"Prisoners and political exiles write books. Would you write a book if you were alone on a desert island? Would you scratch in the sand?"--Joanna Russ, We Who are About to...
Sombody or other famous once said that writing a book is like falling in love. Not for me it's not; its more like going insane. One must take a trip into dangerous and unstable territory to return with goods you hope are worthwhile.
If -- when -- my book on consciousness is published, and if it isn't ignored, I'm going to annoy a lot of people. Not deliberately; I don't really enjoy a lot of the ritualized aggression of academe, but because my thoughts have strayed some way from the mainstream. Maybe this is another form of madness; I don't know.
One thing I do know is that I'm not alone; others share my madness. They, too, think that conventional theories of mind are not enough. But perhaps this is folie a deux. Certainly my former colleagues in the mainstream would think so. For we really are 'nothing but' a pack of neurons, lumbering robots, zombies without souls....
Maybe. I do not know. But then, scientific solitude has driven me mad. I continue to scratch in the sand, whilst the great, corporate machine rumbles somewhere over the ocean; a rumour, to me.
But there comes a time when the exile returns; this is what I'm preparing to do. And madness isn't so bad -- it feels, at times, like a kind of healing. Arthur Koestler(another lunatic) thought that. He believed that creativity was a kind of extension of the organism's ability to self-repair, to regenerate. So maybe what feels like madness is a kind of cure.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
If -- when -- my book on consciousness is published, and if it isn't ignored, I'm going to annoy a lot of people. Not deliberately; I don't really enjoy a lot of the ritualized aggression of academe, but because my thoughts have strayed some way from the mainstream. Maybe this is another form of madness; I don't know.
One thing I do know is that I'm not alone; others share my madness. They, too, think that conventional theories of mind are not enough. But perhaps this is folie a deux. Certainly my former colleagues in the mainstream would think so. For we really are 'nothing but' a pack of neurons, lumbering robots, zombies without souls....
Maybe. I do not know. But then, scientific solitude has driven me mad. I continue to scratch in the sand, whilst the great, corporate machine rumbles somewhere over the ocean; a rumour, to me.
But there comes a time when the exile returns; this is what I'm preparing to do. And madness isn't so bad -- it feels, at times, like a kind of healing. Arthur Koestler(another lunatic) thought that. He believed that creativity was a kind of extension of the organism's ability to self-repair, to regenerate. So maybe what feels like madness is a kind of cure.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.


