify the material basis of thought. It is this that leads to the belief
that ideas and concepts are free-floating entities—memes. In both cases,
there is a failure to relate such ideas and concepts to actual human brain
structure and function and actual social interactions between human
beings, and therefore the basis of ideas and concepts in such theories
remains unknowable.
In contrast, I have argued here that words themselves are the material
basis not only of the language that humans use to communicate with
other human beings, but also of thought itself. In this respect given the
initial focus of this chapter on religion, it is interesting that the Bible
begins with the phrase ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was
with God, and God was the Word.’39 This is clearly an idealist vision, but
interesting nevertheless in highlighting the centrality of words for our
species. I have also argued that thought is a dialogical process, in which
the individual mind represents a nexus between the brain and society.
This has the consequence that the consciousness of each human individ-
ual is a social construction. However, lest this be taken to mean that
human beings are merely word processors, the fact that thoughts are
also formed in an organic brain—with a specific molecular and cellular
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structure, and precise interconnections between different cells—also

gives consciousness its unique character, in terms of both the human spe-
cies and differences between individuals. In particular, the fact that brain
waves of different frequencies appear to play a key role in coordinating
the activity of different regions of the brain is likely to be central to the
construction in a human brain—through language—of the individual ‘I’.
The unique interface between the organic brain of a human individual
and the symbolic framework based on language that human conscious-
ness represents is one reason why it is unlikely to be straightforward, or
even possible, to create conscious awareness in a machine—an issue that
I will explore in more detail in the next chapter. But how does this inter-
face manifest itself in the specific personality of a human individual? And
how does this relate to the question of how that individual finds meaning
in the world?
The subjective nature of consciousness is key to what it feels like to be
human. The aesthetics of an art work, sensations on eating a new type of
food, and the responses that other people stimulate in us depending on
whether they are stranger, lover, friend, or foe overlap, but also differ in
important ways, between individuals. Philosophers use the term ‘qualia’
(from the Latin for ‘what kind of’) to describe individual experiences—the
colour of a sunset, the smell of a rose, or the sound of a lover’s voice. The
term was coined by Harvard University philosopher Clarence Irving
Lewis, who defined qualia as ‘recognizable qualitative characters of the
given, which may be repeated in different experiences, and are thus a sort
of universals’ but also ‘directly intuited . . . purely subjective’.40
This subjective aspect of consciousness is one reason why some people
believe the human mind to be ultimately inexpressible in scientific terms.
In contrast, I would argue that both the universal and subjective aspects
of consciousness are explainable by a view of our conscious awareness
that sees this as primarily mediated by language. One consequence of this
view is that both conversations between individuals and our innermost
thoughts involve a dialogue, and also that the meaning of words them-
selves is contested and evolving, because of changing experiences and
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social interactions, leading to an indeterminacy in the inner speech we

use to express the world around us to ourselves and others.
In addition, the ‘fuzzy’ nature of inner thought, with its fluidity in
terms of both word meaning and grammatical structure, and a dynamic
ally changing meaning that may be only partially acknowledged by the
individual and which forms the unconscious part of our thoughts mean
that it may be difficult to express our inner thoughts not only to others,
but even to ourselves. Finally, since thoughts are formed in each of us
within brains that differ in subtle ways in terms of structure, intercon-
nections, and the precise variety and amounts of neurochemicals—with
chemical interactions also going on with the rest of the body, not to
speak of the drugs and other chemicals we ingest—all must play a sig-
nificant role in the development of the individual subjective experience.
Moreover, it is increasingly recognized that both the specific brain biol-
ogy bequeathed to us by our parents via their genes and the epigenetic
impact that their life experiences may have had on them might have been
passed on to us, their offspring, and may impact our mental outlook and
subjective feelings.
As I have already indicated, one crucial aspect of human conscious-
ness is its capacity to be affected by experience, and this can alter both
our thoughts and feelings. The novelist Henry James brilliantly evoked
this process when he wrote that ‘experience is never limited, and it is
never complete; it is an immense sensibility, a kind of huge spider-web of
the finest silken threads suspended in the chamber of consciousness, and
catching every air-borne particle in its tissue.’41 Such an effect of experi-
ence can occur at both an individual and societal level. For instance I can
remember one instance when my own individual consciousness was
challenged by experience. When my sister visited India and brought back
a finely decorated jacket, I was perturbed to see embroidered on it rows
of swastikas. Yet this merely reflected the fact that the swastika is an
ancient symbol that can represent the four seasons, the sun’s rays, or the
circle of life, depending on which account you read.42 The appropriation
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of the symbol by Hitler and the German Nazis reflected their rather mystical
ideas about nationality and race, and their desire to propagate a ‘thousand-
year Reich’.43
To the person who embroidered my sister’s jacket, the swastika symbol
clearly held a very different cultural and religious relevance, so that they
were not concerned by its more sinister connotations, assuming they
were even aware of these. In contrast, the reason that I was shocked to see
swastikas on my sister’s jacket was because it is difficult today as a person
in Europe not to associate this symbol with the Nazi movement. And it is
testament to the influence of a changing society on the mind that a sym-
bol can also powerfully change in meaning. For imagine, how percep-
tions of this particular symbol must have rapidly changed in Germany in
the 1920s and 1930s, perhaps being viewed initially as an object of ridicule
when the Nazis were only a fringe organization, giving way to unease as
the organization began to dominate the political scene, first through vio-
lence on the streets then through increased influence in the German
Reichstag or parliament, and finally fear, following the Nazis’ rise to
power in 1933, after which they rapidly moved to suppress opposition to
their dictatorship.44 For Nazi supporters, however, the swastika was prob-
ably an important unifying factor in all sorts of ways, combining as it did
the colours of the previous German regime defeated in World War I and
an ancient mystical symbol. Given that Hitler himself described mass
demonstrations like the Nuremberg rallies as events that ‘burn into the
little man’s soul the conviction that, though a little worm, he is part of a
great dragon’,45 it would be a mistake to underestimate the potency of
such a combination of different symbolic elements.
On a more personal note, the significance of one piece of music has
changed dramatically for me over the past two decades because of the dif-
fering contexts in which it was heard. Like many people, I first heard the
piano piece ‘Comptine d’Un Autre Été’ by Yann Tiersen while watching
the film Amélie. This film, by French director Jean-Pierre Jeunet, is about a
quirky young Parisian waitress Amélie, who decides to surreptitiously
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work to change the lives of those around her for the better, while struggling
with her own isolation.46
As Amélie’s theme music, ‘Comptine d’Un Autre Été’ captured per-
fectly the bittersweet nature of Amélie’s experiences portrayed in the
film. But the piece acquired a more personal relevance for me when my
sister’s son—my nephew Jack—learned to play it and often did so when
we visited my sister’s home, and it became a typical accompaniment to
our family gatherings there. However, the music acquired a much deeper
significance after my sister’s suicide when Jack played the piece—one of
my sister’s favourites—at her funeral. Now, it is impossible for me to hear
this piece of music without associating it not only with my sister’s funeral,
but also many past times—both happy and sad—spent together.
The subjective nature of experience is what makes being an individual
unique. Humans have evolved to be social beings. This extreme sociability
defines our species, yet possessing conscious awareness, we are ironically
also the only species aware of our individuality. According to the view of
the mind proposed in this book, this sense of individuality is to some
extent an illusion, ‘a tenant lodging in the social edifice of ideological
signs’,47 as Voloshinov described the human mind. Yet that tenant is us,
and however tenuous, our individuality is what defines us. Each of us finds
meaning through our experiences and actions in a social world. My
research, teaching, writing, political activities, hobbies, and leisure inter-
ests acquire meaning because of my interactions with other human beings,
whether friends, family, or total strangers. But ultimately only we can
know how it feels to be us, that ‘I’ who seems to operate from the skull sit-
ting at the top of our bodies. We cling to this sense of being a unique indi-
vidual through life, and it is the fear of ceasing to be that ‘I’ that can haunt
us as we contemplate the time when we will be no more through death.
One of the key drivers of religious ideas is the hope—against all scien-
tific evidence—that we can continue to exist after death. Meanwhile for
those of us who do not believe in the supernatural, one of the biggest
challenges we face is how we deal with our own transient existence,
and those of our loved ones, while still retaining a deeper sense of the
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meaning of life. The question of how to deal with such a challenge is

something I will return to in the conclusion of this book. But before I do
that, it is worth contemplating whether in the future individual minds
will necessarily die, or whether there will ever be the possibility of cheat-
ing the death of individual consciousness in a non-supernatural manner.
It is this issue, and other future possible scenarios, that I will examine in
the penultimate chapter of this book.
395
CH A P T ER 23
MIND AND MACHINE

z
M aking predictions about the future is seldom easy. Such is the pace
of modern life that predictions can greatly overestimate progress
in the future, yet fail to anticipate major social transformations that we
now take for granted. I was five years old in July 1969 when I watched
awestruck as the flickering black and white TV screen in my home showed
men walking on the Moon, and I assumed while growing up in the 1970s
that by the time I was an adult our species would have colonized the
Moon, Mars, and perhaps even the rest of the Solar System. My youth may
have been a factor in such optimism, but I was far from being alone in
such expectations at this time; the British 1970s TV programme Space:
1999 was typical in predicting the existence of a human colony on the
Moon before the turn of the millennium.1
In fact, it would be easy to produce a long list of technological predic-
tions made by enthusiasts in the twentieth century that have still not been
realized. Technologies ranging from teleportation to scanners that can
non-invasively diagnose and cure disease, which were presented as com-
monplace in the futuristic series Star Trek, are little closer now to practical
realization than they were in the 1960s when first conceived.2 Yet other
developments that we now take for granted, like the Internet, personal
computers, smart phones, and precision gene editing, may have featured
in science fiction, but also seemed likely to remain as fiction not so many
years ago. So how might future technologies impact on human con-
sciousness? In this chapter we will consider whether artificial intelligence
might come to rival that of human beings and possible interfaces between
human and machine intelligence.
mind a nd m achine
First though, I want to discuss how new techniques are continuing to

add to our understanding of the human mind. There are many exciting
technologies available now to the neuroscientist, such as genomic ana
lysis, optogenetics, gene editing, and brain organoids. To what extent
could such technologies be used to investigate the model of human con-
sciousness outlined in this book? Here, we face several problems. For this
model views the human brain as having undergone a qualitative shift
compared to those of other species, implying that there will be limitations
to what we can learn from the current main tool for studying brain
function—animal models. At the same time, the creation of experimen-
tal systems for studying the more human-like aspects of consciousness
raises potential ethical issues.
On the positive side, the fact that much of the basic neurobiology of the
human brain is shared with other species means we can continue to learn
a lot from animal models. This is particularly true now that new gene-
editing methods make it possible to disable or subtly alter the function of
genes not only in mice, but also in primates.3 This is important because
even though I have been arguing that the human brain has undergone a
qualitative shift compared to other primates, these primate species are
much more similar to a human in brain size and structure and also share
many similarities with humans in their social interactions, so studies of
gene-edited primates may offer significant advantages compared to mice.
However, there are also potential problems in both the creation and study
of gene-edited primates.
The cost and time required to create a gene-edited primate is one factor
to consider; another is that in many countries at the cutting edge of neuro
science, there is substantial opposition to primate research by animal
rights activists. For this reason, much recent development of gene-edited
primates has taken place in China, because of generous funding for bio-
medical research currently in this country, and also because traditionally
there has been less ethical opposition to primate research.4 But such studies
are likely to face increasing ethical scrutiny, particularly as neuroscien-
tists from the USA and other countries become involved in such research
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in China.5 Potential ethical issues include the fact that creating models of
conditions like severe forms of autism in a primate like a macaque may
have more detrimental effects on the well-being of an individual of this
species—precisely because its forms of social interaction are more simi-
lar to those of a human—than is the case for mice. Such sensitivity to
possible consequences will be even more important if scientists use
gene-edited primates to study the biological basis of human conscious
awareness.
Showing the pace of research in this area, Bing Su, a geneticist at the
Kunming Institute of Zoology in China, has already introduced a human
version of a gene called SRGAP2, thought to endow the human brain with
processing power by allowing the growth of connections between
neurons, and of MCPH1, a gene related to brain size, into macaques and
reported the consequences.6 As mentioned previously, a distinguishing
feature of human brain development is that it is delayed compared to the
situation in other primates. Although as a consequence, human babies
are far more helpless at birth, such a delay also means that our brains have
a far greater learning capacity, for far longer, than those of other primates.
As a baby’s brain develops after birth, MCPH1 is expressed in abundance,
but much less so in non-human primates, and it has been suggested to
play a role in the human brain’s developmental delay. And Su and his
team’s recent study showed that the brains of monkeys with the human
version of MCPH1 took longer to develop, and the animals performed
better in tests of short-term memory as well as reaction time compared to
normal monkeys.7
Su claims that this is the ‘first attempt to understand the evolution of
human cognition using a transgenic monkey model’.8 However, Jacqueline
Glover, a University of Colorado bioethicist, believes the study is likely to
raise concerns about ‘Planet of the Apes’-type scenarios ‘in the popular
imagination’ and thinks that ‘to humanise [the monkeys] is to cause
harm. Where would they live and what would they do? Do not create a
being that can’t have a meaningful life in any context.’9 But Larry Baum, a
researcher at Hong Kong University’s Centre for Genomic Sciences, has
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downplayed sci-fi comparisons, stating that ‘the genome of rhesus monkeys

differs from ours by a few percent. That’s millions of individual DNA
bases differing between humans and monkeys. This study changed a few
of those in just one of about 20,000 genes. You can decide for yourself
whether there is anything to worry about.’10
In experiments of this kind, it is likely that there will always be a
conflict between the natural urge of scientists to probe the limits of
knowledge and possible adverse consequences—in this case, an animal
that may gain a much higher degree of self-awareness and which might
both therefore recognize its plight as an experimental animal and begin
to question its rights in this situation.11 While it seems unlikely that a
single gene change might give rise to these situations, as our under-
standing grows about the genetic differences that distinguish humans
from apes, and given the capacity for gene editing to introduce many
genetic changes simultaneously, it is a possible scenario that needs to be
taken seriously.
Another area of research that is becoming ethically charged is the use
of ‘organoids’ to study human brain function and the biological basis of
mental disorders.12 However, brain organoids suffer from various limita-
tions as objects for studying human brain function, some of which I have
already discussed. Perhaps the biggest obstacle to organoids being used to
study adult brain function is their lack of a blood supply, for without this
such organoids are unable to grow beyond embryonic size. However, Ben
Waldau, a vascular neurosurgeon at the University of California, Davis
Medical Center, has recently begun to tackle this problem. Using brain
cells removed from a patient during surgery, Waldau and his colleagues
coaxed some of these into iPS cells and others into the endothelial cells
that line the insides of blood vessels.13 The stem cells grew into brain orga-
noids, which were incubated in a matrix coated with the endothelial cells,
then transplanted into a mouse’s brain. Two weeks later the organoid was
alive and healthy—and capillaries had grown into its inner layers, with
these blood vessels that had grown into the brain organoid being of
human, not mouse, origin.
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While many significant obstacles remain to be overcome in brain

organoid studies, let us assume that at some point it will be possible to
take cells from a person and derive an object of the same size as a normal
human brain, with a blood supply, and a structure and interconnections
identical to that of the latter. Such an object would be a great resource for
neuroscience, but would its creation ever be justifiable on ethical grounds?
One important ethical question is whether an artificial human brain
derived from stem cells would have conscious awareness. If so, would it
have a sense of itself as an experimental preparation? And could a brain in
that situation be said to have any rights? A complicating factor is that it
might only be possible to answer such questions by allowing an artificial
brain to become aware of its circumstances. For the conscious awareness
of a brain in a living person is—as I have argued in this book—partly a
product of that brain’s biology, but also partly of the interactions of that
person with the outside world. So an artificial brain in a vat might only
become aware of itself if connected to incoming signals that allowed it to
see, hear, smell, and possibly touch its surroundings. Most importantly,
given the key role that language plays in the development of human con-
sciousness, a brain in a vat would surely need some language input from
the outside world to be able to develop conscious thoughts. Yet would
such an input on its own be sufficient to lead to conscious awareness?
During normal human development, as children we learn the meaning
of words partly through our parents and other adults talking to us, but
also by how such words relate to the world around us. So any attempt to
communicate with an artificial brain would presumably need to also use
various sensory inputs to recreate the sense of a world outside the vat in
which the brain was suspended. But how much of an experience would
this be? To some extent this question was anticipated by philosophers
long before ways to create brain organoids were developed. For instance,
in the 1980s, Harvard University philosopher Hilary Putnam posed the
question of how any of us would know that we are not just a brain in a vat
of bubbling chemicals, hooked up to a virtual-reality simulator.14 One
answer to this question is to restate the fact that it is through our interactions
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with the real world—through our senses, but also our relationships with
other human beings—that we find evidence that we exist in such a real
world. But how can we be sure then that such interactions are real?
Such a conundrum was explored in the 1999 science-fiction film The
Matrix, in which a computer hacker called Neo comes to realize that he,
and the rest of humanity, are actually bodies in suspended animation,
enslaved by sentient machines who feed on their life essence, and ‘reality’
is just an illusion fed to the brain.15 Only a few humans have recognized
their plight, and the rest of the film concerns their battle to liberate
humanity. The main premise of the film is that virtual reality (VR) tech-
nology has become so advanced that the human race—bar these few
enlightened individuals—is not aware it is merely part of a simulation.16
Yet although there have been significant advances in VR technology since
the film’s release, we are still not at the point where anyone could mistake
such a simulated world for the real thing—unless somehow the film’s
premise is true, and all human experience really is an illusion!
Returning to our scenario of an artificial human brain in a vat, given
that such a brain would never have experienced being in an actual human
body, it might be less of an issue if the simulated world were not an accur
ate reconstruction of human life. But we need to address how feasible it
would be to recreate the senses for such an artificial brain. For the more
we learn about the biology of both vision and hearing, but also smell,
taste, and touch, the clearer it is becoming that the way we process inputs
from the outside world through such senses is complex not only in terms
of the brain’s role, but also with regard to the biology of the eye, the nose,
the tongue, the skin, and so on. Because of this, the artificial senses that
we might create for a brain in a vat would surely be far inferior to our own
biological means for experiencing the world. However, for an artificial
brain that had never experienced anything else, perhaps such an experience
would not be seen as impoverished.
An important difference between the evil intelligent machines in The
Matrix and a conscientious and ethically minded human scientist who
had created an artificial human brain would surely be that such a scientist
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would need to reveal to this brain its predicament. Unfortunately, such a

course of action could itself create more ethical dilemmas. Such a brain—
despite being the product of an evolutionary process in which living
human brains generally only exist in the context of a body—would then
become aware that it was actually only an object in a vat linked to various
electronic inputs and outputs. Having gained conscious awareness of
its situation, should such an artificial brain be viewed merely as an
experimental preparation, or as equivalent to a human being with its own
personality and possibly also its own rights?
Looking even further into possible future scenarios, our growing ability
to develop functioning robots raises the question of whether an artificial
human brain might be used to control such a robot, creating in effect a
cyborg. However, the creation of such an entity could make a big differ-
ence in terms of an artificial brain’s sense of identity in the world, as well
as its rights. Such a cyborg might be much more powerful than a normal
human being, and also potentially live far longer, since only its brain
would be organic. To some extent this is the subject of the 2017 film Ghost
in the Shell, in which Mira Killian, an anti-terrorism agent for a Japanese
government of the future, believes she was created as a cyborg following
a terrorist attack in which only her brain survived.17 However, we eventu-
ally learn that Killian’s brain was taken from a young political activist,
Motoko Kusanagi, whose memories were suppressed to create the Killian
cyborg, by an unscrupulous biotech company. Despite attempts by the
company to kill Killian, she is able to use her amazing powers to expose it.
Clearly in this film, part of the company’s crime is its use of an unwill-
ing living person’s brain to create their cyborg. But if such a cyborg were
created using an artificial human brain generated from stem cells, would
this also be seen as an infringement of human rights? What would surely
be the case is that such a cyborg, possessing as it would a human brain—
and presumably thereby the ability to think and reason—would need to
have a say in the rights or wrongs of its creation, and its position as a
conscious individual in society.
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The only organ of human origin in a cyborg like the one described
would be its brain. Yet such is the importance of the brain for our concep-
tion of what it means to be human that many people might be able to
accept the idea that such a cyborg could be considered part of humanity.
What, then, of a form of conscious awareness that was purely machine?
How would this be considered, and how likely is it that such an entity
could ever exist?
Certainly, there has been no shortage of predictions in recent years that
an ‘artificial intelligence’ (AI) based on a computer will soon have not only
reached the same mental capabilities as a human being, but also sur-
passed them. Upon reaching such a point, often referred to as a techno-
logical ‘singularity’, AI is then predicted to undergo an exponential
technological growth that will transform life as we know it. For instance,
Vernor Vinge, a mathematician at San Diego State University, who first
coined this term in 1993, believes that ‘we will soon create intelligences
greater than our own. When this happens, human history will have
reached a kind of singularity, an intellectual transition as impenetrable as
the knotted space-time at the centre of a black hole, and the world will
pass far beyond our understanding.’18 Such predictions have helped to
trigger a debate in recent years about whether such an all-powerful AI
will save humanity or instead hasten our extinction.
Representing the first point of view, Frank Lansink, European CEO at
IPsoft, believes that ‘AI . . . has an integral role to play in the workplaces of
the future. It will help unleash creativity, create new job activities and
new occupations which combine ground-breaking technology with our
most human skills.’19 However, others are less convinced about such a
rosy scenario. For instance, in 2017 the biotech entrepreneur Elon Musk
stated that ‘I have exposure to the very cutting-edge AI, and I think people
should be really concerned about it . . . I keep sounding the alarm bell. But
until people see robots going down the street killing people, they don't
know how to react, because it seems so ethereal.’20 And the physicist
Stephen Hawking told a BBC interviewer in 2014 that ‘the development of
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full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race.’21
Expressing how such a scenario could arise, Kilian Weinberger, a computer
scientist at Cornell University, has recently said that ‘if super-intelligent
AI—more intelligent than us—becomes conscious, it could treat us like
lower beings, like we treat monkeys. That would certainly be undesirable.’22
Not surprisingly, such statements can leave many people feeling highly
uneasy about the development of ever-more sophisticated computer and
robotic systems. But is the rise of an all-powerful AI really such a likely
scenario? One reason for caution is that such predictions are not new.
Notably, Alan Turing, the mathematician who was one of the first pion
eers of computer science, predicted in 1951 that machines would ‘outstrip
our feeble powers’ and ‘take control’ within the next human generation.23
In 1965, Turing’s colleague Irving Good argued that ‘ultra-intelligent’ AI
systems would soon design even more intelligent ones, ad infinitum:
‘Thus the first ultra-intelligent machine is the last invention that man need
ever make, provided that the machine is docile enough to tell us how to
keep it under control.’24 Clearly, such predictions were hopelessly mis-
guided in their timescale, but how about their basic substance? Given that
one commentator has described AI as ‘all the things that computers still
can’t do’, could the singularity be creeping up on us, and may computers
already be close to reaching that point of all-powerfulness?
Certainly, computing power has made possible some amazing advances
in recent years. Computers are already proficient at picking financial
stocks, translating speech, and identifying cancer cells in a biopsy. And
although the board game Go was thought to be so guided by intuition
that it was unsusceptible to mastery by a computer, in 2016, AlphaGo, a
‘deep learning’ programme designed by a team at Google’s DeepMind AI
subsidiary in London, was able to dethrone Lee Sedol, the world’s leading
player of the game.25
Despite such successes, is it true that computers are approaching the
point of matching, or even surpassing, human consciousness? To address
this question, we need to take a closer look at the mode of action of pro-
grammes like AlphaGo. Such programs are sometimes referred to as
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‘neural networks’, by analogy to a biological nervous system.26 For each

turn of a game, the AlphaGo network looks at the positions of the pieces
on the Go board and calculates which moves might be made next and the
probability of them leading to a win. After each game, it updates its neural
network, making it a stronger player for the next turn.27 All of this is
highly impressive, but how does it compare with human consciousness?
In some respects, the computational activities of a deep learning pro-
gramme may be quite similar to some of what goes on in a human brain.
When we see an object, smell an odour, listen to someone speak, assess a
work of art, or play a game of chess, each of these responses involves an
act of computation. And since AlphaGo can carry out its computations
far more rapidly than a human brain, this can lead to the idea that the
programme is well on its way to a form of intelligence that compares to,
or even surpasses, that of a human.
Such an idea has been bolstered by statements from AlphaGo’s design-
ers. According to Demis Hassabis, DeepMind’s CEO, ‘for us, AlphaGo
wasn’t just about winning the game of Go. It was also a big step for us
towards building these general-purpose algorithms.’28 What he means is
that most AIs are described as ‘narrow’ because they perform only a sin-
gle task, such as translating languages or recognizing faces; in contrast,
general-purpose AIs could potentially outperform humans at many dif-
ferent tasks. And certainly this kind of adaptability may prove very use-
ful; for instance, a new version of AlphaGo is currently being used to
identify 3D structures of proteins involved in key bodily processes,
which could be important for identifying new molecular targets for drug
discovery.29
Yet such statements can also feed the idea that a computer program like
this is comparable to the generalized thinking capacity of a human.
I believe that this is a mistaken conclusion for a number of reasons. First,
although AlphaGo is versatile in its ability to become expert at various
different tasks, it can only do so one at a time.30 Compare that to a human
being, who can drive a car, conduct a conversation with someone in the
car, listen to the car radio, and be also thinking about what to cook for
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dinner or the argument they had earlier with their spouse (although there
are limits—and risks—to the number of mental tasks on which a person
can safely be engaged, especially if in charge of a fast-moving vehicle).
Not only can human beings multitask in this way, but we also have a
memory system that allows us to acquire skills in diverse other tasks, all
of which can be called into operation as required as we go through life,
even if we have not used such skills in years. In contrast, for a program
like AlphaGo that has become expert at Go to learn a new task—such as
modelling 3D structures of proteins—it has to forget everything it has
learned about Go.
Second, human brains are far more than just computational devices. In
particular, our brains are first of all organic structures, which has import
ant implications in comparing their action to that of a computer. Indeed,
there are huge differences between even an animal brain—say that of a
monkey—and a computer program like AlphaGo. While the name
‘neural network’ is deliberately meant to suggest similarities between
such a network and an organic brain—with even the individual units of
the electronic circuit named ‘neurons’—in reality there is a huge differ-
ence between these two entities.31 For as we have seen, real neurons are
far from being simple digital on/off switches like the units of a computer
circuit; instead, they have a complex structure, a genome, but also a pat-
tern of gene expression distributed across the different parts of the cell—
and neurons also come in all shapes and sizes. In addition, as well as
individual neurons being connected in local circuits via synapses, there is
increasing evidence that different brain regions are connected via brain
waves into a larger whole.
Moreover, both the local circuitry and these longer-range connections
may be quite different in a human compared to a chimp brain, because of
the role of language and other cultural factors mediating consciousness
in our species. As well as electrical communication, chemical signals—
including complex informational molecules like regulatory RNAs—are,
as we have seen, now recognized as playing an important role in facilitat-
ing communication between neurons, but also between neurons and glial
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cells. Such signals also allow the brain to communicate with the body and
vice versa. And all of this structure and electrical and chemical communi-
cation is the product of four billion years of evolution.
The third difference between human consciousness and a computer
program like AlphaGo is that only the former sees meaning in what it
does.32 While AlphaGo is superb at number crunching as a way to get a
successful result, there is no evidence that it has any awareness at all of
what it is doing. For a grandmaster Go player like Lee Sedol to beat another
human grandmaster at this game means more than just the result itself,
because he has invested a huge amount of his life in getting to such a level,
with all of the fame and recognition that this can bring him as an indi-
vidual expert. It must be somewhat soul-destroying then to be beaten so
easily by a machine, and yet for AlphaGo’s part, all this program has done
is unconsciously carry out an algorithm. At least in their current form, it
is far from clear that any AI will acquire conscious awareness, despite
being able to carry out an increasing variety of tasks that include not just
playing games like Go, but also activities ranging from medical diagnosis
to self-driving cars.
The different levels of structure and communication in the human
brain, which range from synapses between individual neurons to waves
that coordinate the different brain regions, also make unlikely another
prediction—that it might soon be possible to ‘upload’ an individual
human consciousness into a computer. In 2016 physicist Stephen
Hawking stated that it should be possible to ‘copy the brain onto a com-
puter and so provide a form of life after death.’33 Not only that, but a bio-
tech company, Netcome, has been set up by MIT graduate Robert McIntyre
to begin work in this very area. McIntyre believes that if we can decipher
the ‘connectome’—all the synaptic connections—of an individual human
brain, a project which I mentioned earlier, it should then be possible to
upload this information into a computer.34 However, there are two major
flaws in such proposals.
First, while it may be possible to map all the synapses in a human brain,
there is no obvious way at the moment to reproduce the informational
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content of each neuron or glial cell, or the electrical or chemical long-range

signals. Second, given the differences between computers and brains dis-
cussed above, it is not clear how the ‘information’ in a brain could be
uploaded into a computer. For this reason a prediction in 2014 by another
physicist, Michio Kaku of the City University of New York, that soon ‘if
I have a CD-ROM with all the [brain’s neural] connections on a disk, I can
put that on a laser beam, and I can shoot that into outer space at the speed
of light . . . and then at the other end there’s a relay station which absorbs
the laser beam and puts all these memories into a robot, and so you can
then begin to feel, and live on another star system,’35 is also highly unlikely
to be realizable.
Indeed, given that it is also currently impossible to cryopreserve a living
person, perhaps the only way that our species might be able to colonize
habitable planets that are light years away would be through advances not
in neuroscience, but in reproductive biology. For recent advances in this
field have brought a step forward the prospect of being able to maintain
human foetuses outside the mother’s body in an artificial womb. Applied
to humans, such technology could help women unable to bear children in
the normal way and support babies born extremely prematurely. But it
could also make possible colonization of habitable planets too far away
for a person to travel to in their lifetime. So a spaceship could be loaded
up with frozen human embryos, food supplies for the future human off-
spring, the means to generate different animal and plant species, and a
number of robots. When the ship arrived at the destination planet, the
robots—which would need to be highly versatile, but not consciously
aware—would be programmed to resuscitate the human embryos and
implant them into the artificial wombs, then nurture them through to
adulthood. The robots would play a similar role in nurturing the embryos
of the other animal and plant species on the ship.
While this scenario is currently unrealizable, with advances in repro-
ductive, computer, and space science technology, it does not seem totally
implausible that it could be a viable project in the next few decades.
However, from an ethical point of view such a scenario throws up
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many issues. A key one, assuming that everything went to plan, and our
proto-human colony did not end up dying because of unforeseen adverse
events, would be the fact that at least the first generation of this space col-
ony would be brought up and educated solely by robots that, while highly
skilled, had no conscious awareness of their own.
What type of human beings would emerge from such an experience?
How might human minds and consciousness develop under such condi-
tions? Would they be a joyful new extension of humanity, or would our
ambitious plan leave them emotionally scarred for life? We would prob-
ably only find out as a species back on Earth once our extra-planetary
offspring started sending back messages to their home planet. Now obvi-
ously such a scenario is still science fiction but the fact that it is not that
far-fetched given recent technological progress is surely testament to the
power of the human mind and the society it has produced.
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EPILOGUE
A Twenty-First-Century Mind
A ll books must end and it is time to draw this one to a close. But can
any account of so vast a topic as human consciousness ever have a
conclusive ending? For even if this book has managed to provide some
important new ideas about this subject, it will still only have scratched the
surface of what is really going on inside our heads. Nevertheless, drawing
things to a conclusion is what I must do, and I will do so by returning to
the various alternative views about human consciousness first mentioned
at the start of this book and assess how my account compares to, and
hopefully builds on, these other viewpoints.
René Descartes surely makes a suitable starting point. He revolution-
ized our understanding of how the human body works by proposing that
it can be understood as a machine, yet fell short in this project by refusing
to extend his mechanistic view to the mind. Instead, Descartes argued
that ‘higher’ mental functions can only be explained by reference to an
immortal soul, opaque to scientific investigation. This introduced a dual-
ism that persists to this day in discussions about human consciousness.1
So we need to consider how much the view of the human mind developed
here both recognizes and overcomes this dualism.
The difficulties in developing a view of human consciousness that does
not end up as Cartesian dualism arise from two main directions. The first
comes from the difficulty in accepting that something as personal as the
individual ‘I’ is merely based on the unconscious actions of cells in the
brain, particularly given the apparent complexity of human thought that
e pilogu e
at times seems to verge on the transcendental. The second difficulty arises

from the problem of how to construct a view of the mind that can explain
our sense of being an individual consciousness, without lapsing into a
scenario in which that consciousness appears to be due to a tiny self-aware
homunculus sitting inside our heads directing our sense of self.
I have argued that all previous attempts to explain human conscious-
ness have failed to provide a properly materialistic account that shows
how mind is connected to brain. Either the issue is ducked completely by
ignoring the role of the organic brain and assuming that the mind can be
viewed as a ‘black box’ or a complex form of computer, but without relat-
ing this to actual brain structure, as in different forms of behaviourism.2
Alternatively, the human mind is assumed to be something that ‘emerges’
from neural connections in the brain, but without explaining how.
Instead, such a ‘bottom-up’ approach ends up reaching for what Daniel
Dennett has called ‘skyhooks’—explanations of complexity that do not
build on lower, simpler layers.3 Ironically, Dennett himself has employed
one such skyhook by making the concept of ‘memes’—the view that ideas
exist as free-floating entities with a life of their own—central to his view
of consciousness, despite this being an idealist notion.
In contrast, the view of human consciousness developed in this book
can explain the uniqueness of our species’ conscious awareness, but in an
entirely materialistic fashion. This approach views language—the system
of abstract symbols linked in a grammatical structure but also one that
connects the individual to the world outside via word meaning—and
other forms of human culture like music, art, and literature, as a material
force that has reshaped human brain functions at every level. This has led
to a qualitative shift in such functions, compared to that of every other
species, including our closest animal cousins, the great apes.
Unlike a purely ‘bottom-up’ approach to human brain function, this
view sees language, as well as other mediators of human culture, as
imposing both structural and dynamic changes in our brains. Structurally,
it sees the different brain regions, as well as their interconnections, as
altered in humans. Throughout this book, I have identified examples of
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such changes. For instance we have evidence that the cerebellum—formerly

thought to be only involved in repetitive motor skills—has both increased
in size in humans and increased its connections with the cerebral cortex,
and this has allowed it to play unique roles in human imagination and
creativity. Other important changes include the expression of certain
genes in different brain regions becoming altered in humans. For instance,
the gene TH, involved in secretion of the neurotransmitter dopamine, is
expressed not only in the striatum—a region involved in movement—as
in other species, but also in the human brain in the neocortex, pointing to
distinctive roles for dopamine in ‘higher’ human brain functions.
Other important differences include human neurons becoming
covered with a fatty myelin sheath much later in life than those of chimps.
Although this sheath increases the speed with which neurons can con-
duct electrical signals, it decreases the capacity for change or ‘plasticity’ of
such neurons. Therefore this change is likely to have played an important
role in our species’ ability to learn and modify our ideas. In general, the
human brain is much more plastic than those of other primates; recall, for
instance, the observation that the folded structure of the brain cortex was
found to be far more similar between two chimp brothers than is the case
for two human brothers, including those who are identical twins.
Such biological differences explain why attempts to teach chimpan-
zees and gorillas language have largely failed. Instead, while individuals of
these species can clearly possess a remarkable capacity to learn to associ-
ate words with objects and possibly also with emotions, there has been no
real indication that they can learn to use words in a structured manner, to
express concepts of time, place, self versus other, and all the other ways
that humans employ language to build up a conceptual framework of the
world that includes the individual as a conscious being aware of his or
herself and their relationship to the world around them.
So a unique aspect of brain function in humans is therefore likely to be
the way that language, as well as other aspects of human culture, com-
bines with our biological differences to shape our developing brains.
I have highlighted how brain waves play an important role in coordinating
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different brain regions in particular activities that include working

memory. Although such waves appear to mediate global brain activity in
many other species, the ‘culturally mediated’ view of the brain developed
here predicts a link between human brain wave activity and language in a
way that is not found in these other species. Investigating how language
affects the coordinating role of different brain waves associated with
various aspects of human consciousness is likely to be a fertile area for
future studies.
An important feature of brain waves is that they display what is known
as ‘non-linear dynamics’. Such dynamics occur throughout nature and
can even be observed in a simple chemistry experiment—the famous
Belousov–Zhabotinsky (BZ) reaction.4 Named after its founders, the
Russian chemists Boris Belousov and Anatol Zhabotinsky, this reaction is
initiated by mixing together chemicals that include two forms of cerium
ion (Ce3+ and Ce4+) which vary in colour, in a plastic dish. The ratio of Ce3+
and Ce4+ subsequently begins to oscillate, causing the colour of the
solution to fluctuate between brown and colourless. But far from being a
simple colour switch, what next occurs is the production of amazing,
rotating spiral waves, until the surface of the dish is a mass of swirling,
fractal forms.5 And there is evidence that brain waves also possess the
same oscillating and fractal character.6
This is important given what I said about the potential role of such
waves as mediators of consciousness, since this non-linear dynamic
behaviour would mean that there is no need for consciousness to be
centred in any specific part of the brain, conjuring up visions of a control-
ling homunculus or soul. Instead, consciousness would be a property of
the whole organ. In fact, it seems entirely feasible that such order out of
chaos also operates in an animal brain—say that of your pet dog or cat—
explaining how its attention is suddenly taken up by something novel in
its environment, whether a squirrel, a tasty snack, or just the sight of you.
However, in humans, superimposed on this mechanism for switching
attention from one thing to another, language also surely plays a unique
and higher guiding role—acting through brain waves, but doing so in a
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structured way that can only occur in our species because of the word
meaning and grammatical structure that language alone can provide.
It is increasingly recognized that not only electrical communication
but also that mediated by chemicals such as neurotransmitters and by
newly discovered ‘signalling’ molecules like regulatory RNAs play import
ant roles in the brain. It will therefore be important in future to study how
this other form of communication might be involved in reconfiguring the
human brain in response to language and other cultural mediators.
In fact the examples mentioned above still only provide tentative indi-
cations that the human brain is radically different from those of other
species, including the great apes. As the basic units of brain structure—
neurons and glial cells—and the molecular mechanisms underlying brain
function are very similar between humans and these other species, it will
rather be the organization of brain structure, interconnections between
brain regions, and brain dynamics that are likely to subtly differ in human
beings. And this is where the practical and ethical obstacles to studying
the dynamics of human brains have limited us.
To some extent, studies of molecular and cellular mechanisms in
human brain slices from recently deceased individuals who have donated
their bodies to science might be of value, although given how much I have
stressed the importance of treating the brain as a whole entity, it is not
clear how much would be gained from studying physiological responses
in such human brain slices, as opposed to those taken from another pri-
mate, or even a rodent. However, given that I have also argued that the
mediation of brain function by cultural factors—language being primary
in this respect—is key to understanding human consciousness, it would
be interesting to see what insights might be gained from molecular ana
lyses of different brain regions taken from aborted foetuses at different
stages of development and from corpses of human individuals of differ-
ent ages and suffering from various mental disorders, all samples of
course donated through ethical consent agreements.
In addition, as advances are made in our ability to generate increasingly
complex brain organoids from stem cells derived from specific human
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individuals, scientists are already identifying ways to investigate not only

basic human brain functions, but the effects of various brain disorders, in
such experimental systems.7 But as I have noted, there are many practical
obstacles to overcome before such organoids can even approximate the
complexity of human brain structure and function, while attempts to do
so, for instance by linking such organoids to a blood supply, allowing
them to reach adult size, would raise so many ethical issues that this may
always remain an unacceptable scenario.
While ‘humanized’ animal models of brain function and fully func-
tioning adult-sized human brains grown in a vat remain science fiction
for the present—and some people may believe that we should keep things
this way—important insights into human brain function as well as brain
disorders can also come from analysis of the brains of living human
beings. Such studies could be carried out in two main ways. First, a var
iety of sophisticated different forms of brain imaging analysis can be per-
formed in a non-invasive fashion on individuals ranging from babyhood
to old age.8 Indeed, as I mentioned previously, it is now even possible to
carry out such analysis on foetuses in the womb. Such type of analysis is
allowing us to study the dynamics of brain activity, and how different
regions of the brain are involved in a particular task. We have already
noted how this type of approach has been used to study the dynamics of
brain activity in musicians playing improvisational jazz, and this has pro-
vided clues about how different brain regions interact during such a cre
ative performance.
Second, patients undergoing surgery can volunteer to have the activity
of neurons in different regions of their brain analysed while they are still
conscious. We saw previously how such an approach can identify which
neurons become activated when a volunteer is shown an image of a celeb-
rity such as Halle Berry or a landmark like the Eiffel Tower, providing
clues both about how memories are stored and accessed and about how
associations between people and places are formed in the brain. In future
studies, both non-invasive imaging and this more direct—but invasive—
analysis of specific neurons might be used to explore in more detail the key
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claims of this book, namely that language and other cultural mediators
transform even the most basic brain functions in humans and that there
has been a qualitative shift during human evolution in how different brain
regions interact that has opened the human brain to such cultural medi
ation.
Of particular interest would be to carry out studies of the developing
brains of children and adolescents. Imaging analysis of the brains of
babies learning language is already happening, and therefore it would be
very interesting to revisit some of the studies carried out by Lev Vygotsky
and his colleagues in the 1920s and 1930s of children employing inner
speech while performing different tasks or learning to group objects in a
conceptual fashion, with a view to replicating these, but with imaging
analysis of participants’ brains.
A key reason for studying brain function, beyond intellectual curiosity,
is to better understand psychiatric disorders like depression, schizophre-
nia, and bipolar disorder, as well as conditions like autism spectrum dis
order. So what impact, if any, might the approach to understanding
human consciousness that I have been developing in this book have upon
diagnosis and treatment of such disorders? We should first acknowledge
how complex a phenomenon mental disorder is, in both biological and
social terms. There are unlikely to be easy answers for those seeking to
reduce human mental disorders to either simple genetics or purely soci-
etal pressures. However, this does not mean that the view of human con-
sciousness advanced here has nothing to offer in terms of better diagnosis
and treatment.
For a start, the view advanced here that human brain function is regu-
lated by top-down as well as bottom-up mechanisms, with brain waves of
different frequencies and other global signalling mechanisms potentially
playing an important role in coordinating the activities of different brain
regions, suggests that mental disorders may occur due to a breakdown of
such coordination, but in a way that distinguishes one disorder from
another. This could explain why multiple regions of the genome have
been linked to a condition like schizophrenia, because although mutations
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in very different genomic regions may affect different parts of the brain,
the end result could be a breakdown in overall brain function that mani-
fests itself in the symptoms by which we tend to define a schizophrenic.
Recall Lev Vygotsky’s idea that if schizophrenia is due to a higher mental
function being ‘switched off’, the mind may try to compensate by resorting
to a developmentally more archaic function, but finding itself without the
higher levels of control, this produces abnormal forms of behaviour and
thought.9 If schizophrenia is due to a breakdown of coordination between
brain regions, then this could result in each region continuing to function,
but in isolation. And if the abstract symbolism of language is one of the key
coordinating elements in a human brain that provides it with the concep-
tual framework central to the development of conscious awareness, this
could explain both the breakdown in capacity for conceptual thinking
that Vygotsky noted in schizophrenics, as well as the loss of conscious
awareness that can be one of the features of the disorder.10
Such an interpretation also allows us to explain a well-known symp-
tom of schizophrenia—the tendency to hear ‘voices’. For a major claim of
the socially mediated view of human consciousness is that our innermost
thoughts find expression through a form of ‘inner speech’. Individual
thought is seen as a kind of internal dialogue, with the different voices
within that dialogue being drawn from our social interactions, and indi-
viduality itself as a boundary phenomenon that is a product of both such
social interactions and the biology of the individual’s brain. To some
extent this leads to a conundrum, namely that individuality itself is partly
an illusion, expressed by Charles Fernyhough by the statement that ‘we
are all fragmented. There is no unitary self. We are all in pieces, struggling
to create the illusion of a coherent “me” from moment to moment.’11 And
yet, it is clear that most people exist from day to day with the feeling that
they are a unified self. This is despite the fact that every time we go to
sleep at night, we lose our waking conscious state, but still regain our
sense of a unified consciousness when we wake up in the morning.
However, for some schizophrenics, a breakdown of conscious awareness
may express itself through an inability to recognize that the voices that
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make up the inner speech within our heads are merely expressions of our
individuality, and not another person somehow existing inside our heads
but external to us.12
How might such an explanation of the schizophrenic state lead to
improvements in the diagnosis and treatment of this disorder? In prac
tical terms, brain scans of schizophrenic individuals engaged upon some
problem-solving activity that involves conceptualization—for instance,
the block-sorting exercises pioneered by Lev Vygotsky and his colleagues—
might make it possible to see whether coordination of different brain
regions during such exercises is different compared to the situation in
unaffected individuals. Such studies might identify distinctive dynamic
features of the brains of schizophrenic individuals and also highlight dif-
ferences between such individuals. After all, while a particular range of
symptoms define a schizophrenic—symptoms which can include hearing
internal voices, experiencing hallucinations, assigning unusual signifi-
cance or meaning to normal events, and experiencing delusions—two
people can be diagnosed as suffering from this condition while having a
completely different set of symptoms in this range.13 In other words, what
we define as schizophrenia may be a spectrum of loosely related condi-
tions, and brain imaging might help define how this relates to different
brain dynamics of individuals in such a spectrum.
In addition to being used to study schizophrenics, such an approach
might be used to investigate the brain dynamics of those with other men-
tal disorders, such as clinical depression. Some types of depression can
also be associated with delusions—as, for instance, was the case with my
sister’s condition—but recent studies have indicated that depression is
not associated with the breakdown of conscious awareness found with
severe schizophrenia.14 Therefore, it may be that delusions in a depressive
individual have a different root, possibly linked to the feelings of worth-
lessness characteristic of depression, and such differences might therefore
be identified by imaging. In addition, such analyses might help define dif-
ferent types of depression, since the condition is increasingly recognized
as being as heterogeneous as schizophrenia in its symptoms and perhaps
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in its biological mechanisms, as well as in the societal pressures that may

push an individual into this state.
Not only is there evidence for a key role for an individual’s social envir
onment as well as their biology in the genesis of their schizophrenia or
depression, but also an increasing recognition that novel psychothera-
peutic approaches are as essential as the development of more effective
drugs in the treatment of such disorders. I have previously mentioned the
Open Dialogue approach, whose aim is to establish a long-term dialogue
between the patient and their therapists, as well as the patient’s family in
the therapy. In fact this is only one of a number of innovative new methods
for the treatment of mental disorder.
Another approach, reflecting the fact that enjoying as well as creating
music, art, and literature is a key aspect of what it means to be human,
uses such creative activities to boost mental health. So Laura Marshall-
Andrews, a British GP based in Brighton, believes doctors should be able
to prescribe music, arts, and writing courses to individuals with depres-
sion. According to her, ‘GPs need the freedom and the flexibility to try out
different therapies and use different interventions.’15 Marshall-Andrews’
belief in the potential healing power of creative pursuits reflects her
experience of the Brighton-based Healing Expressive and Recovery Arts
(HERA) programme which has helped patients make new friends, com-
bat loneliness, and generally resulted in a huge increase in well-being
among participants.16
One common factor in these two approaches is that they both involve
sustained, high-quality interactions with other human beings. And given
how much I have stressed the importance of language in the formation of
human conscious awareness, and its role in our unique capacities of cre
ativity and imagination, it is maybe not surprising that such enhanced
social interactions can have a therapeutic effect. Yet as we have seen, in
Britain, the USA, and many other countries across the world, provision of
care for those with mental disorders is getting worse at the same time as
societal pressures—job insecurity, stagnating salaries, and attacks on
pensions—are leading to a dramatic rise in the incidence of such disorders.
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Such societal pressures may be a factor in something else to which I

have drawn attention: the highly polarized opinions within the health-
care system about the causes of mental disorder—and therefore the best
way to treat it. So psychiatrists tend to subscribe to a ‘medical model’,
which sees mental disorders as primarily due to an alteration of biological
structure and functioning that is best treated with drugs, while clinical
psychologists, social workers, and related professionals are more likely to
reject the idea of a biological basis for what they call ‘mental distress’, and
see psychotherapy as the best treatment.17
This state of affairs means that currently the two main groups of pro-
fessionals that deal with mental health issues fundamentally disagree
about both the causes of mental disorders and the best way to treat them,
which surely cannot be a situation that benefits the patient. So why is it
that the viewpoints of these two groups have become so polarized?
To answer this question, we need to consider both ideological and
social factors. Ideologically, psychiatrists are more inclined to biological
reductionism because of the influence of this view of bodily functions—
including those of the brain—on the medical profession as a whole.
However, medics are also deeply intertwined with the pharmaceutical
companies. Such companies can influence the views of psychiatrists in
various ways. For instance, it is common in the USA for pharmaceutical
companies to pay psychiatrists money to recommend to their colleagues
particular drugs for treating mental disorders in meetings at which a
company representative is also present.18 If doubt or criticism of the drug
is expressed, the psychiatrist’s subsidy ends. Another common practice is
that a company’s drug is praised in a scholarly article written by company
personnel, and a psychiatrist only makes a few additions, but their name
appears on the article and they receive payment.19
However, such ideological and social influences are far from affecting
only psychiatrists. Psychologists and social workers, who in my experi
ence are often politically more left wing, can tend to a social reductionism
that emphasizes the importance of social influences, while largely disre-
garding biological factors. Yet as we have seen, this ‘blank slate’ view of
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the mind is actually quite far removed from the view of human conscious-
ness developed by Lev Vygotsky in the years following the Russian
Revolution that saw conscious awareness as a sophisticated interplay of
both biological and social factors and that has been an inspiration for this
book. Instead, the blank slate view owes far more to the ideology of the
Stalinist regime that swept away the influence of thinkers like Vygotsky
and Voloshinov. But such has been the powerful influence of Stalinism
among left-wing circles for much of the twentieth century that it con
tinues to play a far more pervasive role in progressive thought—even that
nominally opposed to Stalinism—than is often realized.20
Such are the potential ideological differences between these two sets of
professionals. But there are also social factors at work. Psychiatry is often
viewed as medicine’s ‘poor cousin’, and there are good reasons for this.21
During the past century, our understanding of bodily mechanisms has
advanced through scientific understanding on a whole number of differ-
ent fronts and led to important new drug treatments in areas as diverse as
cardiology, cancer therapy, and treatment of bacterial and viral infections.
Yet as we have seen throughout this book, our understanding of how the
human brain works as a whole still remains far from clear, and as a conse-
quence, drug treatments for mental disorders have often been far from
inspiring, with even the mechanisms of action of those drugs that do seem
to have a positive impact on mental health remaining obscure. This lack of
clarity is due to the brain being so much more complex than any other
organ in the body, but it also reflects a central theme of this book, namely
that human conscious awareness is as much a social as a biological entity,
and therefore human mental disorders have a major social input.
Faced with such a lack of clarity about both the mechanisms of human
consciousness and how to intervene when it becomes disordered, one
strategy for health professionals under pressure as cuts bite into the health
service—coupled with rising levels of reported mental disorder—is to
retreat into a ‘two camps’ mentality. So psychiatrists can end up arguing
that the limited available funds should go into the development and pro-
vision of drug-based treatments for mental disorders, while psychologists
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and social workers may counterpose that it is ‘talking therapies’ and

community care programmes that should be receiving such funds. The
tension between these two groups of professionals is accentuated by
the higher status that psychiatrists, being doctors, tend to have in the health
system—a difference reflected not only in pay, but also in who ultimately
decides the primary form of treatment.22 And as pressures on national
health services continue to increase, so this tension is likely to rise too.
This is only one of the effects of economic crisis on both the diagnosis
and treatment of mental disorder. As the crisis continues—and with it
not only social problems but also decreasing funds for public healthcare
and other social services—there is increasing pressure on psychiatrists to
prescribe drugs as a kind of ‘sticking plaster’,23 when really what is
required is a proper consideration of biological, but also social factors
that may have triggered a particular mental disorder in a specific individ-
ual. But clinical psychologists and social workers are also affected by such
pressures. In particular, while clearly these two groups of professionals
play a critical role in supporting and trying to help many of the most vul-
nerable and disturbed individuals in the community, as economic and
social pressures increase so can there also be a pressure on such profes-
sionals to ‘police’ individuals of the often more lower-class layers of soci-
ety with whom they tend to work.24
In such a situation, while the focus on the social causes of mental dis
orders can identify new ways to diagnose and treat them, there is also a
danger of overly rigid interpretations of causes. For instance, the evidence
that being abused as a child seems to increase the chance of someone
becoming schizophrenic later in life might lead to a view that all cases of
the disorder ultimately have this as a primary cause. This could result in a
‘blame the victim’ viewpoint, though in this case it is not the sufferer that
is blamed, but their parents.25 And given that clinical psychologists and
social workers typically have a university education, while many of the
patients they deal with do not, this can lead to a feeling that the lifestyles of
such lower-class individuals are the primary problem, rather than seriously
trying to get to the root of why a particular individual—of whatever social
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class but certainly not ignoring their social background—has succumbed

to a specific mental disorder.
While it is possible to find both ideological and social reasons for the
current divergence among health professionals about the best way to
treat mental disorders, it should be clear from the view of human con-
sciousness presented in this book that such a polarization of opinion
does not reflect the complexity of this topic and is ultimately damaging to
attempts to better diagnose and treat mental disorders. For what should
be evident from our survey of the mechanisms underlying the human
mind is how mistaken it is to try and separate social and biological factors
in this way. Instead we have seen how social pressures contribute to the
development of practically all mental disorders except perhaps ‘single-
gene’ conditions like Huntington’s disease, and yet at the same time we
have also noted that such pressures are increasingly recognized as mani-
festing their effects through biological mechanisms such as inflammation
in the brain and epigenetic changes to the genome.
A particularly problematic aspect of a view that sees either defective
biology or social pressures as the sole cause of mental disorder is that the
relative importance of either of these types of effects is likely to differ
greatly between individuals. Indeed, there is a growing awareness that the
names given to conditions such as depression, schizophrenia, and bipolar
disorder mask the fact that these are probably quite heterogeneous in
both their symptoms and underlying causes. As such, it makes little sense
to say that a person suffering from a particular mental condition should
be treated only with drugs or only by psychotherapy. Instead careful con-
sideration is needed of the individual and their type of disorder but also
where it might fit on a spectrum of heterogeneity. Of course, assessment
of patients on a case-by-case basis is a key principle of medicine in gen-
eral. However, it needs particular emphasis in an area of clinical practice
where patients have often been lumped together on the basis of fairly
arbitrary methods of classification driven by superficial appearances, in
the absence of clarity about the underlying basis of disorders that can
affect the human mind.
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Ultimately, we need to be able to better understand the mechanisms of

action of drugs that target mental disorders. This could then provide a
platform for development of more specific drugs that are more effective,
with fewer side effects. But this will require a proper understanding of
how drugs affect the detailed structure and functional responses of the
human brain, not vague suggestions based on crude views of the brain as
a vat of chemicals. And in particular this understanding will best come
from a recognition that human consciousness is mediated by cultural fac-
tors, primarily but not only language, and that while the human brain
may share similarities with those of other animals, it also has unique dif-
ferences that affect its function, and how that is influenced by drugs. If
such drugs can be developed, they will have much to offer, since even if a
mental disorder has a strong environmental component and is rooted in
the particular social interactions of an individual, drugs can still have an
important role to play in their treatment. Importantly, drugs should not
be seen as an alternative to psychotherapy, but rather as just one tool in a
programme in which multiple approaches can be used in a tailored fash-
ion to meet an individual’s needs.
Such are the ways in which a better understanding of the human brain
and consciousness might contribute to the diagnosis and treatment of
mental disorders in the future. But it would be an erroneous scientific
approach that did not also seek to identify the specific social causes of
mental disorders and aim to address these, both in terms of dealing with
a particular individual and as more general preventative measures for the
population as a whole. Indeed it would be an odd kind of doctor that did
not apply such an approach to disorders of the body as well as of the
mind. For instance, while some individuals appear to be biologically more
susceptible to diabetes type two, the chance of such individuals succumb-
ing to this disorder is greatly increased if they are obese, which explains
why the global incidence of diabetes is increasing dramatically as waist-
lines across the world expand.26 Similarly, while some people have a
genetic susceptibility to lung cancer, the chances of getting this condition
are greatly increased by smoking, which is why campaigns have encouraged
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people to quit the habit since this link was established in the 1950s by the
British epidemiologist Richard Doll.27 These disorders, and I could name
many more, clearly have highly significant environmental causes, and
treating them is as much a social issue as a medical one. Nevertheless, the
human mind seems particularly susceptible to social pressures.
Some believe that the human mind is particularly vulnerable to mental
disorder as a by-product of our evolution. For instance, Ole Andreassen
and colleagues at the University of Oslo claim to have found evidence that
evolved genetic differences that distinguish our species from Neanderthals
may have enhanced our powers of creativity and imagination, but also
made us more vulnerable to schizophrenia.28 So as well as showing that
genetic differences linked to this disorder were only found in the genomes
of modern humans and not in those of Neanderthals, their findings indi-
cate that the brain regions in which the genes are expressed are linked to
our human ability to think and understand in complex ways.29
But while vulnerability to mental disorder may be the unfortunate
price we pay for our conscious awareness, it would be a major oversight
not to also seek explanations for the current epidemic of mental disorder
in existing society. This society has given us immense power, as our cities
and technologies increasingly reach into every corner of the globe, and
indeed even outer space no longer seems quite the ‘final frontier’ that it
would have appeared to be to past generations. Proof of our species’ abil-
ity to sustain itself is demonstrated by the fact that the human population
is now almost eight billion and has grown more since the eighteenth cen-
tury than in the entire history of humanity prior to that moment.30
Human individuals are also living to a far older age, with global average
life expectancy at birth in 2020 being estimated to be 73.2 years.31 Yet
while current society has brought us civilization and provided great
material prosperity and wealth for humankind as a whole, it is also char-
acterized by an increasing feeling of instability that can be destabilizing
to individual human minds and which may ultimately threaten the future
of human civilization itself, with all the potential implications this may
have for the mental health of our species in the future.
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One of the most tangible senses of such instability is the economic

crisis that began in 2008 and has subsequently become a defining fea-
ture of recent years, leading to the sense of a society out of control. It
was not someone on the far left of politics, but Sir Vince Cable, then
leader of the Liberal Democrats, who generally occupy the middle
ground in British politics, who said in June 2018 that ‘scarcely a day goes
by without a scandal erupting around bullying bosses, pilfered pension
funds, business tax-dodging, chaotic private train operators, rewards
for failure, bankers’ bonuses, price gouging, or worker exploitation.’32
A key problem since the beginning of the crisis has been that economic
policies ranging from historically low interest rates to ‘quantitative eas-
ing’ have failed to rescue the world economy from what International
Monetary Fund managing director Christine Lagarde has termed the
‘new mediocre’, and former US Treasury Secretary Larry Summers
referred to as an era of ‘secular stagnation’, meaning a condition of neg-
ligible or no economic growth.33
This economic situation forms the backdrop to a recent rise in reported
cases of mental disorders such as anxiety, stress, and depression.
Worryingly, this rise is particularly concentrated among young people,
particularly women. Data from the British NHS from 2017 revealed that
the number of times a girl aged 17 or under was admitted to hospital
because of self-harm jumped from 10,500 to more than 17,500 a year over
the previous decade—a rise of 68 per cent.34 The jump among boys was
lower, but still 26 per cent. For Bernadka Dubicka, chair of the child and
adolescent faculty at the Royal College of Psychiatrists, this demonstrates
‘a growing crisis in children and young people’s mental health, and in par-
ticular a gathering crisis in mental distress and depression among girls and
young women.’35 One factor argued to play a role in this rise in mental
disorder is social media, with Dubicka stating that media forms like
Snapchat and Instagram ‘can be damaging and even destructive’ to girls’
mental health and that ‘there’s a pressure for young people to be involved
24/7 and keep up with their peer group or . . . be left out and socially
excluded.’36
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Such signs of mental disorder in young people may be merely the latest
manifestation—perhaps exacerbated by the latest technologies—of a
general problem of alienation within modern society, despite all its amazing
material achievements. This means not only that most people on the
planet are estranged from the fruits of their labours and typically see
work not as an act of creativity but something burdensome and oppres-
sive to them as individuals, but also that life itself becomes seen as a com-
petition—at school, in the job market, for friends and sexual partners—
with all the mental stresses that this can produce. But perhaps the most
worrying aspect of society today is that alongside all these problems we
are hurtling towards environmental catastrophe.
For all the great concentration of wealth and power in current society,
it is not clear that any of the people supposedly in control of the different
countries of the world are doing anything tangible to halt, let alone
reverse, the continuing flow of greenhouse gases into the atmosphere
which, if unchecked, will surely spell disaster. One of the reasons for this
paralysis is that no one really seems in control of our society; instead it
seems to be the market and the drive for profit that ultimately makes this
type of society tick. As such, there are substantial vested interests who do
not want to risk any threat to their possibility of short-term gain, even if
it risks the long-term viability of current society and possibly that of civ
ilization itself.37 And the problem for those influential individuals who
can see beyond the short-term—for instance Bill Gates, one of the world’s
richest men, who has recently pointed to the limitations of a free-market
economic system for solving a problem as big as global warming38—is
how to persuade companies and governments to move away from putt
ing the drive for profit first, in favour of sustainable technologies that may
not yield such an immediate profit but are ultimately better for the planet
and humanity, given the tendency of capitalism to punish those not com-
petitive enough to survive in the free market.
Given such major anxieties and societal pressures, it is not surprising
that many individuals today feel a sense of despair for the future—not just
in terms of their own immediate futures and those of their families and
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friends, but also about the long-term prospects for humanity.39 This feel-
ing was only exacerbated by the global COVID-19 pandemic caused by
the coronavirus SARS-CoV-2 that swept the world in 2020 and led to not
only many deaths but also a lockdown that brought the global economy
to a juddering halt and confined individuals to their homes, cut off from
physical contact with many family members and friends. And politically
it has been accompanied by a trend described as the ‘collapse of the polit
ical centre’—that is, a rise in populist movements and increasing political
polarization.40
All of which sounds like grounds for a great deal of pessimism—at
least for people who see themselves as progressive in their political
views—and could feed into further rises in mental disorders such as
depression. Perhaps given the tragic history of my family I might be seen
as someone particularly likely to succumb to such a feeling. After all, for
all the insights I hope this book may have provided about the potential
mechanisms underlying mental disorders, on a personal level it is still
hard for me to comprehend just how successive members in my family
that I held so dear, and who seemed vibrant, sociable, and happy individ
uals, could end up dying in such horrific ways. And my progressive polit
ical ideals might seem to be thwarted by current circumstances. However,
I personally do not feel pessimistic, and to end this book, let me explain
why I have a sense of optimism about what lies in store in the years ahead.
To some extent my sense of optimism may be an aspect of my personal-
ity. Given that biology plays a role in personality, it seems not implausible
to me that certain people are born with a tendency to be optimistic. But as
we are shaped as much by our environment and experiences as our biol-
ogy, even the sunniest personalities will surely have that sense of sunshine
knocked out of them by a series of adverse circumstances, and here the
influence of others matters. In my own case, I owe thanks to a variety of
people—friends, colleagues, but most of all my family—for helping me
keep an optimistic state of mind.
It might seem strange that I have derived any optimism from my fam-
ily, given that two of my grandparents, my father, and my sister all died in
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miserable circumstances, all linked, or probably linked, to mental disorder.

And I should add that my mother, who nursed my sister throughout her
descent into depression, herself died, aged 79, only a few months after my
sister’s death, of a heart attack that was possibly exacerbated by the phys-
ical and mental strain of looking after her daughter, and by the latter’s
eventual death in such terrible circumstances. Yet it was particularly my
mother who influenced my approach to adversity, and this is partly due to
the loving environment that she provided while I was growing up, but
also because of her response to the many tragedies, which included losing
her parents at an early age, and then her husband in the prime of life. Yet
somehow, despite all these traumatic experiences, I remember my mother
as one of the most positive people I have known.
That some individuals might have a biological disposition to opti-
mism is the opposite of what would be expected according to a ‘blank
slate’ view of the mind. Yet this possibility is bolstered by a recent report
about a retired Scottish teacher called Jo Cameron, who has mutations
in two genes that as a consequence appear to make her almost impervi-
ous to pain.41 Intriguingly, given what I said previously about recent evi-
dence that physical and emotional pain seem to trigger responses in
similar regions of the brain, Cameron also scored zero on tests assess-
ing levels of anxiety and depression and has said that she always feels
happy and upbeat, whatever the circumstance. This extreme resilience
to negative events was demonstrated when a van driver ran her off the
road, resulting in Cameron’s car landing upside down in a ditch. Far
from being distressed or angry, Cameron climbed out of her wrecked
vehicle and went to comfort the distraught young man who caused the
accident.42
So what is the cause of Jo Cameron’s resistance to physical pain and her
perpetually sunny outlook on life? One of the genes mutated in her
genome, named FAAH, is involved in the breakdown of anandamide, a
bodily chemical central to pain sensation, mood, and memory.43
Anandamide works in a similar way to the active ingredients of cannabis.
The less it is broken down, the more its effects are felt. The other mutation
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is in a gene that boosts the action of FAAH, and the combination of the
two mutations dramatically boosts levels of anandamide in the body.
Somewhat appropriately, given that Cameron seems to exist in a state of a
permanent natural ‘high’, this second gene is named FAAH-OUT.44
So should we all aspire to have our genomes engineered to make us like
Jo Cameron? In fact our pain response plays a vital role in protecting us
from physical injury and death. And indeed over the seven decades of
Cameron’s life she has accumulated a variety of injuries that include a
degenerated hip and thumbs deformed by osteoarthritis, which only
came to the attention of medical authorities when Cameron became
unable to walk and handle items, not because she reported any pain from
these injuries.45
While we might not want to emulate Cameron’s imperviousness to
pain, how about finding a way to provide the rest of us with her sunny
disposition on life? In fact here too there are some negative features. One
contributing factor to Cameron’s positive outlook is that she quickly for-
gets negative incidents in her life. However, she is also more generally
highly forgetful.46 This provides another reason why it would not be a
good idea to genetically engineer everyone to be more like Cameron,
unless we want a planet of people who feel no pain and are perpetually
happy, yet who are prone to serious injury because they have no painful
warning signals, and cannot remember what you told them last week.
Still, by studying how Cameron’s two gene mutations result in her
resistance to both physical and emotional pain, it might be possible to
develop new types of painkillers and drugs and other therapies for the
treatment of depression. More generally, while Cameron is clearly a highly
unusual individual, the existence of such an individual suggests that there
may be many other people who have a less extreme tendency to be resist-
ant to pain and have a more positive outlook on life, but who nevertheless
have a genetic basis for this tendency.
At the same time, it would seem mistaken given the emphasis in this
book on the ways that culture mediates our minds to only focus on bio
logical reasons for someone adopting a positive outlook on life.
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Importantly, there is evidence that changes that we make in our lives can
also help us cope with, and see a way beyond, even the greatest misfortunes
that the world throws at us. One story that inspired me following the
deaths of my sister and mother was that of a 100-year-old black woman
called Ida Keeling from the Bronx in New York, who is a record-breaking
sprinter, having decided to take up running at the age of 60.47 This was not
just the whim of someone approaching old age but a person trying to find
some meaning in life after undergoing the deepest personal tragedy. In
her earlier years Ida—a single mother after her husband died of a heart
attack aged only 42—was active in the black civil rights movements, shut-
tling her children to Malcolm X speeches and boarding a predawn bus for
the 1963 March on Washington in which Martin Luther King made his
famous ‘I have a dream’ speech. Ida’s daughter Shelley Keeling has said, ‘I
always understood from mother that you die on your feet rather than live
on your knees.’48
However in the late 1970s, Ida’s resilience was tested to the limit by the
descent of her two sons into serious drug addiction and their subsequent
deaths from drug-related violence—one son being hanged and the other
beaten to death with a baseball bat.49 But as Ida fell into a deep depression,
Shelley Keeling—a track-and-field athlete—suggested that her mother
take up running as one way of coming to terms with her grief. And after
some coaxing, Ida registered for a five-kilometre race through Brooklyn.
It was a seminal moment for her. ‘Good Lord, I thought that race was
never going to end, but afterwards I felt free,’ she noted. ‘I just threw off all
of the bad memories, the aggravation, the stress.’50 My own running rou-
tine—a mere one-mile jog around my local park every morning—pales
into insignificance besides Ida Keeling’s efforts, but it was directly inspired
by reading her story and realizing that daily running could be a way for
me to deal positively with my grief.
Ida Keeling’s story raises the question of why running has proved so
beneficial as a way of maintaining a positive outlook on life, and how this
differs from the way that genetic mutations have had a similar impact on
Jo Cameron. In fact these two individuals may have more in common
432
e pilogu e
than might first appear, since there is increasing evidence that exercise
can stimulate the production of the bodily chemical anandamide—the
same cannabis-like substance that exists at such high levels in Cameron’s
body because of a defect in the proteins that control its breakdown. This
explains why even moderate exercise—like a 15-minute jog in the
park—can leave us feeling more satisfied with ourselves and at peace
with the world.
Maintaining an optimistic outlook on life is important if we are to
maintain a feeling of happiness, and sanity, despite the many adverse inci-
dents that can affect us as individuals. But what if humanity itself seems to
have lost its sanity? In the face of coming environmental catastrophe, a
viral pandemic, and a political climate that seems increasingly reaction-
ary, it is not surprising that some people believe that optimism about the
future is misplaced.
However, I disagree with this view, firstly because it seems like an overly
simplistic view of the current situation, and secondly because a survey of
some key historical moments shows that ultimately ordinary people act-
ing as a collective have made possible the great leaps forward that occa-
sionally occur in human history. And those great leaps often occurred at
moments in history that must have seemed, prior to such leaps, as the
most depressing circumstances possible to those individuals who lived
through them.
Take, for instance, the English Peasants’ Revolt of 1381 that we have
already mentioned. Today, with hindsight, we can view this revolt as a
seminal moment in British history, which weakened the feudal system in
England and may have been an important factor that facilitated the later
overthrow of this system during the English Revolution of 1642–9.51 Yet
only a few decades before the Peasants’ Revolt, a deadly bubonic plague
strain known as the Black Death had swept across Europe, killing around
50 million people, equivalent to 60 per cent of its population.52 But the
resulting shortage of labour gave the peasants in southern England
greater bargaining power, and this was one factor that led them to start
having ideas ‘above their station’.53 Similar things could be said about the
433
e pilogu e
French Revolution of 1789, which followed a severe winter in 1788 result-

ing in crop failure, famine, and bread riots in Paris.54 In more modern
times, the revolution that took place in my wife’s home country of
Portugal in 1974–5 and overthrew its dictatorship was triggered by the dis-
satisfaction of veterans returning from brutal wars in the Portuguese
overseas colonies.55
All of which goes to show that major progress in society can come out
of apparently desperate situations. But how does that help us today faced
with an impending environmental catastrophe on several fronts and a
world population that—far from learning from the mistakes of the past—
appears increasingly to believe statements by right-wing demagogues
who claim that the main problem in the world is not global warming,
but the fact that someone with a different skin colour or religion, or
who speaks in a different language, is out to steal their job or home?
Despite such developments, I believe we can find good reasons to be
positive about the current situation in terms of finding an audience for
progressive ideals.
One positive development is the innovative approaches and technolo-
gies that young people in particular are bringing to social movements.
Not that this should be surprising. After all, a key feature of our species is
that the brain is especially plastic in human beings even into their late
twenties, and as a consequence younger people are always more open to
new ways of doing things. Yet as we have also learned recently, even after
our formative years, human brains remain far more plastic than had been
realized, meaning that each one of us has the potential for our thoughts
and assumptions to change. At the same time, it is increasingly recog-
nized that certain individuals whose brains are ‘atypical’ have much to
offer to society in being able see beyond what is accepted as normal and
inevitable, yet which may be detrimental to humanity’s long-term
well-being and the future of the planet.
So Greta Thunberg, who has become a symbol of the global movement
to ‘save the planet’, has explicitly linked her farsightedness on this ques-
tion to her autistic condition.56 Individuals like her have a very important
434
e pilogu e
role to play in social movements, yet as we have also seen in this book,
creativity and imagination are clearly key aspects of every person’s con-
sciousness, not just the preserve of a few gifted individuals. Finally, a char-
acteristic that is unique to our species is our power to shape the world
around us in a controlled, planned way.
Currently, we seem to have relinquished that control as human activ
ities threaten to destroy the environment and our civilization with it. Yet
the potential remains, and although there are daunting obstacles ahead,
collectively human beings have the powers of creativity and imagination
that could allow us to build a very different sort of society, one that is sus-
tainable and works not against nature, but in harmony with it, and in
which technology enriches our lives, rather than oppressing us. If we can
develop such a type of civilization, then who knows what marvels we
might expect to achieve in the future, not only on Earth, but also on more
distant planetary destinations. If so, all such possible futures will have
come from the human brain, which for an object weighing only a kilo-
gram and a half, and with the appearance and consistency of cold por-
ridge, is surely the most remarkable thing of all.
435
GLOS SA RY
action potential Occurs when there is a cerebellum Brain structure located at the
significant increase in the electrical activity top of the brain stem that coordinates the
along the membrane of a neuron. brain’s instructions for skilled, repetitive
Associated with neurons passing electro- movements and helps maintain balance
chemical messages down the axon, and posture. Recent research suggests it
releasing neurotransmitters to neigh- may also be involved in some emotional
bouring cells in the synapse. and cognitive processes.
amygdala Part of the brain’s limbic system. cerebrum Largest brain structure in
This primitive brain structure lies deep in humans and positioned over and around
the centre of the brain and is involved in most other brain structures. The cere-
emotional reactions, such as anger or fear, brum is divided into left and right hemi-
as well as emotionally charged memories. spheres, as well as specific areas called
astrocyte Star- shaped glial cell that sup- lobes that are associated with specialized
ports neurons, by helping to both feed and functions.
remove waste from the cell, and otherwise cortex Outer layer of the cerebrum.
modulates the activity of the neuron. Sometimes referred to as the cerebral
Astrocytes also play critical roles in brain cortex.
development and the creation of synapses. dendrites Short nerve fibres that project
axon Long, single nerve fibre that transmits from a neuron, which generally receive
messages, via electrochemical impulses, messages from the axons of other neurons
from the body of the neuron to dendrites and relay them to the cell’s nucleus.
of other neurons, or directly to body tis- frontal lobe Front of the brain’s cerebrum,
sues such as muscles. beneath the forehead. It is the area of the
brain imaging Various techniques, such as brain associated with higher cognitive
magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) and processes such as decision- making,
positron emission tomography (PET), that reasoning, social cognition, and planning,
make it possible to capture images of as well as motor control.
brain tissue and structure and reveal glial cells Supporting cells of the central
which brain regions are associated with nervous system. They may contribute to
behaviours or activities. the transmission of nerve impulses and
brain waves Rhythmic patterns of neural play a critical role in protecting and nour-
activity in the central nervous system. ishing neurons.
These waves are also sometimes referred hippocampus Primitive brain structure
to as neural oscillations. located deep in the brain that is particu-
cell body Central part of the nerve cell larly important for memory and learning.
that contains the nucleus of the neuron. hypothalamus Small structure located at
The axon and dendrites connect to this the base of the brain where signals from
part of the cell. It is also known as the the brain and the body’s hormonal system
soma. interact.
glossa ry
limbic system Group of evolutionarily older released into the synaptic cleft when a
brain structures that encircle the top of the nerve impulse reaches the end of an axon.
brain stem and play complex roles in emo- optogenetics Innovative neuroscientific
tions, instincts, and appetitive behaviours. techn
ique that uses light to turn genetic
long- term potentiation (LTP) Persistent ally modified neurons on and off at will in
strengthening of a synapse with increased living animals.
use, thought to underlie learning and plasticity Brain’s capacity to change and
memory. adapt in response to developmental forces,
microglia Small, specialized glial cell that learning processes, injury, or ageing.
operates as the first line of immune prefrontal cortex Area of the cerebrum
defence in the central nervous system. located in the forward part of the frontal
midbrain Small part of the brain stem that lobe. It mediates many of the higher cog-
plays an important role in movement as nitive processes such as planning, reason
well as auditory and visual processing. It is ing, and the ability to assess social
also referred to as the mesencephalon, situations in light of previous experience
myelin Fatty substance that encases most and personal knowledge.
nerve cell axons. It helps to insulate and pro- striatum Small group of subcortical struc-
tect the nerve fibre and effectively speeds tures, including the caudate nucleus, puta-
up the transmission of nerve impulses. men, and nucleus accumbens, located in
neurogenesis Production of new neurons the midbrain. These regions are impli-
by neural stem and progenitor cells. Rapid cated in both movement and reward-
and widespread neurogenesis occurs in related behaviours.
the foetal brain in humans and other ani- synapse Junction where an axon approa
mals, but this process also occurs in adult ches another neuron’s dendrite. It is the
humans in the hippocampus and possibly point at which nerve-to-nerve communi-
other brain regions. cation occurs. Nerve impulses traveling
neuron Basic unit of the central nervous down the axon reach the synapse and
system. It is responsible for the transmis- release neurotransmitters into the synap-
sion of nerve impulses. Unlike any other tic cleft, the gap between neurons.
cell in the body, a neuron consists of a thalamus Brain structure located at the top
central cell body as well as several of the brain stem. It acts as a two-way
threadlike branches called axons and relay station, sorting, processing, and
dendrites. directing signals from the spinal cord and
neurotransmitter Chemical that acts as a midbrain structures to the cerebrum, and
messenger between neurons and is from the cerebrum downwards.
438
E N DNOT E S
Introduction
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Press, 2016).
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the History of Their Ablation’, Frontiers in Cellular Neuroscience, 11:24 (2017).
13. J. Parrington, The Deeper Genome: Why There is More to the Human Genome than Meets the Eye
(Oxford University Press, 2015).
14. R. R. Kanherkar, N. Bhatia-Dey, and A. B. Csoka, ‘Epigenetics across the Human Lifespan’,
Frontiers in Cell and Developmental Biology, 2:49 (2014).
e ndnot es
15. C. Fruhbeis, D. Frohlich, and E. M. Kramer-Albers, ‘Emerging Roles of Exosomes in

Neuron-Glia Communication’, Frontiers in Physiology, 3:119 (2012).
16. N. Davis, ‘Stress in Fathers May Alter Sperm and Affect Behaviour in Offspring’, The
Guardian (16 February 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2018/feb/16/stress-
fathers-behaviour-offspring-altering-sperm-micrornas.
17. I. M. Mansuy and S. Mohanna, ‘Epigenetics and the Human Brain: Where Nurture Meets
Nature’, Cerebrum, 2011:8 (2011).
18. L. Jaroff, ‘The Gene Hunt’, Time (24 June 2001), http://content.time.com/time/magazine/
article/0,9171,151430,00.html.
19. J. Crace, ‘Double Helix Trouble’, The Guardian (16 October 2007), https://www.theguardian.
com/education/2007/oct/16/highereducation.research.
20. R. Lewontin and R. Levins, Biology under the Influence: Dialectical Essays on Ecology, Agriculture,
and Health (Monthly Review Press, 2007), p. 253.
21. S. McLeod, ‘Classical Conditioning’, Simply Psychology (21 August 2018), https://www.
simplypsychology.org/classical-conditioning.html.
22. J. Doward, ‘Psychiatrists under Fire in Mental Health Battle’, The Guardian (12 May 2013),
https://www.theguardian.com/society/2013/may/12/psychiatrists-under-fire-mental-
health.
23. H. Rose and S. Rose, Genes, Cells and Brains (Verso, 2012), p. 25.
24. T. Horwitz, K. Lam, Y. Chen, Y. Xia, and C. Liu, ‘A Decade in Psychiatric GWAS Research’,
Molecular Psychiatry, 24:378–89 (2018).
25. Ibid.
26. B. J. Deacon, ‘The Biomedical Model of Mental Disorder: A Critical Analysis of its Validity,
Utility, and Effects on Psychotherapy Research’, Clinical Psychology Reviews, 33:846–61
(2013).
27. C. Smyth, ‘Drugs Remain an Enduring Medical Mystery’, The Times (21 July 2018), https://
www.thetimes.co.uk/article/drugs-remain-an-enduring-medical-mystery-b92rz3lmk.
28. J. Swanson, ‘Unraveling the Mystery of How Antidepression Drugs Work’, Scientific American
(10 December 2013), https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/unraveling-the-mystery-
of-ssris-depression/.
29. S. McLeod, ‘Pavlov’s Dogs’, Simply Psychology (2018), https://www.simplypsychology.org/
pavlov.html.
30. M. Meacham, ‘Why the Brain Is Still a “‘Black Box” and What to Do About It’, Association for
Talent Development (4 August 2017), https://www.td.org/insights/why-the-brain-is-still-a-
black-box-and-what-to-do-about-it.
31. M. Atkisson, ‘Behaviorism vs. Cognitivism’, Ways of Knowing (12 October 2010), https://wok-
nowing.wordpress.com/2010/10/12/behaviorism-vs-cognitivisim/.
32. K. A. Jamrog, ‘Understanding Cognitive Behavioral Therapy’, New Hampshire Magazine (20
July 2018), https://www.nhmagazine.com/August-2018/Understanding-Cognitive-Behavioral-
Therapy/.
33. ‘Expanding the Shrinks’, The Economist (20 October 2014), https://www.economist.com/
britain/2014/10/20/expanding-the-shrinks.
34. O. Burkeman, ‘Why CBT is Falling out of Favour’, The Guardian (3 July 2015), https://www.
theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2015/jul/03/why-cbt-is-falling-out-of-favour-oliver-
burkeman.
35. P. McKenna and D. Kingdon, ‘Has Cognitive Behavioural Therapy for Psychosis Been
Oversold?’, British Medical Journal, 348:g2295 (2014).
440
e ndnot es
36. D. Campbell, ‘Spike in Mental Health Patient Deaths Shows NHS “Struggling to Cope” ’, The
Guardian (26 January 2016), https://www.theguardian.com/society/2016/jan/26/rise-mental-
health-patient-deaths-nhs-struggling-to-cope.
37. Ibid.
38. Ibid.
39. J. Beattie, ‘Cuts Blamed for “Appalling” Rise in Mental Health Deaths’, The Mirror
(26 January 2016), https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/cuts-blamed-appalling-rise-
mental-7248054.
40. K Griffiths, ‘Depressed Bradford Woman Took Own Life in France’, The Telegraph and Argus
(10 August 2016), http://www.thetelegraphandargus.co.uk/news/14673774.Depressed_
Bradford_woman_took_own_life_in_France/.
41. R. Spencer, ‘America’s Mental Health Care Crisis: Families Left to Fill the Void of a Broken
System’, The Guardian (27 May 2014), https://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/may/27/
sp-americas-mental-health-care-system-crisis.
42. M. Maruthappu, R. Ologunde, and A. Gunarajasingam, ‘Is Health Care a Right? Health
Reforms in the USA and their Impact Upon the Concept of Care’, Annals of Medicine Surgery
2:15–17 (2013).
43. Spencer, ‘America’s Mental Health Care Crisis’.
44. L. Szabo, ‘Cost of Not Caring: Nowhere to Go’, USA Today (12 January 2015), https://
eu.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2014/05/12/mental-health-system-crisis/7746535/.
45. L. Szabo, ‘Psychiatric Beds Disappear Despite Growing Demand’, USA Today (12 May 2014),
https://eu.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2014/05/12/disappearing-hospital-beds/
9003677/.
46. D. Brown, ‘Government Survey Finds that 5 Percent of Americans Suffer from a “Serious
Mental Illness” ’, Washingon Post (19 January 2012), https://www.washingtonpost.com/
national/health-science/government-survey-finds-that-5-percent-of-americans-suffer-
from-a-serious-mental-illness/2012/01/18/gIQAjp5h9P_story.html?utm_term=.
d3e60a4255d3.
47. J. Belluz, ‘Anthony Bourdain’s Death is One in a Growing Public Health Tragedy’, Vox (8 June
2018), https://www.vox.com/science-and-health/2018/6/8/17441330/anthony-bourdain-suicide-
rates-us-cdc.
48. K. Weir, ‘Worrying Trends in U.S. Suicide Rates’, American Psychological Association (March
2019), https://www.apa.org/monitor/2019/03/trends-suicide.
49. C. Koons, ‘Latest Suicide Data Show the Depth of U.S. Mental Health Crisis’, Bloomberg
(20 June 2019), https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2019-06-20/latest-suicide-data-
show-the-depth-of-u-s-mental-health-crisis?fbclid=IwAR3wbuY3QJXOBm_gCS5fmGP_
LdvHSk4Sps9pqTUviiWNUcdgqu2Xn24QeF8.
50. Ibid.
51. Royal College of Psychiatrists, Mental Health Network, NHS Confederation, and London
School of Economics and Political Science, Mental Health and the Economic Downturn (2009),
https://www.base-uk.org/sites/default/files/%5Buser-raw%5D/11-06/op70.pdf.
52. J. Wertsch, Vygotsky and the Social Formation of Mind (Harvard University Press, 1985), p. 186.
53. A. Kozulin, Vygotsky’s Psychology: A Biography of Ideas (Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990), p. 88.
54. Ibid.
55. Ibid.
56. P. Broks, ‘The Mystery of Consciousness’, Prospect (29 April 2007), https://www.
prospectmagazine.co.uk/magazine/themysteryofconsciousness.
441
e ndnot es
Chapter 1: Mind and Matter

1. C. Mesaroș, ‘Aristotle and Animal Mind’, Procedia—Social and Behavioral Sciences, 163:185–92
(2014).
2. D. Ribatti, ‘William Harvey and the Discovery of the Circulation of the Blood’, Journal of
Angiogenesis Research, 1:3 (2009).
3. Ibid.
4. G. Gorham, ‘Mind–Body Dualism and the Harvey–Descartes Controversy’, Journal of the
History of Ideas, 55:211–34 (1994).
5. J. Claes, ‘Return of Descartes’: the simulating mind, The World as Computation (23 May 2009),
https://claesjohnsonmathscience.wordpress.com/ar ticle/return-of-descar tes-
yvfu3xg7d7wt-34/.
6. D. Cunning, ‘Descartes on the Dubitability of the Existence of Self’, Philosophy and
Phenomenological Research, 74:111–31 (2007).
7. S. J. Wagner, ‘Descartes’s Arguments for Mind–Body Distinctness’, Philosophy and
Phenomenological Research, 43:499–517 (1983).
8. Ibid.
9. L. G. Schwoerer, ‘Locke, Lockean Ideas, and the Glorious Revolution’, Journal of the History of
Ideas, 51:531–48 (1990).
10. J. Godfrey, ‘John Locke’, Cathedral Blog, Christchurch, Oxford (6 November 2019), https://www.
chch.ox.ac.uk/blog/john-locke.
11. L. Jardine, ‘Britain and the Rise of Science’, BBC History (17 February 2011), http://www.bbc.
co.uk/history/british/empire_seapower/jardineih_01.shtml.
12. C. Hewett, John Locke’s Theory of Knowledge (An Essay Concerning Human Understanding),
The Great Debate, (2006), http://www.thegreatdebate.org.uk/LockeEpistem.html.
13. M. S. Gazzaniga, The Consciousness Instinct: Unraveling the Mystery of How the Brain Makes Mind
(Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2018), p. 37.
14. Ibid., 40.
15. S. Ritchie, ‘On Genetics Oliver James is on a Different Planet to the Rest of Us’, The Spectator
(8 March 2016), https://life.spectator.co.uk/articles/on-genetics-oliver-james-is-wrong-
about-everything/.
16. S. McLeod, ‘Cognitive Psychology’, Simply Psychology (2020), https://www.simplypsychology.
org/cognitive.html.
17. Ibid.
18. R. Dahm, ‘Friedrich Miescher and the Discovery of DNA’, Developmental Biology, 278:274–88
(2005).
19. M. Cobb, ‘Sexism in Science: Did Watson and Crick Really Steal Rosalind Franklin’s Data?’,
The Guardian (23 June 2015), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2015/jun/23/sexism-in-
science-did-watson-and-crick-really-steal-rosalind-franklins-data.
20. L. Pray, ‘Discovery of DNA Structure and Function: Watson and Crick’, Nature Education,
1:100 (2008).
21. A. Ralston and K. Shaw, ‘Reading the Genetic Code’, Nature Education, 1:120 (2008).
22. T. Carvalho and T. Zhu, ‘The Human Genome Project (1990–2003)’, The Embryo Project
Encyclopedia (6 May 2014), https://embryo.asu.edu/pages/human-genome-project-1990-
2003.
23. ‘What They Said: Genome in Quotes’, BBC (26 June 2000), http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/
tech/807126.stm.
442
e ndnot es
24. I. Miko, ‘Gregor Mendel and the Principles of Inheritance’, Nature Education, 1:134 (2008).
25. R. A. Lewis, ‘Genetic Checkup: Lessons from Huntington Disease and Cystic Fibrosis’,
The Scientist (19 October 2003), https://www.the-scientist.com/research/a-genetic-checkup-
lessons-from-huntington-disease-and-cystic-fibrosis-50868.
26. M. Pagel, Wired for Culture (Penguin, 2012), p. 81.
27. H. Lacey, ‘What Men and Women Do Best’, The Independent (21 June 1998), https://www.
independent.co.uk/life-style/what-men-and-women-do-best-1166324.html.
28. L. Hoopes, ‘Introduction to the Gene Expression and Regulation Topic Room’, Nature
Education, 1:160 (2008).
29. F. Emmert-Streib, M. Dehmer, and B. Haibe-Kains, ‘Gene Regulatory Networks and Their
Applications: Understanding Biological and Medical Problems in Terms of Networks’,
Frontiers in Cell and Developmental Biology, 2:38 (2014).
30. B. Dennis, ‘How Do You Tell a Kid He’s Not Going to Grow Up?’, Washington Post (6 May
2015), https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/to-your-health/wp/2015/05/06/how-do-
you-tell-a-kid-hes-not-going-to-grow-up/?utm_term=.95ec512cf236.
31. P. Forbes, ‘How Close Are We to a Cure for Huntington’s?’, The Independent (19 March 2018),
https://www.independent.co.uk/news/long_reads/how-close-are-we-to-a-cure-for-
huntington-s-a8235921.html.
32. I. Sample, ‘Scientists Identify 40 Genes That Shed New Light on Biology of Intelligence’, The
Guardian (22 May 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2017/may/22/scientists-
uncover-40-genes-iq-einstein-genius.
33. N. Angier, ‘Report Suggests Homosexuality Is Linked to Genes’, The New York Times (16 July
1993), https://www.nytimes.com/1993/07/16/us/report-suggests-homosexuality-is-linked-
to-genes.html.
34. K. O’Riordan, ‘The Life of the Gay Gene: From Hypothetical Genetic Marker to Social
Reality’, Journal of Sex Research, 49:362–68 (2012).
35. S. Pinker, How the Mind Works (Norton, 2009).
36. S. Rose, ‘How the Mind Works by Steven Pinker’, New Scientist (24 January 1998), https://www.
newscientist.com/article/mg15721185-500-how-the-mind-works-by-steven-pinker/.
Chapter 2: Tool and Symbol

1. A. Kuhn, ‘He Helped Discover Evolution, And Then Became Extinct (30 April 2013)’, NPR,
https://www.npr.org/2013/04/30/177781424/he-helped-discover-evolution-and-then-
became-extinct?t=1532631979618.
2. D. Curnoe, ‘When Humans Split from the Apes’, The Conversation (22 February 2016), https://
theconversation.com/when-humans-split-from-the-apes-55104.
3. K. Wong, ‘Tiny Genetic Differences between Humans and Other Primates Pervade the
Genome’, Scientific American (1 September 2014), https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/
tiny-genetic-differences-between-humans-and-other-primates-pervade-the-genome/.
4. J. N. Wilford, ‘Almost Human, and Sometimes Smarter’, New York Times (17 April 2007),
https://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/17/science/17chimp.html.
5. J. Gabbatiss, ‘Chimps and Orangutans among Species in Danger of Being Wiped out in
Imminent Mass Extinction of Primates, Scientists Warn’, The Independent (15 June 2018),
https://www.independent.co.uk/environment/primates-mass-extinction-chimpanzees-
gorillas-monkeys-scientist-warning-brazil-indonesia-a8400186.html.
443
e ndnot es
6. ‘Homo neanderthalensis’, Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History (10 January 2020), http://
humanorigins.si.edu/evidence/human-fossils/species/homo-neanderthalensis.
7. P. Madison, ‘Neanderthals and Giant’s Bones’, Fossil History (30 August 2016), https://
fossilhistory.wordpress.com/2016/08/30/neanderthals-and-giants/.
8. B. Trigger, ‘Comment on Tobias, Piltdown, the Case against Keith’, Current Anthropology,
33:274–5 (1992).
9. Ibid.
10. F. Engels, ‘The Part Played by Labour in the Transition from Ape to Man’, Die Neue Zeit
(1895), https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1876/part-played-labour/.
11. Ibid.
12. R. Gray, ‘The Mystery of Piltdown Man Is Solved: Charles Dawson, Who Found the Fake
Human “Fossil”, Was Probably behind the Hoax’, Daily Mail (12 August 2016), http://www.
dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-3731455/The-mystery-Piltdown-Man-solved-Charles-
Dawson-fake-human-fossil-probably-hoax.html.
13. Ibid.
14. C. K. Brain, ‘The Day the Missing Link Turned up in the Post’, The Guardian (18 December
2003), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2003/dec/18/science.research2.
15. K. Wong, ‘Human Origins’, Scientific American (24 November 2014), https://blogs.scientifi-
camerican.com/observations/40-years-after-lucy-the-fossil-that-revolutionized-the-
search-for-human-origins/.
16. J. Hawks, ‘Human Evolution Is More a Muddy Delta Than a Branching Tree’, Aeon (8
February 2016), https://aeon.co/ideas/human-evolution-is-more-a-muddy-delta-than-a-
branching-tree.
17. C. Stringer, ‘Human Evolution and Biological Adaptation in the Pleistocene’, in R.A. Foley
(ed.), Hominid Evolution and Community Ecology (Academic Press, 1984), p. 53.
18. M. Holloway, ‘Mary Leakey: Unearthing History’, Scientific American (16 December 1996),
https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/mary-leakey-unearthing-hi/.
19. Z. Zorich, ‘Which Came First, Humans or Tools?’, The New Yorker (20 May 2015), https://
www.newyorker.com/tech/elements/which-came-first-humans-or-tools.
20. C. Q. Choi, ‘Human Evolution: The Origin of Tool Use’, Live Science (11 November 2009),
https://www.livescience.com/7968-human-evolution-origin-tool.html.
21. Ibid.
22. Ibid.
23. Ibid.
24. Ibid.
25. C. Harman, ‘Engels and the Origins of Human Society’, International Socialism, 2:65 (Winter
1994) http://pubs.socialistreviewindex.org.uk/isj65/harman.htm.
26. Ibid.
27. Y. Anwar, ‘World’s Oldest Butchery Tools Gave Evolutionary Edge to Human Communication’,
Berkeley News (13 January 2015), http://news.berkeley.edu/2015/01/13/stone-age-tools/.
28. Ibid.
29. M. Balter, ‘Striking Patterns: Study Suggests Tool Use and Language Evolved Together’,
Wired (3 September 2013), https://www.wired.com/2013/09/tools-and-language/.
30. Ibid.
31. D. Guess, W. Sailor, G. Rutherford, and D. M. Baer, ‘An Experimental Analysis of Linguistic
Development: The Productive Use of the Plural Morpheme’, Journal of Applied Behavior
Analysis, 1:297–306 (1968).
444
e ndnot es
32. B. Carey, ‘Washoe, a Chimp of Many Words, Dies at 42’, New York Times (1 November 2007),
https://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/01/science/01chimp.html.
33. Ibid.
34. E. Wayman, ‘Six Talking Apes’, Smithsonian Magazine (11 August 2011) https://www.
smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/six-talking-apes-48085302/.
35. S. Keegan, ‘Gorilla Befriended by Robin Williams “Cried in Mourning” When She Learnt of
Star’s Death’, The Mirror (13 August 2014), https://www.mirror.co.uk/3am/celebrity-news/
gorilla-befriended-robin-williams-cried-4043840.
36. D. C. Palmer, ‘On Chomsky’s Appraisal of Skinner’s Verbal Behavior: A Half Century of
Misunderstanding’, The Behavior Analyst, 29:253–67 (2006).
37. Ibid.
38. H. Terrace, ‘Can Chimps Converse?: An Exchange’, New York Review of Books (24 November
2011), https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2011/11/24/can-chimps-converse-exchange/.
39. J. C. Hu, ‘The Troubling World of Koko the Gorilla and the Decline of Ape Language
Research’, National Post (21 August 2014), https://nationalpost.com/news/the-troubling-
world-of-koko-the-gorilla-and-the-decline-of-ape-language-research.
40. Ibid.
41. Ibid.
42. Ibid.
43. V. Gill, ‘Chimpanzee Language: Communication Gestures Translated’, BBC News (4 July
2014), https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-28023630.
44. Ibid.
45. Ibid.
46. F. Y. Lin, ‘A Refutation of Universal Grammar’, Lingua, 193: 1–22 (2017).
Chapter 3: Individual and Society

1. M. Riddle, ‘Survival of the Nicest: How Altruism Made Us Human & Why It Pays to Get
Along’, Psych Central (17 May 2016), https://psychcentral.com/lib/survival-of-the-nicest-
how-altruism-made-us-human-why-it-pays-to-get-along/.
2. R. Christiansen, ‘The Story behind the Hymn’, The Telegraph (22 September 2007), https://
www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/music/3668059/The-story-behind-the-hymn.html.
3. C. Miceli, ‘Descartes’ “I Think, Therefore I am” ’, 1000-Word Philosophy (26 November 2018),
https://1000wordphilosophy.com/2018/11/26/descartes-i-think-therefore-i-am/.
4. A. Deneys-Tunney, ‘Rousseau Shows Us That There is a Way to Break the Chains—from
Within’, The Guardian (15 July 2012), https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2012/
jul/15/rousseau-shows-us-way-break-chains.
5. C. Moore, ‘No Such Thing as Society: A Good Time to Ask What Margaret Thatcher Really
Meant’, The Telegraph (27 September 2010), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/
columnists/charlesmoore/8027552/No-Such-Thing-as-Society-a-good-time-to-ask-what-
Margaret-Thatcher-really-meant.html.
6. R. M. Henig, ‘Linked In’, New York Times (1 November 2013), https://www.nytimes.com/
2013/11/03/books/review/social-by-matthew-d-lieberman.html.
7. Ibid.
8. J. Moll, F. Krueger, R. Zahn, M. Pardini, R. de Oliveira-Souza, and J. Grafman, ‘Human
Fronto-mesolimbic Networks Guide Decisions about Charitable Donation’, Proceedings of
the National Academy of Sciences USA, 103:15623–8 (2006).
445
e ndnot es
9. S. Wolpert, ‘’Tis better to give than to receive?’, UCLA Newsroom (9 November 2011), https://
www.uclahealth.org/tis-better-to-give-than-to-receive.
10. Ibid.
11. E. Esfahani Smith, ‘Social Connection Makes a Better Brain’, The Atlantic (29 October 2013),
https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/10/social-connection-makes-a-better-
brain/280934/.
12. A. Woodward, ‘With a Little Help from My Friends’, Scientific American (1 May 2017), https://
www.scientificamerican.com/article/with-a-little-help-from-my-friends/.
13. S. Toulmin, ‘The Mozart of Psychology’, New York Review of Books (28 September 1978),
https://www.nybooks.com/articles/1978/09/28/the-mozart-of-psychology/.
14. J. Reader, ‘What Made the Animal Human’, New Scientist, 29 July:314 (1982).
15. L. S. Vygotsky, Mind in Society: The Development of Higher Psychological Processes (Harvard
University Press, 1976), p. 127.
16. S. McLeod, ‘Jean Piaget’s Theory of Cognitive Development’, Simply Psychology (2018),
https://www.simplypsychology.org/piaget.html.
17. Ibid.
18. I. Sample, ‘Comparing Piaget and Vygotsky’, University of Iowa (28 October 2004), https://
www2.education.uiowa.edu/html/eportfolio/tep/07p075folder/Piaget_Vygotsky.htm.
19. S. McLeod, ‘Lev Vygotsky’s Sociocultural Theory’, Simply Psychology (2020), https://www.
simplypsychology.org/vygotsky.html.
20. Sample, ‘Comparing Piaget and Vygotsky’.
21. Ibid.
22. R. van der Veer and J. Valsiner, Understanding Vygotsky: A Quest for Synthesis (Blackwell, 1991),
pp. 262–6.
23. J. Parrington, ‘In Perspective: Valentin Voloshinov’, International Socialism, 2:75 (July 1997),
https://www.marxists.org/history/etol/newspape/isj2/1997/isj2-075/parrington.htm.
24. A. Kozulin, Vygotsky’s Psychology: A Biography of Ideas (Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990), pp. 158–9.
25. Ibid.
26. Van der Veer and Valsiner, Understanding Vygotsky.
27. A. Blunden, Concepts: A Critical Approach (Brill, 2012), p. 242.
28. Ibid.
29. Wertsch, J. V., Vygotsky and the Social Formation of Mind (Harvard University Press, 1985), p. 103.
30. Ibid.
31. F. Newman and L. Holzman, Lev Vygotsky: Revolutionary Scientist (Routledge, 1993), pp. 80–1.
32. Ibid.
33. Ibid.
34. M. Holborow, The Politics of English: A Marxist View of Language (Sage Publications, 1999), p. 24.
35. C. Brandist, in C. Brandist, D. Sheperherd, and G. Tihanov (eds), The Bakhtin Circle
(Manchester University Press, 2004), p. 103.
36. V. N. Voloshinov, Freudianism: A Critical Sketch (Indiana University Press, 1976), p. 21.
37. V. N. Voloshinov, Marxism and the Philosophy of Language (Harvard University Press, 1986), p. 19.
38. Ibid., 13.
39. Ibid., 19.
40. Ibid., 81.
41. Ibid., 102.
42. J. V. Wertsch, Voices of the Mind: A Sociocultural Approach to Mediated Action (Harvester
Wheatsheaf, 1991), pp. 53–6.
446
e ndnot es
43. M. Epstein, ‘Hyperauthorship in Mikhail Bakhtin: The Primary Author and Conceptual
Personae’, Russian Journal of Communication 1:280–90 (2008).
44. M. M. Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays by M.M. Bakhtin (University of Texas
Press, 1981), p. 262.
45. M. M. Bakhtin, Speech Genres and Other Late Essays (Texas University Press, 1986), p. 78.
46. Ibid., 87.
47. C. L. Briggs and R. Bauman, ‘Genre, Intertextuality, and Social Power’, Journal of Linguistic
Anthropology, 2:131–72 (1992).
48. Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination, pp. 293–4.
49. A. Larrain and A. Haye, ‘The Discursive Nature of Inner Speech’, Theory and Psychology,
22:3–22 (2012).
50. Ibid.
51. J. F. Ehrich, ‘Vygotskian Inner Speech and the Reading Process’, Australian Journal of
Educational and Developmental Psychology, 6:12–25 (2006).
52. B. Alderson-Day and C. Fernyhough, ‘Inner Speech: Development, Cognitive Functions,
Phenomenology, and Neurobiology’, Psychological Bulletin, 141: 931–65 (2015).
53. L. S. Vygotsky, Thought and Language (Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 1986), pp. 235–49.
54. J. Beck, ‘The Running Conversation in Your Head’, The Atlantic (23 November 2016), https://
www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2016/11/figuring-out-how-and-why-we-talk-to-
ourselves/508487/.
55. Alderson-Day and Fernyhough, ‘Inner Speech: Development’.
56. Beck, ‘The Running Conversation in Your Head’.
57. A. Dana, R. R. Shirazi, and F. Z. Jalili, ‘The Effect of Instruction and Motivational Self Talk
on Performance and Retention of Discrete and Continuous Motor Tasks’, Australian Journal
of Basic and Applied Sciences, 5, 312–15 (2011).
58. S. Vickers, ‘The Voices Within: The History and Science of How We Talk to Ourselves by Charles
Fernyhough—review’, The Guardian (24 April 2016), https://www.theguardian.com/
books/2016/apr/24/voices-within-history-science-how-we-talk-to-ourselves-charles-
fernyhough-review.
60. C. Fernyhough, ‘Do Deaf People Hear an Inner Voice?’, Psychology Today (24 January 2014),
https://www.psychologytoday.com/intl/blog/the-voices-within/201401/do-deaf-people-
hear-inner-voice?amp.
61. Ibid.
Chapter 4: Nerve and Brain

1. T. Newman, ‘All You Need to Know about Neurons’, Medical News Today (7 December 2017),
https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/320289.php.
2. F. Bezanilla, ‘Ion Channels: from Conductance to Structure’, Neuron, 60:456–68 (2008).
3. F. Jabr, ‘Know Your Neurons: The Discovery and Naming of the Neuron’, Scientific American
(14 May 2012), https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/brainwaves/know-your-neurons-the-
discovery-and-naming-of-the-neuron/.
4. J. DeFelipe, ‘Cajal’s Butterflies of the Soul’, OUPblog (9 November 2013), https://blog.oup.
com/2013/11/cajal-butterflies-of-the-soul-cerebral-cortex/.
5. K. Susuki, ‘Myelin: A Specialized Membrane for Cell Communication’, Nature Education, 3:59
(2010).
447
e ndnot es
6. C. J. Schwiening, ‘A Brief Historical Perspective: Hodgkin and Huxley’, Journal of Physiology,

590:2571–5 (2012).
7. B. P. Bean, ‘The Action Potential in Mammalian Central Neurons’, Nature Reviews in
Neuroscience, 8:451–65 (2007).
8. F. Jabr, ‘Know Your Neurons: How to Classify Different Types of Neurons in the Brain’s
Forest’, Scientific American (16 May 2012) https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/brainwaves/
know-your-neurons-classifying-the-many-types-of-cells-in-the-neuron-forest/.
9. Ibid.
10. S. Acharya and S. Shukla, ‘Mirror Neurons: Enigma of the Metaphysical Modular Brain’,
Journal of Natural Science, Biology and Medicine, 3:118–24 (2012).
11. Ibid.
12. M. Iacoboni, ‘The Mirror Neuron Revolution: Explaining What Makes Humans Social’,
Scientific American (1 July 2008), https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-mirror-
neuron-revolut/.
13. M. N. Rasband, ‘Glial Contributions to Neural Function and Disease’, Molecular and Cellular
Proteomics, 15:355–61 (2016).
14. I. Sample and J. Hooper, ‘Brain Cells Clue to Genius of Einstein’, The Guardian (21 February
2007), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2007/feb/21/neuroscience.highereducation.
15. Rasband, ‘Glial Contributions to Neural Function and Disease’.
16. W. S. Chung, N. J. Allen, and C. Eroglu, ‘Astrocytes Control Synapse Formation, Function,
and Elimination’, Cold Spring Harbor Perspectives in Biology, 7:a020370 (2015).
17. K. Reemst, S. C. Noctor, P. J. Lucassen, and E. M. Hol, ‘The Indispensable Roles of
Microglia and Astrocytes during Brain Development’, Frontiers in Human Neuroscience,
10:566 (2016).
18. Q. Li and B. A. Barres, ‘Microglia and Macrophages in Brain Homeostasis and Disease’,
Nature Reviews in Immunology, 18:225–42 (2018).
19. Reemst, Noctor, Lucassen, and Hol, ‘The Indispensable Roles of Microglia’.
20. R. Kwon, ‘Rise of the Microglia’, Scientific American (23 October 2015), https://www.
scientificamerican.com/article/rise-of-the-microglia/.
21. Ibid.
22. Ibid.
23. M. Costandi, ‘Human Brain Cells Boost Mouse Memory’, Science (7 March 2013), http://www.
sciencemag.org/news/2013/03/human-brain-cells-boost-mouse-memory.
24. Ibid.
25. C. Edmonson, M. N. Ziats, and O. M. Rennert, ‘Altered Glial Marker Expression in Autistic
Post-mortem Prefrontal Cortex and Cerebellum’, Molecular Autism, 5:3 (2014).
26. M. W. Salter and B. Stevens, ‘Microglia Emerge as Central Players in Brain Disease’, Nature
Medicine, 23:1018–27 (2017).
27. R. Bailey, ‘Divisions of the Brain’, ThoughtCo. (15 November 2018), https://www.thoughtco.
com/divisions-of-the-brain-4032899.
28. J. Defelipe, ‘The Evolution of the Brain, the Human Nature of Cortical Circuits, and
Intellectual Creativity’, Frontiers in Neuroanatomy, 5:29 (2011).
29. R. Bailey, ‘The Limbic System of the Brain’, ThoughtCo. (28 March 2018), https://www.
thoughtco.com/limbic-system-anatomy-373200.
30. Bailey, ‘Divisions of the Brain’.
31. Ibid.
32. Ibid.
448
e ndnot es
33. L. Sanders, ‘Brain Waves May Focus Attention and Keep Information Flowing’, Science News
(13 March 2018), https://www.sciencenews.org/article/brain-waves-may-focus-attention-
and-keep-information-flowing.
34. Ibid.
35. Ibid.
36. Ibid.
37. M. A. Hofman, ‘Evolution of the Human Brain: When Bigger is Better’, Frontiers in
Neuroanatomy, 8:15 (2014).
38. A. Hawks, ‘How Has the Human Brain Evolved?’, Scientific American (1 July 2013), https://
www.scientificamerican.com/article/how-has-human-brain-evolved/.
39. C. C. Sherwood, F. Subiaul, and T. W. Zawidzki, ‘A Natural History of the Human Mind: Tracing
Evolutionary Changes in Brain and Cognition’, Journal of Anatomy, 212:426–54 (2008).
40. Ibid.
41. Ibid.
42. Hawks, ‘How Has the Human Brain Evolved?’
43. Sherwood, Subiaul, and Zawidzki, ‘A Natural History of the Human Mind’.
44. Ibid.
45. A. Wnuk, ‘Brain Evolution: Searching for What Makes Us Human’, Brain Facts (9 April 2015),
https://www.brainfacts.org/Brain-Anatomy-and-Function/Evolution/2015/Brain-
Evolution-Searching-for-What-Makes-Us-Human.
46. J. Stromberg, ‘Science Shows Why You’re Smarter Than a Neanderthal’, Smithsonian
Magazine (12 March 2013), https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/science-
shows-why-youre-smarter-than-a-neanderthal-1885827/.
47. Ibid.
48. C. Q. Choi, ‘Brain Scans Reveal Difference between Neanderthals and Us’, Live Science
(8 November 2010), https://www.livescience.com/11078-brain-scans-reveal-difference-
neanderthals.html.
49. S. Jacob, ‘The Brains of Neanderthals and Modern Humans Developed Differently’, Max
Planck Institute (8 November 2010), https://www.mpg.de/623578/pressRelease201011021.
50. Stromberg, ‘Science Shows Why You’re Smarter Than a Neanderthal’.
51. J. L. Smit, ‘Top 10 Remarkable Traits Neanderthals Have In Common with Modern Humans’,
List Verse (20 April 2017), https://listverse.com/2017/04/20/top-10-remarkable-traits-
neanderthals-have-in-common-with-humans/.
52. Wnuk, ‘Brain Evolution: Searching for What Makes Us Human’.
53. Ibid.
54. H. Glowacka, ‘Babies, Birth and Brains’, Ask An Anthropologist (2018), https://
askananthropologist.asu.edu/stories/babies-birth-and-brains.
55. Wnuk, ‘Brain Evolution: Searching for What Makes Us Human’.
56. Ibid.
57. T. Newman, ‘White Matter: The Brain’s Flexible But Underrated Superhighway’, Medical
News Today (16 August 2017), https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/318966.php.
58. Ibid.
59. R. A. Hoglund and A. A. Maghazachi, ‘Multiple Sclerosis and the Role of Immune Cells’,
World Journal of Experimental Medicine, 4:27–37 (2014).
60. N. Muhlert, V. Sethi, L. Cipolotti, H. Haroon, G. J. Parker, T. Yousry, C. Wheeler-Kingshott,
D. Miller, M. Ron, and D. Chard, ‘The Grey Matter Correlates of Impaired Decision-Making
in Multiple Sclerosis’, Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery and Psychiatry, 86:530–6 (2015).
449
e ndnot es
61. Y. Hakak, J. R. Walker, C. Li, W. H. Wong, K. L. Davis, J. D. Buxbaum, V. Haroutunian, and

A. A. Fienberg, ‘Genome-Wide Expression Analysis Reveals Dysregulation of Myelination-
Related Genes in Chronic Schizophrenia’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences USA,
98:4746–51 (2001).
Chapter 5: Genome and Epigenome

1. N. Comfort, ‘Genetics: We are the 98%’, Nature, 520:615–16 (2015).
2. K. V. Morris and J. S. Mattick, ‘The Rise of Regulatory RNA’, Nature Reviews in Genetics,
15:423–37 (2014).
3. J. H. Gibcus and J. Dekker, ‘The Hierarchy of the 3D Genome’, Molecular Cell, 49:773–82
(2013).
4. C. Deans and K. A. Maggert, ‘What Do You Mean, “Epigenetic”?’, Genetics, 199:887–96 (2015).
5. E. V. Koonin and A. S. Novozhilov, ‘Origin and Evolution of the Genetic Code: The Universal
Enigma’, IUBMB Life, 61:99–111 (2009).
6. S. A. Lambert, A. Jolma, L. F. Campitelli, P. K. Das, Y. Yin, M. Albu, X. Chen, J. Taipale,
T. R. Hughes, and M. T. Weirauch, ‘The Human Transcription Factors’, Cell, 172:650–65
(2018).
7. I. Vorechovsky and A. R. Collins, ‘How Much “Junk” is in our DNA?’, The Conversation (22
February 2016), https://theconversation.com/how-much-junk-is-in-our-dna-53929.
8. D. Greenbaum and M. Gerstein, ‘Illuminating the Genome’s Dark Matter’, Cell, 163:1047–8
(2015).
9. J. Perkel, ‘Making Sense of our Variation’, Biotechniques, 59:262–7 (2015).
10. J. Dekker and L. Mirny, ‘The 3D Genome as Moderator of Chromosomal Communication’,
Cell, 164:1110–21 (2016).
11. S. Quinodoz and M. Guttman, ‘Long Noncoding RNAs: An Emerging Link between Gene
Regulation and Nuclear Organization’, Trends in Cell Biology, 24:651–63 (2014).
12. X. Hua and L. Bromham, ‘Darwinism for the Genomic Age: Connecting Mutation to
Diversification’, Frontiers in Genetics, 8:12 (2017).
13. K. A. Janssen, S. Sidoli, and B. A. Garcia, ‘Recent Achievements in Characterizing the
Histone Code and Approaches to Integrating Epigenomics and Systems Biology’, Methods in
Enzymology, 586:359–78 (2017).
14. Ibid.
15. Ibid.
16. I. Donkin and R. Barres, ‘Sperm Epigenetics and Influence of Environmental Factors’,
Molecular Metabolism, 14:1–11 (2018).
17. E. B. Chuong, N. C. Elde, and C. Feschotte, ‘Regulatory Activities of Transposable Elements:
From Conflicts to Benefits’, Nature Reviews in Genetics, 18:71–86 (2017).
18. J. Henson, G. Tischler, and Z. Ning, ‘Next-Generation Sequencing and Large Genome
Assemblies’, Pharmacogenomics, 13:901–15 (2012).
19. Z. Dong and Y. Chen, ‘Transcriptomics: Advances and Approaches’, Science China. Life
Sciences, 56:960–7 (2013).
20. K. Wong, ‘Tiny Genetic Differences between Humans and Other Primates Pervade the
Genome’, Scientific American (1 September 2014), https://www.scientificamerican.com/
article/tiny-genetic-differences-between-humans-and-other-primates-pervade-the-
genome/.
450
e ndnot es
21. T. Ghose, ‘ “Big Brain” Gene Found in Humans, Not Chimps’, Live Science (26 February 2015),
https://www.livescience.com/49960-human-big-brain-gene-found.html.
22. Ibid.
23. Ibid.
24. K. Boes, ‘Researchers Discover Human-Specific Gene for Building a Bigger Brain’, Sci Tech
Daily (17 January 2019), https://scitechdaily.com/researchers-discover-human-specific-
gene-for-building-a-bigger-brain/.
25. R. Feltman, ‘Scientists Pinpoint a Gene Regulator That Makes Human Brains Bigger’,
Washington Post (19 February 2015), https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/speaking-of-
science/wp/2015/02/19/scientists-pinpoint-a-gene-regulator-that-makes-human-brains-
bigger/?utm_term=.e8c44bbc577b.
26. Ibid.
27. K. Miller, ‘How Our Ancient Brains Are Coping in the Age of Digital Distraction’, Discover
Magazine (20 April 2020), https://www.discovermagazine.com/mind/how-our-ancient-
brains-are-coping-in-the-age-of-digital-distraction?fbclid=IwAR2lzqxOphb8UOwOr14N
dZHAY_JdWEBzNBrTe70zpTKiYUMoznCHqVbu5M0.
28. D. Shultz, ‘Humans Can Outlearn Chimps Thanks to More Flexible Brain Genetics’,
Science (16 November 2015), http://www.sciencemag.org/news/2015/11/humans-can-outlearn-
chimps-thanks-more-flexible-brain-genetics.
29. Ibid.
30. Ibid.
31. ‘Lifelong Learning is Made Possible by Recycling of Histones, Study Says’, The Rockefeller
University (1 July 2015), https://www.rockefeller.edu/news/9722-lifelong-learning-is-made-
possible-by-recycling-of-histones-study-says/.
32. Ibid.
33. ‘Transposons Stir in Germline, but Small RNAs Still Them’, GEN News (3 November 2017),
https://www.genengnews.com/gen-news-highlights/transposons-stir-in-germline-but-
small-rnas-still-them/81255130.
34. K. Clancy, ‘The Strangers in Your Brain’, The New Yorker (17 October 2015), https://www.
newyorker.com/tech/elements/the-strangers-in-your-brain.
35. Ibid.
36. Salk Institute, ‘Scientists Discover Protein Factories Hidden in Human Jumping
Genes’, Science Daily (22 October 2015), https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2015/10/
151022124518.htm.
37. Ibid.
38. S. Makin, ‘Scientists Surprised to Find No Two Neurons Are Genetically Alike’, Scientific
American (3 May 2017), https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/scientists-surprised-to-
find-no-two-neurons-are-genetically-alike/.
39. Cell Press, ‘ “Brain-Only” Mutation Causes Epileptic Brain Size Disorder’, Science Daily
(11 April 2012), https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2012/04/120411132055.htm.
40. Makin, ‘No Two Neurons Are Genetically Alike’.
41. ‘Exosomes: The FedEx of the Nervous System?’, Alzforum (12 December 2014), https://www.
alzforum.org/news/conference-coverage/exosomes-fedex-nervous-system.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid.
44. Ibid.
451
e ndnot es
Chapter 6: Growth and Development

1. M. Caldwell, ‘How Does a Single Cell Become a Whole Body?’, Discover Magazine (1 November
1992), http://discovermagazine.com/1992/nov/howdoesasinglece146.
2. L. Wolpert and C. Vicente, ‘An Interview with Lewis Wolpert’, Development, 142:2547–8
(2015).
3. T. Gest, ‘Nervous System’, University of Michigan Medical School (14 August 2006), https://
www.med.umich.edu/lrc/coursepages/m1/embryology/embryo/08nervoussystem.htm.
4. J. Lieff, ‘Emotional Needs in Teens May Spur the Growth of New Brain Cells’, Scientific
American (26 March 2013), https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/mind-guest-blog/
emotional-needs-in-teens-may-spur-the-growth-of-new-brain-cells/.
5. S. M. Pollard, A. Benchoua, and S. Lowell, ‘Neural Stem Cells, Neurons, and Glia’, Methods in
Enzymology, 418:151–69 (2006).
6. Ibid.
7. S. Kean, ‘The Cat Nobel Prize Part I’, Psychology Today (14 April 2014), https://www.
psychologytoday.com/us/blog/brain-food/201404/the-cat-nobel-prize-part-i.
8. Ibid.
9. Ibid.
10. Ibid.
11. L. Y. Ku, ‘Cats and Vision: Is Vision Acquired or Innate?’, The Serious Computer Vision Blog
(1 June 2013), https://computervisionblog.wordpress.com/2013/06/01/cats-and-vision-is-
vision-acquired-or-innate/.
12. Ibid.
13. J. Gallagher, ‘Prof Colin Blakemore: Medical Research Defender Knighted’, BBC News
(13 June 2014), https://www.bbc.com/news/health-27834406.
14. ‘Grand Challenge: Nature versus Nurture: How Does the Interplay of Biology and
Experience Shape Our Brains and Make Us Who We Are?’, National Center for Biotechnology
Information (2008), https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK50991/.
15. Ibid.
16. K. Eckart-Washington, ‘Brain Differences in Blind People May Sharpen Hearing’, Futurity
(6 May 2019), https://www.futurity.org/blind-people-hearing-brains-2054422-2/.
17. N. Popovich, ‘How the Deaf Brain Rewires Itself to “Hear” Touch and Sight’, The Atlantic (11
July 2012), https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2012/07/how-the-deaf-brain-
rewires-itself-to-hear-touch-and-sight/259681/.
18. P. Schlegel, M. Costa, and G. S. Jefferis, ‘Learning from Connectomics on the Fly’, Current
Opinion in Insect Science, 24:96–105 (2017).
19. D. Lee, T. H. Huang, A. De La Cruz, A. Callejas, and C. Lois, ‘Methods to Investigate the
Structure and Connectivity of the Nervous System’, Fly (Austin), 11:224–38 (2017).
20. S. R. Olsen and R.I. Wilson, ‘Cracking Neural Circuits in a Tiny Brain: New Approaches for
Understanding the Neural Circuitry of Drosophila’, Trends in Neuroscience, 31:512–20 (2008).
21. M. Drozd, B. Bardoni, and M. Capovilla, ‘Modeling Fragile X Syndrome in Drosophila’,
Frontiers in Molecular Neuroscience, 11:124 (2018).
22. Ibid.
23. K. J. Venken, J. H. Simpson, and H. J. Bellen, ‘Genetic Manipulation of Genes and Cells in the
Nervous System of the Fruit Fly’, Neuron, 72:202–30 (2011).
24. A. M. Stewart, J. F. Ullmann, W. H. Norton, M. O. Parker, C. H. Brennan, R. Gerlai, and
A. V. Kalueff, ‘Molecular Psychiatry of Zebrafish’, Molecular Psychiatry, 20:2–17 (2015).
452
e ndnot es
25. Ibid.
26. M. Costandi, ‘An Activity Map of the Whole Zebrafish Brain’, The Guardian (18 March 2013),
https://www.theguardian.com/science/neurophilosophy/2013/mar/18/an-activity-map-of-
the-whole-zebrafish-brain.
27. Y. Tsuruwaka, E. Shimada, K. Tsutsui, and T. Ogawa, ‘Ca(2+) Dynamics in Zebrafish
Morphogenesis’, Peer Journal, 5:e2894 (2017).
28. Ibid.
29. J. Liu, Y. Zhou, X. Qi, J. Chen, W. Chen, G. Qiu, Z. Wu, and N. Wu, ‘CRISPR/Cas9 in
Zebrafish: An Efficient Combination for Human Genetic Diseases Modeling’, Human
Genetics, 136:1–12 (2017).
30. A. Doyle, M. P. McGarry, N. A. Lee, and J. J. Lee, ‘The Construction of Transgenic and Gene
Knockout/Knockin Mouse Models of Human Disease’, Transgenic Research, 21:327–49 (2012).
31. A. C. Komor, A. H. Badran, and D. R. Liu, ‘CRISPR-Based Technologies for the Manipulation
of Eukaryotic Genomes’, Cell, 168:20–36 (2017).
32. J. Wright, ‘Monkey Model Reveals New Role for Top Autism Gene’, Spectrum (11 September
2017), https://www.spectrumnews.org/news/monkey-model-reveals-new-role-top-autism-
gene/.
33. Ibid.
34. I. Johnstone, ‘Artificial “Embryo” Created for First Time in Historic Breakthrough’,
The Independent (2 March 2017), https://www.independent.co.uk/news/science/embryo-lab-
creation-scientists-life-cells-lab-breakthrough-a7608446.html.
35. Ibid.
36. I. Hyun, A. Wilkerson, and J. Johnston, ‘Embryology Policy: Revisit the 14-Day Rule’, Nature,
533:169–71 (2016).
37. Ibid.
38. S. Gregory, ‘Human “Mini-brains” in Lab Mimic Development and Disease’, Bio News
(2 May 2017), https://www.bionews.org.uk/page_95978.
39. S. Fan, ‘Bizarre Mini Brains Offer a Fascinating New Look at the Brain’, Singularity Hub (16
May 2017), https://singularityhub.com/2017/05/16/bizarre-mini-brains-offer-a-fascinating-
new-look-at-the-brain/.
40. B. Bae and C. A. Walsh, ‘What Are Mini-Brains?’, Science, 342:200–1 (2013).
41. J. Rennie, ‘Mini-Brains Go Modular’, Quanta Magazine (9 August 2017), https://www.
quantamagazine.org/mini-brains-go-modular-20170809/.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid.
44. J. Cepelewicz, ‘The Oldest Mini-Brains Have Lifelike Young Cells’, Quanta Magazine (29
August 2017), https://www.quantamagazine.org/the-oldest-mini-brains-have-lifelike-young-
cells-20170829/.
45. Ibid.
46. S. Kane, ‘Giant Heads Nearly Killed our Ancestors but Human Immaturity Saved us’, Business
Insider (11 April 2016), https://www.businessinsider.com/human-head-hips-evolution-2016-
4?IR=T.
47. C. Barras, ‘The Real Reasons Why Childbirth is So Painful and Dangerous’, BBC (22
December 2016), http://www.bbc.com/earth/story/20161221-the-real-reasons-why-childbirth-
is-so-painful-and-dangerous (2016).
48. B. Hrvoj-Mihic, T. Bienvenu, L. Stefanacci, A. R. Muotri, and K. Semendeferi, ‘Evolution,
Development, and Plasticity of the Human Brain: From Molecules to Bones’, Frontiers in
Human Neuroscience, 7:707 (2013).
453
e ndnot es
49. L. S. Vygotsky, in The Collected Works of L. S. Vygotsky, Vol. 4, ed R. W. Rieber (Plenum Press,
1997), p. 223.
50. Ibid., 106.
University Press, 1978), p. 39.
52. Ibid.
54. Ibid.
Chapter 7: Learning and Memory

1. N. J. T. Thomas, ‘Plato and his Predecessors’, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2014), https://
plato.stanford.edu/entries/mental-imagery/plato-predecessors.html.
2. R. Allen, ‘David Hartley’, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2017), https://plato.stanford.edu/
entries/hartley/.
3. S. A. Josselyn, S. Kohler, and P. W. Frankland, ‘Heroes of the Engram’, Journal of Neuroscience,
37:4647–57 (2017).
4. C. H. Bailey and E. R. Kandel, ‘Synaptic Remodeling, Synaptic Growth and the Storage of
Long-Term Memory in Aplysia’, Progress in Brain Research, 169:179–98 (2008).
5. Ibid.
6. T. Lømo, ‘Discovering Long-Term Potentiation (LTP)—Recollections and Reflections on
What Came after’, Acta Physiologica (Oxford), 222: e12921 (2018).
7. Ibid.
8. R. Nauert, ‘Probing the Molecular Basis of Long-Term Memory’, Psych Central (8 August
2018), https://psychcentral.com/news/2011/03/21/probing-the-molecular-basis-of-long-
term-memory/24517.html.
9. Ibid.
10. Massachusetts Institute of Technology, ‘Neuroscientists Reveal How the Brain Can Enhance
Connections’, Science Daily (18 November 2015), https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/
2015/11/151118155301.htm.
11. Ibid.
12. J. Akst, ‘Glial Cells aid Memory Formation’, The Scientist (12 January 2010), https://www.the-
scientist.com/the-nutshell/glial-cells-aid-memory-formation-43588.
13. T. Phillips, ‘Transcription Factors and Transcriptional Control in Eukaryotic Cells’, Nature
Education, 1:119 (2008).
14. A. Iacoangeli, R. Bianchi, and H. Tiedge, ‘Regulatory RNAs in Brain Function and Disorders’,
Brain Research, 1338:36–47 (2010).
15. E. McNeill and D. Van Vactor, ‘MicroRNAs Shape the Neuronal Landscape’, Neuron, 75:363–79
(2012).
16. A. Aksoy-Aksel, F. Zampa, and G. Schratt, ‘MicroRNAs and Synaptic Plasticity—A Mutual
Relationship’, Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London B Biological Sciences,
369:20130515 (2014).
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid.
19. M. R. Lyons and A. E. West, ‘Mechanisms of Specificity in Neuronal Activity-Regulated
Gene Transcription’, Progress in Neurobiology, 94:259–95 (2011).
454
e ndnot es
20. N. R. Smalheiser, ‘The RNA-Centred View of the Synapse: Non-coding RNAs and
Synaptic Plasticity’, Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London B Biological Sciences,
369:20130504 (2014).
21. E. G. Jones, ‘Microcolumns in the Cerebral Cortex’, Proceedings of the National Academy of
Sciences USA, 97:5019–21 (2000).
22. Smalheiser, ‘The RNA-Centred View of the Synapse’.
23. J. H. Ross, ‘The Seahorse In Your Brain: Where Body Parts Got Their Names’, WBUR News
(16 December 2016), http://www.wbur.org/npr/505754756/the-seahorse-in-your-brain-
where-body-parts-got-their-names.
24. S. Shapin, ‘The Man Who Forgot Everything’, The New Yorker (14 October 2013), https://
www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/the-man-who-forgot-everything.
25. Ibid.
26. Ibid.
27. Ibid.
28. D. Dieguez, ‘Remembering Henry Molaison’, Brain Blogger (3 March 2014), http://
brainblogger.com/2014/03/03/remembering-henry-molaison/.
29. D. Zalewski, ‘Life Lines’, The New Yorker (23 March 2015), https://www.newyorker.com/
magazine/2015/03/30/an-artist-with-amnesia.
30. M. D. Lemonick, ‘Living in the now’, Aeon (13 February 2017), https://aeon.co/essays/what-
amnesiac-patients-can-tell-us-about-how-memories-are-made.
31. Ibid.
32. Ibid.
33. A. Abbott and E. Callaway, ‘Nobel Prize for Decoding Brain’s Sense of Place’, Nature
(6 October 2014), https://www.nature.com/news/nobel-prize-for-decoding-brain-s-sense-
of-place-1.16093.
34. Ibid.
35. J. Goldhill, ‘The “Jennifer Aniston Neuron” is the Foundation of Compelling New Memory
Research’, Quartz (23 July 2016), https://qz.com/740481/the-jennifer-aniston-neuron-is-the-
foundation-of-compelling-new-memory-research/.
36. Ibid.
37. Ibid.
38. Ibid.
39. A. Trafton, ‘Neuroscientists Identify Brain Circuit Necessary for Memory Formation’,
MIT News (6 April 2017), http://news.mit.edu/2017/neuroscientists-identify-brain-circuit-
necessary-memory-formation-0406.
40. Ibid.
41. N. Ng, ‘ “Heart of Brain” Breakthrough May Aid Treatment of Disorders, Hong Kong
Scientists Say’, South China Morning Post (18 September 2017), https://www.scmp.com/news/
hong-kong/health-environment/article/2111678/heart-brain-breakthrough-may-aid-
treatment.
42. Goldhill, ‘The “Jennifer Aniston Neuron” ’.
43. Ng, ‘ “Heart of Brain” ’.
44. B. Rasch and J. Born, ‘About Sleep’s Role in Memory’, Physiology Reviews, 93:681–766 (2013).
45. Institute for Basic Science, ‘Controlling Memory by Triggering Specific Brain Waves
during Sleep’, Science Daily (6 July 2017), https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2017/07/
170706121204.htm.
46. Ibid.
455
e ndnot es
47. D. Orenstein, ‘Rhythmic Interactions between Cortical Layers Underlie Working Memory’,
MIT News (15 January 2018), http://news.mit.edu/2018/rhythmic-interactions-cortical-lay-
ers-control-working-memory-0115.
48. Ibid.
49. Ibid.
50. Y. Bhattacharjee, ‘The First Year’, National Geographic (January 2015), https://www.
nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2015/01/baby-brains-development-first-year/.
51. Ibid.
52. Ibid.
53. Ibid.
Chapter 8: Thought and Language

1. F. Cowie, ‘Innateness and Language’, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (16 January 2008),
https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/innateness-language/.
2. ‘Scientists Identify a Language Gene’, Anthropologist in the Attic (14 February 2010), http://
anthropologistintheattic.blogspot.com/2010/02/scientists-identify-language-gene.html.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.
6. E. Callaway, ‘ “Language Gene” Speeds Learning’, Nature News (18 November 2011), https://
www.nature.com/news/language-gene-speeds-learning-1.9395.
7. N. Wade, ‘A Human Language Gene Changes the Sound of Mouse Squeaks’, New York Times
(28 May 2009), https://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/29/science/29mouse.html?mtrref=
www.google.co.uk&gwh=9FAD516E6AC529D9F47F48200C0DDCAD&gwt=pay.
8. E. Pennisi, ‘ “Language Gene” Has a Partner’, Science (31 October 2013), http://www.
sciencemag.org/news/2013/10/language-gene-has-partner.
9. S. Wolpert, ‘Genes in Songbirds Hold Clues about Human Speech Disorders, UCLA
Biologists Report’, UCLA Newsroom (27 March 2018), http://newsroom.ucla.edu/releases/
genes-in-songbirds-hold-clues-about-human-speech-disorders-ucla-biologists-report.
10. Ibid.
11. Ibid.
12. S. Samuel, ‘Scientists Added Human Brain Genes to Monkeys. Yes it’s as Scary as it Sounds’,
Vox (12 April 2019), https://www.vox.com/future-perfect/2019/4/12/18306867/china-
genetics-monkey-brain-intelligence.
13. P. Deriziotis and S. E. Fisher, ‘Neurogenomics of Speech and Language Disorders: The Road
Ahead’, Genome Biology, 14:204 (2013).
14. M. Konnikova, ‘The Man Who Couldn’t Speak and How He Revolutionized Psychology’,
Scientific American (8 February 2013), https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/literally-psyched/
the-man-who-couldnt-speakand-how-he-revolutionized-psychology.
15. K. Cherry, ‘Wernicke’s Area Location and Function’, Very Well Mind (28 October 2019),
https://www.verywellmind.com/wernickes-area-2796017.
16. P. Tremblay and A. S. Dick, ‘Broca and Wernicke Are Dead, or Moving Past the Classic
Model of Language Neurobiology’, Brain and Language, 162:60–71 (2016).
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid.
456
e ndnot es
19. D. A. McLennan, ‘The Concept of Co-option: Why Evolution Often Looks Miraculous’,
Evolution: Education & Outreach, 1:247–58 (2008).
20. M. C. Corballis, ‘Mirror Neurons and the Evolution of Language’, Brain & Language, 112:25–35
(2010).
21. Ibid.
22. G. F. Marcus and S. E. Fisher, ‘FOXP2 in Focus: What Can Genes Tell Us about Speech and
Language?’, Trends in Cognitive Science, 7:257–62 (2003).
23. I. Sample, ‘Neuroscientists Create “Atlas” Showing How Words Are Organised in the Brain’,
The Guardian (27 April 2016), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2016/apr/27/brain-
atlas-showing-how-words-are-organised-neuroscience.
24. Ibid.
25. Ibid.
26. P. Klass, ‘Language Lessons Start in the Womb’, New York Times (21 February 2017), https://
www.nytimes.com/2017/02/21/well/family/language-lessons-start-in-the-womb.html.
27. Ibid.
28. R. Nuzzo, ‘Babies’ Brains May Be Tuned to Language before Birth’, Nature (25 February 2013),
https://www.nature.com/news/babies-brains-may-be-tuned-to-language-before-
birth-1.12489.
29. Ibid.
30. G. Miller, ‘Pioneering Study Images Activity in Fetal Brains’, Science (13 January 2017), http://
science.sciencemag.org/content/355/6321/117.2.
31. Ibid.
32. J. Ducharme, ‘Why It’s So Hard to Learn Another Language after Childhood’, Time (2 May
2018), http://time.com/5261446/language-critical-period-age/.
33. Ibid.
34. N. J. Ramirez, ‘Why the Baby Brain Can Learn Two Languages at the Same Time’, The
Conversation (15 April 2016), https://theconversation.com/why-the-baby-brain-can-learn-
two-languages-at-the-same-time-57470.
35. J. Palermo, ‘Infant Language Learning Linked to Social Interaction’, Space Coast Daily
(16 July 2016), http://spacecoastdaily.com/2016/07/infant-language-learning-linked-to-social-
interaction/.
36. T. Ghose, ‘Baby Talk: Infants May Practice Words in Their Minds’, Live Science (14 July 2014),
https://www.livescience.com/46789-baby-brains-practice-language.html.
37. Y. Bhattacharjee, ‘The First Year’, National Geographic (January 2015), https://www.
nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2015/01/baby-brains-development-first-year/.
38. Ibid.
39. Ibid.
40. Ibid.
41. Ibid.
42. Ibid.
43. O. M. Lourenço, ‘Piaget and Vygotsky: Many Resemblances, and a Crucial Difference’,
New Ideas in Psychology 30:281–95 (2012).
44. C. Emerson, ‘The Outer Word and Inner Speech: Bakhtin, Vygotsky, and the Internalization
of Language’, Critical Inquiry, 10:245–64 (1983).
45. J. V. Wertsch, Vygotsky and the Social Formation of Mind (Harvard University Press, 1985), p. 116.
46. L. Kohlberg, J. Yaeger, and E. Hjertholm, ‘Private Speech: Four Studies and a Review of
Theories’, Child Development, 39:691–736 (1968).
457
e ndnot es
47. J. Beck, ‘The Running Conversation in Your Head’, The Atlantic (23 November 2016), https://
www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2016/11/figuring-out-how-and-why-we-talk-to-
ourselves/508487/.
48. C. Fernyhough, The Voices Within: The History and Science of How We Talk to Ourselves (Profile
Books, 2016), p. 63.
49. V. N. Voloshinov, Marxism and the Philosophy of Language (Harvard University Press, 1973),
p. 38.
50. F. Jabr, ‘Catching Ourselves in the Act of Thinking’, Scientific American (18 November 2013),
https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/brainwaves/catching-ourselves-in-the-act-of-
thinking/.
51. J. V. Wertsch and P. Tulviste, ‘L. S. Vygotsky and Contemporary Developmental Psychology’,
Developmental Psychology, 28:548–57 (1992).
52. Voloshinov, Marxism and the Philosophy of Language, p. 39.
53. Ibid., 38.
54. Fernyhough, The Voices Within, p. 98.
Chapter 9: Creativity and Imagination

1. M. Michalko, ‘Scratch a Genius and You Surprise a Child’, The Creativity Post (28 June 2012),
https://www.creativitypost.com/article/scratch_a_genius_and_you_surprise_a_child.
2. W. J. T. Mitchell, ‘What Is an Image?’, New Literary History, 15:503–37 (1984).
3. W. James, ‘The Principles of Psychology’, Classics in the History of Psychology (1890), https://
psychclassics.yorku.ca/James/Principles/prin18.htm.
4. A. Burmester, ‘How Do Our Brains Reconstruct the Visual World?’, The Conversation (5
November 2015), https://theconversation.com/how-do-our-brains-reconstruct-the-visual-
world-49276.
5. E. Pelaprat and M. Cole, ‘ “Minding the Gap”: Imagination, Creativity and Human Cognition’,
Integrative Physiological and Behavioral Science (2011), http://lchc.ucsd.edu/mca/Paper/
ETMCimagination.pdf.
6. L. Holzman, Vygotsky at Work and Play (Routledge, 2017), p. 94.
7. L. S. Vygotsky, ‘Imagination and Creativity in Childhood’, Journal of Russian and East European
Psychology, 42:7–97 (2004).
8. Ibid.
University Press, 1978), pp. 92–104.
10. M. Cole, Revival: Soviet Developmental Psychology: An Anthology (Routledge, 1977), p. 88.
11. J. E. Johnson, Eberle, T. S. Henricks, and D. Kuschner, The Handbook of the Study of Play
(Rowman and Littlefield, 2015), p. 206.
12. B. M. Newman and P. R. Newman, Development through Life: A Psychosocial Approach (Cengage
Learning, 2008), p. 206.
13. K. Oatley, ‘A Feeling for Fiction’, Greater Good Magazine (1 September 2005), https://
greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/a_feeling_for_fiction.
14. C. Philby, ‘Hollywood Ate My Novel: Novelists Reveal What It’s Like to Have Their Book
Turned into a Movie’, The Independent (18 February 2012), https://www.independent.co.uk/
arts-entertainment/books/features/hollywood-ate-my-novel-novelists-reveal-what-it-s-
like-to-have-their-book-turned-into-a-movie-6940772.html.
458
e ndnot es
15. P. Thagard, ‘Empathy in Literature and Film’, Psychology Today (18 May 2017), https://www.
psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/hot-thought/201705/empathy-in-literature-and-film.
16. K. G. Klinge, ‘Mapping Creativity in the Brain’, The Atlantic (21 March 2016), https://www.
theatlantic.com/science/archive/2016/03/the-driving-principles-behind-creativity/474621/.
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid.
19. C. Mackay, ‘Researchers Identify Specific Neurons That Distinguish between Reality and
Imagination’, Western University (1 June 2017), http://mediarelations.uwo.ca/2017/06/01/
researchers-identify-specific-neurons-distinguish-reality-imagination/.
20. Ibid.
21. A. García-Molina, ‘Phineas Gage and the Enigma of the Prefrontal Cortex’, Neurología,
27:370–5 (2012).
22. Ibid.
23. Ibid.
24. Ibid.
25. Z. Kotowicz, The Strange Case of Phineas Gage’, History of the Human Sciences, 20:115–31 (2007).
26. C. Gregoire, ‘Research Uncovers How and Where Imagination Occurs in the Brain’,
Huffington Post (18 September 2013), https://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/09/17/imagination-
brain_n_3922136.html.
27. Ibid.
28. A. Piore, ‘Attention, Please: Earl Miller Wants to Make Us All Smarter’, Discover Magazine
(1 September 2016), http://discovermagazine.com/2016/oct/your-attention-please.
29. Ibid.
30. Gregoire, ‘Research Uncovers How and Where Imagination Occurs in the Brain’.
31. T. Lewis, ‘Human Brain: Facts, Functions & Anatomy’, Live Science (28 September 2018),
https://www.livescience.com/29365-human-brain.html.
32. L. Vandervert, ‘The Prominent Role of the Cerebellum in the Learning, Origin and
Advancement of Culture’, Cerebellum Ataxias 3:10 (2016).
33. Ibid.
34. Stanford University Medical Center, ‘Unexpected Brain Structures Tied to Creativity, and
to Stifling It’, Science Daily (28 May 2015), https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2015/05/
150528084158.htm.
35. Ibid.
36. Ibid.
37. Ibid.
38. A. Lipsett, ‘My Message: “Anybody Can Learn” ’, The Guardian (2 September 2008), https://
www.theguardian.com/education/2008/sep/02/languages.schools.
39. Vandervert, ‘The Prominent Role of the Cerebellum’.
40. C. Kalb, ‘What Makes a Genius?’, National Geographic (May 2017), https://www.
nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2017/05/genius-genetics-intelligence-neuroscience-
creativity-einstein/.
41. A. Cho, ‘Gravitational Waves, Einstein’s Ripples in Spacetime, Spotted for First Time’,
Science (11 February 2016), http://www.sciencemag.org/news/2016/02/gravitational-waves-
einstein-s-ripples-spacetime-spotted-first-time.
42. H. Cotter, ‘Michelangelo Is the Divine Star of the Must-See Show of the Season’, New York
Times (9 November 2017), https://www.nytimes.com/2017/11/09/arts/design/michelangelo-
review-metropolitan-museum-of-art-carmen-bambach.html.
459
e ndnot es
43. D. Goldsmith and M. Bartusiak, E = Einstein: His Life, His Thought, and His Influence on Our
Culture (Barnes and Noble, 2008), p. 159.
44. W. Kremer, ‘The Strange Afterlife of Einstein’s Brain’, BBC News (17 April 2015), https://www.
bbc.com/news/magazine-32354300.
45. Ibid.
46. Ibid.
47. Ibid.
48. Ibid.
49. Ibid.
50. Ibid.
51. M. Neihart, ‘Creativity, the Arts, and Madness’, Roeper Review, 21:47–50 (1998).
52. G. Wilson, ‘Delusions and Grandeur’, Times Higher Education (1 November 2012), https://
www.timeshighereducation.com/features/delusions-and-grandeur/421624.article.
53. A. Fink, M. Benedek, H. F. Unterrainer, I. Papousek, and E. M. Weiss, ‘Creativity and
Psychopathology: Are There Similar Mental Processes Involved in Creativity and in
Psychosis-Proneness?’, Frontiers in Psychology, 5:1211 (2014).
54. E. Jaafe, ‘What Neuroscience Says about the Link between Creativity and Madness’, Fast
Company (14 November 2013), https://www.fastcompany.com/3021561/the-neuroscience-
linking-creativity-and-mental-illness.
55. Ibid.
Chapter 10: Emotion and Reason

1. M. Rescorla, ‘The Computational Theory of Mind’, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy
(21 February 2020), https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/computational-mind/.
2. D. Robson, ‘A Brief History of the Brain’, New Scientist (21 September 2011), https://www.
newscientist.com/article/mg21128311-800-a-brief-history-of-the-brain/.
3. T. Dixon, ‘ “Emotion”: The History of a Keyword in Crisis’, Emotion Review, 4:338–44 (2012).
4. J. Johnson, ‘What Does The Hypothalamus Do?’, Medical News Today (22 August 2018),
5. S. Barrie, ‘Your Fat Cells Control Your Brain’, Huffington Post (17 November 2011), https://
www.huffingtonpost.com/stephen-barrie-nd/your-fat-cells-control-yo_b_732201.html.
6. B. Kotchoubey, ‘Human Consciousness: Where Is It From and What Is It for’, Frontiers in
Psychology, 9:567 (2018).
7. A. Damasio, ‘Why Your Biology Runs on Feelings’, Nautilus (18 January 2018), http://nautil.
us/issue/56/perspective/why-your-biology-runs-on-feelings.
8. Kotchoubey, ‘Human Consciousness’.
9. N. Magon and S. Kalra, ‘The Orgasmic History of Oxytocin: Love, Lust, and Labor’, Indian
Journal of Endocrinology and Metabolism, 15:S156–61 (2011).
10. S. K. Fineberg and D. A. Ross, ‘Oxytocin and the Social Brain’, Biology and Psychiatry,
81:e19–e21 (2017).
11. J. Cepelewicz, ‘In Birds’ Songs, Brains and Genes, He Finds Clues to Speech’, Quanta Magazine
(30 January 2018), https://www.quantamagazine.org/erich-jarvis-in-birds-songs-brains-
and-genes-he-finds-clues-to-speech-20180130/.
12. Ibid.
13. Ibid.
460
e ndnot es
14. L. Konkel, ‘What Is Dopamine?’, Everyday Health (10 August 2018), https://www.everydayhealth.
com/dopamine/.
15. T. R. Mhyre, J. T. Boyd, R. W. Hamill, and K. A., Maguire-Zeiss, ‘Parkinson’s Disease’,
Subcellular Biochemistry, 65:389–455 (2012).
16. K. Kelland, ‘Work on Brain’s Reward System Wins Scientists a Million Euro Reward’, Reuters
(6 March 2017), https://www.reuters.com/article/us-science-brain-idUSKBN16D1TF.
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid.
19. C. Bergland, ‘What Makes Us Human? Dopamine and the Cerebellum Hold Clues’,
Psychology Today (24 November 2017), https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/
the-athletes-way/201711/what-makes-us-human-dopamine-and-the-cerebellum-hold-clues.
20. Ibid.
21. C. Fernyhough, ‘Getting Vygotskian about Theory of Mind: Mediation, Dialogue, and the
Development of Social Understanding’, Developmental Review, 28:225–62 (2008).
22. L. S. Vygotsky, The Collected Works of L.S. Vygotsky (Plenum Press, 1987), p. 347.
23. G. R. Mesquita, ‘Vygotsky and the Theories of Emotions: In Search of a Possible Dialogue’,
Psicologia: Reflexão e Crítica, 25:809–16 (2012).
24. Ibid.
25. S. McLeod, ‘The Zone of Proximal Development and Scaffolding’, Psychology Today (2019),
https://www.simplypsychology.org/Zone-of-Proximal-Development.html.
26. Ibid.
27. H. Grimmett, The Practice of Teachers Professional Development: A Cultural-Historical Approach
(Springer, 2014), p. 13.
28. H. Mahn and V. John-Steiner, ‘The Gift of Confidence: A Vygotskian View of Emotions’, in
G. Wells and G. Claxton (eds), Learning for Life in the 21st Century: Sociocultural Perspectives on the
Future of Education (Wiley-Blackwell, 2002), pp. 46–58.
29. Ibid.
30. M. Nudelman and E. Brodwin, ‘The 5 Most Addictive Substances on the Planet, Ranked’,
Business Insider (2 December 2018), http://uk.businessinsider.com/most-addictive-drugs-
ranked-2016-10.
31. R. Gray, ‘No Wonder They Called It the Stone Age! Ancient Humans Were Taking Drugs—
Including Magic Mushrooms and Opium—up to 10,600 Years Ago’, Daily Mail (4 February
2015), http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2939830/No-wonder-called-stone-
age-Ancient-humans-taking-drugs-including-magic-mushrooms-opium-10-600-years-
ago.html.
32. Ibid.
33. Ibid.
34. Ibid.
35. Ibid.
36. F. Smith, ‘How Science Is Unlocking the Secrets of Addiction’, National Geographic
(September 2017), https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2017/09/the-addicted-
brain/.
37. B. A. Mason, ‘Slaves to Dopamine and the Hijacking of Our Brains’, Huffington Post
(29 December 2017), https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/slaves-to-the-rhythm-how-
dopamine-hijacking-is-taking_us_5a453bd4e4b0d86c803c7583.
38. ‘Biology of Addiction’, National Institutes of Health News in Health (October 2015), https://
newsinhealth.nih.gov/2015/10/biology-addiction.
461
e ndnot es
39. Ibid.
40. A. Matthews-King, ‘Alcohol and Tobacco by Far the Worst Drugs for Human Health, Global
Review Finds’, The Independent (11 May 2018), https://www.independent.co.uk/news/health/
alcohol-drinking-smoking-drugs-addictive-health-worst-bad-cannabis-cocaine-
amphetamines-opioids-a8345741.html.
41. Ibid.
42. D. F. Maron, ‘How Opioids Kill’, Scientific American (8 January 2018), https://www.
scientificamerican.com/article/how-opioids-kill/.
43. Ibid.
44. N. Vega, ‘Sean Parker on Facebook: We Created a Monster’, New York Post (9 November 2017),
https://nypost.com/2017/11/09/sean-parker-on-facebook-we-created-a-monster/.
45. D. Brooks, ‘How Evil Is Tech?’, The New York Times (20 November 2017), https://www.
nytimes.com/2017/11/20/opinion/how-evil-is-tech.html.
46. Ibid.
47. L. Kim, ‘Multitasking Is Killing Your Brain’, Huffington Post (6 December 2017), https://www.
huffingtonpost.com/larry-kim/multitasking-is-killing-your_b_9821244.html.
48. Ibid.
49. Ibid.
50. Ibid.
51. M. Gummer, ‘The Positive Impact of Social Media and Technology on Society’, Pi Media (6
February 2018), https://uclpimedia.com/online/the-positive-impact-of-social-media-and-
technology-on-society.
52. D. Spector, ‘How Beer Created Civilization’, Business Insider (26 December 2013), https://
www.businessinsider.com/how-beer-led-to-the-domestication-of-grain-2013-12.
53. Ibid.
54. Ibid.
55. J. P. Kahn, ‘How Beer Gave Us Civilization’, New York Times (15 March 2013), https://www.
nytimes.com/2013/03/17/opinion/sunday/how-beer-gave-us-civilization.html.
56. S. Sloat, ‘The “Stoned Ape” Theory Might Explain Our Extraordinary Evolution’, Inverse (14
July 2017), https://www.inverse.com/article/34186-stoned-ape-hypothesis.
57. A. Simon-Lewis, ‘Brain Scans Reveal How Psychedelic Drugs Create a “Higher State of
Consciousness” ’, Wired (20 April 2017), https://www.wired.co.uk/article/psychedelic-
drugs-found-to-cause-a-higher-state-of-consciousness.
58. E. Ekman and G. Agin.-Liebes, ‘Can a Psychedelic Experience Improve Your Life?’, Greater
Good Magazine (23 October 2019), https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/can_a_
psychedelic_experience_improve_your_life.
59. I. Sample, ‘Psychedelic Drugs Induce “Heightened State Of Consciousness”, Brain Scans
Show’, The Guardian (19 April 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2017/apr/19/
brain-scans-reveal-mind-opening-response-to-psychedelic-drug-trip-lsd-ketamine-
psilocybin.
60. Ibid.
Chapter 11: Conscious and Unconscious

1. C. Baraniuk, ‘The Enormous Power of the Unconscious Brain’, BBC Future (16 March 2016),
http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20160315-the-enormous-power-of-the-unconscious-
brain.
462
e ndnot es
2. B. K. Keim, ‘Brain Scanners Can See Your Decisions Before You Make Them’, Wired (13 April
2008), https://www.wired.com/2008/04/mind-decision/.
3. B. Hughes, ‘Genius of the Modern World’, BBC (11 November 2019), https://www.bbc.co.uk/
programmes/b07ht3cd.
4. J. LeFanu, ‘Wrong Image of Freud Has Entered the Subconscious: Dr James LeFanu’, The
Telegraph (14 May 2006), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1518310/Wrong-
image-of-Freud-has-entered-the-subconscious.html.
5. S. Pinker, ‘The Blank Slate Controversy’, New York Times (13 October 2002), https://www.
nytimes.com/2002/10/13/books/chapters/the-blank-slate.html.
6. R. J. Richards, ‘The Impact of German Romanticism on Biology in the Nineteenth Century’,
University of Chicago (2011), http://home.uchicago.edu/rjr6/articles/Idealism & biology.pdf.
7. M. Iseli, ‘Thomas De Quincey and the Cognitive Prospects of the Unconscious’, European
Romantic Review, 24:325–33 (2013).
8. T. C. Gannon, Immortal Sea, Eternal Mind: Romanticism and the Unconscious Psyche,
M.A. thesis, University of South Dakota (1979).
9. Ibid.
10. J. S. Hendrix, Unconscious Thought in Philosophy and Psychoanalysis (Palgrave Macmillan, 2015),
p. 19.
11. Ibid.
12. S. Austin, ‘Freud, Sigmund (1856–1939)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2011), http://
www.oxforddnb.com/view/10.1093/ref:odnb/9780198614128.001.0001/odnb -
9780198614128-e-55514.
13. Ibid.
14. S. McLeod, ‘Id, Ego and Superego’, Simply Psychology (2019), https://www.simplypsychology.
org/psyche.html.
15. Ibid.
16. K. Cherry, ‘The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud: History and Significance’, Very Well
Mind (7 April 2020), https://www.verywellmind.com/the-interpretation-of-dreams-by-
sigmund-freud-2795855.
17. S. McLeod, ‘Psychoanalysis’, Simply Psychology (2019), https://www.simplypsychology.org/
psychoanalysis.html.
18. K. Cherry, ‘The Oedipus Complex in Children’, Very Well Mind (14 May 2020), https://www.
verywellmind.com/what-is-an-oedipal-complex-2795403.
19. Ibid.
20. B. Borrell, ‘Oedipus Wrecked: Study Supporting the Mother of All Psychological Complexes
Withdrawn’, Scientific American (24 February 2009), https://www.scientificamerican.com/
article/oedipus-complex-study-withdrawn/.
21. S. McLeod, ‘Psychosexual Stages’, Simply Psychology (2019), https://www.simplypsychology.
org/psychosexual.html.
22. C. Sieczkowski, ‘Unearthed Letter From Freud Reveals His Thoughts On Gay People’,
Huffington Post (7 December 2017), https://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/02/18/sigmund-
freud-gay-cure-letter_n_6706006.html.
23. M. Billig, ‘The Dialogic Unconscious: Psycho-analysis, Discursive Psychology and the
Nature of Repression’, Massey University (2018), http://www.massey.ac.nz/~alock/
virtual/p-a4.htm.
24. R. Young, ‘Back to Bakhtin’, Cultural Critique, 2:71–92 (1985–6).
25. M. Meares, The Metaphor of Play: Origin and Breakdown of Personal Being (Routledge, 2002), p. 38.
463
e ndnot es
26. J. M. Quinodoz, Reading Freud: A Chronological Exploration of Freud’s Writings (Routledge,

2004), p. 145.
27. S. Knapton, ‘Traumatic Memories Really Can Be Repressed, But Also Restored, Say
Scientists’, Daily Telegraph (17 August 2015), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/science/
science-news/11807695/Traumatic-memories-really-can-be-repressed-but-also-restored-
say-scientists.html.
28. Ibid.
29. Ibid.
30. Ibid.
31. Ibid.
32. D. Wolman, ‘The Split Brain: A Tale of Two Halves’, Nature (14 March 2012), https://www.
nature.com/news/the-split-brain-a-tale-of-two-halves-1.10213.
33. C. Profaci, ‘Two Brains in One Head? The Story of the Split-Brain Phenomenon’, NeuWrite
(27 August 2015), https://neuwritesd.org/2015/08/27/two-brains-in-one-head-the-story-of-
the-split-brain-phenomenon/.
34. B. Brogaard, ‘Split Brains’, Psychology Today (6 November 2012), https://www.
psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/the-superhuman-mind/201211/split-brains.
35. D. A. Lienhard, ‘Roger Sperry’s Split Brain Experiments (1959–1968)’, The Embryo Project
Encyclopedia (27 December 2017), https://embryo.asu.edu/pages/roger-sperrys-split-brain-
experiments-1959-1968.
36. B. Brogaard, ‘Split Brains’, Psychology Today (6 November 2012), https://www.psychologytoday.
com/us/blog/the-superhuman-mind/201211/split-brains.
37. A. Novotney, ‘Despite What You’ve Been Told, You Aren’t “Left-Brained” or “Right-
Brained” ’, The Guardian (16 November 2013), https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/
2013/nov/16/left-right-brain-distinction-myth.
38. S. M. Kosslyn and G. Wayne Miller, ‘Left Brain, Right Brain? Wrong’, Psychology Today
(27 January 2014), https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-theory-cognitive-modes/
201401/left-brain-right-brain-wrong.
39. S. Paulson, H. A. Berlin, E. Ginot, and G. Makari, ‘Delving within: The New Science of the
Unconscious’, Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1406:12–27 (2017).
40. Ibid.
41. Ibid.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid.
44. S. Paulson, D. Barrett, K. Bulkeley, and R. Naiman, ‘Dreaming: A Gateway to the
Unconscious?’, Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1406:28–45 (2017).
Chapter 12: Sanity and Madness

1. H. J. Parkinson, ‘How Do I Know If I Have a Mental Illness?’, The Guardian (29 January 2016),
https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2016/jan/29/how-do-i-know-if-i-have-a-mental-
illness.
2. A. Head and J. Bond, ‘We Need to Address the Socioeconomic Causes of Mental Health
Issues If We Really Want to Tackle the Problem’, The Independent (20 May 2018), https://www.
464
e ndnot es
independent.co.uk/voices/mental-health-help-how-change-awareness-causes-treat-
a8357741.html.
3. R. Bentall, ‘Mental Illness Is A Result of Misery, Yet Still We Stigmatise It’, The Guardian (26
February 2016), https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/feb/26/mental-illness-
misery-childhood-traumas.
4. D. Spence, ‘The Psychiatric Oligarchs Who Medicalise Normality’, British Medical Journal,
344:e3135 (2012).
5. B. J. Deacon, ‘The Biomedical Model of Mental Disorder: A Critical Analysis of Its Validity,
Utility, and Effects on Psychotherapy Research’, Clinical Psychology Review, 33:846–61 (2013).
6. R. Prasad, ‘Why US Suicide Rate Is On The Rise’, BBC News (11 June 2018), https://www.bbc.
co.uk/news/world-us-canada-44416727.
7. J. Christensen, ‘Why the US Has the Most Mass Shootings’, CNN (5 October 2017), https://
edition.cnn.com/2015/08/27/health/u-s-most-mass-shootings/index.html.
8. P. M. Visscher, N. R. Wray, Q. Zhang, P. Sklar, M. I. McCarthy, M. A Brown, and J. Yang, ‘10
Years of GWAS Discovery: Biology, Function, and Translation’, American Journal of Human
Genetics, 101:5–22 (2017).
9. M. Balter, ‘Schizophrenia’s Unyielding Mysteries’, Scientific American, 316:54–61 (2017).
10. O. D. Howes, R. McCutcheon, M. J. Owen, and R. M. Murray, ‘The Role of Genes, Stress, and
Dopamine in the Development of Schizophrenia’, Biological Psychiatry, 81:9–20 (2017).
11. Ibid.
12. P. J. Harrison, ‘Recent Genetic Findings in Schizophrenia and Their Therapeutic Relevance’,
Journal of Psychopharmacology, 29:85–96 (2015).
13. Ibid.
14. A. G. Diehl and A. P. Boyle, ‘Deciphering ENCODE’, Trends in Genetics, 32:238–49 (2016).
15. A. Park, ‘Junk DNA—Not So Useless After All’, Time (6 September 2012), http://healthland.
time.com/2012/09/06/junk-dna-not-so-useless-after-all/.
16. Harrison, ‘Recent Genetic Findings in Schizophrenia’.
17. E. Callaway, ‘New concerns raised over value of genome-wide disease studies’, Nature
News (15 June 2017), https://www.nature.com/news/new-concerns-raised-over-value-of-
genome-wide-disease-studies-1.22152.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid.
20. P. M. Visscher, M. A. Brown, M. I. McCarthy, and J. Yang, ‘Five Years of GWAS Discovery’,
American Journal of Human Genetics, 90:7–24 (2012).
21. M. Wolfe, ‘What Is Crossing Over in Genetics?’, Sciencing (18 September 2018), https://
sciencing.com/crossing-over-genetics-6628252.html.
22. Ibid.
23. I. Lobo and K. Shaw, ‘Discovery and Types of Genetic Linkage’, Nature Education, 1:139 (2008).
24. J. M. Heather and B. Chain, ‘The Sequence of Sequencers: The History of Sequencing DNA’,
Genomics, 107:1–8 (2016).
25. C. Zhuo, W. Hou, C. Lin, L. Hu, and J. Li, ‘Potential Value of Genomic Copy Number
Variations in Schizophrenia’, Frontiers in Molecular Neuroscience, 10:204 (2017).
26. T. P. Rutkowski, J. P. Schroeder, G. M. Gafford, S. T. Warren, D. Weinshenker, T. Caspary,
and J. G. Mulle, ‘Unraveling the Genetic Architecture of Copy Number Variants Associated
with Schizophrenia and Other Neuropsychiatric Disorders’, Journal of Neuroscience Research,
95:1144–60 (2017).
465
e ndnot es
27. H. Devlin, ‘Radical New Approach to Schizophrenia Treatment Begins Trial’, The Guardian
(3 November 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/society/2017/nov/03/radical-new-
approach-to-schizophrenia-treatment-begins-trial.
28. Ibid.
29. Ibid.
30. D. Rudacille, ‘Attention Deficit, Autism Share Genetic Risk Factors’, Spectrum News (22
August 2011), https://www.spectrumnews.org/news/attention-deficit-autism-share-genetic-
risk-factors/.
31. M. G. Thompson, ‘R.D. Laing and Anti-Psychopathology: The Myth of Mental Illness
Redux’, Mad in America (26 October 2013), https://www.madinamerica.com/2013/10/
r-d-laing-anti-psychopathology-myth-mental-illness-redux/.
32. P. Gibney, ‘The Double Bind Theory: Still Crazy-Making after All These Years’, Psychotherapy
in Australia, 12:48–55 (2006).
33. Ibid.
34. J. Diski, ‘Rhythm Method’, London Review of Books, 16:20–1 (1994).
35. Ibid.
36. Ibid.
37. T. Friedman and N. N. Tin, ‘Childhood Sexual Abuse and the Development of Schizophrenia’,
Postgraduate Medical Journal, 83:507–8 (2007).
38. S. Bressert, ‘Schizophrenia Symptoms’, Psych Central (9 May 2020), https://psychcentral.
com/disorders/schizophrenia/schizophrenia-symptoms/.
39. L. S. Vygotsky, ‘Thought in Schizophrenia’, Archives of Neurology and Psychiatry, 31:1067 (1934).
41. Ibid.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid.
44. H. Werner and B. Kaplan, Symbol Formation (Wiley, 1963), p. 257.
45. Vygotsky, ‘Thought in Schizophrenia’.
46. A. Kozulin, Vygotsky’s Psychology: A Biography of Ideas (Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990), p. 231.
47. Ibid., 229.
48. B. Rund, ‘Attention, Communication, and Schizophrenia’, Yale Journal of Biology and Medicine,
58:265–73 (1985).
49. Ibid.
50. Ibid.
51. L. S. Vygotsky, ‘The Development of Higher Forms of Attention in Childhood’, in
J.V. Wertsch, (ed.), The Concept of Activity in Soviet Psychology (M. E. Sharpe, 1981), pp. 193–4.
52. Rund, ‘Attention, Communication, and Schizophrenia’.
53. Ibid.
54. Ibid.
55. D. G. Smith, ‘The Placenta Is Now a Suspect In Heightening Schizophrenia Risk’, Scientific
American (28 May 2018), https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-placenta-is-now-
a-suspect-in-heightening-schizophrenia-risk/.
56. Ibid.
57. S. Peters, ‘Researcher Acknowledges His Mistakes in Understanding Schizophrenia’, Mad
in America (26 January 2017), https://www.madinamerica.com/2017/01/researcher-
acknowledges-mistakes-understanding-schizophrenia/.
58. S. McCarthy-Jones, ‘The Concept of Schizophrenia Is Coming to an End—Here’s Why’,
The Independent (4 September 2017), https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-
466
e ndnot es
families/healthy-living/concept-schizophrenia-coming-to-end-psychology-genetics-
psychiatry-schizophrenia-a7925576.html.
59. Ibid.
60. C. Dodd, ‘Open Dialogue: The Radical New Treatment Having Life-Changing Effects on
People’s Mental Health’, The Independent (6 December 2015), https://www.independent.co.
uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/open-dialogue-the-radical-new-treatment-
having-life-changing-effects-on-peoples-mental-health-a6762391.html.
61. Ibid.
62. Ibid.
63. Ibid.
64. S. Malhotra and S. Sahoo, ‘Rebuilding the Brain with Psychotherapy’, Indian Journal of
Psychiatry, 59:411–19 (2017).
Chapter 13: Depression and Anxiety

1. P. Allen, G. Couzens, A. Hall, J. Hall, and I. Bains, ‘Horror as 16 German School Pupils from
the Same Class All Die on Board Doomed Germanwings Flight—But They Nearly Missed It
When One Student Forgot Their Passport’, Daily Mail (24 March 2015), http://www.dailymail.
co.uk/news/article-3009705/Horror-16-German-school-pupils-class-exchange-trip-
lifetime-dead-board-doomed-Germanwings-flight.html.
2. ‘Germanwings Plane Crash: Who Were the Victims?’, BBC News (27 March 2015), https://
www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-32047560.
3. K. Willsher, L. Osborne, and A. Chrisafis, ‘Police Search Homes of Andreas Lubitz, Co-pilot
Blamed for Germanwings Crash’, The Guardian (27 March 2015), https://www.theguardian.
com/world/2015/mar/26/airlines-change-cockpit-rules-after-co-pilot-blamed-for-
germanwings-crash.
4. Ibid.
5. H. Samuel, ‘Germanwings Crash: Andreas Lubitz Searched Online for Suicide and Cockpit
Doors’, The Telegraph (2 April 2015), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/
germanwings-plane-crash/11512137/Germanwings-crash-Andreas-Lubitz-searched-
online-for-suicide-and-cockpit-doors.html.
6. S. Shuster, ‘German Privacy Laws Let Pilot “Hide” His Illness from Employers’, Time
(27 March 2015), http://time.com/3761895/germanwings-privacy-law/.
7. M. Rahim, ‘Don’t Blame Depression for the Germanwings Tragedy’, The Guardian (27 March
2015), https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/mar/27/depression-germanwings-
tragedy-pilot-andreas-lubitz-mental-health.
8. Ibid.
9. P. J. Skerrett, ‘Suicide Often Not Preceded by Warnings’, Harvard Health Blog (5 August 2019),
https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/suicide-often-not-preceded-by-warnings-
201209245331.
10. J. Rayner, ‘Cottage Industry’, The Guardian (6 February 2005), https://www.theguardian.
com/lifeandstyle/2005/feb/06/foodanddrink.restaurants.
11. N. McGee, ‘Niall McGee Didn’t Believe in Depression—until Cancer Medication Put Him in
a Suicidal Spiral’, The Globe and Mail (28 May 2015), https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/
niall-mcgee-didnt-believe-in-depression-until-cancer-meds-put-him-in-a-suicidal-spiral/
article24660218/.
12. Ibid.
467
e ndnot es
13. Ibid.
14. K. Griffiths, ‘Depressed Bradford Woman Took Own Life in France’, The Telegraph and Argus
(10 August 2016), http://www.thetelegraphandargus.co.uk/news/14673774.Depressed_
Bradford_woman_took_own_life_in_France/.
15. M. Smith, ‘Balancing Your Humors’, Psychology Today (2 November 2013), https://www.
psychologytoday.com/us/blog/short-history-mental-health/201311/balancing-your-humors.
16. L. Appignanesi, Mad, Bad And Sad: A History of Women and the Mind Doctors from 1800 to the
Present (Virago Press, 2009), pp. 136–7.
17. L. Fitzpatrick, ‘A Brief History of Antidepressants’, Time (7 January 2010), http://content.
time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1952143,00.html.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid.
20. A. Edemariam, ‘ “I Don’t Know Who I Am without It”: The Truth about Long-Term
Antidepressant Use’, The Guardian (6 May 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/society/
2017/may/06/dont-know-who-am-antidepressant-long-term-use.
21. Fitzpatrick, ‘A Brief History of Antidepressants’.
22. S. Mutalik, ‘A Short History of the SSRI’, Psychiatric Times (8 December 2014), http://www.
psychiatrictimes.com/psychopharmacology/short-history-ssri.
23. A. Khan and W. A. Brown, ‘Antidepressants versus Placebo in Major Depression: An
Overview’, World Psychiatry, 14:294–300 (2015).
24. S. Boseley, ‘Antidepressant Withdrawal Symptoms Severe, Says New Report’, The Guardian
(2 October 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/society/2018/oct/02/antidepressant-
withdrawal-symptoms-severe-says-new-report.
25. S. Boseley, ‘Antidepressants: Is There a Better Way to Quit Them?’, The Guardian (22 April
2019), https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2019/apr/22/antidepressants-is-there-a-
better-way-to-quit-them.
26. H. Arkowitz and S. O. Lilienfeld, ‘Is Depression Just Bad Chemistry?’, Scientific American (1
March 2014), https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/is-depression-just-bad-chemistry/.
27. J. Dryden, ‘Study Reverses Thinking on Genetic Links to Stress, Depression’, Washington
University School of Medicine in St Louis (4 April 2017), https://medicine.wustl.edu/news/study-
reverses-thinking-genetic-links-stress-depression/.
28. Ibid.
29. K. Oved, A. Morag, M. Pasmanik-Chor, M. Rehavi, N. Shomron, and D. Gurwitz, ‘Genome-
Wide Expression Profiling of Human Lymphoblastoid Cell Lines Implicates Integrin Beta-3
in the Mode of Action of Antidepressants’, Translational Psychiatry, 3:e313 (2013).
30. J. Chen, ‘How New Ketamine Drug Helps with Depression’, Yale Medicine (21 March 2019),
https://www.yalemedicine.org/stories/ketamine-depression/.
31. Ibid.
32. S. Knapton, ‘Depression Is a Physical Illness Which Could Be Treated with Anti-inflammatory
Drugs, Scientists Suggest’, The Telegraph (8 September 2017), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/
science/2017/09/08/depression-physical-illness-could-treated-anti-inflammatory/.
33. Ibid.
34. Ibid.
35. J. R. Thorpe, ‘What Causes Depression?’, Bustle (31 May 2017), https://www.bustle.com/
p/what-causes-depression-new-research-says-it-might-be-malfunctioning-brain-
circuitry-54289.
36. Ibid.
468
e ndnot es
37. Ibid.
38. M. MacGill, ‘What Is Depression and What Can I do about It?’, Medical News Today (22
November 2019), https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/kc/depression-causes-symptoms-
treatments-8933.
39. H. Ledford, ‘First Robust Genetic Links to Depression Emerge’, Nature (15 July 2015), https://
www.nature.com/news/first-robust-genetic-links-to-depression-emerge-1.17979.
40. Ibid.
41. G. Lu, J. Li, H. Zhang, X. Zhao, L. J. Yan, and X. Yang, ‘Role and Possible Mechanisms of Sirt1
in Depression’, Oxidative Medicine and Cellular Longevity, 2018:8596903 (2018).
42. E. J. Nestler and S. E. Hyman, ‘Animal Models of Neuropsychiatric Disorders’, Nature
Neuroscience, 13:1161–9 (2010).
43. R. M. Henig, ‘How Depressed Is That Mouse?’, Scientific American (7 March 2012), https://
www.scientificamerican.com/article/depression-how-depressed-is-mouse/.
44. Ibid.
45. Ibid.
46. G. W. Brown and T. O. Harris, Social Origins of Depression: A Study of Psychiatric Disorder in
Women (Free Press, 1978) .
47. K. Oatley, ‘Depression: Crisis without Alternatives’, New Scientist, 29–31 (1984).
48. M. Smith, ‘Social Psychiatry Could Stem the Rising Tide of Mental Illness’, The Conversation
(3 June 2020), https://theconversation.com/social-psychiatry-could-stem-the-rising-tide-
of-mental-illness-138152.
49. R. Zamzow, ‘Male Mice Pass Stress Signatures down to Their Pups’, Spectrum (19 October
2015), https://www.spectrumnews.org/news/male-mice-pass-stress-signatures-down-to-
their-pups/.
50. Ibid.
51. N. Rahhal, ‘Stressed Men Have “Softer” Children: Study Finds Stress Affects Sperm Quality
and Makes Offspring Less Resilient to Pressure’, Daily Mail (13 November 2017), http://www.
dailymail.co.uk/health/article-5078233/Father-s-stress-affect-sperm-children-study-
shows.html.
52. Ibid.
53. S. Paulsson, ‘A View of the Holocaust’, BBC History (17 February 2011), http://www.bbc.
co.uk/history/worldwars/genocide/holocaust_overview_01.shtml.
54. D. Millward, ‘Holocaust Survivors Pass on Trauma to Their Children’s Genes’, The Telegraph
(22 August 2015), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/11817892/
Holocaust-survivors-pass-on-trauma-to-their-childrens-genes.html.
55. Ibid.
56. S. Yasmin, ‘No, Trauma Is Not Inherited’, Dallas News (30 May 2017), https://www.dallasnews.
com/news/debunked/2017/05/30/trauma-inherited.
57. J. Glausiusz, ‘Doubts Arising about Claimed Epigenetics of Holocaust Trauma’, Haaretz
(30 April 2017), https://www.haaretz.com/science-and-health/.premium-doubts-arising-
about-claimed-epigenetics-of-holocaust-trauma-1.5466710.
58. Yasmin, ‘No, Trauma Is Not Inherited’.
Chapter 14: Normality and Diversity

1. S. McLeod, ‘The Medical Model’, Simply Psychology (2018), https://www.simplypsychology.
org/medical-model.html.
469
e ndnot es
2. P. Beresford, ‘Towards a Social Model of Madness and Distress? Exploring What Service
Users Say’, Joseph Rowntree Foundation (22 November 2010), https://www.jrf.org.uk/report/
towards-social-model-madness-and-distress-exploring-what-service-users-say.
3. B. Taylor, H. Jick, and D. MacLaughlin, ‘Prevalence and Incidence Rates of Autism in the UK:
Time Trend from 2004–2010 in Children Aged 8 Years’, BMJ Open, 3:e003219 (2013).
4. U. Frith, ‘Autism—Are We Any Closer to Explaining the Enigma?’, The Psychologist, 27:744–5
(2014).
5. Ibid.
6. S. Baron-Cohen, ‘Leo Kanner, Hans Asperger, and the Discovery of Autism’, The Lancet,
386:1329–30 (2015).
7. S. Baron, ‘Neurotribes Review—the Evolution of Our Understanding of Autism’, The Observer
(23 August 2015), https://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/aug/23/neurotribes-legacy-
autism-steve-silberman-book-review-saskia-baron.
8. Ibid.
9. K. Connolly, ‘Hans Asperger Aided and Supported Nazi Programme, Study Says’, The
Guardian (19 April 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/apr/19/hans-asperger-
aided-and-supported-nazi-programme-study-says.
10. Baron, ‘Neurotribes Review’.
11. Ibid.
12. Ibid.
13. H. Schofield, ‘France’s Autism Treatment “Shame” ’, BBC News (2 April 2012), https://www.
bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-17583123.
14. Ibid.
15. E. Anthes, ‘Lab-Grown Neurons Showcase Effects of Autism Mutations’, Spectrum (15
January 2018), https://www.spectrumnews.org/news/lab-grown-neurons-showcase-
effects-autism-mutations/.
16. Ibid.
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid.
19. A. Sandoiu, ‘Reversing Autism with a Cancer Drug’, Medical News Today (27 June 2018),
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid.
22. S. Boseley, ‘Andrew Wakefield Case Highlights the Importance of Ethics in Science’, The
Guardian (24 May 2010), https://www.theguardian.com/society/2010/may/24/andrew-
wakefield-analysis-ethics-science.
23. S. Boseley, ‘WHO Warns over Measles Immunisation Rates as Cases Rise 300% across
Europe’, The Guardian (19 February 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/society/2018/
feb/19/who-warns-over-measles-immunisation-rates-as-cases-rise-400-across-europe.
24. A. Buncombe, ‘Andrew Wakefield: How a Disgraced UK Doctor Has Remade Himself in
Anti-vaxxer Trump’s America’, The Independent (4 May 2018), https://www.independent.
co.uk/news/world/americas/andrew-wakefield-anti-vaxxer-trump-us-mmr-autism-link-
lancet-fake-a8331826.html.
25. Z. Drewett, ‘Desperate Parents Trying to “Cure” Autism by Giving Children Bleach’, Metro
(28 January 2018), https://metro.co.uk/2018/01/28/desperate-parents-trying-cure-autism-
giving-children-bleach-7266567/.
26. Ibid.
470
e ndnot es
27. Ibid.
28. A. E. Cha, ‘Study: Autism, Creativity and Divergent Thinking May Go Hand in Hand’,
Washington Post (25 August 2015), https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/to-your-health/
wp/2015/08/25/study-autism-creativity-and-divergent-thinking-may-go-hand-in-hand/?utm_
term=.e0136faa9746.
29. Ibid.
30. Ibid.
31. Ibid.
32. T. McVeigh, ‘People with Autism and Learning Disabilities Excel in Creative Thinking,
Study Shows’, The Guardian (22 August 2015), https://www.theguardian.com/society/2015/
aug/22/autism-creative-thinking-study.
33. N. Hinde, ‘Just 16% of People with Autism Are in Full-Time Paid Work and It Needs to
Change, Says Charity’, Huffington Post (27 October 2016), https://www.huffingtonpost.
co.uk/entry/16-percent-of-people-with-autism-are-in-full-time-paid-work_uk_
5811e71be4b0ccfc9561da6f.
34. N. L. Pesce, ‘Most College Grads with Autism Can’t Find Jobs. This Group Is Fixing That’,
Market Watch (2 April 2019), https://www.marketwatch.com/story/most-college-grads-
with-autism-cant-find-jobs-this-group-is-fixing-that-2017-04-10-5881421.
35. Hinde, ‘Just 16% of People with Autism’.
36. J. Parrington, ‘Early Learning’, Socialist Review (October 1994), https://www.marxists.org/
history/etol/newspape/socrev/1994/sr179/parrington.html.
37. J. E. Knox, ‘The Changing Face of Soviet Defectology: A Study in Rehabilitating the
Handicapped’, Studies in Soviet Thought, 37:217–36 (1989).
38. Parrington, ‘Early Learning’.
39. Ibid.
40. Ibid.
41. Ibid.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid.
44. P. Wolfberg, K. Bottema-Beutel, and M. DeWitt, ‘Including Children with Autism in Social
and Imaginary Play with Typical Peers’, American Journal of Play, 5:55–80 (2012).
45. Ibid.
46. Ibid.
47. Ibid.
48. Parrington, ‘Early Learning’.
49. Wolfberg, Bottema-Beutel, and DeWitt, ‘Including Children with Autism’.
50. Ibid.
51. Ibid.
52. Ibid.
53. K. Gander, ‘World Bipolar Day: What Is Bipolar Disorder? What Are Its Symptoms?’, The
Independent (29 March 2016), https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/
features/world-bipolar-day-what-is-bipolar-disorder-and-what-are-its-symptoms-
a6958426.html.
54. H. Thomson, ‘Intelligence, Creativity and Bipolar Disorder May Share Underlying Genetics’,
The Guardian (19 August 2015), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2015/aug/19/intelligence-
creativity-and-bipolar-disorder-may-share-underlying-genetics.
55. Ibid.
471
e ndnot es
56. Ibid.
57. N. Wolchover, ‘Why Are Genius and Madness Connected?’, Live Science (2 June 2012), https://
www.livescience.com/20713-genius-madness-connected.html.
58. Ibid.
59. Ibid.
60. Ibid.
61. Ibid.
62. H. J. Parkinson, ‘Having a Mental Illness Doesn’t Make You a Genius’, The Guardian (10 June
2015), https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/jun/10/mental-illness-study-
bipolar-disorder-creativity.
Chapter 15: Crime and Punishment

1. S. Jenkins, ‘Could Bradford be the Shoreditch of Yorkshire—or is it the Next Detroit?’, The
Guardian (3 May 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2018/may/03/could-bradford-
be-the-shoreditch-of-yorkshire-or-is-it-the-next-detroit-.
2. C. Wilde, ‘Bradford Wins Capital of Curry Crown for Sixth Year in Row’, Telegraph and Argus
(10 October 2016), http://www.thetelegraphandargus.co.uk/news/14791659.Bradford_
wins_Capital_of_Curry_crown_for_sixth_year_in_row/.
3. M. Wainwright, ‘Bradford Wheels out Brontes, Hockney, Priestley and Curry after Poor
Reviews’, The Guardian (24 February 2011), https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2011/feb/
24/bradford-brontes-cinemas-curry-reviews.
4. J. Smith, ‘The Yorkshire Ripper Was Not a “Prostitute Killer”—Now His Forgotten Victims
Need Justice’, The Telegraph (30 May 2017), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/life/
yorkshire-ripper-not-prostitute-killer-forgotten-victims-need/.
5. Ibid.
6. M. Lockley, ‘Black Panther Donald Neilson’s Trail of Terror and Murder of Lesley Whittle 40
Years Ago Remembered by Top Cop’, Birmingham Mail (17 January 2015), https://www.
birminghammail.co.uk/news/midlands-news/black-panther-donald-neilsons-trail-8464470.
7. ‘Legacy of Black Panther Murders’, BBC News (27 January 2010), http://news.bbc.co.uk/
local/shropshire/hi/people_and_places/history/newsid_8365000/8365884.stm.
8. J. Patterson, ‘Why The Black Panther Can Hold Its Head Up High’, The Guardian (27 January
2012), https://www.theguardian.com/film/filmblog/2012/jun/06/the-black-panther-donald-
neilson.
9. Ibid.
10. Ibid.
11. M. Simon, ‘Fantastically Wrong: The Scientist Who Seriously Believed Criminals Were
Part Ape’, Wired (12 November 2014), https://www.wired.com/2014/11/fantastically-wrong-
criminal-anthropology/.
12. Ibid.
13. Ibid.
14. A. Rutherford, ‘Why We Can’t Blame “Warrior Genes” for Violent Crime’, New Statesman
(16 September 2016), https://www.newstatesman.com/2016/09/why-we-can-t-blame-
warrior-genes-violent-crime.
15. S. Knapton, ‘Violence Genes May Be Responsible for One in 10 Serious Crimes’, The Telegraph
(28 October 2014), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/science/science-news/11192643/
Violence-genes-may-be-responsible-for-one-in-10-serious-crimes.html.
472
e ndnot es
16. Ibid.
17. T. Adams, ‘How to Spot a Murderer’s Brain’, The Guardian (12 May 2013), https://www.
theguardian.com/science/2013/may/12/how-to-spot-a-murderers-brain.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid.
20. Ibid.
21. J. Wells, ‘Low Resting Heart Rate Linked to “Future Violent or Anti-social Behaviour” ’,
The Telegraph (17 September 2015), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/men/the-filter/11863460/
Low-resting-heart-rate-linked-to-future-violent-or-anti-social-behaviour.html.
22. Adams, ‘How to Spot a Murderer’s Brain’.
23. T. Wallace, ‘Brain Lesions Contribute to Criminal Behaviour, Study Finds’, Cosmos (20
December 2017), https://cosmosmagazine.com/social-sciences/brain-lesions-contribute-
to-criminal-behaviour-study-finds.
24. Ibid.
25. Ibid.
26. Ibid.
27. R. Keller, ‘Macabre World of the Warped Killer Who Inspired Silence of the Lambs—Featuring
Soup Bowls Made from Human Skulls and Even Grislier “Trophies” ’, Daily Mirror (30 August
2017), https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/real-life-stories/grisly-world-warped-killer-who-
11081022.
28. G. Paoletti, ‘The Story of Serial Killer Edmund Kemper, Whose Story Is Almost Too Gross
to Be Real’, All That’s Interesting (7 November 2018), https://allthatsinteresting.com/edmund-
kemper.
29. ‘Gary Heidnik’, Criminal Minds (2018), http://criminalminds.wikia.com/wiki/Gary_
Heidnik.
30. C. Carter, ‘From Lonely Weakling to the Yorkshire Ripper: How Serial Killer Peter Sutcliffe
Developed His Murderous Hatred’, Daily Mirror (13 November 2020), https://www.mirror.
co.uk/news/uk-news/lonely-weakling-yorkshire-ripper-how-11213299.
31. H. Mitchell and M. G. Aamodt, ‘The Incidence of Child Abuse in Serial Killers’, Journal of
Police and Criminal Psychology, 20:40–7 (2005).
32. G. Tenbergen, M. Wittfoth, H. Frieling, J. Ponseti, M. Walter, H. Walter, K. M. Beier,
B. Schiffer, and T. H. Kruger, ‘The Neurobiology and Psychology of Pedophilia: Recent
Advances and Challenges’, Frontiers in Human Neuroscience, 9:344 (2015).
33. Ibid.
34. R. Sanders, ‘Are Paedophiles’ Brains Wired Differently?’, BBC News (24 November 2015),
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-34858350.
35. Ibid.
36. J. Grayson, ‘He Is a Paedophile, But That Does Not Make Him a Child Molester’, Huffington Post
(17 September 2017), https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/juliet-grayson/he-is-a-paedophile-
but-th_b_12046562.html.
37. Ibid.
38. K. Gander, ‘The Man Whose Brain Tumour “Turned Him into a Paedophile” ’, The Independent
(24 February 2016), https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/features/a-
40-year-old-developed-an-obsession-with-child-pornography-then-doctors-discovered-
why-a6893756.html.
39. Ibid.
40. Ibid.
473
e ndnot es
41. C. Weaver, ‘Are You Raising a Paedophile?’, Now to Love (7 June 2016), https://www.
nowtolove.com.au/news/real-life/nature-vs-nurture-are-you-raising-a-paedophile-10454.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid.
44. L. Buchen, ‘Neuroscience: In Their Nurture’, Nature 467:146–8 (2010).
45. Ibid.
46. B. Weidmann, ‘The Making of a Bully’, The Scientist (25 January 2013), https://www.the-scientist.
com/daily-news/the-making-of-a-bully-39884.
47. Ibid.
48. Ibid.
49. S. C. Johnson, ‘The New Theory That Could Explain Crime and Violence in America’,
Medium (18 February 2014), https://medium.com/matter/the-new-theory-that-could-
explain-crime-and-violence-in-america-945462826399.
50. Ibid.
51. Ibid.
52. Ibid.
53. Ibid.
54. W. Hirstein, ‘What Is a Psychopath?’, Psychology Today (30 January 2013), https://www.
psychologytoday.com/us/blog/mindmelding/201301/what-is-psychopath-0.
55. Ibid.
56. S. A. Bonn, ‘Serial Killer Myth #1: They’re Mentally Ill or Evil Geniuses’, Psychology Today (16
June 2014), https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/wicked-deeds/201406/serial-killer-
myth-1-theyre-mentally-ill-or-evil-geniuses.
57. S. Rose, ‘From Split to Psycho: Why Cinema Fails Dissociative Identity Disorder’,
The Guardian (12 January 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/film/2017/jan/12/cinema-
dissociative-personality-disorder-split-james-mcavoy.
58. Ibid.
59. Ibid.
60. J. Jitchotvisut, ‘How Ted Bundy Got Away with So Many Murders, According to a Forensic
Psychologist’, Insider (28 January 2019), https://www.insider.com/ted-bundy-case-
explained-forensic-psychologist-2019-1.
61. J. C. Motzkin, J. P. Newman, K. A. Kiehl, and M. Koenigs, ‘Reduced Prefrontal Connectivity
in Psychopathy’, Journal of Neuroscience, 31:17348–57 (2011).
62. S. Vaknin, ‘Serial and Mass Killers’, Mental Health Matters (14 April 2009), https://mental-
health-matters.com/serial-and-mass-killers/.
63. S. A. Bonn, ‘Understanding What Drives Serial Killers’, Psychology Today (15 September 2019),
https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/wicked-deeds/201909/understanding-what-
drives-serial-killers.
64. R. Zachary, ‘Night Stalker: The Life and Death of Richard Ramirez’, Serial Killer (14 October
2020), https://serialkillershop.com/blogs/true-crime/richard-ramirez-night-stalker.
65. V. Allan, ‘Why We Must Understand Savile Psyche’, The Herald (29 June 2014), https://www.
heraldscotland.com/opinion/13167665.why-we-must-understand-savile-psyche/.
66. A. Kalia, ‘ “We’re All Competing for the Same Jobs”: Life in Britain’s Youngest City’, The
Guardian (5 February 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2018/feb/05/life-britain-
youngest-city-bradford-uk-unemployment.
67. Ibid.
68. Ibid.
474
e ndnot es
69. O. Burkeman, ‘Voice of America’, The Guardian (1 March 2002), https://www.theguardian.

com/books/2002/mar/01/studsterkel.
70. V. Dodd, ‘Rising Crime is Symptom of Inequality, Says Senior Met Chief’, The Guardian
(14 June 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2018/jun/14/rising-is-symptom-of-
inequality-says-senior-met-chief.
71. Ibid.
72. C. Ferguson, ‘Banking Is a Criminal Industry Because Its Crimes Go Unpunished’, Huffington
Post (16 July 2012), https://www.huffingtonpost.com/charles-ferguson/bank-crimes_b_
1675714.html.
73. Ibid.
74. Ibid.
75. Ibid.
76. R. Schouten, ‘Psychopaths on Wall Street’, Harvard Business Review (14 March 2012), https://
hbr.org/2012/03/psychopaths-on-wall-street.
Chapter 16: Class and Division

1. M. Kaufman, ‘The Internet Revolution is the New Industrial Revolution’, Forbes (5 October
2012), https://www.forbes.com/sites/michakaufman/2012/10/05/the-internet-revolution-
is-the-new-industrial-revolution/.
2. P. Torres, ‘It’s the End of the World and We Know It: Scientists in Many Disciplines See
Apocalypse, Soon’, Salon (30 April 2017), https://www.salon.com/2017/04/30/its-the-end-
of-the-world-and-we-know-it-scientists-in-many-disciplines-see-apocalypse-soon/.
3. J. Gibbons, ‘Climate Change Is Reaching the Point of no Return’, The Times (24 August 2018),
https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/climate-change-is-reaching-the-point-of-no-return-
john-gibbons-5jtmj7jt6.
4. J. Vidal, ‘ “Tip of the Iceberg”: Is Our Destruction of Nature Responsible for Covid-19?’, The
Guardian (18 March 2020), https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2020/mar/18/tip-
of-the-iceberg-is-our-destruction-of-nature-responsible-for-covid-19-aoe.
5. C. Bickerton, ‘The Collapse of Europe’s Mainstream Centre Left’, New Statesman (1 May 2018),
https://www.newstatesman.com/world/europe/2018/05/collapse-europe-s-mainstream-
centre-left.
6. F. Rich, ‘Ten Years after the Crash, We Are Still Living in the World It Brutally Remade’, New
York Magazine (5 August 2018), http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2018/08/america-
10-years-after-the-financial-crisis.html.
7. M. Savage, ‘Richest 1% on Target to Own Two-Thirds of All Wealth by 2030’, The Observer
(7 April 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/business/2018/apr/07/global-inequality-
tipping-point-2030.
8. J. Pickrell, ‘Timeline: Human Evolution’, New Scientist (4 September 2006), https://www.
newscientist.com/article/dn9989-timeline-human-evolution/.
9. R. J. Bankoff and G. H. Perry, ‘Hunter-Gatherer Genomics: Evolutionary Insights and Ethical
Considerations’, Current Opinion in Genetics and Development, 41:1–7 (2016).
10. J. Suzman, ‘Why “Bushman Banter” Was Crucial to Hunter-Gatherers’ Evolutionary
Success’, The Guardian (29 October 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/inequality/2017/
oct/29/why-bushman-banter-was-crucial-to-hunter-gatherers-evolutionary-success.
11. Ibid.
12. Ibid.
475
e ndnot es
13. Ibid.
14. A. Chua, ‘How America’s Identity Politics Went from Inclusion to Division’, The Guardian (1
March 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/society/2018/mar/01/how-americas-identity-
politics-went-from-inclusion-to-division.
15. J. Suzman, ‘How Neolithic Farming Sowed the Seeds of Modern Inequality 10,000 Years
Ago’, The Guardian (5 December 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/inequality/2017/
dec/05/how-neolithic-farming-sowed-the-seeds-of-modern-inequality-10000-years-ago.
16. B. Cunliffe, ‘Against the Grain by James C Scott Review—the Beginning of Elites, Tax, Slavery’,
The Guardian (25 November 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/nov/25/
against-the-grain-by-james-c-scott-review.
17. Ibid.
18. J. Diamond, ‘The Worst Mistake in the History of the Human Race’, Discover Magazine (1 May
1999), http://discovermagazine.com/1987/may/02-the-worst-mistake-in-the-history-of-
the-human-race.
19. Cunliffe, ‘Against the Grain by James C Scott Review’.
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid.
22. G. E. M. De Sainte Croix, The Class Struggle in the Ancient World (Duckworth, 2001), p. 40.
23. M. Beard, ‘A Radical, Short-Lived and Violent Experiment: the Origins of Democracy’,
The Guardian (29 April 2006), https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2006/apr/29/
comment.politics1.
24. Aristotle, ‘Politics’, MIT Internet Classics Archive (2009), http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/
politics.1.one.html.
25. M. E. Price, ‘Why We Think Monogamy Is Normal’, Psychology Today (9 September 2011),
https://www.psychologytoday.com/intl/blog/darwin-eternity/201109/why-we-think-
monogamy-is-normal.
26. D. Ross, ‘Feudalism and Medieval life’, Britain Express (2020), https://www.britainexpress.
com/History/Feudalism_and_Medieval_life.htm.
27. L. G. Bowman, ‘The Paradox of the Declaration of Independence’, Aspen Institute (1 July 2016),
https://www.aspeninstitute.org/blog-posts/every-american-know-paradox-declaration-
independence/.
28. J. M. C. Lustiger, ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity’, First Things (October 1997), https://www.
firstthings.com/article/1997/10/002-liberty-equality-fraternity.
29. R. Cox, ‘Inequality Gap: Growing Gulf between Rich and Poor Leaves 42 People with Same
Wealth as World’s 3.7bn Worst off’, The Independent (22 January 2018), https://www.inde-
pendent.co.uk/news/business/news/oxfam-report-worlds-richest-poorest-inequality-
gap-wealth-2017-davos-wef-a8167676.html.
30. H. O’Shaughnessy, ‘Chilean Coup: 40 Years Ago I Watched Pinochet Crush a Democratic
Dream’, The Guardian (7 September 2013), https://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/sep/
07/chile-coup-pinochet-allende.
31. E. O’Carroll, ‘Karl Marx: 10 Great Quotes on His Birthday’, Christian Science Monitor (4 May
2012), https://www.csmonitor.com/Books/2012/0504/Karl-Marx-10-great-quotes-on-his-
birthday/On-the-mainstream-media.
32. S. A. Diamond, ‘Let’s Talk about Loneliness: Alienation in a Linked Up Age’, Psychology Today
(21 February 2014), https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/evil-deeds/201402/lets-
talk-about-loneliness-alienation-in-linked-age.
33. J. Elster, Karl Marx: A Reader (Cambridge University Press, 2008), p. 39.
476
e ndnot es
34. K. Moos, ‘Working Out the Meaning of “Meaningful” Work’, Chronicle Vitae (30 October
2014), https://chroniclevitae.com/news/781-working-out-the-meaning-of-meaningful-
work.
35. G. Kennedy, ‘Of Pins and Things’, Adam Smith Institute (28 May 2012), https://www.
adamsmith.org/blog/economics/of-pins-and-things.
36. T. Hindle, ‘Mass Production’, The Economist (20 October 2009), https://www.economist.
com/news/2009/10/20/mass-production.
37. S. Ghosh, ‘Peeing in Trash Cans, Constant Surveillance, and Asthma Attacks on the Job:
Amazon Workers Tell Us Their Warehouse Horror Stories’, Business Insider (5 May 2018),
https://www.businessinsider.com/amazon-warehouse-workers-share-their-horror-
stories-2018-4?r=US&IR=T.
38. Ibid.
39. J. Grove, ‘Fixed-Term Now the Norm for Early Career Academics, Says UCU’, Times Higher
Education (14 April 2016), https://www.timeshighereducation.com/news/fixed-term-now-
the-norm-for-early-career-academics-says-university-and-college-union-ucu.
40. S. Weale, ‘Part-Time Lecturers on Precarious Work: “I Don’t Make Enough for Rent” ’, The
Guardian (16 November 2016), https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2016/nov/16/part-
time-lecturers-on-precarious-work-i-dont-make-enough-for-rent.
41. L. Dodgson, ‘Here’s Why CEOs Often Have the Traits of a Psychopath’, Business Insider (7 July
2017), http://uk.businessinsider.com/ceos-often-have-psychopathic-traits-2017-7.
42. J. Silver, Is Wall Street Full of Psychopaths?, The Atlantic (2012), https://www.theatlantic.
com/health/archive/2012/03/is-wall-street-full-of-psychopaths/254944/
43. A. Rzepniknowska, ‘Racism and Xenophobia Experienced by Polish Migrants in the UK
before and after Brexit Vote’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 45:61–77, (2018).
44. M. Berry, I. Garcia-Blanco, and K. Moore, ‘UK Press Is the Most Aggressive in Reporting on
Europe’s “Migrant” Crisis’, The Conversation (14 March 2016), https://theconversation.com/
uk-press-is-the-most-aggressive-in-reporting-on-europes-migrant-crisis-56083.
45. A. Bovey, ‘Women in Medieval Society’, British Library (30 April 2015), https://www.bl.uk/
the-middle-ages/articles/women-in-medieval-society.
46. H. J. Sharman, E. K. Hunt, R. F. Nesiba, and B. Wiens-Tuers, Economics: An Introduction to
Traditional and Progressive Values (M.E. Sharpe, 2008), p. 37.
47. R. Stites, The Women’s Liberation Movement in Russia: Feminism, Nihilsm, and Bolshevism,
1860–1930 (Princeton University Press, 1978), p. 160.
48. E. Goddard and J. Cox, ‘Women’s Suffrage: After 100 Years since Millions of Women
Got the Vote around the World, How Do Their Rights Compare Now?’, The Independent
(6 February 2018), https://www.independent.co.uk/news/long_reads/women-suffrage-
100-years-get-vote-right-uk-britain-ireland-us-world-countries-compare-switzerland-
a8191506.html.
49. K. Parker, ‘Despite Progress, Women Still Bear Heavier Load Than Men in Balancing Work
and Family’, Pew Research Center (10 March 2015), http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-
tank/2015/03/10/women-still-bear-heavier-load-than-men-balancing-work-family/.
50. R. Solnit, ‘A Broken Idea of Sex is Flourishing. Blame Capitalism’, The Guardian (12 May 2018),
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/may/12/sex-capitalism-incel-movement-
misogyny-feminism.
51. A. Langone, ‘#MeToo and Time’s Up Founders Explain the Difference between the 2
Movements—And How They’re Alike’, Time (22 March 2018), http://time.com/5189945/
whats-the-difference-between-the-metoo-and-times-up-movements/.
477
e ndnot es
52. R. Lewis, ‘What Actually is a Belief? And Why Is It So Hard to Change?’, Psychology Today (7
October 2018), https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/finding-purpose/201810/what-
actually-is-belief-and-why-is-it-so-hard-change.
53. P. Agarwal, ‘What Neuroimaging Can Tell Us about Our Unconscious Biases’, Scientific
American (12 April 2020), https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/observations/what-
neuroimaging-can-tell-us-about-our-unconscious-biases/.
54. Ibid.
55. M. Haiken, ‘More Than 10,000 Suicides Tied to Economic Crisis, Study Says’, Forbes (12 June
2014), https://www.forbes.com/sites/melaniehaiken/2014/06/12/more-than-10000-suicides-
tied-to-economic-crisis-study-says/.
56. J. Henley, ‘ “Recessions Can Hurt, But Austerity Kills” ’, The Guardian (15 May 2013), https://
www.theguardian.com/society/2013/may/15/recessions-hurt-but-austerity-kills.
57. Ibid.
58. J. Kanter and K. Manbeck, ‘COVID-19 Could Lead to an Epidemic of Clinical Depression,
and the Health Care System Isn’t Ready for That, Either’, The Conversation (1 April 2020),
http://theconversation.com/covid-19-could-lead-to-an-epidemic-of-clinical-depression-
and-the-health-care-system-isnt-ready-for-that-either-134528.
59. R. Pinto, M. Ashworth, and R. Jones, ‘Schizophrenia in black Caribbeans Living in the UK:
An Exploration of Underlying Causes of the High Incidence Rate’, British Journal of General
Practice, 58:429–434 (2008).
60. Ibid.
61. Ibid.
62. ‘UK Life Blamed for Ethnic Schizophrenia’, BBC News (14 July 2000), http://news.bbc.
co.uk/1/hi/health/807945.stm.
63. T. Evans, ‘Understanding the Gender Pay Gap in the UK’, Office for National Statistics
(17 January 2018), https://www.ons.gov.uk/employmentandlabourmarket/peopleinwork/
earningsandworkinghours/articles/understandingthegenderpaygapintheuk/2018-01-17.
64. R. Neate, ‘Global Pay Gap Will Take 202 Years to Close, Says World Economic Forum’, The
Guardian (18 December 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/dec/18/global-
gender-pay-gap-will-take-202-years-to-close-says-world-economic-forum.
65. S. Zacharek, E. Dockterman, and H. S. Edwards, ‘TIME Person of the Year: The Silence
Breakers’, Time (5 March 2017), https://time.com/time-person-of-the-year-2017-silence-
breakers/.
66. J. Ducharme, ‘Any Type of Sexual Harassment Can Cause Psychological Harm, Study Says’,
Time (9 November 2017), http://time.com/5017072/sexual-harassment-psychological-
damage/.
67. Ibid.
68. P. R. Albert, ‘Why Is Depression More Prevalent in Women?’, Journal of Psychiatry and
Neuroscience, 40:219–21 (2015).
69. J. Bindel, ‘Tell Me If You Still Think Prostitution Is Empowering after Hearing What The
Buying Punters Have to Say’, The Independent (19 September 2017), https://www.independent.
co.uk/voices/sex-work-punters-what-do-they-think-prostitution-exploitation-rape-danger-
a7889511.html.
70. Ibid.
71. M. Farley, ‘Risks of Prostitution: When the Person Is the Product’, Journal of the Association for
Consumer Research, 3:97–108 (2018).
478
e ndnot es
72. A. Travis, ‘Yorkshire Ripper Mental Health Review Revives Central Issue of Trial’, The
Guardian (1 December 2015), https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/dec/01/yorkshire-
ripper-peter-sutcliffe-mental-health-1981-trial.
73. L. Thornton, ‘Yorkshire Ripper Killed EIGHT More Women, Claims the Ex-cop Who
Interviewed Him More Than 30 Times’, Daily Mirror (6 April 2017), https://www.mirror.co.
uk/news/uk-news/yorkshire-ripper-linked-eight-more-10174613.
74. L. Wattis, ‘The Social Nature of Serial Murder: The Intersection of Gender and Modernity’,
European Journal of Women’s Studies, 243:381–93 (2016).
75. J. Bindel, 'Peter Sutcliffe Should Never Be Freed’, The Guardian (2 March 2010), https://www.
theguardian.com/commentisfree/2010/mar/02/peter-sutcliffe-hate-crimes-women.
Chapter 17: Resistance and Rebellion

1. W. F. Edgerton, ‘The Strikes in Ramses III’s Twenty-Ninth Year’, Journal of Near Eastern
Studies, 10:137–45 (1951).
2. H. Richardson, ‘University Staff Suspend Strikes over Pensions’, BBC News (13 April 2018),
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/education-43758015.
3. J. J. Mark, ‘The First Labor Strike in History’, Ancient History Encylopedia (4 July 2017), https://
www.ancient.eu/article/1089/the-first-labor-strike-in-history/.
4. Ibid.
5. V. Blake, ‘I’m Striking with University Colleagues as Our Pensions Are Being Destroyed’,
The Guardian (22 February 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/
feb/22/university-strike-pensions-retirement-security.
6. M. Coldrick, ‘Margaret Thatcher and the Pit Strike in Yorkshire’, BBC News (8 April 2013),
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-22068640.
7. S. Milne, ‘Now We See What Was Really at Stake in the Miners’ Strike’, The Guardian (12
March 2014), https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/mar/12/miners-strike-
gutting-unions-bob-crow.
8. M. Townsend, ‘Miners’ Strike: “All I Want is for Someone to Say: I’m Sorry” ’, The Observer
(1 December 2012), https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2012/dec/02/miners-strike-
orgreave-special-report.
9. A. Gillan, ‘I Was Always Told I Was Thick. The Strike Taught Me I Wasn’t’, The Guardian (10
May 2004), https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2004/may/10/past.women.
10. D. Hayes, ‘Thirty Years on: the Socialist Workers Party and the Great Miners’ Strike’,
International Socialism (2 April 2014), http://isj.org.uk/thirty-years-on-the-socialist-workers-
party-and-the-great-miners-strike/.
11. K. Kellaway, ‘When Miners and Gay Activists United: The Real Story of the Film Pride’, The
Guardian (31 August 2014), https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/aug/31/pride-film-gay-
activists-miners-strike-interview.
12. Ibid.
13. M. Lehtonen, The Cultural Analysis of Texts (Sage Publications, 2000), p. 157.
14. Ibid.
15. J. Coles, J. Hearn, and C. Royle, ‘UCU: This is a Dispute We Can Win’, Socialist Review (April
2018), http://socialistreview.org.uk/434/ucu-dispute-we-can-win.
16. Ibid.
17. Ibid.
479
e ndnot es
18. J. Spence and C. Stephenson, ‘ “Side by Side with Our Men?” Women’s Activism, Community,
and Gender in the 1984–1985 British Miners’ Strike’, International Labor and Working-Class
History, 75:68–84 (2009).
19. J. Rees and L. German, A People’s History of London (Verso Books, 2012), p. 41.
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid.
22. M. Lavalette and G. Mooney, Class Struggle and Social Welfare (Routledge, 2013), p. 61.
23. Ibid.
24. A. Gorz, ‘Reform and Revolution’, Socialist Register (March 1968), https://socialistregister.
com/index.php/srv/article/view/5272/0.
25. A. J. Rubin, ‘May 1968: A Month of Revolution Pushed France Into the Modern World’, New
York Times (5 May 2018), https://www.nytimes.com/2018/05/05/world/europe/france-may-
1968-revolution.html.
26. C. Hill, The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas during the English Revolution (Penguin, 1991).
27. M. O. Grenby, ‘Writing Revolution: British Literature and the French Revolution Crisis, a
Review of Recent Scholarship’, Literature Compass, 3:1351–85 (2006).
28. M. Cole, K. Levitin, and A.R. Luria, The Autobiography of Alexander Luria: A Dialogue with the
Making of Mind (Psychology Press, 2010), p. 17.
29. C. A. Hartley and L. H. Somerville, ‘The Neuroscience of Adolescent Decision-Making’,
Current Opinion in Behavioral Sciences, 5:108–15 (2015).
30. K. Marx, The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte (1852), https://www.marxists.org/archive/
marx/works/1852/18th-brumaire/ch01.htm.
31. G. Tiruneh, ‘Social Revolutions: Their Causes, Patterns, and Phases’, SAGE Open (18
September 2014), http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/full/10.1177/2158244014548845.
32. D. Saldanha, ‘Antonio Gramsci and the Analysis of Class Consciousness: Some
Methodological Considerations’, Economic and Political Weekly, 23:11–18 (1988).
33. Ibid.
34. C. Hill, The Century of Revolution: 1603–1714 (Routledge, 1980).
35. D. Sandbrook, ‘The Man Who Wouldn’t Be King’, New Statesman (29 December 2010),
https://www.newstatesman.com/society/2010/12/cromwell-god-essay-history.
36. T. Benn, ‘The Levellers and the Tradition of Dissent’, BBC History (17 February 2011), http://
www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/civil_war_revolution/benn_levellers_01.shtml.
37. J. Rees, ‘In Defence of October’, International Socialism, 52:3–79 (Autumn 1991), https://www.
marxists.org/history/etol/writers/rees-j/1991/xx/october.html.
38. C. Harris, ‘Russia’s February Revolution Was Led by Women on the March’, Smithsonian
Magazine (17 February 2017), https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/russias-february-
revolution-was-led-women-march-180962218/.
39. T. Vallance, ‘Fresh Perspectives on the Levellers’, History Today (6 June 2017), https://www.
historytoday.com/reviews/fresh-perspectives-levellers.
40. S. Weissman, ‘The Golden Era’, Jacobin Magazine (18 December 2017), https://www.
jacobinmag.com/2017/12/victor-serge-russian-revolution-bolsheviks.
41. B. J. Luskin, ‘MRIs Reveal Unconscious Bias in the Brain’, Psychology Today (7 April 2016),
https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/the-media-psychology-effect/201604/mris-
reveal-unconscious-bias-in-the-brain.
42. M. Rouault, J. Drugowitsch, and E. Koechlin, ‘Prefrontal Mechanisms Combining Rewards
and Beliefs in Human Decision-Making’, Nature Communications, 10:301 (2019).
480
e ndnot es
43. G. Walton, ‘Théroigne de Méricourt, Heroine of the French Revolution’, Amazing Women in
History (2016), http://www.amazingwomeninhistory.com/theroigne-de-mericourt/.
44. Ibid.
45. Ibid.
46. H. Mantel, ‘Rescued by Marat’, London Review of Books, 14:15–16 (1992).
47. Ibid.
48. Walton, ‘Théroigne de Méricourt, Heroine of the French Revolution’.
49. I. Ferguson, Politics of the Mind: Marxism and Mental Distress (Bookmarks, 2017), p. 30.
50. E. Fee and T. M. Brown, ‘Freeing the Insane’, American Journal of Public Health, 96:1743 (2006).
51. A. Rogers and D. Pilgrim, Mental Health Policy in Britain: A Critical Introduction (Palgrave
Macmillan, 1996), p. 50.
52. B. Manning, The English People and the English Revolution (Bookmarks, 1995).
53. S. Roberts, ‘Col. Thomas Rainborowe: “The Poorest He That Is in England Hath a Right to Live
as the Greatest He” ’, The History of Parliament (18 April 2013), https://thehistoryofparliament.
wordpress.com/2013/04/18/col-thomas-rainborowe-the-poorest-he-that-is-in-england-hath-
a-right-to-live-as-the-greatest-he/.
54. R. Coalson, ‘Gulags Were a Horrific Cornerstone of Stalinist Russia’, The Atlantic (5 March
2013), https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2013/03/gulags-were-a-horrific-
cornerstone-of-stalinist-russia/273703/.
55. D. Sherry, Russia 1917: Workers’ Revolution and the Festival of the Oppressed (Bookmarks, 2017),
p. 219.
56. A. Kozulin, Vygotsky’s Psychology: A Biography of Ideas (Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990),
pp. 239–40.
57. G. Dvorsky, ‘How the Soviets Used Their Own Twisted Version of Psychiatry to Suppress
Political Dissent’, Gizmodo (4 September 2012), https://io9.gizmodo.com/how-the-soviets-
used-their-own-twisted-version-of-psych-5940212.
58. Ibid.
59. Ibid.
60. R. D. Strous, ‘Psychiatry during the Nazi Era: Ethical Lessons for the Modern Professional’,
Annals of General Psychiatry, 6:8 (2007).
61. T. Burns, Our Necessary Shadow: The Nature and Meaning of Psychiatry (Pegasus Books, 2014), p. 50.
62. G. Le Bon, The Psychology of Revolutionary Crowds (London: T Fisher Unwin, 1913).
63. Ibid.
64. Ibid.
65. J. Drury, ‘Impact: From Riots to Crowd Safety’, The Psychologist (February 2016), https://
thepsychologist.bps.org.uk/volume-29/february/riots-crowd-safety.
66. C. T. Miéville, ‘The Day That Shook the World’, Jacobin Magazine (7 November 2017), https://
jacobinmag.com/2017/11/october-revolution-china-mieville-bolsheviks.
67. N. Carlin, ‘The Levellers and the Conquest of Ireland in 1649’, The Historical Journal, 30:269–88
(1987).
68. J. Israel, Revolutionary Ideas: An Intellectual History of the French Revolution from the Rights of Man
to Robespierre (Princeton University Press, 2014), pp. 182–3.
69. S. Sagall, ‘Antisemitism and the Russian Revolution’, Socialist Review (April 2018), http://
socialistreview.org.uk/434/antisemitism-and-russian-revolution.
70. Ibid.
71. J. Rees, The Leveller Revolution (Verso, 2016), pp. 290–2.
481
e ndnot es
72. J. Orr, Marxism and Women’s Liberation (Bookmarks, 2015), pp. 94–5.
73. D. Sherry, Russia 1917: Workers’ Revolution and the Festival of the Oppressed (Bookmarks, 2017),
p. 185.
74. M. Bond, ‘Mob Mentality’, Slate (17 March 2015), https://slate.com/technology/2015/03/
crowd-psychology-people-are-friendly-altruistic-happy-in-large-gatherings.html.
75. B. Trew, ‘How Distaste of LGBT People in Egypt Has Turned into State-Sponsored
Persecution’, The Independent (17 May 2015), https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/
middle-east/how-distaste-of-lgbt-people-in-egypt-has-turned-into-state-sponsored-
persecution-10256869.html.
76. M. L. Thomas, ‘Fascism in Europe Today’, International Socialism, 162:27–64 (2019).
77. P. Brown, in P. Brown (ed.), Radical Psychology (Tavistock Publications, 1973), pp. 244–56.
78. Ibid.
79. O. Nachtwey, Germany’s Hidden Crisis: Social Decline in the Heart of Europe (Verso, 2018), p. 133.
80. Ibid.
81. S. Knapton, ‘Nine in 10 People Would Electrocute Others If Ordered, Rerun of infamous
Milgram Experiment Shows’, The Telegraph (14 March 2017), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/
science/2017/03/14/nine-10-people-would-electrocute-others-ordered-re-run-milgram/.
82. Ibid.
83. Ibid.
84. M. Stuchbery, ‘What We Can Learn from the White Rose Siblings’, The Local De (22 February
2019), https://www.thelocal.de/20190222/76-years-later-what-the-white-rose-siblings-
teach-us.
85. O. B. Waxman, ‘ “He Was Sent by God to Take Care of Us”: Inside the Real Story behind
Schindler’s List’, Time (7 December 2018), https://time.com/5470613/schindlers-list-true-
story/.
86. S. B. Carroll, ‘Deep Secrets and the Thrill of Discovery’, Quanta (25 February 2016) https://
www.quantamagazine.org/deep-secrets-and-the-thrill-of-discovery-20160225/.
Chapter 18: Music and Rhythm

1. D. Randall, Sound System (Pluto Books, 2017), p. 1.
2. B. Lawergren, ‘The Origin of Musical Instruments and Sounds’, Anthropos, 88:31–45 (1988).
3. S. T. Parker and K. E. Jaffe, Darwin’s Legacy: Scenarios in Human Evolution (Altamira Press,
2008), p. 7.
4. ‘Why Music?’, The Economist (18 December 2008), https://www.economist.com/christmas-
specials/2008/12/18/why-music.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid.
8. Ibid.
9. R. D. Fields, ‘The Power of Music: Mind Control by Rhythmic Sound’, Scientific American (19
October 2012), https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/guest-blog/the-power-of-music-mind-
control-by-rhythmic-sound/.
10. Ibid.
11. Ibid.
12. Ibid.
482
e ndnot es
13. S. Szeles, ‘7 Theories on Why We Evolved to Love Music’, Nova (21 May 2014), http://www.
pbs.org/wgbh/nova/blogs/secretlife/blogposts/the-evolution-of-music/.
14. E. Landau, ‘This Is Your Brain on Music’, CNN (23 January 2018), https://edition.cnn.
com/2013/04/15/health/brain-music-research/index.html.
15. Ibid.
16. Ibid.
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid.
19. J. Schulkin and G. B. Raglan, ‘The Evolution of Music and Human Social Capability’, Frontiers
in Neuroscience, 8:1–13 (2014).
20. Ibid.
21. L. Marquand-Brown, ‘Music and Human Evolution’, OUP Blog (25 July 2017), https://blog.
oup.com/2017/07/music-human-evolution/.
22. Ibid.
23. I. Morley, The Prehistory of Music (Oxford University Press, 2013), Chapter 2.
24. J. Richter and R. Ostovar, ‘ “It Don’t Mean a Thing if It Ain’t Got That Swing”—An
Alternative Concept for Understanding the Evolution of Dance and Music in Human
Beings’, Frontiers in Human Neuroscience, 10:485 (2016).
25. P. Gray, ‘Play as a Foundation for Hunter-Gatherer Social Existence’, American Journal of Play,
1:476–522 (2009).
26. P. Wiessner, ‘Embers of Society: Firelight Talk among the Ju/’hoansi Bushmen’, Proceedings of
the National Academy of Sciences USA, 111:14027–35 (2014).
27. Morley, The Prehistory of Music.
28. Ibid.
29. Gray, ‘Play as a Foundation for Hunter-Gatherer Social Existence’.
30. M. Del Nevo, Art Music: Love, Listening and Soulfulness (Transaction Publishers, 2013), p. 100.
31. F. Rohrer, ‘The Devil’s Music’, BBC News (28 April 2006), http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/
magazine/4952646.stm.
32. D. Randall, Sound System (Pluto Press, 2017), pp. 98–9.
33. Rohrer, ‘The Devil’s Music’.
34. Ibid.
35. Ibid.
36. S. Behrman, ‘From Revolution to Irrelevance: How Classical Music Lost Its Audience’,
International Socialism, 121 (2 January 2009), http://isj.org.uk/from-revolution-to-irrelevance-
how-classical-music-lost-its-audience/.
37. Ibid.
38. P. McGarr, Mozart: Overture to Revolution (Redwords, 2001), pp. 20–2.
39. Ibid., 20–2.
40. Ibid., 69.
41. Behrman, ‘From Revolution to Irrelevance’.
42. L. S. Vygotsky, ‘Art and Life’, in The Psychology of Art (1925), https://www.marxists.org/
archive/vygotsky/works/1925/art11.htm.
43. S. Jeffries, ‘Don Giovanni—Hero or Villain?’, The Guardian (11 April 2012), https://www.
theguardian.com/music/2012/apr/11/don-giovanni-hero-or-villain.
44. L. Howard, ‘The Story and Backstory of Writing The Magic Flute’, Utah Opera (19 February
2019), https://utahopera.org/explore/2019/02/the-story-and-backstory-of-writing-the-
magic-flute/.
483
e ndnot es
45. M. Lopez-Gonzalez and C. J. Limb, ‘Musical Creativity and the Brain’, Cerebrum, 2012:2
(2012).
46. N. Njoroge, ‘Dedicated to the Struggle: Black Music, Transculturation, and the Aural
Making and Unmaking of the Third World’, Black Music Research Journal, 28:85–104 (2008).
47. M. Smith, John Coltrane: Jazz, Racism and Resistance (Redwords, 2003), pp. 30–1.
48. Ibid., 34–5.
49. A. Midgette, ‘Knowing Mozart Better in the Evolution of the Piano’, New York Times (30
August 2006), https://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/30/arts/music/knowing-mozart-better-
in-the-evolution-of-the-piano.html.
50. Ibid.
51. A. Bateman, ‘Beethoven and the Piano’, Music Unwrapped (2020), http://www.musicun-
wrapped.co.uk/filemanager/Beethoven_Spread.pdf.
52. Ibid.
53. A. Lefkovitz, Jimi Hendrix and the Cultural Politics of Popular Music (Amazon Media, 2018), p. 9.
54. M. Clague, ‘50 Years Ago, Jimi Hendrix’s Woodstock Anthem Expressed the Hopes and
Fears of a Nation’, The Conversation (14 August 2019), http://theconversation.com/50-years-
ago-jimi-hendrixs-woodstock-anthem-expressed-the-hopes-and-fears-of-a-nation-
120717.
55. ‘Fifty Years of Jimi Hendrix’, The Economist (14 December 2016), https://www.economist.
com/prospero/2016/12/14/fifty-years-of-jimi-hendrix.
56. J. Storey, Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader (Pearson Education, 2006), p. 80.
57. J. Thompson, ‘Top 20 Political Songs: “Imagine”, John Lennon, 1971’, New Statesman (25
March 2010), https://www.newstatesman.com/music/2010/03/lennon-imagine-political.
58. Ibid.
59. K. Macdonald, ‘The Harmonic Magic behind the Timeless Beauty of John Lennon’s
“Imagine” ’, Classic FM (3 July 2020), https://www.classicfm.com/discover-music/harmonic-
analysis-imagine-john-lennon/.
60. D. Gray, ‘Drift Away’, Genius (2020), https://genius.com/Dobie-gray-drift-away-lyrics.
61. D. Randall, Sound System (Pluto Press, 2017), pp. 66–7.
62. Ibid., 69.
63. Ibid., 69.
64. T. Ali and R. Blackburn, ‘The Lost John Lennon Interview’, Counterpunch (8 December 2005),
https://www.counterpunch.org/2005/12/08/the-lost-john-lennon-interview/.
65. G. Campbell, ‘Country Boy’, Genius (2020), https://genius.com/Glen-campbell-country-
boy-you-got-your-feet-in-la-lyrics.
66. G. Adams, ‘Eminem: The Fall and Rise of a Superstar’, The Independent (4 February 2009),
https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/features/eminem-the-fall-and-
rise-of-a-superstar-1544787.html.
67. Eminem, ‘Walk on Water’, Genius (2020), https://genius.com/Eminem-walk-on-water-
lyrics.
68. G. Cartwright, ‘Richey Edwards’, The Guardian (26 November 2008), https://www.theguardian.
com/music/2008/nov/26/richey-edwards-manic-street-preachers.
69. Manic Street Preachers, ‘4st 7lb’, Genius (2020), https://genius.com/Manic-street-preachers-
4st-7lb-lyrics.
70. Cartwright, ‘Richey Edwards’.
71. Ibid.
484
e ndnot es
Chapter 19: Art and Design

1. L. Lennon, ‘How a Dog Called Robot Helped Reveal Lascaux’s Prehistoric Art Gallery’, Daily
Telegraph (11 September 2015), https://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/news/how-a-dog-called-
robot-helped-reveal-lascauxs-prehistoric-art-gallery/news-story/717e1cb7dc68c1302f2575e
5cdc67fe9.
2. Ibid.
3. R. Erlich, ‘In Portugal, a Dam Threatens Prehistoric Rock Engravings’, Christian Science
Monitor (4 April 1995), https://www.csmonitor.com/1995/0404/04101.html.
4. A. M. Baptista and A. P. Fernandes Batarda, ‘Rock Art and the Coa Valley Archaeological
Park: A Case Study in the Preservation of Portugal’s Prehistoric Rupestral Heritage’, in
P. Pettit, P. Bahn, and S. Ripoll (eds), Palaeolithic Cave Art at Creswell Crags in European Context.
(Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 263–79.
5. J. Marchant, ‘A Journey to the Oldest Cave Paintings in the World’, Smithsonian Magazine
(January 2016), https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/journey-oldest-cave-paintings-
world-180957685/.
6. A. Kiely, ‘The Origin Of The World’s Art: Prehistoric Cave Painting’, Head Stuff (12 September
2016), https://www.headstuff.org/culture/history/origin-worlds-art-prehistoric-cave-
painting/.
7. M. Brooks, ‘Drawing, Visualisation and Young Children’s Exploration of “Big Ideas” ’,
International Journal of Science Education, 31:319–41 (2009).
8. S. Brown, X. Gao, L. Tisdelle, S. B. Eickhoff, and M. Liotti, Naturalizing Aesthetics: Brain
Areas for Aesthetic Appraisal across Sensory Modalities’, Neuroimage, 58:250–8 (2011).
9. S. Brown and X. Gao, ‘The Neuroscience of Beauty’, Scientific American (27 September 2011),
https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-neuroscience-of-beauty/.
10. A. Tucker, ‘How does the Brain Process Art?’, Smithsonian Magazine (November 2012),
https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/how-does-the-brain-process-art-
80541420/.
11. R. Chamberlain, I. C. McManus, N. Brunswick, Q. Rankin, H. Riley, and R. Kanai, ‘Drawing
on the Right Side of the Brain: A Voxel-Based Morphometry Analysis of Observational
Drawing’, Neuroimage, 96:167–73 (2014).
12. Tucker, ‘How does the Brain Process Art?’
13. Chamberlain et al., ‘Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain’.
14. Tucker, ‘How does the Brain Process Art?’
15. C. Finn, ‘Race to Save Lascaux Cave Art, Prehistoric “Sistine Chapel” ’, Wired (3 January
2008), https://www.wired.com/2008/01/race-to-save-la/.
16. A. Feltus, ‘I Believe There Is No Progress in Art’, The Finch (9 November 2018), http://
thefinch.net/2016/11/09/alan-feltus-i-believe-there-is-no-progress-in-art/.
17. G. Horvath, E. Farkas, I. Boncz, M. Blaho, and G. Kriska, ‘Cavemen Were Better at Depicting
Quadruped Walking Than Modern Artists: Erroneous Walking Illustrations in the Fine
Arts from Prehistory to Today’, PLoS One, 7:e49786 (2012).
18. J. Jones, ‘Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights Shows a World Waking up to the Future’, The
Guardian (10 January 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/jonathanjonesblog/
2017/jan/10/bosch-garden-of-earthly-delights-shows-a-world-waking-up-to-the-future.
19. H. Baan, ‘Hieronymus Bosch: Visionary of Change’, Socialist Review (March 2016), http://
socialistreview.org.uk/411/hieronymus-bosch-visionary-change.
485
e ndnot es
20. Editorial, ‘Hieronymus Bosch Died 500 Years Ago, But His Art Will Still Creep You Out’,
NPR Illinois (26 June 2016), http://www.nprillinois.org/post/hieronymus-bosch-died-
500-years-ago-his-art-will-still-creep-you-out.
21. Baan, ‘Hieronymus Bosch: Visionary of Change’.
22. A. Denney, ‘Bosch’s Monsters Explained’, Another Man Magazine (27 June 2018), http://www.
anothermanmag.com/life-culture/10393/hieronymus-bosch-s-monsters-explained.
23. Jones, ‘Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights’.
24. J. Burleigh, ‘Was Michelangelo’s Artistic Genius a Symptom of Autism?’, The Independent
(1 June 2004), https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/was-michelangelos-
artistic-genius-a-symptom-of-autism-756718.html.
25. Ibid.
26. S. Shaikh and J. Leonard-Amodeo, ‘The Deviating Eyes of Michelangelo’s David’, Journal of
the Royal Society of Medicine, 98:75–6 (2005).
27. G. Vasari, The Lives of the Artists (Oxford University Press, 1991), pp. 277–8.
28. J. Molyneux, ‘Michelangelo and Human Emancipation’, International Socialism, 128 (14
October 2010), http://isj.org.uk/michelangelo-and-human-emancipation/.
29. Shaikh and Leonard-Amodeo, ‘The Deviating Eyes of Michelangelo’s David’.
30. ‘What is Modernism?’, Saylor Organisation (2011), https://www.saylor.org/site/wp-content/
uploads/2011/05/Modernism.pdf.
31. C. Nineham, ‘The Two Faces of Modernism’, International Socialism, 64 (Autumn 1994),
http://pubs.socialistreviewindex.org.uk/isj64/nineham.htm.
32. J. Jones, ‘Pablo’s Punks’, The Guardian (9 January 2007), https://www.theguardian.com/
culture/2007/jan/09/2.
33. J. Molyneux, ‘A Revolution in Paint: 100 Years of Picasso’s Demoiselles’, International
Socialism, 115 (2 July 2007), http://isj.org.uk/a-revolution-in-paint-100-years-of-picassos-
demoiselles/.
34. E. Gibson, ‘A Magical Metamorphosis of the Ordinary’, Wall Street Journal (16 April 2011),
https://www.wsj.com/articles/SB10001424052748703551304576261042931202326.
35. C. Temple, ‘Visual Memory and What Picasso Was Really Seeing’, The Guardian (9 October
2016), https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/oct/09/visual-memory-and-what-
picasso-was-really-seeing.
36. Ibid.
37. Jones, ‘Pablo’s Punks’.
38. Molyneux, ‘A Revolution in Paint’.
39. Ibid.
40. Ibid.
41. C. Duncan, The Aesthetics of Power (Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 96–7.
42. ‘Five Ways to Look at Malevich’s Black Square’, Tate (2020), https://www.tate.org.uk/art/
artists/kazimir-malevich-1561/five-ways-look-malevichs-black-square.
43. Ibid.
44. C. Harrison and P. Wood, Art in Theory 1900–2000: An Anthology of Changing Ideas (Blackwell,
2003).
45. S. Zeki, ‘Art and the Brain’, Daedalus, 127:71–103 (1999).
46. ‘Five Ways to Look at Malevich’s Black Square’.
47. ‘What is Modernism?’
48. P. Anderson, A Zone of Engagement (Verso, 1992), p. 36.
486
e ndnot es
49. W. L. Adamson, ‘Avant-Garde Modernism and Italian Fascism: Cultural Politics in the Era of
Mussolini’, Journal of Modern Italian Studies, 6:230–48 (2001).
50. J. Uglow, ‘When Art Meets Power’, New York Review of Books (8 March 2017), https://www.
nybooks.com/daily/2017/03/08/when-art-meets-power-russia-revolution/.
51. Ibid.
52. C. Brandist, Carnival Culture and the Soviet Modernist Novel (Palgrave Macmillan, 1996), p. 52.
53. A. S. Shatskikh, Vitebsk: The Life of Art (Yale University Press, 2007), p. 118.
54. B. Nicholson, ‘Where to begin with Sergei Eisenstein’, British Film Institute (23 January 2018),
https://www.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/news-bfi/features/where-begin-sergei-eisenstein.
55. Ibid.
56. Ibid.
57. J. Hellerman, ‘How “Parasite” Made One of the Greatest Montages Ever’, No Film School (31
December 2019), https://nofilmschool.com/parasite-montage.
58. J. Vassilieva, ‘Eisenstein/Vygotsky/Luria’s Project: Cinematic Thinking and the Integrative
Science of Mind and Brain’, Screening the Past (December 2013), http://www.screeningthepast.
com/2013/12/eisenstein-vygotsky-luria%E2%80%99s-project-cinematic-thinking-and-the-
integrative-science-of-mind-and-brain/.
59. Ibid.
60. Ibid.
61. Ibid.
62. M. Wilmington, ‘ “Nevsky’s” Bloody Ballet for the Ages’, Los Angeles Times (1 November
1987), https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1987-11-01-ca-18046-story.html.
63. Vassilieva, ‘Eisenstein/Vygotsky/Luria’s Project’.
Chapter 20: Fact and Fiction

1. L. Reynolds, ‘Girls in Jeans, Dads Helping around the House and the Beginning of the Urban
Sprawl: How Peter and Jane Books from 60s and 70s Marked Changes in British Society’,
Daily Mail (11 March 2015), http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2989622/Girls-jeans-
dads-helping-house-beginning-urban-sprawl-Peter-Jane-books-60s-70s-marked-
changes-British-society.html.
2. ‘Work for the Idle Hands’, Telegraph and Argus (5 January 2000), http://www.
thetelegraphandargus.co.uk/news/8059971.Work_for_the_Idle_hands/.
3. R. Connolly, ‘Room at the Top Revisited’, Radio Times (29 March 2011), http://www.
rayconnolly.co.uk/room-at-the-top-revisited/.
4. C. Flanagan, ‘How Lolita Seduces Us All’, The Atlantic (September 2018), https://www.
theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2018/09/how-lolita-seduces-us-all/565751/.
5. J. Self, ‘William Golding: Pincher Martin’, Asylum (26 November 2013), https://theasylum.
wordpress.com/2013/11/26/william-golding-pincher-martin/.
6. M. A. Hector, ‘Personality and Virginia Woolf’, Psychology Today (23 August 2009), https://
www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/novels-poetry-and-psychology/200908/personality-
and-virginia-woolf?amp.
7. D. Lodge, ‘Sense and Sensibility’, The Guardian (2 November 2002), https://www.theguardian.
com/books/2002/nov/02/fiction.highereducation.
8. Ibid.
9. W. Somerset Maugham, Cakes and Ale (Vintage Classics, 2000), Preface.
487
e ndnot es
10. K. Clark and M. Holquist, Mikhail Bakhtin (Harvard University Press, 1986), p. 240.
11. I. R. Makaryk, Encyclopedia of Contemporary Literary Theory: Approaches, Scholars, Terms
(University of Toronto Press, 1993), p. 609.
12. A. Ananthaswamy, ‘Ecstatic Epilepsy: How Seizures Can Be Bliss’, New Scientist (22 January
2014), https://www.newscientist.com/article/mg22129531-000-ecstatic-epilepsy-how-
seizures-can-be-bliss/.
13. Ibid.
14. Clark and Holquist, Mikhail Bakhtin, p. 245.
15. P. J. Leithart, ‘The Monologue beyond the Dialogue’, First Things (24 March 2017), https://
www.firstthings.com/web-exclusives/2017/03/the-monologue-beyond-the-dialogue.
16. M. Berman, All That Is Solid Melts into Air (Verso, 1982).
17. N. Collins, ‘How Wuthering Heights Caused a Critical Stir When First Published in 1847’,
The Telegraph (22 March 2011), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/8396278/
How-Wuthering-Heights-caused-a-critical-stir-when-first-published-in-1847.html.
18. A. Green, ‘Lockwood’s Cruelty in Wuthering Heights’, Owlcation (8 February 2018), https://
owlcation.com/humanities/Lockwoods-Cruelty-in-Wuthering-Heights.
19. N. Rogers, ‘Review: Chartism and Class Struggle’, Labour/Le Travail, 19:143–51 (1987).
20. T. Chaffin, ‘Frederick Douglass’s Irish Liberty’, The New York Times (25 February 2011), https://
opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/02/25/frederick-douglasss-irish-liberty/.
21. C. Fowler, ‘Was Emily Brontё’s Heathcliff black?’, The Conversation (25 October 2017), https://
theconversation.com/was-emily-bront-s-heathcliff-black-85341.
22. D. Bryfonski, Class Conflict in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights (Greenhaven Press, 2011), p. 104.
23. K. Hughes, ‘The Strange Cult of Emily Brontë and the “Hot Mess” of Wuthering Heights’,
The Guardian (21 July 2018), https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/jul/21/emily-bronte-
strange-cult-wuthering-heights-romantic-novel.
24. T. Eagleton, ‘Emily Brontë and the Great Hunger’, The Irish Review 12:108–19 (1992).
25. M. P. Asl, ‘Recurring Patterns: Emily Brontë’s Neurosis in Wuthering Heights’, International
Journal of Education and Literacy Studies, 2:46–50 (2014).
26. R. Onion, ‘A School Progress Report for the Brontë Sisters’, Slate (22 July 2014), http://www.
slate.com/blogs/the_vault/2014/07/22/history_of_the_bront_family_school_report_
assessing_their_progress_at_cowan.html.
27. B. Barnett, ‘Branwell Bronte: The Mad, Bad and Dangerous Brother of Charlotte, Emily and
Anne’, The Independent (17 September 2017), https://www.independent.co.uk/news/long_
reads/branwell-bronte-emily-charlotte-anne-family-haworth-yorkshire-a7940396.
html.
28. Asl, ‘Recurring Patterns’.
29. Ibid.
30. Ibid.
31. E. Bronte, Wuthering Heights (Penguin, 1965), p. 11.
32. Ibid.
33. Ibid., 12.
34. Ibid., 11.
35. C. Tóibín, ‘Pure Evil—Colm Tóibín on The Turn of the Screw’, The Guardian (3 June 2006),
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2006/jun/03/fiction.colmtoibin.
36. M. Norris, ‘Investigating Ambiguity: Sources of Insanity in “The Turn of the Screw” (P8)’,
Medium (12 May 2016), https://medium.com/@mrnorris/investigating-ambiguity-sources-
of-insanity-in-the-turn-of-the-screw-p8-551975c0c08c.
488
e ndnot es
37. B. Leithauser, ‘Ever Scarier: On “The Turn of the Screw” ’, The New Yorker (29 October 2012),
https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/ever-scarier-on-the-turn-of-the-screw.
38. J. Sexton, ‘A Non-Apparitionist Reading of The Turn of the Screw’, BC Open Textbooks (2014),
https://opentextbc.ca/englishliterature/wp-content/uploads/sites/27/2014/05/Non-
apparitionist-reading-of-Turn-of-Screw.pdf.
39. Norris, ‘Investigating Ambiguity’.
40. M. A. Nichols, ‘The Victims of Jack the Ripper’, The History Press (1 September 2011), https://
www.thehistorypress.co.uk/articles/the-victims-of-jack-the-ripper/.
41. Norris, ‘Investigating Ambiguity’.
42. Leithauser, ‘Ever Scarier’.
43. W. K. Penny, ‘Shattered Eden: Subjectivity and the Fall out of Language in Henry James’s
The Turn of the Screw’, Literary Imagination, 18:255–73 (2016).
44. Ibid.
45. Leithauser, ‘Ever Scarier’.
46. Ibid.
47. J. Carey, William Golding: The Man Who Wrote Lord of the Flies (Faber and Faber, 2009), pp. 190–205.
48. L. Surette, ‘A Matter of Belief: Pincher Martin’s Afterlife’, Twentieth Century Literature,
40:205–25 (1994).
49. D. Peter, ‘William Golding’s Pincher Martin: A Study of Self and Its Terror of Negation’,
McMaster University (December 1982), https://macsphere.mcmaster.ca/bitstream/11375/
10954/1/fulltext.pdf.
50. Surette, ‘A Matter of Belief’.
51. R. McCrum, ‘William Golding’s Crisis’, The Observer (11 March 2012), https://www.
theguardian.com/books/2012/mar/11/william-golding-crisis.
52. M. N. Singh, ‘Golding’s Pincher Martin: Monomania Caused Moral Degradation in Modern
Man’, International Journal on Studies in English Language and Literature, 4:22–6 (2016).
53. H. Goyal, ‘Predicament of the Protagonist in William Golding’s Pincher Martin’, Research
Journal of English Language and Literature, 5:285–91 (2017).
54. Ibid.
55. Y. Nir and G. Tononi, ‘Dreaming and the Brain: From Phenomenology to Neurophysiology’,
Trends in Cognitive Science, 14:88–100 (2010).
56. P. Iyer, ‘The Butler Didn’t Do It Again’, Times Literary Supplement (28 April 1995), https://www.
the-tls.co.uk/articles/public/the-unconsoled/.
57. M. Kakutani, ‘From Kazuo Ishiguro, A New Annoying Hero’, New York Times (17 October 1995),
https://www.nytimes.com/1995/10/17/books/books-of-the-times-from-kazuo-ishiguro-a-
new-annoying-hero.html.
58. Ibid.
59. S. Jordison, ‘The Unconsoled Deals in Destruction and Disappointment’, The Guardian (27
January 2015), https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/jan/27/kazuo-ishiguro-
reading-group.
60. Ibid.
61. C. Quarrie, ‘Impossible Inheritance: Filiation and Patrimony in Kazuo Ishiguro’s The
Unconsoled’, Studies in Contemporary Fiction, 55:138–51 (2014).
62. Jordison, ‘The Unconsoled Deals’.
63. A. H. Fairbanks, ‘Ontology and Narrative Technique in Kazuo Ishiguro’s “The Unconsoled”,
Studies in the Novel, 45:603–19 (2013).
64. Ibid.
489
e ndnot es
Chapter 21: Science and Technology

1. M. A. Weitekamp, ‘ “We’re Physicists”: Gender, Genre and the Image of Scientists in The Big
Bang Theory’, Journal of Popular Television 3:75–92 (2015).
2. M. Brooks, ‘Why the Scientist Stereotype Is Bad for Everyone, Especially Kids’, Wired
(15 June 2012), https://www.wired.com/2012/06/opinion-scientist-stereotype/.
3. J. Viegas, ‘Wild Chimps Upgrade Termite-Fishing Tool’, NBC News (4 March 2009), http://
www.nbcnews.com/id/29509302/ns/technology_and_science-science/t/wild-chimps-
upgrade-termite-fishing-tool/.
4. C. Q. Choi, ‘Human Evolution: The Origin of Tool Use’, Live Science (11 November 2009),
https://www.livescience.com/7968-human-evolution-origin-tool.html.
5. K. Marx, Capital, volume I (Swan Sonnenschein, Lowrey, & Co, 1867), Chapter 7, https://
www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1867-c1/ch07.htm.
6. S. Brenner, ‘Life Sentences: Detective Rummage Investigates’, Genome Biology, 3: comment1013.
1011–comment1013.1012 (2002).
7. A. Bradford, ‘What Is a Scientific Hypothesis? Definition of Hypothesis’, Live Science
(26 July 2017), https://www.livescience.com/21490-what-is-a-scientific-hypothesis-definition-
of-hypothesis.html.
8. A. Ossola, ‘Scientists Are More Creative Than You Might Imagine’, The Atlantic (12 November
2014), https://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2014/11/the-creative-scientist/382633/.
9. J. Cutraro, ‘How Creativity Powers Science’, Science News for Students (24 May 2012), https://
www.sciencenewsforstudents.org/article/how-creativity-powers-science.
10. Ibid.
11. Ibid.
12. Ibid.
13. Ibid.
14. B. Griffith, ‘Radioactivity Discovered’, Royal Society of Chemistry (1 November 2008), https://
eic.rsc.org/feature/radioactivity-discovered/2020216.article.
15. Ibid.
16. J. Parrington, ‘Lise Meitner—A Scientific Pioneer Who Overcame Prejudice’, Socialist Worker
(17 December 2013), https://socialistworker.co.uk/art/37090/Lise+Meitner+++a+scientific+
pioneer+who+overcame+prejudice.
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid.
20. ‘Ancient Mesopotamian Civilizations’, Khan Academy (20 October 2018), https://www.khan-
ac ademy.org/humanities/world -histor y/world -histor y-beginnings/ancient-
mesopotamia/a/mesopotamia-article.
21. Ibid.
22. M. Shuttleworth, ‘War Machines of Archimedes’, Explorable (2 September 2011), https://
explorable.com/archimedes-war-machines.
23. A. Jogalekar, ‘Falsification and Its Discontents’, Scientific American (24 January 2014),
https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/the-curious-wavefunction/falsification-and-its-
discontents/.
24. J. Naughton, ‘Thomas Kuhn: The Man Who Changed the Way the World Looked at Science’,
The Guardian (19 August 2012), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2012/aug/19/thomas-
kuhn-structure-scientific-revolutions.
490
e ndnot es
25. R. Ford Denison and K. Muller, ‘The Evolution of Cooperation’, The Scientist (31 December
2016), https://www.the-scientist.com/features/the-evolution-of-cooperation-34284.
26. J. Carey, ‘No Need for Geniuses: Revolutionary Science in the Age of the Guillotine by Steve
Jones’, Sunday Times (27 March 2016), https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/no-need-for-
geniuses-revolutionary-science-in-the-age-of-the-guillotine-by-steve-jones-w29mmpd39.
27. J. Parrington, ‘You Can Lead a Sperm to Ovum’, The Guardian (25 July 2002), https://www.
theguardian.com/science/2002/jul/25/medicalresearch.medicalscience.
28. L. W. Swanson and J. W. Lichtman, ‘From Cajal to Connectome and Beyond’, Annual Review
of Neuroscience, 39:197–216 (2016).
29. M. I. Kaiser, ‘The Limits of Reductionism in the Life Sciences’, History and Philosophy of the Life
Sciences, 33:453–76 (2011).
30. A. Blunden, ‘The Germ Cell of Vygotsky’s Science’, in Vygotsky and Marx: Towards a Marxist
Psychology (Routledge, 2017), pp. 132–45.
31. E. R. Scerri, ‘The Evolution of the Periodic System’, Scientific American (21 January 2011),
https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-evolution-of-the-periodic-system/.
32. C. Orzel, ‘What Has Quantum Mechanics Ever Done for Us?’, Forbes (13 August 2015),
https://www.forbes.com/sites/chadorzel/2015/08/13/what-has-quantum-mechanics-ever-
done-for-us/.
33. D. Overbye, ‘A Century Ago, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity Changed Everything’, New York
Times (24 November 2015), https://www.nytimes.com/2015/11/24/science/a-century-ago-
einsteins-theory-of-relativity-changed-everything.html.
34. D. Greenbaum and M. Gerstein, ‘Illuminating the Genome’s Dark Matter’, Cell, 163:1047–8
(2015).
35. Ibid.
36. Ibid.
37. C. S. Powell, ‘Relativity versus Quantum Mechanics: The Battle for the Universe’, The
Guardian (4 November 2015), https://www.theguardian.com/news/2015/nov/04/relativity-
quantum-mechanics-universe-physicists.
38. Ibid.
39. Ibid.
40. J. V. Wertsch, Vygotsky and the Social Formation of Mind (Harvard University Press, 1985), p. 158.
41. L. S. Vygotsky, Thought and Language (MIT Press, 1962), p. 318.
Chapter 22: Mind and Meaning

1. E. Palermo, ‘The Origins of Religion: How Supernatural Beliefs Evolved’, Live Science
(5 October 2015), https://www.livescience.com/52364-origins-supernatural-relgious-
beliefs.html.
2. B. N. Thompson, ‘Theory of Mind: Understanding Others in a Social World’, Psychology
Today (3 July 2017), https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/socioemotional-success/
201707/theory-mind-understanding-others-in-social-world.
3. Palermo, ‘The Origins of Religion’.
4. H. C. Peoples, P. Duda, and F. W. Marlowe, ‘Hunter-Gatherers and the Origins of Religion’,
Human Nature, 27:261–82 (2016).
5. R. Gray, ‘Cave Fires and Rhino Skull Used in Neanderthal Burial Rituals’, New Scientist (28
September 2016), https://www.newscientist.com/article/mg23230934-800-cave-fires-and-
rhino-skull-used-in-neanderthal-burial-rituals/.
491
e ndnot es
6. Ibid.
7. ‘Buddhism’, History (22 July 2020), https://www.history.com/topics/religion/buddhism.
8. S. Grogan, ‘ “A Solace to a Tortured World…” – The Growing Interest in Spiritualism during
and after WW1’, World War I Centenary (2014), http://ww1centenary.oucs.ox.ac.uk/author/
suzannegrogan.
9. Peoples et al., ‘Hunter-Gatherers and the Origins of Religion’.
10. Ibid.
11. L. Wade, ‘To Foster Complex Societies, Tell People a God Is Watching’, Science (4 March
2015), http://www.sciencemag.org/news/2015/03/foster-complex-societies-tell-people-god-
watching.
12. C. Seawright, ‘Shesmu, Demon-God of the Wine Press, Oils and Slaughterer of the
Damned’, Tour Egypt (2013), http://www.touregypt.net/featurestories/shesmu.htm.
13. J. Sharman, ‘Vatican Rushes to Deny Reports Pope Thinks Hell Doesn’t Exist and Sinning
Souls Just “Disappear” ’, The Independent (30 March 2018), https://www.independent.co.uk/
news/world/europe/pope-francis-hell-does-not-exist-catholic-vatican-full-quote-
a8281041.html.
14. Ibid.
15. K. Marx, ‘A Contribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right: Introduction’,
Deutsch-Französische Jahrbücher (1844), https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/
1843/critique-hpr/intro.htm.
16. F. Engels, ‘On the History of Early Christianity’, Die Neue Zeit (1894), https://www.marxists.
org/archive/marx/works/1894/early-christianity/index.htm.
17. S. McIntire and W. E. Burns, Speeches in World History (Facts on File, 2009), p. 104.
18. M. Empson, Kill All The Gentlemen: Class Struggle and Change in the English Countryside
(Bookmarks, 2018), p. 31.
19. A. Saville, ‘The 17th Century English Scientific Revolution’, The Queen’s College, Oxford (2020),
https://www.queens.ox.ac.uk/scientific%20revolution.
20. K. Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth and Seventeenth
Century England (Penguin, 1991).
21. J. Walker, ‘An Introduction To John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress’, Banner of Truth (15
September 2005), https://banneroftruth.org/uk/resources/articles/2005/an-introduction-
to-john-bunyans-the-pilgrims-progress/.
22. R. McCrum, ‘The 100 Best Novels: No 1—The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan (1678)’, The
Guardian (23 September 2013), https://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/sep/23/100-best-
novels-pilgrims-progress.
23. Ibid.
24. Ibid.
25. R. Hampson, ‘What You Didn’t Know about King’s “Dream” Speech’, USA TODAY (12
August 2013), https://eu.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/08/12/march-on-washington-
king-speech/2641841/.
26. Ibid.
27. N. Morgan, ‘The Story behind Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” ’, Forbes (16 January
2012), https://www.forbes.com/sites/nickmorgan/2012/01/16/the-story-behind-martin-
luther-kings-i-have-a-dream/.
28. A. Rutherford, ‘ “There Is Grandeur in This View of Life” ’, The Guardian (15 February 2008),
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2008/feb/15/thereisgrandeurinthisviewoflife.
492
e ndnot es
29. B. Reese, ‘Interview with Christof Koch’, GigaOm (25 May 2018), https://gigaom.com/
2018/05/25/interview-with-christof-koch/.
30. S. McLeod, ‘Behaviorist Approach’, Simply Psychology (2020), https://www.simplypsychology.
org/behaviorism.html.
31. G. Johnson, ‘What Really Goes On in There’, New York Times (10 November 1991), https://
archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/98/12/06/specials/dennett-consciousness.
html?mcubz=1.
32. S. Ritchie, ‘Do Daniel C. Dennett’s Memes Deserve to Survive?’, The Spectator (4 March 2017),
https://www.spectator.co.uk/2017/03/do-daniel-c-dennetts-memes-deserve-to-survive/.
33. R. Dawkins, The Selfish Gene: 30th Anniversary Edition (Oxford University Press, 2006), p. 192.
34. Ibid.
35. J. Hughes, ‘Meme Theory: Do We Come up with Ideas or Do They, in Fact, Control Us?’,
The Independent (13 July 2012), https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/gadgets-and-tech/
features/meme-theory-do -we-come-up-with-ideas-or-do -they-in-fact-control-
us-7939077.html.
36. A. Ripstein, ‘Commodity Fetishism’, Canadian Journal of Philosophy, 17:733–48 (1987).
37. C. Koch, ‘Is Consciousness Universal?’, Scientific American (1 January 2014), https://www.
scientificamerican.com/article/is-consciousness-universal/.
38. J. White, ‘Is the Universe Self-aware?’, Episcopal Café (21 June 2017), https://www.
episcopalcafe.com/44054-2/.
39. J. Piper, ‘In the Beginning Was the Word’, Desiring God (21 September 2008), https://www.
desiringgod.org/messages/in-the-beginning-was-the-word.
40. T. Metzinger, Being No One: The Self-Model Theory of Subjectivity (MIT Press, 2004), p. 66.
41. H. James, ‘The Art of Fiction’, Longman’s Magazine (1884), https://public.wsu.edu/
~campbelld/amlit/artfiction.html.
42. M. J. Campion, ‘How the World Loved the Swastika—until Hitler Stole It’, BBC News (23
October 2014), https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-29644591.
43. Ibid.
44. L. Boissoneault, ‘The True Story of the Reichstag Fire and the Nazi Rise to Power’,
Smithsonian Magazine (21 February 2017), https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/true-
story-reichstag-fire-and-nazis-rise-power-180962240/.
45. W. Bennett, ‘F is for Fascism’, Socialist Review (November 2007), http://socialistreview.org.
uk/319/f-fascism.
46. P. Bradshaw, ‘Amelie’, The Guardian (5 October 2001), https://www.theguardian.com/
film/2001/oct/05/1.
47. V. N. Voloshinov, Marxism and the Philosophy of Language (Harvard University Press, 1986),
p. 13.
Chapter 23: Mind and Machine

1. M. A. Boesler, ‘Young Neil Armstrong Recounts His Experience on the Moon’, Business
Insider (25 August 2012), https://www.businessinsider.com/neil-armstrong-1970-bbc-
interview-2012-8?IR=T.
2. E. Siegel, ‘The Most Impossible Technology from “Star Trek” ’, Forbes (22 July 2016), https://
www.forbes.com/sites/startswithabang/2016/07/22/the-most-impossible-technology-
from-star-trek/.
493
e ndnot es
3. Y. Chen, Y. Niu, and W. Ji, ‘Genome Editing in Nonhuman Primates: Approach to Generating
Human Disease Models’, Journal of Internal Medicine, 280:246–51 (2016).
4. S. Zhang, ‘China Is Genetically Engineering Monkeys with Brain Disorders’, The Atlantic
(8 June 2018), https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2018/06/china-is-genetically-
engineering-monkeys-with-brain-disorders/561866/.
5. Ibid.
6. D. Cyranoski, ‘China Is Positioning Itself as a World Leader in Primate Research’, Nature,
532:300–2 (2016).
7. Z. Rahim, ‘Scientist Injects Human Genes into Monkeys’ Brains and Makes Them More
Intelligent, Study Says’, The Independent (12 April 2019), https://www.independent.co.uk/
news/science/monkey-human-genes-brains-china-dna-intelligence-study-a8866616.html.
8. H. Brewis, ‘Chinese Scientists Create Super Monkeys by Injecting Brains with Human
DNA’, Evening Standard (12 April 2019), https://www.standard.co.uk/news/world/chinese-
scientists-create-super-monkeys-by-injecting-brains-with-human-dna-a4116916.html.
9. Ibid.
10. J. Hamill, ‘Chinese Scientists Create Super-intelligent Monkeys by Injecting Human DNA
into Their Brains’, Metro (12 April 2019), https://metro.co.uk/2019/04/12/chinese-scientists-
create-super-intelligent-monkeys-injecting-human-dna-brains-9183475/.
11. M. E. Coors, J. J. Glover, E. T. Juengst, and J. M. Sikela, ‘The Ethics of Using Transgenic Non-
human Primates to Study What Makes Us Human’, Nature Reviews in Genetics, 11:658–62
(2010).
12. I. Kelava and M. A. Lancaster, ‘Dishing out Mini-brains: Current Progress and Future
Prospects in Brain Organoid Research’, Developmental Biology, 420:199–209 (2016).
13. M. Molteni, ‘Mini Brains Just Got Creepier—They’re Growing Their Own Blood Vessels’,
Wired (3 April 2018), https://www.wired.com/story/mini-brains-just-got-creepiertheyre-
growing-their-own-veins/.
14. L. P. Hickey, ‘ “The Brain in a Vat” Argument’, Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2020), https://
www.iep.utm.edu/brainvat/.
15. I. Nathan, ‘Empire Essay: The Matrix Review’, Empire (1 January 2000), https://www.
empireonline.com/movies/empire-essay-matrix/review/.
16. Ibid.
17. T. Robey, ‘Ghost In the Shell Review: Scarlett Johansson’s Soulful Action Spectacle Proves
the Purists Wrong’, The Telegraph (31 March 2017), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/films/0/
ghost-review-scarlett-johanssons-soulful-action-spectacle-proves/.
18. J. Falconer, ‘What is the Technological Singularity?’, The Next Web (19 June 2011), https://
thenextweb.com/insider/2011/06/19/what-is-the-technological-singularity/.
19. N. Ismail, ‘AI: The Greatest Threat in Human History?’, Information Age (20 October 2016),
https://www.information-age.com/ai-greatest-threat-human-history-123462789/.
20. A. Sulleyman, ‘AI Is Highly Likely to Destroy Humans, Elon Musk Warns’, The Independent
(24 November 2017), https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/gadgets-and-tech/news/
elon-musk-artificial-intelligence-openai-neuralink-ai-warning-a8074821.html.
21. R. Cellan-Jones, ‘Stephen Hawking Warns Artificial Intelligence Could End Mankind’, BBC
News (2 December 2014), https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-30290540.
22. M. Weisberger, ‘Why Does Artificial Intelligence Scare Us So Much?’, Live Science (8 June
2018), https://www.livescience.com/62775-humans-why-scared-of-ai.html.
23. T. Friend, ‘How Frightened Should We Be of A.I.?’, The New Yorker (7 May 2018), https://www.
newyorker.com/magazine/2018/05/14/how-frightened-should-we-be-of-ai.
494
e ndnot es
24. Ibid.
25. M. Zastrow, ‘ “I’m in Shock!” How an AI Beat the World’s Best Human at Go’, New Scientist
(9 March 2016), https://www.newscientist.com/article/2079871-im-in-shock-how-an-ai-
beat-the-worlds-best-human-at-go/.
26. C. Woodford, ‘Neural Networks’, Explain That Stuff (17 June 2020), https://www.explainthatstuff.
com/introduction-to-neural-networks.html.
27. I. Sample, ‘ “It’s Able to Create Knowledge Itself”: Google Unveils AI That Learns on Its
Own’, The Guardian (18 October 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2017/oct/18/
its-able-to-create-knowledge-itself-google-unveils-ai-learns-all-on-its-own.
28. Ibid.
29. Ibid.
30. J. Sokol, ‘Why Artificial Intelligence Like AlphaZero Has Trouble with the Real World’,
Quanta Magazine (21 February 2018), https://www.quantamagazine.org/why-alphazeros-
artificial-intelligence-has-trouble-with-the-real-world-20180221/.
31. Ibid.
32. J. C. Baillie, ‘Why AlphaGo Is Not AI’, Spectrum (17 March 2016), https://spectrum.ieee.org/
automaton/robotics/artificial-intelligence/why-alphago-is-not-ai.
33. M. Bennett-Smith, ‘Stephen Hawking: Brains Could Be Copied to Computers to Allow Life
after Death’, Huffington Post (25 September 2013), https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/
stephen-hawking-brains-copied-life-after-death_n_3977682.
34. A. Regalado, ‘Nectome Will Preserve Your Brain, But You Have to Be Euthanized First’,
MIT Technology Review (13 March 2018), https://www.technologyreview.com/s/610456/a-
startup-is-pitching-a-mind-uploading-service-that-is-100-percent-fatal/.
35. D. B. Kirtley, ‘Futurist Says We’ll Use Lasers to Beam Our Minds Into Space Someday Soon’,
Wired (1 March 2014), https://www.wired.com/2014/03/geeks-guide-michio-kaku/.
Epilogue: A Twenty-First-Century Mind

1. F. Thibaut, ‘The Mind-Body Cartesian Dualism and Psychiatry’, Dialogues in Clinical
Neuroscience, 20:3 (2018).
2. N. Barber, ‘The Blank Slate Controversy’, Psychology Today (21 September 2016), https://www.
psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/the-human-beast/201609/the-blank-slate-controversy.
3. H. Rolston, ‘Skyhooks and Cranes’, Metanexus (1 June 1999), http://www.metanexus.net/
skyhooks-and-cranes/.
4. J. Kemsley, ‘The Safety Zone’, The Safety Zone (September 2011), http://cenblog.org/the-
safety-zone/2011/09/chemical-oscillations-the-belousov-zhabotinsky-reaction/.
5. Ibid.
6. H. Wen and Z. Liu, ‘Separating Fractal and Oscillatory Components in the Power Spectrum
of Neurophysiological Signal’, Brain Topography, 29:13–26 (2016).
7. H. Wang, ‘Modeling Neurological Diseases with Human Brain Organoids’, Frontiers in
Synaptic Neuroscience, 10:15 (2018).
8. N. Williams and R. N. Henson, ‘Recent Advances in Functional Neuroimaging Analysis for
Cognitive Neuroscience’, Brain and Neuroscience Advances, 2:1–4 (2018).
10. A. M. Moe and N. M. Docherty, ‘Schizophrenia and the Sense of Self’, Schizophrenia Bulletin,
40:161–8 (2014).
495
e ndnot es
11. R. Ostrow, ‘Crowd Control for the Mind: Coping with Inner Voices’, The Australian (15
December 2016), https://www.theaustralian.com.au/life/health-wellbeing/crowd-control-
for-the-mind-coping-with-inner-voices/news-story/103ea4e51b8bb3c5ee13a83ff2927e54.
12. P. de Sousa, W. Sellwood, A. Spray, C. Fernyhough, and R. P. Bentall, ‘Inner Speech and
Clarity of Self-Concept in Thought Disorder and Auditory-Verbal Hallucinations’, Journal of
Nervous Mental Disorders, 204:885–93 (2016).
13. C. Nordqvist, ‘Understanding the Symptoms of Schizophrenia’, Medical News Today (23 April
2020), https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/36942.php.
14. L. A. Sass and J. Parnas, ‘Schizophrenia, Consciousness, and the Self’, Schizophrenia Bulletin,
29:427–44 (2003).
15. S. Matthews, ‘Forget Anti-depressants, Doctors Should Be Able to Prescribe Music, Arts
and Writing Courses to Help Patients Suffering with the Blues, Claims GP’, Daily Mail (11 July
2018), http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-5918013/Doctors-able-prescribe-music-
depressed-patients-claims-GP.html.
16. Ibid.
17. J. Doward, ‘Psychiatrists under Fire in Mental Health Battle’, The Observer (12 May 2013),
https://www.theguardian.com/society/2013/may/12/psychiatrists-under-fire-mental-
health.
18. H. Fraad, ‘Profiting from Mental Ill-Health’, The Guardian (15 March 2011), https://www.
theguardian.com/commentisfree/cifamerica/2011/mar/15/psychology-healthcare.
19. Ibid.
20. D. Joravsky, ‘The Mechanical Spirit: The Stalinist Marriage of Pavlov to Marx’, Theory and
Society, 4:457–77 (1977).
21. H. Katschnig, ‘Are Psychiatrists an Endangered Species? Observations on Internal and
External Challenges to the Profession’, World Psychiatry, 9:21–8 (2010).
22. ‘What is the Difference between Clinical Psychology and Psychiatry?’, Psychology School
Guide (2020), https://www.psychologyschoolguide.net/guides/difference-between-clinical-
psychology-and-psychiatry/.
23. W. Self, ‘Psychiatrists: The Drug Pushers’, The Guardian (3 August 2013), https://www.
theguardian.com/society/2013/aug/03/will-self-psychiatrist-drug-medication.
24. J. Nicolas, ‘Why Pretend Social Work Is about Social Justice? It’s Not’, The Guardian (20
October 2015), https://www.theguardian.com/social-care-network/2015/oct/20/why-pretend-
social-work-is-about-social-justice-its-not.
25. J. Larson, ‘Blaming Parents: What I’ve Learned and Unlearned as a Child Psychiatrist’,
Scientific American (15 April 2011), https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/guest-blog/blaming-
parents-what-ive-learned-and-unlearned-as-a-child-psychiatrist/.
26. K. Pickles, ‘Diabetes is the Fastest Modern Health Crisis after the Number of Cases Doubles
in the Last 20 Years with 3.7 Million People Being Diagnosed’, Daily Mail (27 February 2018),
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-5438433/Diabetes-fastest-modern-health-
crisis-cases-double.html.
27. S. Boseley, ‘Expert Revered for Painstaking Work That Proved Link between Smoking and
Cancer’, The Guardian (8 December 2006), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2006/
dec/08/cancer.uk.
28. L. Surugue, ‘Schizophrenia Is a “Modern” Disease, Developing after Humans Diverged
from Neanderthals’, International Business Times (16 August 2016), https://www.ibtimes.co.
uk/schizophrenia-modern-disease-developing-after-humans-diverged-neanderthals-
1576327.
496
e ndnot es
29. Ibid.
30. D. E. Bloom, ‘7 Billion and Counting’, Science, 333:562–9 (2011).
31. ‘Life Expectancy of the World Population’, Worldometer (2020), worldometers.info/
demographics/life-expectancy/.
32. V. Cable, ‘Vince Cable Speech: Capitalism in Crisis’, Liberal Democrats (7 June 2018), https://
www.libdems.org.uk/capitalism_in_crisis.
33. M. El-Erian, ‘Is Stagnation the “New Normal” for the World Economy?’, The Guardian
(3 February 2016), https://www.theguardian.com/business/2016/feb/03/is-stagnation-the-
new-normal-for-the-world-economy.
34. D. Campbell, ‘Stress and Social Media Fuel Mental Health Crisis among Girls’, The Guardian
(23 September 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/society/2017/sep/23/stress-anxiety-
fuel-mental-health-crisis-girls-young-women.
35. Ibid.
36. Ibid.
37. J. Stiglitz, ‘Joseph Stiglitz: Why We Have to Change Capitalism’, The Telegraph (23 January
2010), https://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/newsbysector/banksandfinance/7061058/
Joseph-Stiglitz-Why-we-have-to-change-capitalism.html.
38. J. Bennet, ‘ “We Need an Energy Miracle” ’, The Atlantic (November 2015), https://www.
theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2015/11/we-need-an-energy-miracle/407881/.
39. E. Green, ‘The Existential Dread of Climate Change: How Despair about Our Changing
Climate May Get in the Way of Fixing It’, Psychology Today (13 October 2017), https://www.
psychologytoday.com/us/blog/there-is-always-another-part/201710/the-existential-dread-
climate-change.
40. A. Marr, ‘Andrew Marr: British Politics Is Broken—the Centre Cannot Hold’, New Statesman
(23 March 2015), https://www.newstatesman.com/politics/2015/03/andrew-marr-british-
politics-broken-centre-cannot-hold.
41. I. Sample, ‘Scientists Find Genetic Mutation That Makes Woman Feel No Pain’, The Guardian
(28 March 2019), https://www.theguardian.com/science/2019/mar/28/scientists-find-
genetic-mutation-that-makes-woman-feel-no-pain.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid.
44. Ibid.
45. Ibid.
46. Ibid.
47. N. Remnick, ‘At 100, Still Running for Her Life’, New York Times (22 April 2016), https://well.
blogs.nytimes.com/2016/04/22/at-100-still-running-for-her-life/.
48. Ibid.
49. Ibid.
50. Ibid.
51. N. Jayapalan, History of English Literature (Atlantic, 2001), p. 9.
52. O. J. Benedictow, ‘The Black Death: The Greatest Catastrophe Ever’, History Today (3 March
2005), https://www.historytoday.com/archive/black-death-greatest-catastrophe-ever.
53. M. Ibeji, ‘Black Death: Political and Social Changes’, BBC History (17 February 2011), http://
www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/middle_ages/blacksocial_01.shtml.
54. J. Neumann and J. Dettwiller, ‘Great Historical Events That Were Significantly Affected by
the Weather: Part 9, the Year Leading to the Revolution of 1789 in France (II)’, Bulletin
American Meteorological Society, 71:33–41 (1990).
497
e ndnot es
55. P. Ames, ‘Portugal Celebrates the World’s Coolest Coup’, Global Post (24 April 2014), https://
www.pri.org/stories/2014-04-24/portugal-celebrates-worlds-coolest-coup.
56. I. Birrell, ‘Greta Thunberg Teaches Us about Autism as Much as Climate Change’, The
Guardian (23 April 2019), https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2019/apr/23/greta-
thunberg-autism.
498
I N DE X OF NAME S
For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on
occasion, appear on only one of those pages
Abdul-Adil, Jaleel 251 Bates, Norman (Psycho) 252

Abrams, Daniel 307 Bateson, Gregory 194
Adam, Joseph Benedict Anthony Bauman, Richard 57
Michael (Joseph II) 312 Becquerel, Henri 362
Adorno, Theodor 316 Belousov, Boris 414
Agnel, Georges 320 Bergoglio, Jorge Mario (Pope Francis) 381
Ahrens, Misha 98 Berlin, Heather 183
Alexander, Cecil Frances 46 Berman, Marshall 345
Allende, Salvador 267 Berry, Halle 117–9, 144–5, 416
Allis, David 88 Besant, Annie 282–3
Almaviva, Count (The Marriage of Best, Catherine 230
Figaro) 313 Beyoncé 33
Amélie (Amélie) 393–4 Bindel, Julie 276
Amennakhte 278 Bing, Su 129
Anderson, Britt 152 Blakemore, Colin 95
Anderson, Perry 335 Bliss, Tim 110
Andreassen, Ole 426 Blyton, Enid 320
Andropov, Yuri 292 Bonaparte, Napoleon 289
Aniston, Jennifer 117–8 Bong, Joon-ho 337
Appelbaum, Paul 13 Boris (The Unconsoled) 356
Archimedes 364 Bosch, Hieronymus 326–9
Aristotle 19, 46, 153, 265 Botticelli, Sandro 333
Arlotta, Paola 101 Boyce, William 307
Arshad, Muhammad 328 Braine, John 340
Asl, Moussa Pourya 348 Brambilla, Riccardo 227–8
Asperger, Hans 224, 229 Braun, Allen 143
Brenner, Sydney 360
Bach, Johann Sebastian 312 Breuer, Joseph 174
Bakhtin, Mikhail 56–7, 343–4 Broca, Paul 129
Bale, Tracy 218–9 Brodsky (The Unconsoled) 356–7
Ball, John 382–3 Brontë sisters 239
Baquedano, Enrique, 377 Brontë, Branwell 348
Baron-Cohen, Simon 223 Brontë, Charlotte 348
inde x of na mes
Brontë, Elizabeth 348 Copernicus, Nicolaus 32, 344

Brontë, Emily 2, 346–8, 386 Corballis, Michael 41
Brontë, Maria 348 Court, Felipe 91
Brontë, Patrick 348 Crick, Francis 24
Brooks, David 165 Cromwell, Oliver 286, 291, 294
Brooks, Margaret 322 Curie, Marie 362
Brooks, Rechele 135 Curie, Pierre 362
Brown, George 218 Cutler, Anne 132
Brown, Roger 42 Cuyp, Aelbert 325
Brown, Steven 322 Cyphre, Louis (Angelheart) 380
Brown, Theodore 290
Browne, Tracey 276 da Vinci, Leonardo 15
Brudos, Jerr 245 Daiches, David 349–50
Brunner, Han 242 Dali, Salvador 326
Bullmore, Ed 214 Damasio, Antonio 157, 342
Bundy, Ted 253 Darby, Ryan 245
Bunn, Henry 38 Dart, Raymond 36
Bunyan, John 383–4 Darwin, Charles 32–6, 304, 366,
Burling, Robbins 131 368, 385
Burns, Tom 292 Dawkins, Richard 243, 388
Dawson, Charles 35–6
Cable, Vince 427 de Beaumarchais, Pierre-Augustin
Caesar, Tiberius 382 Caron 313
Cameron, Jo 430–3 de Méricourt, Théroigne 288–90
Campbell, Glen 318 De Quincey, Thomas 173
Camus, Albert 143 de Sainte Croix, Geoffrey 265
Cantor, James 247, 249 Dean, Nelly (Wuthering Heights) 349
Carhart-Harris, Robin 169 Degas, Edgar 323
Carson, Shelley 153 DeHaan, Robert 361
Carus, Carl Gustav 173–4 Denli, Ahmet 89
Ceausescu, Nicolae 135–6 Dennett, Daniel 387–8, 412
Cézanne, Paul 333 Descartes, René 20–22, 24, 31, 46,
Chagall, Marc 335–6 386, 411
Chamberlain, Rebecca 323–4 Diamond, Jared 264
Chomsky, Noam 42–4, 125, 158, 341 Diamond, Marian 151
Christ, Jesus 382 Doll, Richard 426
Clark, Kelly James 376 Don Giovanni (Don Giovanni) 313
Clinton, Bill 117 Donatello (Donato di Niccolò di Betto
Coencas, Simon 320 Bardi) 330
Cole, Michael 49, 140–1 Dostoevsky, Fyodor 15, 343–5
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 173 Drury, John 294
Collins, Marie 280 Dryden, John 153
Cooper, Grahame 95 Dubicka, Bernadka 427
500
inde x of na mes
Duchamp, Marcel 331 Freedberg, David 323

Dunbar, Robin 48, 75–6 Freud, Sigmund 15, 172, 174–8, 180, 184,
Duncan, Carol 333 211, 293, 348
Friborg, Oddgeir 11
Earnshaw, Cathy (Wuthering Friedrich, Caspar David 173
Heights) 346–7, 349–50 Frith, Uta 223
Earnshaw, Hareton (Wuthering
Heights) 348–50 Gage, Fred ‘Rusty’ 88–9
Earnshaw, Hindley (Wuthering Gage, Phineas 145–7
Heights) 347 Gallan, Patricia 256
Earnshaw, Mr. (Wuthering Heights) 347 Gallant, Jack 132
Eckstine, Billy 314 Gandhi, Indira 275
Edwards, Richey 319 Gardner, Allen 41
Eichmann, Adolf 297 Gardner, Beatrix 41
Einstein, Albert 69, 140, 150–52, 363, 365, Gates, Bill 428
368–9 Gazzaniga, Michael 181
Eisenberger, Naomi 47 Gein, Ed 245
Eisenstein, Sergei 336–9 Gelenberg, Alan 212
Eliot, T. S. 239 Getz, Stan 311
Eminem (Marshall Mathers) 319 Gilberto, João 311
Engels, Friedrich 35–7, 39, 49, 267 Giorgione (Giorgio Barbarelli da
Esterson, Aaron 194 Castelfranco) 333
Glausiusz, Josie 220
Facing-Both-Ways, Mr. (The Pilgrim’s Glover, Jacqueline 398
Progress) 384 Golding, William 341, 353–4
Falk, Dean 152 Goldman, Steven 71
Fallon, James 236 Goldring, Mark 266
Farmer, Paul 12 Gómez-Robles, Aida 87
Ferguson, Charles 256–7 Good, Irving 404
Fernyhough, Charles 57–9, 137–9, 418 Gorz, Andre 284
Fienberg, Allen 78 Goya, Francisco 333
Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro) 313 Gramsci, Antonio 285
Fine, Ione 96 Gray, Dobie 317
Fink, Andreas 153 Greally, John 220
Fisher, Simon 126 Greenberg, James 53–4
Fitzgerald, Michael 328 Grose, Mrs (The Turn of the Screw) 353
Flint, Jonathan 215 Gross, Cornelius 70
Flora (The Turn of the Screw) 350–52 Gross, Sarah 211
Florio, Marta 85–6 Grzyb, Tomasz 297
Ford, Henry 268 Guerra-Doce, Elisa 163
Foster, Jeff 229 Guess, Doug 41
Fox, Nathan 136 Gunz, Philipp 76
Franklin, Rosalind 24 Gurwitz, David 213
501
inde x of na mes
Hahn, Otto 362 James, Henry 14, 350–51, 353, 392

Hanfmann, Eugenia 195–6 James, William 14–15, 138, 140
Hannah, Darryl 229 Jarvis, Erich 157–8
Hare, Robert 257 Jeffrey, Annie 202
Harmand, Sonia 38 Jessel, Miss (The Turn of the Screw) 350–2
Harris, Tirril 218 Jeunet, Jean-Pierre 393
Hartley, David 109 Johanson, Donald 36
Harvey, William 20 Johnsen, Tom 11
Hassabis, Demis 405 Johnson, Lonni Sue 116, 119
Hawking, Stephen 403, 407 John-Steiner, Vera 161–2
Hayden, Brian 167–8 Johnstone, Lucy 6
Haydn, Joseph 312 Jones, April 247
Haye, Andrés 57 Jones, Paul 247
Heathcliff (Wuthering Heights) 346–7, Jovasevic, Vladimir 179
349–50 Joyce, James 330
Hebb, Donald 109
Heidnik, Gary 245–6 Kafka, Franz 355
Hendrix, Jimi 304, 311, 316 Kaku, Michio 408
Herculano-Houzel, Suzana 77 Kandel, Eric 109
Hitler, Adolf 116, 292–3, 295–6, 298, Kandinsky, Wassily 335
392–3 Kanner, Leo 224–5
Hobaiter, Catherine 44 Kaplan, Bernard 196–7
Hockney, David 239 Kaplitt, Michael 217
Hodgkin, Alan 65 Karamazov, Ivan (The Brothers
Hoffman Mr. (The Unconsoled) 356 Karamazov) 343, 345
Hoffman, Stephan (The Unconsoled) 356 Kardashian, Kim 33
Holliday, Billie 2 Karns, Christina 96
Hooke, Robert 383 Kasanin, Jakob 195–6
Howard, Luke 313 Keeling, Ida 432
Howes, Oliver 192 Keeling, Shelley 432
Hubel, David 93–4, 334 Keller, Helen 232
Huganir, Richard 127 Keller, Philipp 98
Hughes, Jonnie 388 Kemper, Edmund 245–6
Humble, Jim 228 Kettle, Arnold 347
Hume, David 22–3 Khrushchev, Nikita 292
Hurt, Hallam 123 Killian, Mira (Ghost in the Shell) 402
Huttner, Wieland 85–6 King, Martin Luther 384–5, 432
Huxley, Andrew 65 Knight, Robert 74
Koch, Christof 386, 389
Iacoboni, Marco 68 Koenigs, Michael 253
Inagaki, Tristen 47 Koldeweij, Jos 326
Ingres, Jean-Auguste-Dominique 333 Koshland, Daniel 6–7
Ishiguro, Kazuo 355–7 Krämer-Albers, Eva-Maria 90
502
inde x of na mes
Krystal, John 213 Malcolm X 313, 432

Kuhl, Patricia 135 Malevich, Kazimir 331, 334–6
Kusanagi, Motoko (Ghost in the Shell) 402 Manet, Édouard 333
Mantel, Hilary 289
Laing, Ronald David (R. D.) 193–4, 199 Marcus, Gary 127
Lamarck, Jean-Baptiste 173 Marsal, Jacques 320, 321
Lansink, Frank 403 Marshall-Andrews, Laura 420
Larrain, Antonia 57 Martin, Christopher (Pincher Martin) 353–4
Lasota, Jolanta 231 Martinez-Trujillo, Julio 144
Latchoumane, Charles-Francois 120–1 Marx, Karl 267–8, 284, 359, 381
Lautrec, Toulouse 333 Matloff, Gregory 389
Le Bon, Gustave 293, 296 Mayakovsky, Vladimir 336
Leakey, Louis 38 McGee, Niall 207–8
Leakey, Mary 38 McIntyre, Robert 407
Lee, Richard 262–3 McKenna, Terence 168
Lehrman, Emily 71 McManus, Chris 324
Leithauser, Brad 351, 353 McPherson, Malinda 143
Lennon, John 317–18 Medawar, Peter 172
Lepenuizic, Candy 226 Meir, Golda 275
Leslie, Alan 223 Meitner, Lise 362–3
Levinson, Douglas 216 Mendel, Gregor 25–7, 368
Lewis, Clarence Irving 391 Mendeleev, Dimitri 368
Lewis, Jason 38 Mendoza-Halliday, Diego 144
Lieberman, Matthew 47, 48 Meyer, Georg 40–41
Limb, Charles 143 Michelangelo (Michelangelo di Lodovico
Linton, Catherine (Wuthering Buonarroti Simoni) 151, 323,
Heights) 349 328–30, 386
Linton, Edgar (Wuthering Heights) 349 Miescher, Friedrich 24
Linton, Isabella (Wuthering Heights) 348–9 Miles (The Turn of the Screw) 350–52
Littleton, Troy 111 Milgram, Stanley 297
Locke, John 21–3, 172, 386 Miller, Earl 73, 121–2, 147, 166
Lockwood, Mr. (Wuthering Heights) 346, Miller, Geoffrey 305
349–50 Miller, Greg 251
Lodge, David 342 Molaison, Henry 114–6, 118–19, 180
Lombroso, Cesare 241 Moll, Jorge 47
Lømo, Terje 110 Moll, Luis 53–4
Louis, Winnifred 245 Molyneux, John 333
Lubitz, Andreas 205 Monaco, Anthony 126
Luria, Alexander 284, 294, 336, 338 Monet, Claude 332
Monod, Jacques 298
Mackenzie, Kwame 274 Montagu, Edward (Earl of
Madras, Bertha 165 Manchester) 286
Mahn, Holbrook 162 Morgan, Thomas 40
503
inde x of na mes
Morsi, Mohamed 295 Plato 109, 153, 311

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 2, 312–3, Popova, Lyubov 336
315, 386 Popper, Karl 365
Mubarak, Hosni 295 Pritchard, Jonathan 189
Mukhopadhyay, Tito 229 Provokiev, Sergei 338
Muotri, Alysson 90 Pryer, Anthony 311
Murphy, Tim 13 Puni, Ivan 336
Murray, Robin 200 Putnam, Hilary 400
Musk, Elon 403
Mussolini, Benito 293, 296, 335 Queen of the Night (The Magic Flute) 313
Myshkin, Prince Lev Nikolayevich Quint, Peter (The Turn of the Screw) 350–2
(The Idiot) 344 Quiroga, Rodrigo Quian 117–8
Nabokov, Vladimir 340 Radulovic, Jelena 179–80

Nachtwey, Oliver 296–7 Rahim, Masuma 205
Neilson, Donald 240–1 Raine, Adrian 243–4
Nelson, Charles 136 Rainsborough, Thomas 291
Neo (The Matrix) 401 Ramesses III 278
Neubauer, Simon 76 Ramirez, Richard 254
Newton, Isaac 365–6, 383 Ramón y Cajal, Santiago 63–4
Randall, Dave 303, 317–8
O’Keefe, John 117 Raskolinov, Rodion Romanovich (Crime
Obama, Barack 13 and Punishment) 345
Ottesen Kennair, Leif Edward 275 Ravidat, Marcel 320
Razzaque, Russell 202
Pääbo, Svante 126 Reeves, Aaron 273
Pagel, Mark 27 Rego, Paula 2
Park, In-hyun 101 Reich, Wilhelm 296
Parker, Sean 165 Reicher, Stephen 294
Parkinson, Hannah Jane 237 Reis Mesquita, Giovana 160
Paşca, Sergiu 102 Reiss, Allan 149
Patterson, Penny 43–4 Ren, Bing 82
Pavlov, Ivan 9, 14–15 Renoir, Pierre-Auguste 333
Pelaprat, Etienne 140 Rizzolatti, Giacomo 67
Penny, William 352 Robert-Fleury, Tony 290
Piaget, Jean 49–51 Rodchenko, Alexander 336
Picasso, Pablo 2, 140, 325, 330–3 Rogers, Anne 290
Pilgrim, David 290 Rose, Steven 30
Pinel, Philippe 290 Rubens, Peter Paul 333
Pinker, Steven 30 Rund, Bjorn 198–9
Pinochet, Augusto 267 Rusakov, Dmitri 112
Pitt, Brad 117, 119 Rutherford, Ernest 362
504
inde x of na mes
Ryder (The Unconsoled) 355–7 Stevens, Beth 71

Ryle, Gilbert 387 Stott, Clifford 294
Stringer, Chris 36
Sajidi, Muhamed 225 Stuart, Charles (Charles I) 21
Saks, Elyn 236–7 Stuckler, David 273
Salimpoor, Valorie 306–7 Su, Bing 398
Sandi, Carmen 250 Sulston, John 25
Sanger, Fred 25 Sutcliffe, Carl 277
Sarastro (The Magic Flute) 313 Sutcliffe, Peter 239–41, 246, 276
Saville, Jimmy 255 Sutherland, Stuart 16
Schaaf, Christian 227 Suzman, James 263
Schaaffhausen, Herman 34
Schelling, Friedrich 173 Tatlin, Vladimir 336
Schindler, Oskar 298 Temple, Christine 331
Schirmer, Annett 305–6 Terkel, Studs 256
Schlegel, Alex 147–8 Terrace, Herbert 42–3
Schnupp, Jan 242 Thatcher, Margaret 47, 275, 280
Scholl, Hans 298 Thomas, Michel 149
Scholl, Sophie 298 Thomason, Moriah 133
Schopenhauer, Arthur 150 Thompson, Edward
Schultz, Wolfram 158–9 Palmer (E. P.) 384
Scott, James 264 Thunberg, Greta 434
Scoville, William 114 Tiersen, Yann 393
Sedol, Lee 404, 407 Tiihonen, Jari 242
Sestan, Nenad 159 Time-Server, Lord (The Pilgrim’s
Seth, Anil 169, 170 Progress) 384
Shakespeare, William 2, 304 Titian (Tiziano Vecellio) 333
Shereshevsky, Solomon 338 Tonegawa, Susumu 118
Sherwood, Chet 75, 77–8 Tremblay, Richard 251
Shultz, Susanne 44 Trigger, Bruce 35
Skinner, Burrhus Frederic (B. F.) 9, 23, 41, Trump, Donald 228
125, 166, 386 Tsuruwaka, Yusuke 98
Slutkin, Gary 251 Turing, Alan 404
Smalheiser, Neil 114
Smith, Adam 268 Uomini, Natalie 40–1
Smith, Daniel 235–6
Smith, Joan 240 van Beethoven, Ludwig 315
Somerset Maugham, William 342 van Gogh, Vincent Willem 237
Sonderheimer, Patrick 205 Vandervert, Larry 150
Sophie (The Unconsoled) 355–6 Vargha-Khadem, Faraneh 126
Sperry, Roger 181–2 Vasari, Giorgio 329
Stalin, Josef 49, 291–2, 295–6 Velázquez, Diego 333
505
inde x of na mes
Verocchio (Andrea del Verocchio) 330 Werner, Heinz 196–7

Vinge, Vernor 403 Wernicke, Karl 130
Voloshinov, Valentin 54–7, 59, 136, 138, Wessely, Simon 12
177–8, 281, 344, 394, 422 West-Eberhard, Mary Jane 87
Volterra, Andrea 112 White, Stephanie 128
von Goethe, Johann Whittle, Lesley 240
Wolfgang 173 Wiesel, Torsten 93–4, 334
von Humboldt, Alexander 173 Wilkins, Maurice 24
Vygotsky, Lev 14–16, 49–54, 57–9, 104–5, Williams, Robin 42
136–8, 141–2, 150, 160–2, 178, 195–9, Wiltshire, Stephen 229
231–4, 284, 292, 294, 308, 310, 313, 336–7, Witelson, Sandra 152
367–8, 370–1, 417–9, 422 Wolfberg, Pamela 233–4
Wolpert, Lewis 92
Wagner, Richard 311 Wordsworth, William 173, 284
Wakefield, Andrew 228 Worldly-Wiseman, Mr. (The Pilgrim’s
Waldau, Ben 399 Progress) 384
Wallace, Alfred Russel 32–3 Wu Xuekui, Ed 119–20
Wallace, Bill 360–1 Wynn, Thomas 39
Wallois, Fabrice 133
Walsh, Christopher 90 Yasuda, Ryohei 110–1
Watson, Jim 5, 24 Yehuda, Rachel 220
Watson, John 6, 9, 23
Watt, Ian 342 Zeanah, Charles 136
Weinberger, Daniel 200 Zeki, Semir 334
Weinberger, Kilian 404 Zernicka-Goetz, Magdalena 100
Weinstein, Harvey 271, 275 Zhabotinsky, Anatol 414
Weiss, Lauren 226 Zhang, Yong 99–100
506
I N DE X OF SU BJ EC T S
For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on
occasion, appear on only one of those pages
#MeToo movement 275 ambiguity 296, 335, 345–7, 350–53, 378,

4Es theory of consciousness 156 381–2
4st 7lb (song) 319 Amélie (film) 393–4
5-HT serotonin 8 amino acids 25, 81, 112, 126, 158, 368
9/11 atrocity 205 amphetamines 242
amphibians 74
abandonment 348 amygdala 250, 253, 272, 287–8, 298, 308, 382
abstract symbols 304, 322, 412 amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) 102
abstraction 24, 39, 331, 334–5 anandamide 430–1, 433
abuse 6, 194, 199–201, 242, 246–51, 253–55, anatomy 77, 327
274, 277, 319, 351–2, 423 ancient Greeks 19, 46, 140, 153, 176
Acheulean tools 40–1 ancient societies 163, 264–6, 270, 364, 379
action potential 65–6, 69, 111 Angel Heart (film) 380
addiction 162–7, 243, 247, 348, 432 anger 243, 340, 380
adolescence 52, 79, 195, 224, 250, 417, 427 animism 377
adoptees 132 anti-social behaviour 245, 249–50, 254
adrenal gland 156 antidepressant drugs 12, 207
adrenaline 27, 158, 166 antipsychotic drugs 201
adversity 201, 430 anxiety 4, 174–5, 199, 203–4, 207, 218–20,
advertising 197, 271 275, 317, 348, 427, 430
African savannah 376 apathy 195
afterlife 21, 76, 163, 377–8 apes 241, 262, 304, 398–9, 412, 415
ageing 216 archaeology 33, 35–6, 39, 167, 309, 377
agency 376–7 ARHGAP11B gene 85–6
aggression 174, 250–51 arson 242
agricultural revolution 167, 263–4 articulation 177–8
alcohol 163–4, 167–8, 183, 242, 246, artificial brain 400–402
348, 361 artificial intelligence (AI) 396, 403–8
Alexander Nevsky (film) 336, 338 artisans 278–9, 291, 364
algorithms 405 artworks 239, 322–3, 325, 331
alienation 256, 267–71, 317, 335, 388–9, 428 Asperger’s syndrome 224, 229, 328
All Things Bright and Beautiful (song) 46 asset-stripping 270
Alzheimer’s disease 7 association cortex 69
inde x of su bjec ts
associative thinking 197, 361 Black Panther serial killer 240

astrocytes 69–71, 102, 112 Black Square on White (painting) 331, 334
astronauts 1 blank slate view of mind 22–3, 54, 95, 125,
atomic bomb 363 173, 248, 250, 327, 386, 421–2, 430
attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder blastocyst 92
(AD/HD) 193 blind individuals 96, 232
Australopithecus afarensis 36, 38, 74 block sorting test 51, 195, 419
autism spectrum disorder 71, 99, 102, 193, body clock 73, 98
223–31, 234–35, 237, 328, 398, 417 body image 275
axons 63–6, 77, 91, 97, 110 Bolsheviks 287, 294
bonding 157, 309
babies 76, 102–3, 132–6, 398, 408, 417 bone 34, 36, 38, 74–5, 82, 303
ballistics 364 bottom-up model of mind 147, 387, 412, 417
ballooning 366 Braille 232
basal radial glial cells 86 brain activity 16, 40, 67, 132–3, 136, 169,
basketball 149 236, 307, 414, 416
Bathers (paintings) 333 brain development 39, 76–7, 87, 92,
bats 261–2 94–100, 102, 200, 398, 414
Battle on the Ice (film sequence) 338 brain dynamics 415, 419
Battleship Potemkin (film) 336–7 brain hemispheres 72–3, 90, 101, 152, 182
beauty 330, 333, 346, 375 brain imaging 76, 87, 98, 130–6, 143–4, 153,
bebop 314 169, 171, 183, 247, 250, 253, 306, 313, 322–3,
beer 167–8 416–17, 419
behaviourism 9–10, 14–15, 23–4, 222, 412 brain imprints 74, 76
Belousov–Zhabotinsky (BZ) reaction 414 brain in a vat scenario 400–1
benzodiazepine 179, 207 brain injuries 246, 274
bereavement 6, 218, 378 brain organoids 101–2, 216, 397, 399–400,
betel plant 163 415–16
betrothal 270 brain size 48, 75–7, 397–8
Bible 326, 382–3, 390 brain waves 73–4, 120–2, 147, 168, 179, 215,
bilingualism 152 306, 371, 391, 406, 413–4, 417
binge drinking 155, 164 breathing 73, 165, 171
biomedical model of mental disorder 6–9, British National Health Service (NHS) 10,
15, 222 12–14, 427
biotech 402–3, 407 British Psychology Society 6
bipedalism 38–9, 103 Broca’s Area 75, 129–32, 132, 135
bipolar disorder 2, 8, 153, 187, 189, 208, 223, Buddhism 377
235–7, 417, 424 burial 163, 312, 377
birds 42, 74, 128, 158, 241, 304, 321, 326
birth 76–7, 92–3, 103, 132–4, 219, 228 calcium signals 98–9, 102, 110, 227, 367
black box view of mind 9, 31, 390, 412 CaMKII protein 99, 110–1
Black Death 433 cancer 14, 88, 164, 206, 214, 228, 358–9,
black holes 1, 150, 403 404, 422, 425
508
cannabis 163, 200, 430, 433 climate change 261, 428, 433–4
capitalism 267–71, 284, 333, 335, 365, 428 clinical depression 2, 7–11, 29, 170, 187, 189,
carriers of genetic disorders 26, 28, 242 203, 206–12, 214–20, 237, 273, 275, 417,
Cartesian dualism 22, 411 419–20, 424, 427–32
catatonic behaviour 195 clinical psychologists 6–7, 16, 421, 423
Catholic Church 19, 246, 294, 323, 381, 385 clockwork view of Universe 366
cats 94, 200, 349 cocaine 123
Cave Rescue Organization 379 cognition 76, 152, 168, 398
celebrities 55, 117–18, 416 cognitive behavioural therapy
cell body 63–4, 66, 97, 113 (CBT) 10–11, 207
cell signalling 28, 110–11, 129, 415, 417 cognitive behaviourism 10, 23
cellular differentiation 93, 197, 338 cognitive disinhibition 153
cerebellum 73, 135, 148–51, 324, 332, 413 collagen 82
cerebrum 72–3 collective consciousness 262, 317
charity 12, 47, 231, 266, 273 commodities 270–1, 333, 364–5, 389
Chartism 347 communication 44, 55–6, 69, 74, 91, 112,
chemicals 8, 69, 159, 162–3, 179, 188, 210–11, 114, 120, 125, 128, 137, 162, 194, 196, 198–9,
385, 392, 400, 414–15, 425 204, 223, 233–4, 307, 328, 384, 406–7, 415
chemistry 160, 203, 368, 414 compensation 116, 195, 418
child development 50–51, 123 competition 5, 297, 329, 366, 428
children 23, 26, 29–30, 42, 49–54, 57–8, 90, Comptine d’Une Aute Été
104–5, 123–5, 131–7, 140–2, 157–8, 161, 176, (instrumental) 393–4
193, 195, 198, 219–20, 224–5, 227–9, 231–5, computer games 165, 167
242, 246–50, 256, 263, 266, 271, 295, 303, computerized tomography 74
320–2, 350–2, 385, 400, 408, 417, 427, 432 concentration camps 219–20
chimpanzees 3, 24, 32–4, 39, 41–4, 60, 71, conceptual thought 52, 124, 196, 198,
74, 76–7, 79, 85–8, 126, 132, 159, 359, 370, 231–2, 322, 338
406, 413 connectivity 77, 119–20, 134, 183, 213, 253
Christianity 379–80, 382 conscious awareness 21, 24, 32, 49, 63, 87,
CHRNA7 gene 227 153, 201, 203, 278–9, 299, 304, 309–10,
chromosome deletion 226–7 314–6, 321–2, 352, 359, 371, 384–6, 389–91,
chromosome duplication 226–7 394, 398, 400, 402–3, 407, 409, 412,
chromosomes 28, 30, 82–3, 190–2, 418–20, 422, 426
226–7, 242 contradictions 15, 103, 178, 194, 231, 254,
cinematography 325, 330, 335-9 267–8, 286, 308, 312–3, 317, 345, 382
circulatory system 20 contradictory consciousness 285–6
cities 33, 123, 135, 261, 264–5, 267, 280, 298, cooperation 152, 233, 366, 382
326, 363–4, 426 cooperative learning strategy 233
city states 264–6 Copernican revolution 32, 344
civil war 21, 232, 294, 336, 383 copy number variants (CNVs) 191–3
civilization 1, 33, 46, 109, 168, 261, 263–5, corpus callosum 152, 180–1
267, 278, 310, 314, 325, 380, 389, 426–8, 435 corticosterone 250
classroom teaching 53, 149, 161, 234, 361 cortisol 166, 219
509
Country Boy (song) 318 dissociative identity disorder (DID) 252

COVID-19 261, 273, 429 distress 12, 14, 47–8, 183, 187, 203, 208, 292,
creative process 143–4, 148–9, 151, 230, 361 348, 380, 421, 427, 430
CREB protein 110 DNA code 24, 82–3, 89
Crime and Punishment (book) 345 DNA methylation 220, 249, 251
crimes of passion 155 DNA sequencing 82, 84, 191
criminal behaviour 242, 244, 246, 249–50 dogs 9, 94, 346
criminal justice system 252 domesticity 349
criminally insane 238, 255 dominant genetic traits 26, 28
crops 33, 262–4 Don Giovanni (opera) 313
crossing over 190–1 dopamine 8, 158–9, 165, 188, 192, 242,
crowds 293–4, 296 385, 413
Crusades 329, 380 dorsolateral prefrontal cortex 143
Cubism 331, 335 dorsomedial prefrontal cortex 288
cultural tools 159, 308, 315, 322, 337, 370 double helix structure of DNA 5, 24
cuts in public services 11–13, 262, 422 double bind theory of schizophrenia 194
cyborgs 402–3 down-sizing 270
cyclic AMP cellular messenger 110 Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (boosk) 252
cystic fibrosis 26–7, 29 drawing 63, 115–6, 149, 181, 321, 322, 324
cytoskeleton 97, 111 dreams 174–5, 178, 183–4, 226, 330, 355,
357, 383
Dadaism 331 Drift Away (song) 317
David (sculpture) 151, 329–30 drug abuse 201, 274
deafness 41, 59, 71, 96, 131, 137, 232 drug cartels 256
decision-making 78, 245, 263 Duchenne’s muscular dystrophy 28–9
deep sleep 120–1 Dyslexia 71
DeepMind company 404–5
delusions 11, 16, 153, 193, 195, 351, 375, 419 E = mc2 363
demagogues 293, 434 Earth 32–3, 63, 75, 266, 303, 309, 344, 377,
democracy 46, 265, 267, 282 384, 409, 435
dendrites 63–6, 97, 113, 226 economy 14, 262, 266, 273, 427, 429
dentate nucleus 150 ectoderm 92
despair 16, 384, 428 education 123, 149, 161, 224, 230–4, 244,
destructive thinking 214 276, 280, 285, 292, 423
developmental delays 235, 398 educationalists 161
developmental psychologists 136, 161, 223 egalitarianism 263
diabetes 29, 164, 189, 425 eggs 84, 88, 90, 92, 190–1, 219, 326, 367, 388
dialogue journals 162 ego 32, 174–7, 182
diet 84, 209, 264 egocentric speech 51, 57–8, 137
digital revolution 339 Egyptian revolution (2011) 295
disabled 219, 224, 232–3 Eiffel Tower 118–9, 145, 416
discrimination 6 Electra Complex 176
dissection 20 electric guitar 316
510
electricity 64, 365–6 extended mind 157

electroencephalogram (EEG) 306 extinction 33, 261, 403
electromagnetism 369 eyes 66, 73, 75, 94–5, 135, 140, 181, 241, 244,
e-mails 166, 269 323, 329
embedded mind 157
embodied mind 156 FAAH gene 430–31
embryo development 70, 92, 99–100 FAAH-OUT gene 431
embryos 4, 9, 70, 85, 92, 96–102, 213, 226, Facebook 165
367, 408 family relations 176
emotional abuse 194 famine 232, 261, 347, 434
emotional expressions 58, 233 fantasy 140, 327, 335, 348
emotional flatness 195 farming 146, 264
emotional processing 214–5 fat tissue 156
emotions 27, 68, 72–3, 116, 144, 146, 154–5, feedback 35, 39, 95, 219, 316
159–61, 174, 184, 199, 234, 243, 253, 284, feudalism 21–2, 46, 266–7, 270–1, 286, 326,
308, 311, 314–6, 323, 337, 341, 357, 370, 413 345, 364, 382–3, 433
empathy 231, 234, 252, 269, 354, 356 film-editing 336–7
enacted mind 157 finance industry 257, 269, 275
Encyclopaedia of DNA Elements fish 74, 98–100, 271
(ENCODE) project 82, 189 flashbacks 345, 355
endoderm 92 flu virus 214
English Civil War 21, 383 fluorescent probes 3, 98
English Peasants Revolt (1381) 382–3, 433 FMR1 gene 97
English revolution (1642–9) 284, 287, 291, foetal development 86, 102, 132–3
294–5, 383, 433 foetus 96, 102, 133–4, 200, 213, 226, 228,
entertainment industry 271 367, 408, 415–6
epididymis 219 foraging 262
epigenetics 4–5, 80, 83–5, 88, 218–22, 226, forced swim test 217
249–51, 369, 390, 392, 424 Fordism 268
epigenome 218–9 forebrain 72, 79, 92
epilepsy 71, 90, 114, 117, 180, 344 foreigners 27
episodic memory 116 fossils 33–7, 39, 74–5, 71
ERK1 protein 227 FOXP2 gene 126–9, 131–2
ERK2 protein 227 Fragile X syndrome 97
estrangement 167 fragmented self 59, 339, 418
ethics 101, 129, 216, 219, 257, 397–402, 408, fraud 245, 256–7, 378
415–6 free association 175, 184
ethnicity 272–3 free will 21, 171
executive functions of mind 145–6, 149 free-market economics 366, 428
exosomes 90–1, 113–4 French revolution (1789) 266, 284, 288,
exploitation 163, 270–1, 278, 382, 427 290, 294–5, 312–3, 366, 434
expressionism 331 frescoes 151, 323
Expulsion from Paradise (fresco) 323 friendship 235, 338
511
frontal lobes 78, 146, 184, 236, 284 gorillas 42–4, 74, 85, 159, 413
fruit flies 96, 98, 100, 361 Götterdämmerung (opera) 311
functional magnetic resonance imaging grammar 42, 44, 54, 126–7, 182
(fMRI) 96, 133, 143, 147, 149, 153, 306–7 gravitational waves 151
funerals 375, 377, 394 Great Depression (1930s) 215, 296
Futurism 331 group identity 78
fuzzy nature of inner thought 138, 392 growth factors 93
guilt 160, 225, 252
GABA neurotransmitter 179–80 gypsies 219
Gaboxadol drug 179
galaxies 1, 369 haemoglobin 82
gambling 165 haemophilia 28
Gaping Ghyll pothole 209, 378 hallucinations 11, 169, 195, 212, 419
gastrulation 92 harassment 275
gender 263, 272–3, 282, 288 HARE5 gene regulatory region 86
gene editing 3, 99, 129, 216, 396–7, 399 harpsichord 314–5
gene expression 83–6, 91, 98, 112–4, 159, Healing Expressive and Recovery Arts
189, 249, 369, 371, 386, 406 (HERA) programme 420
gene regulatory networks 28 health insurance 13
gene regulatory proteins 110, 112–3 health professionals 6, 201, 422, 424
gene variants 8, 190, 215, 242 healthcare 11–12, 203, 421, 423
genetic code 5, 25 hearing 59, 73, 96, 132, 135, 192, 306, 338,
genetic disorders 26 401, 419
genetics 5–6, 25, 31, 193, 212, 369, 417 heart disease 7, 29, 189, 201
genius 69, 140, 150–3, 172, 237, 315, 328–9, heart rate 73, 244
331, 346, 356 heaven 327, 381
genome-wide association studies hell 326–7, 380–1
(GWAS) 7, 188–91 hemimegalencephaly 90
genomic regions 30, 188, 191, 200, 418 heresy 382
germline mutations 90 heroin 164–7, 206
gestures 40, 44, 131, 194, 233 higher mental functions 21, 73, 104, 138,
ghost in the machine 387 146–50, 158, 160, 195–7, 199, 243, 370
Ghost in the Shell (film) 402 hindbrain 72–3, 92
giant squids 65 Hinduism 377
gibbons 304 hippocampus 70, 73, 110, 113–121, 124,
glamorization 319, 333 179–80
glial cells 4, 68–71, 80, 86, 91, 93, 101–2, histones 83–5, 88, 249
112, 114, 151, 192, 213, 216, 386, 390, Holocaust 219–20, 292, 297
406–8, 415 homeless 6, 13, 232, 295
global positioning systems (GPS) 117, 368 hominids 36, 39
glutamate neurotransmitter 179–80, 188 Homo erectus 39, 75, 168
Go board game 405 Homo habilis 38, 75
gonads 156 Homo sapiens 32–3, 75, 168, 261–2, 304
512
homophobia 5, 199, 263 indigenous people of America 309

homosexuality 30, 176 individual consciousness 49, 54, 60, 139,
homunculus in mind 387, 412, 414 277, 281, 285, 342, 356–7, 392, 395, 412
hormones 27, 93, 156–7, 166, 179, 219 individuality 90, 394, 418–9
hospital beds 13 induced pluripotent stem (iPS)
Human Connectome Project 3, 367, 407 cells 101, 399
Human Genome Project 3, 5–7, 25, 80, 82, industrial militancy 278
84, 188, 367 Industrial Revolution 347
human uniqueness 2, 32, 41, 63, 85, 139, industrialization 135
216, 322 infants 6, 77, 96, 103, 123, 133, 135, 160
Hungarian revolution (1956) 353 infection 116, 192, 206, 263, 388, 422
hunger 73, 160, 278–9 inferior parietal lobule 152
hunter-gatherers 1, 30, 262–3, 265–6, infertility 367
308–10, 314, 377, 379 inflammation 192, 213–4, 216, 424
hunting 262–4, 309–10, 321, 424 Ingleborough 379
huntingtin protein 29 inheritance 26, 29, 266, 270, 368, 388
Huntington’s disease 26–9, 424 inhibitory neurons 102
hypnosis 183 injury 146, 245–6, 274, 431
hypothalamus 73, 156–7 innate human capacities 41–2, 50, 125, 158,
hypotheses 109, 150, 168, 193–4, 360, 161, 324
365–6 inner speech 51, 54, 57–9, 136–9, 178, 197,
hysteria 174 234, 338, 370, 392, 417–9
insecurity 199, 203, 269, 319, 420
I have a dream (speech) 384, 432 Instagram 427
Ice Ages 76 insularity 51
id 174 integrin beta-3 protein 213
ideological superstructure 54 intellect 2, 5, 35, 56, 90, 123, 136, 151, 160,
idiosyncratic references 197 161, 173, 232, 296, 318, 337, 403, 417
illness 6–8, 10, 13, 153, 187, 190, 205, 214, intensity of vision 331
237–8, 292 intentions 57, 68, 223, 230, 313, 323, 342
illusions 22, 59, 198, 200, 222, 343, 353–4, interests 23, 138, 162, 224, 231, 235, 267,
385, 394, 401, 418 290, 328, 382, 394, 428
imagination 16, 69, 73, 139, 140–50, 160, interferon 206–8, 214
168–9, 171, 173, 183, 203, 230, 293, 324, 329, International Association on the Political
332, 342, 359–62, 398, 413, 420, 426, 435 Use of Psychiatry 292
Imagine (song) 317 International Monetary Fund 273, 427
immaturity 284 Internet 165–7, 261, 325, 388, 396
immigration 270, 347 interneurons 66, 159
immortality 20–1, 375, 411 intestines 156
immune system 70, 78, 127, 158, 192–3, introspective psychology 14–15
213–4 intuition 151, 182, 404
immuno-neurology 214 inventions 15, 33, 366, 404
improvisation 183, 313–4, 416 IQ tests 30
513
irritability 174 literary skills 54

Islam 375, 379 literature 2, 16, 176, 206, 299, 341–2, 345,
Islamophobia 274 348, 354, 371, 412, 420
liver 5, 27, 156, 164
Jack the Ripper serial killer 352 liver cirrhosis 164
Jane Eyre (book) 348 lizard brain 72
jazz music 143, 183, 305, 307, 313–4, 335, 416 lockdown 273, 429
jingoism 27 locomotion 19
job insecurity 203, 269, 420 Lolita (book) 340
Ju/’hoansi bush people 262–3, 309 loneliness 218, 420
Judaism 379 long-term potentiation (LTP) 110, 112–3
judgement 43, 78, 221, 284 loss of life 6, 12–3, 206, 348, 363
junk DNA 4, 80, 189 love 2, 12, 47, 155, 157, 160, 181, 204, 209,
Jupiter 33 244, 246, 254, 289–90, 304, 311, 319, 346,
350, 356, 358, 375, 377–8, 380, 385, 391, 394
Kanzi the bonobo 42–3 low mood 207, 214
ketamine 169–70, 213 lower classes 266, 296, 352
kidnap 245 LSD 169–70
kidney 156, 158 Lucy skeleton 36, 74
knowledge 2, 11, 24, 31, 44, 51, 109, 133, 208, lunatic asylum 215
225, 290, 349, 359–61, 363, 399
Koko the gorilla 42–3 ma’at concept 279
macaque monkey 71, 129, 398
labour 35, 39, 118, 157, 265, 268–70, 273, macrocephaly 227
278, 309, 316, 318, 386, 388, 428, 433 madness 153, 289, 354
language genes 129 magic mushrooms 163, 168
language instinct 125 magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) 87,
language learning 134–5, 150 124, 368
larynx 39 mammals 3, 48, 74, 85, 87, 96, 99–100, 103,
Lascaux cave paintings 321, 324–5 158, 181
lasers 3, 368, 408 mania 8, 235, 237
leadership 263, 287 manic depression 7–8
learning disabilities 41, 97, 231–3, 233, 292 March on Washington 384, 432
left brain 148, 182 Maria (song) 311–2
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (painting) 331–3 marriage 92, 218, 270, 357
Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners 280 mass movements 278–9, 282, 286, 288,
Levellers 286–7, 290, 294–5, 383 293, 295
LGBT+ individuals 219, 280–1, 295–6 mass shootings 13, 187, 206
LHPP gene 215–6 match girls’ strike (London, 1888) 282–3, 352
life expectancy 14, 426 materialism 386–7
limbic system 72–3, 243 mathematical systems 322
lips 58, 126 May 1968, France 284
literary fiction 339 MCPH1 gene 398
514
measles, mumps, and rubella (MMR) Mind (British mental health charity) 12
vaccine 228 mind shift 16
medial ganglionic eminence (MGE) 101–2 miners’ strike (UK, 1984–5) 280–2
medial prefrontal cortex 183 mini-brains 101
Medici family 329 minicolumns 114
medieval era 19, 326, 382 Miracle/Master Mineral Solution
meditation 143, 169, 183 (MMS) 228
medulla 73 mirror neurons 67–8, 131–2, 323
melody 307 miscarriage 101
memes 387–8, 390, 412 Modern Devotion religious
memories 71, 73, 109–10, 112, 114–5, 117–8, movement 326
157, 173–4, 178–80, 183, 402, 408, 416, 432 modern synthesis in genetics 369
memorization 105, 121 modernism in art 330, 335
mental development 50, 52, 54, 232 money laundering 256
mental disorder 2–4, 6–14, 23, 101, 139, monkeys 67, 99–100, 129, 131, 144, 158–9,
153–5, 175, 184, 187–8, 191, 193, 198, 203, 398–9, 404, 406
205–6, 208, 214–5, 217–22, 225, 235, 237, monoamine oxidase A (MAOA) 242
247, 252, 257, 269, 272, 274, 288, 290, 319, monogamy 266
328, 399, 415, 417, 419–30 monophonic fiction 343
mental distress 14, 187, 203, 292, 348, montage in film 336–7
421, 427 Moon 1, 396
mental health 12–14, 206, 211, 236–7, 247, morality 174–5, 245, 379
251, 272–5, 292, 420–2, 426–7 motivation 23, 58, 177, 232–3, 235, 329, 348,
mental health nurses 12 353, 386
mental illness 8, 10, 13, 153, 237, 292 motor cortex 77, 323
mental processes 73, 140, 171, 245, 279, 305 motor neurons 66
mental state 156, 179, 208, 221, 223, 292 movies 142
mescaline 163 MRI scanners 149, 368
mesoderm 92 multi-voicedness 56
messenger RNA 81–3, 90–1, 112–3 multiple personality disorder 59
meta-analysis 11, 212, 322 multiple sclerosis 78
metabolism 366 multipolar neurons 66
metric system 366 multitasking 166
mice 3, 71, 86, 94–5, 99–100, 118, 121, murder 206, 219, 224, 239–45, 247, 251, 253,
126–8, 179, 217–9, 228, 397–8 255, 263, 267, 276–7, 290–2, 297, 352, 354
micro RNAs 113, 179, 219 muscles 66
microcephaly 227 music 2, 16, 96, 137, 143, 149, 152, 299,
microelectrodes 67, 117 303–19, 322–3, 330, 337–8, 355, 360–1, 371,
microglia 70–1 386, 393–4, 412, 416, 420
midbrain 72–3, 92 musical instruments 303, 310
middling sort in English revolution 291 mutations 8, 83, 89–90, 97–9, 131–2,
military tensions 261 226–7, 368, 417, 430–2
Milky Way 1 myelin 64–5, 68, 77–9, 413
515
nationalism 27 NOTCH2 gene 87

Natufians 167 novels 142, 239, 330, 340–5
natural disasters 377 nuclear fission 363
natural selection 28, 32–3, 83, 103, 304, nuclear forces 369
366, 368–9, 385 nucleus accumbens 307
Nazis 219, 224, 292–3, 295–8, 314, 338, nucleus of cell 64, 81, 88, 90, 113
363, 393 Nuremberg rallies 393
Neanderthals 3, 34, 75–6, 79, 86, 377, 426 nurture 2, 100, 124, 247, 249, 324, 328, 408
necrophilia 245 nutrition 19–20, 244
neighbourhood 244
neocortex 75, 85–6, 159, 413 objectification of women 277
neonates 102 observation 9, 20, 48, 67, 360, 413
nerve circuits 98 Oedipus Complex 176
nerve connections 90, 110, 156 oligodendrocytes 68
nervous system 63, 65–6, 90, 92, 100–1, Olympia (painting) 333
109, 405 Open Dialogue treatment method
neural networks 102, 147, 405–6 201–2, 420
neural stem cells 85–7, 93 opium 163, 173, 381
neural tube 92 oppression 278, 318, 347, 382–4
neurogenesis 9, 88, 99, 213, 216 optimism 3, 396, 429–30, 433
neuroglia 68–9, 88 optogenetics 3, 118–9, 121, 397
neuromuscular junction 66 orbifrontal cortex 248
neuronal networks 101, 179 orchestra 128
neuronal types 67 ORF0 transposon 89
neuroscience 16, 59, 91, 143, 177–8, 306, organs 20, 63, 66, 68, 85, 89, 92, 112, 156–7,
323, 397, 400, 408 171, 327, 367, 381
neuroscientists 68, 101, 120, 210, 214, orgasm 157, 176
216, 397 Origin of Species (book) 32, 34
neuroses 174 orphanages 135–6
neurotransmitters 8, 65–6, 110–2, 210, 242, orphanhood 348
413, 415 osteoarthritis 431
new union movement (UK, 1890s) 282 overdoses 14, 165–6, 211
news networks 166 Oxfam charity 266
NHS mental health network 14 oxytocin hormone 157–8, 308, 310, 385
Night Stalker serial killer 254
nightmares 277, 285 paediatrics 224
Nim Chimpsky 43 paedophilia 246–9
NMDA receptor 112 pain 2, 47, 66, 71, 94, 103, 119, 182–3, 206,
non-coding DNA 4, 80, 189 253, 297, 317, 357, 378, 430–1
non-invasive imaging 396, 416 palaeontology 36
non-objective art 334 pancreas 26, 158, 164
non-verbal communication 44, 223, 233 panpsychism 389
noradrenaline neurotransmitter 8 paradigm shift in science 365
516
paranoid schizophrenia 194 plasticity 88, 91, 103, 111, 413

Parasite (film) 337 play 51, 137, 141–3, 150, 235, 263, 303,
parental behaviour 157 309–10
parents 194, 198, 209, 220 pleasure 19, 47, 73, 158, 164, 174, 182, 183,
Parkinson’s disease 158 207, 342, 351, 389
parody 15, 55–6, 355 Pluto 33
paroxetine drug 213 poetry 153, 330, 342
pathological lying 71 politics 153, 262, 427
pea plants 26–7 polyphonic fiction 343–4
peers 137, 161, 234–5, 254, 356 pons region in brain 73
penis envy 176 popular music 316, 318
pensions 203, 279, 281, 420 populism 429
perception 19, 72, 104, 140–1, 144, 169, 174, Portuguese revolution (1974–5) 434
265–6, 270–1, 274, 280, 304, 306, 316, 334, positron emission tomography (PET) 243
338, 359, 361, 366, 377, 393 post-mortems 69, 71, 146, 241
periodic table 368 postsynaptic neurons 110–4
peripheral nervous system 63, 90 potassium ions 65
persecution 21, 294, 380 poverty 6, 123, 244, 256, 267
personal identity 22–3 powerlessness 256
personality 5, 21, 59, 146, 160, 173, 191, 244, predators 306, 376
252, 269, 277, 327–8, 341, 386, 391, 402, 429 prefrontal cortex 99, 115, 118–9, 143, 145–8,
pessimism 429 152, 166, 182–4, 192, 243, 250, 253, 272,
petty crime 244 287–8, 298
philosophy 153, 343, 367 pregnancy 100, 200, 226
photography 63, 332, 335 prehistory 34, 38, 168, 309–10, 325
physical abuse 194 premotor cortex 67
physics 344, 363, 366, 368–9 presynaptic neurons 111–2
piano 143, 149, 197–8, 314–6, 393 primates 3, 32, 38, 42, 48, 60, 71–2, 74, 78,
picket lines 281–2 85–7, 89, 99–100, 103, 122, 128, 131, 148,
pictures 105, 117–8, 148, 181–2, 306, 338 159, 371, 397–8, 413, 415
Piltdown hoax 35–6 problem solving 52, 72, 115, 137, 145, 161,
Pincher Martin (novel) 341 243, 419
pineal gland 21 procedural memory 116
pituitary 156 propaganda 267, 345
PKA protein 110, 112 property 266, 270, 317, 326
place cells in hippocampus 117 prostitutes 206, 239, 246, 271, 276–7,
placebo effect 11, 211 332–3, 352
placenta 200 proto-humans 3, 34–9, 74–5, 86, 103, 168,
Planet of the Apes (film series) 398 262, 359–60, 409
planets 150, 369, 408 Prozac 9, 207, 211, 217
planning 40, 51, 72, 77–8, 99, 115, 143, 145, Prozac: Revolution in a Capsule
158, 284, 307, 375 (documentary) 211
planning diagrams 322 pseudo-conceptual thought 52–3, 196
517
psilocybin 168–9 relativity 365, 368–9

psychedelic drugs 163, 168–70, 326 religion 15, 266, 295, 317, 327, 371, 375, 377,
psychiatrists 2, 6–7, 12–15, 136, 193, 200, 379–82, 384–5, 390, 434
202, 213–4, 216, 225–6, 252, 274, 292, 328, religious buildings 375
421–3, 427 religious ceremonies 305, 309, 375
Psycho (film) 246, 252 REM sleep 143
psychoanalysis 10, 14–15, 174, 177–8, 184, remorse 252–3, 269
222, 225 Renaissance 46, 326, 331, 366
psychology 6, 9–10, 14–15, 23, 49, 59, 138, repetition 150, 250, 348, 384
157, 159, 165, 172, 177–8, 216, 225, 293, reproduction 19, 73, 127
337, 341 reptile 74
psychopaths 252–3, 257, 269–70 revolutions 6, 21, 23, 46, 135, 167, 233,
psychosis 193, 198, 201–2, 225, 290 263–4, 266, 270, 279, 284–92, 294–5,
psychotherapies 2, 14, 164, 178, 201–3, 298–9, 312–3, 320, 330, 332, 335, 337, 339,
420–1, 424–5 344, 347, 353, 363, 365–6, 368, 383, 411,
puberty 77, 246, 305 422, 433–4
pulsars 150 revulsion 246–7, 252
Purple Haze (song) 311 reward 10, 41, 47–8, 100, 143, 158–9, 165–6,
Pygmies of Equatorial Africa 309 183, 246, 380–1, 427
pyramids 278, 386 rhythmic sound 305–6, 337
ribosomes 81, 113
qualia 391 right brain 148, 181
quantum mechanics 368–70 risk 103, 162, 188, 191–2, 200, 211–2, 221,
questioning 14, 21, 51, 279, 286, 293 236, 243–4, 251, 255–6, 269–70, 278, 296,
298, 319, 359, 406, 428
racism 5, 199, 263, 273–4, 314, 363 RNA 4, 80–4, 90–1, 112–3, 179, 219, 249,
radio 132, 180, 405 369, 406, 415
radioactivity 362 RNA polymerase 81–3
rage 155, 243 rogue states 256
railway 145, 147–8, 283, 298, 320 Roman Empire 382
rape 245, 255, 271 Romantic Movement 173
rationality 182, 198–9, 284, 294, 376–8 Room at the Top (book) 340
reasoning 53, 72, 77–8, 160, 196, 233, 284, 341 Royal College of Psychiatrists 12, 14, 427
receptors 27, 65, 69–71, 93, 110, 112, 179–80 ruling class 265, 267, 270, 364, 381
recessive traits 26, 28 Russian Empire 295
recreational drugs 162–4, 213 Russian Orthodox Church 335
reductionism 167, 366–7, 421–2 Russian revolution (1905) 335, 337
reflexes 9, 14–15, 41, 44, 165 Russian revolution (1917) 270, 284, 286–7,
regression of mental functions 196–8 291–2, 294–5, 335, 422
regulatory RNAs 4, 84, 91, 112–3, 179, 219,
369, 406, 415 sadism 349
reincarnation 348, 377 salaries 203, 280, 420
rejection 47, 235, 254 Sanity, Madness and the Family (book) 194
518
sarcasm 55 siblings 23, 139, 190, 194, 254

SARS-CoV-2 virus 429 sign language 41–3, 59, 128–9,
Satanism 351 131, 232
satire 335 singing 21, 303, 309
scarlet fever 232 SIRT1 gene 215–6
schizophrenia 2, 7–8, 11, 29, 59, 79, 102, Sistine Chapel 151, 323, 325, 328
121, 153, 187–9, 191–202, 206, 208, 210, skeleton 33, 36, 39, 97
213, 216, 237, 273–4, 276, 417–20, skin 66, 92, 101, 206, 214, 226, 263, 270,
423–4, 426 272, 288, 385, 401, 434
science fiction 340, 396, 401, 409, 416 skull 1, 34–6, 38, 74–6, 103, 114, 241, 245,
scientific discovery 94, 359–60, 366 387, 394
scientific methods 21, 360 skyhooks 412
scientists 24–5, 34, 49, 69–70, 73–4, 78, 87, slavery 265–6, 347
94, 96, 100–1, 115, 128, 156, 164, 169, 173, Slavs 219
189–91, 210, 224, 242, 244, 248–9, 297, sleep disorders 71
313, 340, 358–9, 360–1, 365, 397–9, 401, smartphones 261, 368
404, 416 smell 115–6, 269, 283, 338, 340, 391,
seizures 114–5, 117, 344 400–1, 405
selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors Snapchat 427
(SSRIs) 9, 211–3, 217 social adversity 201
self-centredness 137 social change 55, 57, 288, 299
self-control 51, 243 social class 30, 46, 218, 255, 257, 265–7,
self-esteem 207, 275 270, 273, 277, 284, 291, 296–7, 310, 314,
self-interest 47 318, 326, 333, 338, 340, 347, 352, 363–4,
self-censorship 143 366, 380–2, 384, 423–4
selfishness 5, 27, 47, 354 social conscience 254
semantic memory 116 social context 160, 230
semaphore telegraph 366 social distancing 273
sensory neurons 66 social dysfunction 167
sentimentality 333 social interactions 16, 48, 56–7, 87, 123–4,
serotonin 8–9, 210–13 134–5, 141, 203, 218, 223, 233–5, 273, 281,
sex hormones 179 288, 308, 310, 328, 370, 388, 390, 392,
sexism 5, 199, 263, 363 397–8, 418, 420, 425
sexual abuse 194, 199–200, 249–50, 351 social media 165–7, 261, 275–6,
sexual behaviour 98 388, 427
sexual desire 73, 160, 174–6 social networking 76, 165
sexual offenders 248 social recognition 157
sexual persuasion 272, 288 social reductionism 421
sexual repression 296 social rejection 235
sexual stages 176 social sanctions 254
SHANK3 gene 99 social unrest 311
shoplifting 244–5 socialism 35
shopping 165, 276, 362 socialization 78, 234
519
society 2, 5–6, 13, 15, 21–2, 27, 39, 45–7, 49, St Paul’s Cathedral 209, 375
54–5, 104, 138–9, 161, 163–4, 167, 177–8, staged drama 342
187, 193–4, 199, 218, 221–2, 229–30, 232, Stalinism 54, 291, 353, 422
237, 246, 250, 252, 255–7, 261–3, 265–8, Star Trek (TV and film series) 396
270–5, 277–9, 282, 284–7, 291–2, 294–6, stars 1, 5, 150, 389
298–9, 305, 307–11, 314, 316–9, 326–8, stem cells 85–8, 93, 100–1, 226, 399–400,
330, 332–3, 335, 341–2, 345, 357, 359, 402, 415
363–6, 370, 377, 380–4, 388, 390, 393, stomach 156
402, 409, 423, 426–8, 434–5 stoned ape hypothesis 168
socioeconomic status 218 strangers 43, 47, 308, 391, 394
sodium ions 65 stream of consciousness 330
Solar System 1, 261, 344, 396 street art 335
somatic mutations 89–90 stress 4, 84, 166, 179–80, 187, 198, 201, 211–2,
songbirds 128, 158 218–20, 236, 250, 269, 272, 427–8, 432
songs 36, 123, 128, 158, 304–7, 309–11, 314, striatum 100, 159, 413
317–9 strikes 278–84, 352, 352
soul 19–22, 23–4, 63, 174, 281, 313, 317–8, 346, stuttering 71
351, 375, 377, 381, 386, 393, 407, 411, 414 Suez Crisis (1956) 353
Soviet Union 49, 231–2, 291, 295–6, 338 suicide 2, 12–14, 187, 202, 205–6, 209, 273,
soviets (workers’ and peasants’ councils) in 319, 350, 394
Russian revolution 287 Sun 32, 344, 392
space travel 1, 140, 396, 408–9, 426 superego 174–6
Space: 1999 (TV series) 396 superior temporal gyrus 135, 307
space-time 150, 403 supernatural 21–2, 32, 346, 349–50, 375–6,
special needs 231–2 378–9, 384–6, 394
Spectrum: Flight of Forms (painting) 336 support network 12, 282
speech 34, 39, 41, 51, 53–9, 72, 126–7, suprematism 331, 334
129–30, 133, 135–9, 158, 178, 195–7, 224, swastika 392–3
234, 272, 289, 305, 338, 384, 404, 432 symbolism 324, 329, 418
speech genres 56–7, 138 symbols 42, 59, 96, 142, 147, 304, 322, 412
spelling 54, 126–7 synaesthesia 338
sperm 4, 84, 88, 90, 92, 190–1, 219, 367, 388 synapses 1, 65–6, 69–71, 88, 97, 99, 102,
spinal cord 64, 66, 92 110–3, 127, 210, 213, 226, 406–7
spiritualism 378 synaptic pruning 70–1, 192
spirituality 310, 371, 377 syncretic thought 52
Split (film) 252 synthetic cubism 331
split brains 180–2
split personality 252–3 T2 Nazi euthanasia programme 224
spontaneity 43, 53, 183, 287, 293 talking cure 12, 178, 184
sport 58, 171, 349 taxation 265, 382
SRGAP2 gene 398 teachers 43, 103, 135, 139, 161–2, 204, 234,
SRPX2 gene 127–8 254, 356, 360, 430
520
technology 1–2, 39–40, 100, 111, 128, 151, The Waste Land (poem) 239
168, 299, 310, 314, 327, 330, 335, 339, theft 245
359–60, 363–5, 376, 389, 401, 403, 408, 435 theory of mind 223, 245, 376
teenagers 78, 114, 165, 198, 208, 244, 324 thermodynamics 365
teeth 36, 163, 377 thirst 73, 278, 340
telepathy 194 Thirty Years War 380
tempo 314 thoughts 10, 14–15, 48, 57, 121, 138, 153,
terrorist organizations 205, 256, 402 171–2, 174–5, 178, 180, 183, 194, 202, 208,
testicles 219 285, 322, 325, 338, 341–4, 351, 354–5, 362,
testosterone 250 364, 370, 375–6, 390–2, 397, 400, 404,
textile industry 239, 365 418–9, 422, 434
thalamic reticular nucleus (TRN) 120–1 thryoid gland 156
thalamus 73, 120–1, 156 tissues 63, 74–5, 86, 92, 156, 189, 367, 392
The Big Bang Theory (TV series) 359 tobacco 163–4
The Brothers Karamazov (book) 343 tone deafness 71
The Castle (book) 355 tongue 58, 66, 126, 401
The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind tool-making 38–41, 49, 76
(book) 293 tools 33–40, 49, 104, 133, 141, 150, 157,
The Deeper Genome (book) 82, 189, 369 159, 278, 304, 306, 308–9, 322, 337,
The Descent of Man (book) 34 359–60, 370
The Garden of Earthly Delights top-down model of mind 122, 147, 417
(painting) 326–7 torture 245, 327, 349
The Girl from Ipanema (song) 311 tortured-genius 237
The Hall of the Bulls, Lascaux Toxoplasma gondii 200
(paintings) 321 trade 240, 282–3, 326, 347, 363
The Haywain (painting) 326 trade union 56
The Holy Bible (album) 319 traditional art 330, 332
The Magic Flute (opera) 313 transcranial Doppler ultrasonography
The Marriage of Figaro (opera) 313 (fTCD) 40
The Matrix (film) 401 transcranial magnetic stimulation
The Moth Radio Hour (radio series) 132 (TMS) 323
The Part Played by Labour in the transcription 81, 113
Transition from Ape to Man transcription factors 82–3
(essay) 35 transitions 35, 51, 73, 104, 131, 141–2, 195,
The Pilgrim’s Progress (book) 383–4 314–5, 326, 382, 403
The Possessed (painting) 345 translation 113, 225
The Promenade (painting) 336 transposons 84, 88–9
The Selfish Gene (book) 243, 388 trauma 6, 11, 174, 179–80, 187, 192, 201, 214,
The Star Spangled Banner 219–20, 222, 226, 245–7, 250, 289, 349,
(instrumental) 316 351, 430
The Turn of the Screw (book) 350, 352 tricyclics drugs 210–11
The Unconsoled (book) 355–6 tritone 311
521
tumours 245, 248 wage 262, 267–9, 284

TV 197, 255, 359, 396 wage freezes 262
twins 16, 87, 89, 413 Walk on Water (song) 319
Wall Street Crash (1929) 273
UK Human Fertilization and Embryo war 5, 21, 27, 116, 219, 232, 261, 265–6,
Authority 100 286–7, 292, 294, 296–8, 303, 314, 316,
unconscious 139, 150–1, 170–5, 177–8, 330, 335–6, 338, 353, 363–4, 378, 380, 383,
180–4, 202, 237, 272, 285, 288, 312, 325, 393, 434
332, 337, 339, 343, 348–9, 351–2, 354, 361, Washoe the chimp 41–2
370, 382, 387, 392, 407, 411 Wernicke’s Area 130
unconscious biases 288, 382 whales 304
unconscious fears 272 whiskers 95
unemployment 317 White Rose student movement 298
unit of analysis 368–70 wild animal markets 262
Universe 1, 19, 21, 32–3, 344, 363, 365–6, Williams Syndrome 308
369–70, 385, 389 willpower 164
universities 206, 267, 269, 278–83, 285, womb 77, 100, 103, 132–3, 226, 229,
290, 295, 423 408, 416
urban life 218 Women Against Pit Closures 280
urine 242 word meaning 53, 138, 198, 370, 392,
US Centers for Disease Control and 412, 415
Prevention 14 working memory 121–4, 147, 150,
US Declaration of Independence 266 166, 414
US National Survey on Drug Use and working class 218, 284, 291, 340, 347,
Health 13 352, 384
utilitarianism 245 World War I 232, 287, 335, 378, 393
utterances 41, 43, 55–7, 137–8, 343 World War II 116, 219, 292, 314, 353
writing 15, 34, 49, 53–4, 104, 143, 162–3, 181,
vaccination 214, 228 232, 313, 338, 345, 348, 356, 363, 378, 383,
ventromedial prefrontal cortex 253, 288 386, 394, 420
verbal skills 234 Wuthering Heights (book) 346–50
Virgin Mary 198
virtual reality (VR) technology 400–1 X chromosome 28, 30, 242
viruses 116, 214, 229, 261, 271, 429 X-rays 97
vision 63, 73, 75, 95, 140, 144–5, 327, 330–1, xenophobia 27
386, 388, 390, 401, 414
visual cortex 77, 94, 306, 334 Yorkshire Dales 209
visual stimuli 94, 197 Yorkshire Ripper 239
voice box 58
vorticism 331 zebrafish 98–100
voxel-based morphometry 324 zone of proximal development
Vygotsky’s double stimulation method 52 (ZPD) 161–2
522

Mind Shift How Culture Transformed The Human Brain

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•

ack now l e dge me n ts

inspiration and vision: my grandmother, father, mother and sister. You

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PART I ORIGINS OF MIND

1. Mind and Matter 19

2. Tool and Symbol 32

3. Individual and Society 46

PART II MIND AND BRAIN

4. Nerve and Brain 63

5. Genome and Epigenome 80

6. Growth and Development 92

PART III THE DYNAMIC MIND

7. Learning and Memory 109

8. Thought and Language 125

9. Creativity and Imagination 140

10. Emotion and Reason 155

11. Conscious and Unconscious 171

PART IV MIND IN TROUBLE

12. Sanity and Madness 187

13. Depression and Anxiety 204

14. Normality and Diversity 222

15. Crime and Punishment 239

PART V THE SOCIAL MIND

16. Class and Division 261

17. Resistance and Rebellion 278

PART VI MIND AND CULTURE

18. Music and Rhythm 303

19. Art and Design 320

20. Fact and Fiction 340

21. Science and Technology 358

PART VII THE FUTURE OF MIND

22. Mind and Meaning 375

23. Mind and Machine 396

Epilogue: A Twenty-­First-­Century Mind 411

‘[Man] is a freak, an ejected foetus robbed of his natural development,

T he Universe, according to estimates, is about ninety-­three billion

Of course if human culture were only concerned with science and

the not-­so-­distant future. Such optimism is based on our increasing

brain function. This allows the gene’s normal function to be ascertained,

treat mental disorders—fundamentally disagree about the basis for

disorder as a whole, or only for a proportion of affected individuals. Either

work. Selective serotonin re-­uptake inhibitors (SSRIs), of which the most

irrelevant to understanding how the stimuli that entered it resulted in

deal with the effects of various traumatic deaths in my family, as well as

The failure of both pharmacological and ‘talking cure’ therapies to

developed from Sigmund Freud’s discovery that the neurotic individuals

one adhered to by the majority of clinical psychologists—are based on

MIND AND MATTER

W hat is the basis of human thought? How does human conscious-

Figure 1 Aristotle’s three types of soul.

about the material basis of human consciousness—the realm of the

understanding how the mind worked was to view it as a ‘blank slate’,

was an important step forward. Yet by failing to properly explain how

signs of developing the conscious awareness of the human mind, although

Methionine Proline Valine Histidine Arginine one amino acid

Figure 2 Genetic code from DNA to protein.

are passed down to future generations according to defined ‘laws’ of

Epilogue: A Twenty-First-Century Mind 411

T he Universe, according to estimates, is about ninety-three billion

the not-so-distant future. Such optimism is based on our increasing

work. Selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors (SSRIs), of which the most

Figure 4 Inheritance of X-linked recessive characteristics.

chimpanzees, other apes, and extinct proto-humans like Neanderthals.

evidence at this time of more ancient proto-human fossils. However,

of modern human-like proportions.12 Fitting as it did the proposal that

or so on. It is through this multi-voicedness that parody achieves its effects.

high-achieving athletes have been shown to talk more to themselves than

thalamus which, like a central postal-sorting depot, channels informa-