Mind-Reading in Haddon's "Curious Incident" -- an Outline

What I'd like to do here is talk myself through the outlining process for our final paper and hopefully, by putting these ideas down, make some important progress in urging this idea forward.

My initial area of interest was simply mind-reading in Haddon's novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. I have explored this element of the story in several of my previous blogs, and I've been fascinated by how Haddon uses the device of mind-reading and its lack to not only develop Christopher as a character, but also to develop the supporting characters; to not only drive the plot, but also reveal poignant themes. How does he do this, I wondered? I think it comes down to a few key elements:

Haddon uses silence and pauses very effectively. This feature is actually quite hard to communicate in prose without an obvious statement -- "He paused," etc. -- but Haddon manages it in some very creative ways. His pauses are often vacuous -- we are given no insight into Christopher's thought processes during these moments, leaving us to wonder if he is thinking anything at all. His reactions tend not to betray any recognition of meaning in the pause. However, for supporting characters, these pauses and silences are often laden with emotion, regardless of whether Christopher picks up on it (which he rarely, if ever, does). Haddon employs this device to give readers, who are kept at a distance due to their association with Christopher, a glimpse at the inner lives of characters such as Christopher's father and mother. Christopher's poor mind-reading ability factors importantly into these moments, especially with his parents; his non-reactions emphasize the lack of understanding between him and his parents, allowing us to relate to them on a very human level without sacrificing our empathy for Christopher.

Creating that empathy to begin with is one of Haddon's crucial tasks, and he accomplishes it with a second element of mind-reading I had a lot of fun exploring -- nonverbal body language, most notably the "breathing through the nose" motif. Siobhan's explanation of how the way a person pushes air through his or her nostrils may indicate a nearly limitless array of emotions factors early in the story to underline the hopelessness of communicating in a world where one has no ability to read such signs. In fact, reading signs, much like reading minds, poses many problems for Christopher in the story -- they are comparable in many ways. Too much indiscernable information presents itself in each case, and Christopher, without the inherent filter so many of us take for granted, becomes overwhelmed. The scenes in the train station emphasize this, and Haddon even provides an illustration of loud signs that have become jumbled in Christopher's mind. This illustration transcends the moment, communicating visually the flood of information that faces Christopher not just when he is in a new environment, but when he is simply interacting with people in his day to day life.

Another key minor element is eye contact, which I would like to examine not only in the context of the novel, but also as a vital element of social interaction as studied by cognitive and behavioral psychologists. Eye contact is one of the integral components of conversation, and we often rely on it to assist in mind-reading. When this form of interaction is not available, for whatever reason, communication is greatly hindered, and suspicion or confusion may be aroused. In the novel, this places additional burdens on Christpher, who tends to avoid eye contact and thus misses out on important social cues. If possible, I would like to examine the scientific literature relating to all of the mind-reading elements mentioned here, in order to determine their influence on social interaction and how Haddon might be using them to develop his characters. However, I may have to make some judgement calls in the editing room, depending on length and depth.

Lastly, if I have room, the final element I'd like to examine is dialect and tone. Haddon's dialogue is extremely revelatory, especially with secondary characters. While Christopher's narration and spoken words match up flushly with their dry forwardness, literally every other character (with possibly the occasional exception of Siobhan) speaks much more colorfully. Christopher's verbal tone remains mostly constant throughout the novel, but the shifts in tone from supporting characters, even though undetected by Christopher, who merely reports them word for word, provide yet another insight into their thoughts and emotions, which remain inaccessible to Christopher and therefore much more valuable to the reader.

My thesis, then, must be something along the lines of:

Haddon employs the elements of pauses, nonverbal body language and social cues, and spoken tone -- all of which have been shown to contribute significantly to mind-reading in human interaction -- to both highlight the burden placed on Christopher due to his poor mind-reading ability and also to provide insight into the secondary characters, whose thoughts and emotions are inaccessible to Christopher himself. Through this dual exposition, Haddon works to create a sense of empathy that connects the reader to both Christopher and to those around him, while illuminating the very divide that isolates Christopher from the people closest to him.

[Any comments or feedback on this outline will be much appreciated...]

Eye Contact in Haddon's "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time"

“Mimicry is regarded by developmental psychologists as essential to the acquisition of communication skills, including nonverbal ones.” – Bailenson, “The Virtual Laboratory”

 “Usually people look at you when they’re talking to you. I know that they’re working out what I’m thinking, but I can’t tell what they’re thinking. It is like being in a room with a one-way mirror in a spy film.” – Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (p. 22)

     The process of mind-reading—and often its lack—plays a fundamental role in Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. One of the most important means of mind-reading, of course, is achieved by observation. In conversation, this can be most effectively achieved by eye contact. As discussed by Bailenson in “The Virtual Laboratory,” another component essential to communication is mimicry of nonverbal movements. Eye contact can, and must, be classified in this category.

     At many key points in Haddon’s novel, implied eye contact—or, again, its lack—has a vital influence on the mind-reading capabilities of the characters, primarily Christopher. Early in the novel, Christopher quite clearly spells out his deficiencies in eye contact-related mind-reading, as seen in the excerpted passage above. He goes on to say, “But this was nice, having Father speak to me but not look at me” (23). Only when neither party is engaged in eye contact does Christopher feel on even footing.

     More frequently, Christopher’s aversion of eye contact—or perhaps his inability to mind read even in this context—results in miscommunications. For instance, when he is speaking with his mother and a policeman about living with her, Haddon gives us the following exchange:

And then he said, “Do you want to go back to Swindon to your father or do you want to stay here?”

And I said, “I want to stay here.”

And he said, “And how do you feel about that?”

And I said, “I want to stay here.”

“And the policeman said, “Hang on. I’m asking your mother.” (195)

     The ambiguous “you” in that third line, meant for Christopher’s mother, was misinterpreted, most likely due to Christopher’s failure to perceive a shift in the policeman’s gaze. Christopher’s inability to recognize this key signal sets him up for a mistake.

     Bailenson describes a study in which subjects were presented with agents that either mimicked their motions or did not, with results that indicated the importance of mimicry in social situations: “The participants rated mimicking agents as more persuasive than the other agents, but also rated them as more credible, trustworthy, and intelligent.” This correlation likely holds true for a character like Christopher. His insufficient mind-reading toolkit strikes a double blow: not only is he handicapped in his ability to discern the emotions of others by their facial expression or nonverbal movements, but he also alienates himself by failing to engage in mutual mind-reading interactions such as eye contact.

     This has severe implications for his fate in the novel, setting him up for many challenges that a typical person would never encounter. Haddon renders these moments of miscommunication with the sparest detail, and yet makes their ramifications glaringly obvious. The relationship can be carried beyond the novel as well. People with autism spectrum disorders—or, even in the absence of a diagnosis, people with trouble maintaining eye contact and other such gestures—are at a double disadvantage. The implications of this may point toward, if nothing else, a necessary push for awareness and empathy; we may be hard-wired to prefer eye contact, but understanding and accepting those who don’t is the first step toward inviting them into a previously inaccessible social world.

Blowing Air Through the Nose: Haddon's Subtle Mind Reading

“Mind reading is the name of a capacity that most humans (and perhaps some other primates) possess as well as the name of the emerging field within cognitive psychology devoted to studying it—a field burgeoning with new books, research papers, and think pieces. Most of the research has come from the fields of child development and autism research since mind reading is relatively easy to measure: children develop mind reading skills in predictable stages, and many autistics seem to lack mind reading capacities.” – Blakey Vermeule, “The Cognitive Dimension” (p. 34)

“Siobhan also says that if you close your mouth and breathe out loudly through your nose, it can mean that you are relaxed, or that you are bored, or that you are angry, and it all depends on how much air comes out of your nose and how fast and what shape your mouth is when you do it and how you are sitting and what you said just before and hundreds of other things which are too complicated to work out in a few seconds.” – Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (p. 15)

     In many ways, the first half of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time serves as a diagnosis for its main character Christopher, who evidently has some kind of autism spectrum disorder. In chapters that often alternate between plot development and character insight, Christopher narrates several episodes that could be taken right out of a textbook.

     For example, he tells the story of when he was younger and a teacher performed the classic Theory of Mind test on him by hiding a pencil inside a Smarties tube and asking him what his mother would think was inside the tube. Christopher says, “When I was little I didn’t understand about other people having minds” (116). He admits to still having trouble with this, but by applying logic and his acute memory, he is able to guess at what people are thinking by what they are saying or doing.

     Haddon also uses these episodes to comment on the way non-autistic people view the world. The novel, as told from Christopher’s point of view, functions as a vehicle for empathy, and Christopher’s insights often point out flaws in human thinking as well as illuminate similarities between his mind and those of other people. After describing how he approached developing his own Theory of Mind by picturing minds as computers, he goes on to illustrate how brains really are like computers: “People think they’re not computers because they have feelings and computers don’t have feelings. But the feelings are just having a picture on the screen in your head of what is going to happen tomorrow or next year, or what might have happened instead of what did happen, and if it is a happy picture they smile and if it is a sad picture they cry” (119). In this way, Haddon subtly reflects these themes back at his readers, attempting to prompt a level of introspection comparable to Christopher’s.

     One of the most fascinating devices Haddon utilizes to both develop Christopher’s condition and communicate with the reader is the image of people blowing air. In the passage excerpted above, Christopher outlines how difficult it is for him to perform mind reading on this physical gesture with his impaired Theory of Mind capabilities. Here, Haddon highlights the immense debt that non-autistic people owe to their neural networks. As Vermeule points out in her article, we are mostly unaware of our mind reading operations because they are ingrained and automatic. By enumerating the difficulties posed by attempting to mind read with an abnormal neurological toolkit, Haddon seeks to create empathy for Christopher’s condition as well as invite the reader to consider his or her own condition.

     The air-blowing motif serves this dual role throughout the novel, cropping up in several places to draw attention to Christopher’s lack of mind reading and signal to the reader that unobserved emotions are at play.

     For example, when Christopher is being questioned at the police station, his blunt honesty complicates the interview—another embedded comment by Haddon on our social interactions and the lies we tell about our intentions—the interrogator is described in the following way: “The policeman closed his mouth and breathed out loudly through his nose” (18). Christopher narrates this observation without comment, but it alerts the mind-reading reader that he is exasperated with Christopher’s inability to cooperate properly.

     Later, after Christopher and his father have returned home and Christopher asks his father if he is sad about Wellington: “He looked at me for a long time and sucked air in through his nose. Then he said, ‘Yes, Christopher, you could say that’” (21). Clearly, Haddon intends here for the reader to understand that a concealed emotion is at play; we recognize the lie, even if Christopher doesn’t.

     Instances such as these pepper the novel. Mrs. Alexander “suck[s] in a big breath” two different times when Christopher questions her about Mr. Shears (57-58). His father does it again when he comes clean about his affair (121). These situations provide glimpses into the minds of characters beyond the scope of Christopher’s point of view. While he does not have access to their minds, through Haddon’s adroit use of body language imagery, the readers do. In this way, Haddon not only highlights Christopher’s handicaps and generates empathy for his protagonist, but he also illustrates how Christopher affects those around him in powerful and emotional ways.

Stein's Use of Word Types to Emphasize Language Subversion in "Tender Buttons"

“Stein’s insight was that the reader was only aware of grammar when it was subverted.” – Jonah Lerer, “Gertrude Stein: The Structure of Language” (p. 163)

 “Suppose a man a realistic expression of resolute reliability suggests pleasing itself white all white and no head does that mean soap.” – Gertrude Stein, “Objects” (p. 11)

     It’s easy to write gibberish, but it’s very difficult to write a style of gibberish that selectively breaks specific grammatical rules in such a way that it draws attention to the linguistic structure that lies beneath and holds it together. This is the difference we observe in Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons. Lerer writes in his article on Stein’s intricately subversive style: “By flirting with absurdity, Stein forced us to acknowledge what Skinner ignored: the innate structure of language” (157). But how does one flirt with absurdity without being simply, and merely, absurd? It comes down to context.

     Lerer notes, “In her writing, [Stein] shows us that our grammar only calls for the use of certain kinds of words in certain kinds of contexts” (158). It is in isolating and utilizing these separate kinds of words and contexts that Stein most effectively communicates her point. She plays with connective phrases, cause-and-effect relationships of words, and other abstract linguistic devices. However, less subtly, she also drops incongruous words into places where expectations have been established for words of another kind. Making these moments stand out is crucial for Stein’s purpose; in order to draw attention to the way our expectations have been manipulated and subsequently subverted, she must carefully select words that contain a certain quality.

     This quality, I argue, is a sensory specificity and immediacy coupled with simplicity. The quote excerpted above serves as a good example. Here, Stein opens a sentence with one of her favorite words in Tender Buttons: “suppose.” This introduction sets up forward momentum, creating a relatively self-contained and hypothetical milieu for the words to follow. What follows here is a series of abstract ideas—words such as “realistic” and “resolute” and “reliability” and “suggests” and “pleasing” and “mean”—that blend together, creating the sense of “reading without remembering” that Lerer claims is so crucial to Stein’s work. This blending is accomplished due to the nature of the words, which carry a lot of definitional weight without much sensory aid. (Put another way, they are more mental than sensual.) Dealing with mental states and internal emotions and intentions, they cut a stark contrast to the final word in the sentence: “soap.” This word falls into the category I have identified as Stein’s secret weapon, the specific yet simple. Soap is highly visual, even a little tactile; it has the sensory quality lacked by the preceding words. It is evocative, but also blunt, obvious, and plain. It stands out like a shapeless flash of light. It calls attention to the structure of the sentence we have been blindly following. It is Stein’s way of saying, “Look what you have been reading!”

     Stein uses words of this type very frequently in Tender Buttons, usually to the same purpose. They are like signposts calling our attention to aspects of structure that Stein has flipped upside down—crucial, then, to her purpose. This category of words contains several classes: domestic imagery is one; colors is another. It is no surprise that Stein has titled her chapters “Objects,” “Food,” and “Rooms.” These serve as decent labels for her groups of signal words. Their common traits are their obvious sensory qualities—for example, the visual aspect of colors, the taste, smell, and sight of foods—as well as their almost mundane simplicity. Words like “hair brushing” and “eye-glasses” appear in unexpected places, and rather than conjure up strange new images or ideas, they merely assert themselves in their incongruity and fade.

     There are some outliers, naturally: a word like “sand” is not domestic, colorful, or edible—yet it has the same qualities necessary to be considered one of this kind of word, and it serves a comparable purpose as the concluding image in the opening paragraph of Stein’s “Food” chapter:

“In the inside there is sleeping, in the outside there is reddening, in the morning there is meaning, in the evening there is feeling. In the evening there is feeling. In feeling anything is resting, in feeling anything is mounting, in feeling there is resignation, in feeling there is recognition, in feeling there is recurrence and entirely mistaken there is pinching. All the standards have steamers and all the curtains have bed linen and all the yellow has discrimination and all the circle has circling. This makes sand.”

This paragraph begins characteristically (if there can be a common characteristic to Stein’s writing), with a more complex vocabulary of words that tend toward the abstract, representing mental states, emotions, and complex actions. These soon trail into the domestic images of “curtains” and “bed linen,” and the color yellow, and the simple shape of a circle. Ending on “sand” is the final punch, especially with its placement in the sentence. “This makes _____” implies an encompassing, concluding, synthesizing thought. By supplanting such a thought with “sand,” Stein not only says something about the two words that precede it, but comments on the paragraph as a whole, and, by extension, on written language in general.

     Virtually any sentence or paragraph in Tender Buttons can be analyzed this way. I have explored only a tiny element of Stein’s masterful subversion of language. Her separation of words into functional classes is fascinating to observe, and it raises questions about how we might define boundaries for such classes, or whether even the act of separating words into classes might be itself subverted. These would be complex questions indeed.

Life Without Our Lens: Animism in Poetry

“[E]ven apparently ordinary animism conceals deeper social motivations.” – Vermeule, “The Cognitive Dimension (p. 27)

 “After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, / we ourselves flash and yearn” – John Berryman, “Dream Song 14” (lines 2-3)

     For a poem about the boredom of life, John Berryman’s “Dream Song 14” is astonishingly rich in detail and nuance. One’s immediate reaction to such a poem must be, if life, literature, and art are so boring, why is the author writing this poem in the first place? Perhaps out of boredom—it is the product of a bored mind, unrolling language onto the page with an intricate skill that, however, it seems to deem useless. Alternatively, the author may be making a comment on human expectations of life and the world, and how our tendency to project ourselves onto our environment produces a false sense of our surroundings—a sense that the poem deftly deconstructs.

     Whatever his intention, Berryman begins by breaking rules. “Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so,” proclaims the first line. From here, the author proceeds to do exactly what one apparently must not do, which is to say that life is boring. Berryman’s rule breaking permeates every stanza of the poem, from his oscillation between the word “and” and the ampersand, to his improper use of word forms. A mother speaks “repeatingly” instead of “repeatedly.” “Peoples” bore the author. The phrase “which bores me” in line 13 ambiguously refers to either “people” and “art,” or just “art.” The last line contains a dissolved, broken sentence: “me, wag,” all that remains of what was once a dog and a man and some kind of unknown connection between them.

     This connection holds important significance. Throughout the poem, Berryman makes comments on the human penchants for animism and assigning agency. In lines 2 and 3 cited above, he writes a sort of explanatory sentence that implies a relationship between the flashing of the sky and yearning of the sea, and the flashing and yearning of ourselves. The coupling of a dehumanized verb in “flash” and a humanized very in “yearn” to illustrate the human process of anthropomorphism emphasizes an inherent instability. As Vermeule says, citing Guthrie, “We anthropomorphize because guessing that the world is humanlike is a good bet” (22). It is an adaptive trait. And, according to Berryman, it leaves one with false expectations of a decidedly non-humanlike world. The unfinished sentence in lines 2 and 3, which, by its initiation with the expression “After all,” ostensibly serves to justify the preceding line: “We must not say [that life is boring’.” But what justification does Berryman provide in pointing out the human tendency to anthropomorphize? On the surface, it would seem that animating the environment makes it less boring. However, the rest of the poem proves this to be a clearly insufficient explanation, and indeed, Berryman does not even end the sentence, moving into line 4 with: “and moreover…” The unresolved sentence structure hints at the unresolved point that has been made.

     The poem continues to unravel in a similar way. The enjambment ending the first stanza results in a gaping pause before the phrase “Inner Resources,” which, while emphasized by both this prioritized placement and dual capital letters, is soon demoted by its lack in the author and a decapitalization in the next line. These inner resources may refer to the conceptual primitives that Vermeule discusses—our cognitive toolkit that allows us to view the world through a human lens. Without these devices, the author observes a dreadfully boring world, one in which literature and heroes have no value.

     The final stanza completes the themes introduced in the first. Berryman writes, “somehow a dog / has taken itself & its tail considerably away,” attributing agency to a beast whose intentions can never be fully understood if they exist at all. Here, the dog joins the “mountains or sea or sky,” recalling the entities animated earlier. With all of these “taken away,” in effect symbolizing the removal of the humanizing lens and conceptual primitives, the author is left behind with a crippled fragment of language: “me, wag.” This ending may be interpreted at least two ways. By illustrating what life can be reduced to—mere selfhood and a meaningless verb—Berryman may be affirming his conception of the life’s essential boredom. When we strip away our human tendencies to animate and anthropomorphize, we are left with practically nothing. Alternatively, Berryman may be asserting the absolute necessity of viewing life through this lens, for the very same reason: without it, we have nothing to relate to, nothing to create meaning. The poem, like many of its sentences, leaves itself hanging. Its interpretation remains open for us to insert ourselves in whatever way we choose.

Moments of Empathy in Persuasion

“When cultural representations push our mind-reading adaptations to what feels like their limits…, we might find ourselves in rather emotionally suggestive moods. …[A] momentary cognitive vertigo induced by the multiple mind-embedment may render us increasingly ready either to laugh or to quake with apprehension.” – Zunshine, Why We Read Fiction (p. 31)

 “Anne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her friend or herself.—The part which provoked her most, was that in all this waste of foresight and caution, she should have lost the right moment for seeing whether he saw them.” – Jane Austen, Persuasion (p. 169)

     There are numerous instances in Persuasion in which Anne is rendered emotionally drained by forces exerted on her mind. Many of these are the result of surprises and revelations, which elicit an automatic reaction that tends to leave her momentarily incapacitated. One such moment occurs in the passage excerpted above. Anne has spotted Captain Wentworth on the other side of the road, and she notices Lady Russell’s eyes directed in that general area. The narrator observes:

“She could thoroughly comprehend the sort of fascination he must possess over Lady Russel’s mind, the difficulty it must be for her to withdraw her eyes, the astonishment she must be feeling that eight or nine years should have passed over him, and in foreign climes and in active service too, without robbing him of one personal grace!” (169)

Immediately after this, Lady Russell makes a comment that reveals she has been examining the other side of the road in search of a certain style of curtains. Anne then experiences the rush of emotion excerpted above. She has been engaged intently in the process of mind-reading, thinking that she has accurately understood Lady Russell’s inner thoughts and impressions. The revelation of her mistake prompts the sigh, blush, and smile—which we, as readers, ourselves read to indicate the emotions running through Anne. This example illustrates Zunshine’s assertion from Why We Read Fiction. Engaging in the process of mind-reading may induce a certain emotional susceptibility.

     Austen seems to link these moments of emotion with important plot events. Almost every time something important comes to the surface, Anne experiences a mental rush. This likely derives from the plot itself, which boils down to a series of misunderstandings and concealed intentions that conspire to keep Anne and Captain Wentworth apart. Each instance of revelation, therefore, lifts the curtain a little higher on this web of connections between mental states. The scene with Mrs. Smith, in which the circumstances of Mr. Elliot’s past are laid bare, is a prime example of this (Chapter 21). By unveiling these mental connections in discrete moments, Austen allows her readers to participate in Anne’s narrative: we are learning the information at the same time as she is. Her reactions on the page, described with such physical detail, prompt the reader’s empathy. We read her mind while she is reading others’.

     Zunshine explores how dense a web of mental connections can become before it begins to dissolve. According to cited studies, “people have marked difficulties processing stories that involve mind-reading above the fourth level” (29). The connections between characters in Persuasion certainly go beyond four degrees of separation, and, as discussed above, this confusion of intention and meaning contributes to the powerful moments that Austen inserts into the text.

     A distinction worth noting that Zunshine makes is that this four-level limit applies only to mental states. People can follow rather easily simple successions of events. In the pivotal scene near the end of the novel, for example, Mrs. Smith outlines a path of information from Mr. Elliot to Anne: “Mr. Elliot talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his views on you—which said Colonel Wallis I imagine to be in himself a sensible, careful, discerning sort of character; but Colonel Wallis has a very pretty silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better not, and he repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse, knowing my acquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me” (192). The information moves through five people on its way to Anne, but this revelation does not prompt any sort of emotional reaction. It is only when Anne comes to understand the relationship between Mr. Elliot’s intentions and his actions, and how he has deceived her family by various means, that she feels the chill of realization.

     Because the novel operates so closely on the often blurred relationship between intention and action, moments of revelation coupled with narrative empathy work well to drive the plot and steer the story toward its conclusion. Austen’s use of this device may go beyond marking the progress of the plot, however. It serves also to develop Anne as a character and encourage empathy through the use of emotionally loaded physical descriptions. When we see Anne’s body making gestures of distress, we engage in automatic mind-reading. Because we are actually experiencing many of the same emotions due to the perspective Austen has given us in the story—that of following Anne’s mind as she discovers information—this technique proves especially effective.

Indirectness in Jane Austen's Persuasion

“No sooner had such an end been reached, than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to the whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her flushed cheeks; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a gentle sigh, ‘a few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here.” – Jane Austen, Persuasion (p. 25)

 “The plot owes much of its tension, in fact, to the ongoing threat that feelings which can be read only haphazardly, through momentary glimpses, or indirectly, through their bodily manifestations, can always be misread.” – Alan Richardson, “Of Heartache and Head Injury: Reading Minds in Persuasion” (p. 152)

     Jane Austen and her characters do a lot of hinting in Persuasion. Austen foreshadows the dramatic event of Louisa Musgrove’s head injury with a similar incident in Chapter 7, when one of the children suffers a bad fall: “they suspected great injury, but knew not where” (51). For the boy, the damage turns out to be physical only; his mental capacities appear undiminished, and he recovers with Anne’s aid. The effects of Miss Musgrove’s fall are thus set in contrast: “Louisa’s limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to the head.” The earlier event lays the way for a more serious one later on.

     Beyond the devices of plot, Austen employs a distinct prose style that utilizes indirectness to create hints which contribute to both a sense of pervasive uncertainty and a degree of suspense, as Alan Richardson maintains in his article “Of Heartache and Head Injury.” Austen frequently writes a form of indirect dialogue, in which passages are contained within quotation marks and yet read like third-person narration. For example, in Chapter 15, a collective quote describes the buzz of conversation that occurs among members of the household in Bath after a knock sounds at the door. By altering her structure to accommodate a sort of blend of narration and dialogue, Austen avoids directness and instead fosters a sense of disconnected suspense. Because the words remain unattributed, they convey more realistically the atmosphere of the moment and create a more distinct impression.

     Austen also makes use of italics to hint at underlying emotions. When Anne is pondering which of the Miss Musgroves may capture Captain Wentworth’s fancy, Austen writes: “she knew not now, whether the more gentle or the more lively character were more likely to attract him” (69). Such emphasis implies that one character will indeed win out over the other. This functions less to illuminate anything about the merits of the Miss Musgroves, than to set up the more concrete seduction of Captain Wentworth and foreshadow his further emotional distance from Anne.

     Anne herself is shown to make several hints, even through the third-person narration that inhabits, at some level, her conscious mind. When describing Mr. Elliot, Austen’s narrator says, “His manners were so exactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly agreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one person’s manners” (134). In a later moment with Mr. Elliot, Austen writes: “He gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some earnestness. She knew it well; and she remembered another person’s look also” (139). These allusions to Captain Wentworth serve to emphasize Anne’s tentative manner of thinking. Even through the extension of consciousness embodied in the narrative’s free indirect discourse; Anne represses her feelings for him so scrupulously that at times she cannot even mention Captain Wentworth by name.

     Richardson argues that Anne’s moments of unconsciousness function in the novel as a means to reveal her truer inner thoughts and impressions. He adds, “Her periods of dislocation mark the collision of conscious awareness with unconscious thoughts and feelings and the intense physiological sensations that accompany them” (149). She frequently pauses to recover from a surge of feeling that leaves her physically depleted. Austen makes her heroine’s nature clear: “Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion she certainly had not” (46). When she loses herself in emotion, she lets go of the repressed thoughts that churn inside of her, and these thoughts come to the surface by various narrative means. Austen’s use of hints and indirectness stands out as a method of revealing what lies hidden in her character’s heart of hearts. One must wonder, of course, whether the thoughts that sneak out in moments of emotion are really our true thoughts—whether our conscious or unconscious mind is the true representation of ourselves. By blending them in her prose, Austen implies that the distinction is more than a little blurred.

Proust’s Structural Control of Perception: Memory and the Madeleine

One of the fundamental rules of biology can be expressed as follows: structure equals function. This is the case from tiny protein molecules all the way to the muscles in an elephant’s trunk, and the relationship holds true for language as well. In literature, elements of structure include the placement of words, the conjugation and voice of verbs, the transition of ideas, and so on. These elements have the functional power to alter the experience of a reader at both the conscious and subconscious levels. In the episode of the madeleine from his novel In Search of Lost Time, Marcel Proust arranges structural elements to illustrate the experience of his narrator struggling to recall an unexpected memory. Proust’s deft navigation of verb tense shifts, his rendering of subjective qualia, and his inclusion of linguistic priming all function as controlling elements in his depiction of the elusive and intricate processes of recollection.

Through his unconventional use of verb tense, Proust carefully structures the episode to follow a specific trajectory, allowing it to best evoke its core sensations and emotions.

Proust also reaches out through his depiction of qualia, rendering with great specificity an experience that can yet be considered universal.

In the scene with the madeleine, Proust appears concerned with conscious and subconscious mental activity, and in his prose, he sews important linguistic cues that attract subconscious attention.

The role of priming and manipulation of structure to induce a conscious or unconscious response has important implications that may be extended beyond the aesthetic or the emotional, to the behavioral.

In his depiction of memory and the madeleine, Proust not only touches on an intensely real element of human existence, but through his exploitation of language and structure, also controls the way in which the phenomenon is experienced. His use of tense shifts constructs a temporal framework that parallels the narrator’s conscious movements, and his linguistic priming encodes inherent expectations into the prose that, when fulfilled, invite a sense of recollection. Proust focuses his prose on a vivid qualium, which embodies both subjectivity and universality. Due to the confluence of these carefully placed literary tools, Proust achieves a powerful result. His fiction summons a moment that cannot be experienced with mere language, but only through the fusion of distinctly human responses set into motion by the letters he has arranged on the page.

Imaginative Perception and Horror in Edgar Huntly

"The counterfictional [impulse of the imagination is] the aspiration of imagining to bring about a mimesis of perceiving. Rather than wishing to turn away from the world and create a new one, or to supplement the existing world with features it does not yet have, the imagination longs instead to be able to bring about things sensorially present in perception.” – Scarry, “Imagining Flowers” from Dreaming by the Book (p. 43)

“Disastrous and humiliating is the state of man! By his own hands, is constructed the mass of misery and error in which his steps are forever involved.” – Charles Brockden Brown, Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker (p. 268)

     Brown’s Edgar Huntly is built on misperceptions, both figurative and literal. Its narrator suffers countless trials and hardships, and at several key moments, his emotional state and expectations color his perceptions. It goes beyond bias: his actual sensations appear to be altered, as Brown’s language insists that his senses sight and hearing betray Edgar Huntly, rather than accusing him of twisting true perceptions into false interpretations. “My fancy instantly figured to itself an armed man,” Huntly says at one moment (221), but he identifies the perception as “fancy” only after the fact. When Clithero enters Mrs. Lorimer’s chamber with intentions of murder, he recounts: “I…beheld her tranquilly slumbering” (77). Brown does not permit the ambiguity of his character describing that the figure, actually her daughter Clarice, appeared to be Mrs. Lorimer. For Clithero, at that moment, she is Mrs. Lorimer. His imagination has changed his sensory perception. As Scarry notes, the imagination has the capacity for recreating elements present in perception, and in Edgar Huntly, Brown employs this quality to great effect.

     Having thus offered a brief analysis of Brown’s mining of the human imaginative capacity and its inherent dangers, I feel the need to approach the novel from a more subjective angle. I will say that, for a variety of reasons, Edgar Huntly has been one of the most profoundly affecting reads I’ve ever experienced. It broached topics that have long been of deep interest to me, and raised questions that I have not only wondered, but explored myself.

     Last fall, I took an independent study course in creative writing, and one of the short stories I worked on was fueled by a curiosity about the way we can misunderstand each other, and the circumstances that arise which can easily place us in a dangerous cage, from which there is no safe escape. A friend had given me an unrelated prompt to write about: it was the opening to a story that I had to finish, and it described a romantic scene with a young couple in an empty ballroom after a concluded wedding reception. As I thought about marriage and relationships and the delicate balance of the game in which we rely on implicit understanding but rarely say what we are really thinking, I saw an opportunity for delving into the consequences of misinterpretation. What I also realized (and what is the point of me introducing this tangent) was that this needed to be a horror story. I kept the romantic setting, the wedding reception, the beautiful empty ballroom—but the word “horror” pulsed in the back of my mind the whole time I was writing.

     Reading Edgar Huntly, I felt the same horror—though, of course, much more expertly rendered. I could not put this novel down, and I was amazed at how chillingly Brown manages not only to weave a set of circumstances founded on unavoidable misunderstandings—Edgar frequently insists that no other options are open, that no other interpretation could be imagined, or asks series of unanswered questions in the vein of “What else could I have done?”—but also to withhold judgment of his characters and deny the reader any easy answers. So many of the protagonist’s actions are revealed in the end to be folly, but, just as Edgar himself asks, what else could he have done? How can one overcome a falsehood perceived as truth? The power of imagination to alter perception renders this a near-impossible question, one that Brown refuses to answer, and one that applies just as potently today as it did for his late 18^th Century American audience.

The Priming Power of Literature

“The power of example is so great, as to take possession of the memory by a kind of violence, and produce effects almost without the intervention of the will… The chief advantage which these fictions have over real life is, that their authors are at liberty, tho’ not to invent, yet to select objects, and to cull from the mass of mankind, those individuals upon which the attention ought most to be employ’d.” – Samuel Johnson, The Rambler No. 4

“The joint conspiracy of letters, words, and context suffices to confer an extraordinary robustness on our mental reading apparatus. Alberto Manguel was right: it is the reader who confers meaning to the written page.” – Stanislas Dehaene, Reading in the Brain: The New Science of How We Read (p. 48)

     Dehaene’s wording here needs unpacking: when he says “the reader confers meaning to the written page,” how exactly does this conferring occur? Is it conscious or unconscious? A function of the reading process or a decision made by the reader? These questions have important implications for an understanding of the way we read and the ways in which reading affects us.

     Johnson seems to assert in The Rambler that the process is unconscious on the part of the reader. The story forces its way into the memory and draws forth effects “almost without the intervention of the will.” This “almost” allows for some readerly control, which must be recognized. We make conscious observations while we read, ask ourselves questions, draw conclusions. However, Johnson speaks to a much more powerful connection with the text. It has the power to influence us beyond our conscious control; it directs our attention in ways we may not be aware of.

     This direction lies in the hands of the author. Unlike the reader, the writer is fully conscious at all times of his or her ability to manipulate the reader’s mind with a carefully crafted story. Johnson comments later in The Rambler that this places a certain moral responsibility on the author’s shoulders. The fact that he brings this up should underline his confidence in the writer’s power over the reader, which is strong enough to alter moral perceptions and introduce new ideas.

     How does this happen? Much of a story’s influence may be due to priming, the process of mentally rehearsing an action prior to performing it in reality. This method has been examined in countless contexts, from dieting (one imagines oneself eating a bowl of M&M’s piece by piece and thereby reduces a craving) to athletics (a diver may run through a complex dive in his head before climbing to the platform). Dehaene also discusses the role of priming in linguistics: reading a word with a similar spelling will increase the response time for reading a related word. On a larger scale, this concept may be applied to literature and behavior. By steeping our consciousness in the thoughts and actions of a fictional character, we may be engaging our brain on a level that primes us for future modes of thinking or action. In Johnson’s case, reading about a character making an important moral decision could impact one’s response to a similar situation in real life.

     It would be interesting if one could examine this correlation on a large scale. It’s easy to visualize the M&M experiment, which ought to have fairly simple, measurable results. Asking groups of divers to mentally rehearse (or not rehearse) before making a dive could be more complicated. As for giving subjects a book to read and then examining their behavior afterwards, this seems highly complicated. But if the experimental design were reduced—perhaps giving groups a similar literary passage, one in which a character makes a certain decision A, and the other in which the situation is the same but a character makes the decision B, and then placing the subjects in a similar decision-making environment and observing their choices—this may give a glimpse into the unconscious power of literature on the human mind.

Proust's Nostalgia and the Emotion of Memory

“An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory—this new sensation having on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savors, could not, indeed, be of the same nature.” – Marcel Proust, “The Cookie” from In Search of Lost Time (p. 1)

“This is the irony of Proustian nostalgia: it remembers things as being far better than they actually were. But Proust, at least, was acutely aware of his own fraudulence. He knew that the Combray he yearned for was not the Combray that was. (As Proust put it, “The only paradise is paradise lost.”) This wasn’t his fault: there simply is no way to describe the past without lying. Our memories are not like fiction. They are fiction.” – Jonah Lerer, “Proust: The Method of Memory” from Proust Was a Neuroscientist (p. 88)

     Proust does a lot of soul searching in the above passage, but there is one thing he does not explore: specifically, “why this memory made me so happy” (Proust 3). It is certainly a question worth asking.

     As Lerer observes, much of the narrator’s nostalgia in this passage—like all nostalgia—bears a rosy tint. The ordinary of the past has, with time, become extraordinary, bringing with its recollection a rush of emotions that Proust describes in great detail as an “exquisite pleasure” similar to that from that highest of all emotions, love.

     Most notably, the emotion occurs before Proust has even made the mental connection to his childhood. The “all-powerful joy” overwhelms him before he consciously understands why. By the time he acknowledges it, the narrator’s tense has already faded to past perfect: the pleasure “had invaded” his senses. (Proust later makes an interesting shift to present tense to evoke the experience of attempting to recapture the initial emotion.) From this immediacy, we must understand that the phenomenon here does not derive from a conscious reflection on a fond memory, but rather from the very act of remembering. It is sudden and automatic.

     I recall reading a paper last year describing the experiences of subjects who had undergone a last-resort brain stimulation experiment to alleviate seizure symptoms. Electrical implants were installed in various areas of the brain, and the participants were given a controller that allowed them to actively stimulate each one independently, at will. Most of the results were unsurprising: a man discovered that stimulating one region brought on the feeling of approaching orgasm, and he found himself pressing the button in vain attempts to achieve climax. One response, however, was remarkable in its specificity and emotional context: by stimulating a single region, one subject was able to evoke the feeling of being about to remember something, and he too tried in vain to cross the threshold and “remember” what was on the other side.

     The notion that accessing a memory should be accompanied by positive emotion seems reasonable. Thinking on an evolutionary level, it would have been advantageous for our ancestors to exercise their memories when given the opportunity. If memories exist as shifts in the strength of synapses, actively engaging these connections and reforging them from time to time could prevent much chance of fading or decay. As Lerer notes, “Memory [is] a ceaseless process, not a repository of inert information” (Lerer 85). Social memory seems especially tied to emotion; one must only consider an embarrassing moment from one’s past to observe the rush of embarrassment that returns in its wake. We do not want to repeat our mistakes.

     Nostalgia, however, appears to lie in a slightly different class. There can be little advantage for Proust in painting his past with more generous strokes; if anything, this only creates the regret of what he might have called a “paradise lost.” In the excerpted passage above, he says that the feeling causes the “vicissitudes of life” to become “indifferent,” and “its disasters innocuous.” Rather than an acuteness designed for effective learning, Proust’s nostalgia seems to dull his sensibilities. Where could this have come from?—“Whence could it have come to me?” Does nostalgia serve a purpose beyond flexing the memory muscle? Or is it a glimpse into something like the human soul, something “isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin”?

     I wish I had an answer.

Attention and Distraction: It's All in the Emphasis

“Pillsbury agreed with Titchener, indicating, ‘The essence of attention as a conscious process is an increase in the clearness on one idea or a group of ideas at the expense of others.’ Researchers at the beginning of the 20^th century debated how this increased clearness is obtained. Mach, Stumpf, and others favored the view that this increase in clearness was direct, whereas Wundt, Kulpe, and others held the view that the increase was accomplished indirectly by inhibiting the sensations that were not attended to. … The debate about whether attention increases the clearness of attended events or decreases the clearness of unattended events presaged the current argument in psychology regarding whether attending is accomplished primarily through excitatory or inhibitory mechanisms.” – Proctor and Johnson, “Historical Overview of Research on Attention” (p. 11-12)

“Trim ran down and brought up his master’s supper,—to no purpose:—Trim’s plan of operation ran so in my uncle Toby’s head, he could not taste it.—Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, get me to-bed;—‘twas all one.—Corporal Trim’s description had fired his imagination,—my uncle Toby could not shut his eyes.” – Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy (p. 70)

     In Tristram Shandy, the narrator is a sort of maestro of distraction. The story rolls along one tangent after another, returning to core scenes only to depart again in an abrupt digression. However, Sterne manages to hold his reader’s attention through a deft use of suspense, both blunt and subtle: several times, usually at the end of chapters or volumes, he openly dares the reader to guess what happens next: “You may conjecture upon it, if you please,” he says at the end of Volume II, “but I tell you before-hand it will be in vain” (Sterne 111). More indirectly, his very style of alighting and departing from specific scenes generates a building suspense that draws focus to these scenes by the act of distracting the reader’s attention elsewhere. In this way, Sterne lends focus to his very disjointed novel.

     In the passage excerpted above, Sterne illustrates a conception of attention at the level of his characters. The scene preceding this passage is composed of constant distractions; it begins with Toby blushing “as red as scarlet” after hearing Trim voice his scheme of reconstructing Toby’s wartime maps on Toby’s own property. What follows is a series of interruptions in the conversation between the two. Each of the men becomes consumed by his own train of thought, unable to pay adequate attention to the other. While Sterne’s prose dodges back and forth between them, one can see through the jungle of punctuation that Toby and Trim themselves are singularly occupied.

     Proctor and Johnson’s review emphasizes the proposed theory that attention results from increased clearness of an idea at the expense of others, whether by an increase in clarity of the attended event or by suppression of superfluous stimuli. Sterne illustrates this notion here: Toby can neither taste his food nor fall asleep due to the diversion of his attention into this one idea. However, Sterne does not reveal the identity of Toby’s idea itself until the next paragraph. By creating suspense in the form of the protracted exchange between Toby and Trim, he places emphasis on the distracting effects of this idea. Paradoxically, the reason the idea is in fact so distracting as to blunt taste and prevent sleep, is because it so effectively holds Toby’s attention that he cannot direct his thoughts elsewhere. Sterne’s suspense in this scene comes to completion with the following passage:

“My uncle Toby had a little neat country-house of his own, in the village where my father’s estate lay at Shandy…so that as Trim uttered the words, “A rood and a half of ground to do what they would with:”—This identical bowling-green instantly presented itself, and became curiously painted, all at once, upon the retina of my uncle Toby’s fancy;—which was the physical cause of making him change colour, or at least, of heightening his blush” (Sterne 70).

     Unpacking this passage yields telling results: after revealing the details of the notion that has so engrossed Toby’s mind, Sterne supplies the concluding image of the blush, bringing the moment full circle. Much like the rest of the novel, in which Sterne bookends digressions or sub-stories between familiar images, he frames Toby’s bout of distraction with his blushing face, the outward expression of his inner condition.

     Furthermore, in a level of significance that I do not believe would have been available to Sterne himself but offers an interesting coincidence for us modern readers, the description of the retina mirrors the concept of clarity of one idea accompanied by the abstraction of others. As we know, the receptive fields of light-sensitive cells in the retina are composed of on- and off-centered cells. These receptive fields, like little bullseyes, respond to light in the center and darkness in the periphery—or vice versa—to emphasize contrast and enhance light-dark boundaries. This allows for clearer vision.

     Without such contrasts, there would be no such thing as focus. In order for one idea to be emphasized, others must be either de-emphasized (if we go with the inhibitory theory), or at least less emphasized (excitatory). It’s the same reason why summer feels so nice—if we didn’t know winter, summer wouldn’t be half so warm.

The Physicality of Thought: Electric Quackery and the Residence of the Soul

“Animal spirit refused to go quietly largely because there was, at the beginning of the long eighteenth century, no obvious successor and clearly some influence passed along the nerves, to and from the brain. However by the mid-eighteenth century, there was at last a contender which began to grow in popularity: electricity.” – C.U.M. Smith, “Brain and Mind in the ‘Long’ Eighteenth Century (p. 21)

“But the greatest curiosity, upon which the fate of the island depends, is a loadstone of prodigious size… By means of this loadstone, the island is made to rise and fall, and move from one place to another. For, with respect to that part of the earth over which the monarch presides, the stone is endued at one of its sides with an attractive power, and at the other with a repulsive. … But it must be observed, that this island cannot move beyond the extent of the dominions below.” – Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (Book III, Chapter III)

     In retrospect, it’s easy to laugh at the misdirected theories and experimentation pursued by scientists of the past, especially when the truth appears so obvious to us now. However, with regard to the study of electricity in the eighteenth century, no lens of hindsight was necessary for intellectuals to scoff at some of their peers. As Smith says, “The study of electricity in the mid-eighteenth century hovered between science, quackery and entertainment” (22). Men like Franz Mesmer were administering iron solutions and attaching magnets all over the bodies of patients in order to channel the flow of their magnetic aether. The archaic concept of animal spirit had not gone away, but had merely transformed to more closely resemble the modern discoveries.

     Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels bitingly satirizes the quackery of his contemporaries. When Gulliver visits the grand academy of Lagado, he witnesses filthy, unkempt researchers slaving on projects “for extracting sunbeams out of cucumbers” and operations “to reduce human excrement to its original food” (Swift, Chapter V). At the same time, their neglected homes and farmland fall into ruin. These harebrained efforts, while exaggerated, do not stray too far from the practices going on in the academic community at Swift’s time. Gulliver’s Travels captures the culture of confusion, but at the same time as it derides the desperation of these pseudo-scientists, it owns the mystery and uncertainty at the core of the contemporary brain science.

     In the passage excerpted above, Gulliver describes the majestic mechanism behind Laputa, the floating island. The imagery associated with this island implicates it as a substitute for the human brain: it is “exactly circular,” composed of “the several minerals in their usual order, and over all is a coat of rich mould.” The rain that falls on the island is “conveyed in small rivulets toward the middle” (Swift, Chapter III). This description echoes the poetry of Keats, who relies on mountainous ridges and narrow streams to convey the creases and nerves of the brain. Also like Keats, Swift assigns a sentient being dominion over the natural landscape. Like Psyche in Keats’s “Ode to Psyche” or the charioteer in “On Sleep and Poetry,” the Laputian monarch claims the island as his “demesne.” Giving the brain—composed of mere animal, vegetable, and mineral elements—a distinctly personal protector implies subscription to the belief that brain and mind, or brain and soul, remain separate. The soul resides in the brain—indeed it is essentially trapped there, much as Gulliver informs his readers that the monarch cannot move the island beyond the bounds of his own kingdom—but the soul is personal, while the brain is just the wiring that allows it to communicate with the body and the outside world.

     The means of this communication in the eighteenth century remained opaquely obscure. Swift’s choice of an enormous magnet as the driving force behind Laputa anticipates the rise of electricity as the presumed neural fluid. Even Laurence Sterne, writing later in Tristram Shandy, mocks the pervasive application of electricity to psychological phenomena: “A man and his Hobby-Horse, tho’ I cannot say that they act and re-act exactly after the same manner in which the soul and body do upon each other: Yet doubtless there is a communication between them of some kind, and my opinion rather is, that there is something in it more of the manner of electrified bodies” (Sterne 55). Unlike the foolish scientists in Lagado, however, Swift does not hasten to experiment and explain. By choosing a suitably fantastical image for the brain—a floating island with almost magical magnetic properties—he eschews too much scientific speculation. He recalls in this image the romanticism of Keats’s poetry, in which lyricism and mystery fill in the gaps of understanding. It is fascinating to observe how prominent eighteenth-century scientists would frequently express their discoveries in verse, as if to counteract the chaos of the unknown, by giving it that quality of poetry which somehow makes the unknown beautiful.