Human beings are products of nature, and nature neither does nor can aim for perfection. Perfection is not a word that makes sense in the context of evolution. Nature merely tries things out—that is all it can do. It allows life to evolve, which is a lovely, process-oriented way to produce not perfection but endless variety. It tries out this fly and that fly, this virus and that virus. Some endure, some vanish, and each in its own way is merely yet another of nature's experiments.
We are not designed.
Nature creates a creature like us, gives us a super-sized, experimental brain, and tries out thinking. What a fascinating capacity with which to aid or burden a creature! Since the goal of nature is not to create perfection but rather to create functionality within a context, you would naturally expect an immense, wild, and flawed capacity like thinking to come with a set of profound repercussions and challenges. That is indeed what we see—and it's a sort of proof that we are not designed but rather have evolved into existence.
If you suppose that you are created by design and created well, then, like any good machine, each of your parts would have a clear design purpose and would function admirably. If, by contrast, you believe that you are a member of a species that has evolved and that you have been made by the forces of nature and not by a designer's hand, then you have much less reason to be sanguine about the excellent functionality of your brain. It is simply another experiment among nature's billions—and how many experiments actually pan out?
Complicated experiments like us are bound to produce countless unintended consequences and functional shortfalls. It is one thing to evolve a spoon—you will likely do a pretty good job of it and might even succeed on the first try. It is another thing to evolve a blender/mixer that can turn fruit into smoothies and also knead bread dough. Experimentation will naturally produce many excellent spoons and also produce many blenders that don't mix well as well as many mixers that don't blend well. In one, the motor will prove powerful enough to blend but not powerful enough to knead; in another, the bread hook will prove the wrong shape to create a dough ball; and so on.
This is likewise true of the experiment that is our species. Our apposite thumb perhaps works nicely, like any good spoon might, but our brain? As fancy and complicated as it is, does it work that well? We have the brainpower and the brain style that we have, running across a spectrum of capacities and embedded in a spectrum of personalities. For each individual, his or her experimental brain may work beautifully in some circumstances and in some applications and less well in other circumstances and in other applications. This is exactly what we see.
Because it is maybe the most complicated component of the most complicated experiment nature has yet tried, our brain will naturally produce many artifacts and inadvertent consequences. It may, for example, produce a desire to do certain intellectual work that in fact it isn't capable of doing. That is, it may produce a smart gap. It may, for the sake of ease and survival, reduce its understanding of the world to slogans that do not match up with the complexity of reality. It may spin out of control or find itself held hostage to some unimportant worry that can't be shaken.
Perhaps the next model will do better.
But perhaps no model can effectively do what a brain is supposed to do. Once you let a brain think and allow it to try to predict its future and its place in the universe, once you give it meaning needs and identity needs and relational needs and ego needs—once, that is, you put it in what may be an untenable relationship to the facts of existence, what bit of organic matter can really do much with such implausible demands? It is not just that our brain is an experimental model. It has also been given impossible tasks. To take just one example, predicting the future is a necessary part of its game, and the best model imaginable still wouldn't be equal to that impossible challenge.
We have gotten it into our heads that our species is both the final model and equal to its tasks. Neither is necessarily or logically true, and the evidence of our eyes suggests the opposite. Of course, we can't wait for the next model; nor in many important senses can we change our tasks. But we can take a kinder view of our species, as one not built well enough to handle what it has been tasked to handle, and also a tougher view, demanding of our species that it look at its shortfalls and do what it can to rise above them.
Can we do this? Can we take this tougher view and actually do a better job? How good a job should we expect our experimental brain to do as it tries to distinguish between genuine appetites and psychological cravings or between concern and overconcern? Maybe we can expect it to master basic literacy, if it is given a chance at learning, but should we expect it to see through a sophisticated advertising campaign designed to send it to war? Why do we suppose that our brain can look into the future and pick a profession that it will actually love and enjoy for decades—or, perhaps more poignantly, even know what to do with itself for the next fifteen minutes? How well can brains do these things?
We have taken for granted the idea that our brain is equal to life's challenges. But on the one hand the challenges may be too great, and on the other hand our brain may not be designed adequately. As it presently stands, nature has created a brain that thinks it can perform frankly impossible tasks. We have evolved with the ability to tax our brain with questions and challenges that it can't be expected to handle—and then to stand surprised when we see phenomena like, to name two that we'll investigate shortly, mania and insomnia.
What might we like to see in the next model?
Maybe that we come built with an off switch? That would be useful.
Maybe more brain capacity across the board? That might be nice.
Maybe that we think best under pressure—as opposed to what is currently true, namely the exact opposite? That would certainly help at test time.
Maybe that intelligence is not distributed so widely, so that we might all be in it together, thinking the same way?
There is no harm at playing imaginary evolutionary futurist. But if we had the job for real, we would have to ask and try to answer some very hard questions. We'd start with: What goals do we have in mind? Are we thinking of what would improve the life of a given individual (whatever we might mean by improve), or are we contemplating what would be most likely to ensure that our species survives? For example, a worldwide tyranny might guarantee that the species would never wipe itself out through nuclear war, since all the weapons would be in the hands of one tyrant. So you might have limited freedom and tremendous terror but also a very robust, vibrant species from an evolutionary point of view. The species might be happy even if none of its members are.
And how might we plan for or predict net gain? Any change has the potential to produce both positive and negative consequences for a species. When a mosquito infestation in the south of France caused the French government to launch a massive campaign of insecticide spraying, the mosquito population shrank dramatically until those mosquitoes resistant to the insecticide had the chance to grow in numbers. But those resistant mosquitoes turned out to be easier prey for spiders than their forebears were. They were more resistant to insecticide and also less adept at avoiding spiders. This is the way of nature, and how could anyone predict such things?
So we must pity our imaginary evolutionary futurist his job. But our job is simpler. It is to look at this exact brain in a naturalistic context with an understanding that it is not the best it can be but simply an evolved, imperfect contraption. It does not come with an off switch that might allow it to get a good night's sleep every single night. It does not come equipped to solve math problems beyond its capabilities. It does not come equipped to prophesize and know for certain that this love will last or that this enthusiasm will prove a meaning opportunity, even though it is supposed to say—and mean—exactly such things at the altar and on job applications.
We must understand that we are evolved and not designed. With that understanding comes a huge sigh of relief as we suddenly realize that we are bound to manifest shortfalls and that we will regularly dismay and disappoint ourselves. It also brings an equally huge warning sign as we recognize that neither we nor the rest of our species are adequately equipped to handle personal, communal, or species-wide challenges.
This warning is twofold. We remind ourselves that we must be alert to the many challenges that we will have to meet with respect to this experimental brain. We also remind ourselves that our fellow human beings are not who we would like them to be but who they are, and that we are going to be challenged by their brains. To take just one example that repeats itself throughout the history of our species—and that will continue to repeat itself until we are different creatures—we will have to deal with those of our fellow creatures who have become either authoritarian leaders or authoritarian followers.
Theodor Adorno, the German-born sociologist associated with the phrase the authoritarian personality; Else Frenkel-Brunswik, a psychoanalyst and German émigré; and the UC Berkeley social psychologists Daniel Levinson and Nevitt Sanford championed investigations of the authoritarian personality back in the early 1950s. They took as their starting point the Freudian model of the psyche and argued that a certain sort of punitive, rigid, and conventional upbringing produced a child, and then an adult, forced to control his roiling id with a punitive and rigid superego. They argued that certain traits arose from this particular and precise dynamism, traits that coalesced into the authoritarian personality.
They concluded that the authoritarian personality comprised nine qualities or psychological orientations including anti-intellectualism, cynical destructiveness, a superstitious nature, and exaggerated concerns about sexual activity. Whether or not their model is accurate, the phenomenon can't be missed unless you close your eyes to it. We may not genuinely understand why authoritarian leaders and authoritarian followers come to be, but we are obliged not to act like we don't see them. They too are the fruit of this experimental model and are one of the ways that our brain is taxed as we try to fathom how to live in a world full of brains dreaming up ways to dumb us down, rule us in bed, and restrict our freedom.
We are the sort of creature who not only needs to put up firewood and food for the winter but who must also predict the distant future, make decisions about who or what created the universe and what sort of principles and path we should follow, deal with our fellow difficult and dangerous creatures, and in other ways make sense of things that would overtax any creature. It is easy to see how we might have evolved into exactly this situation—and then be stuck here. This amounts to a really terrible stuck place: imagine a machine that, grinding away at jobs too hard for it, progressively wears itself down and, possessing no off switch, never gets a moment's peace off the line.
If it is by thinking that we weave our picture of the world, speak to ourselves about what we need and what we want, and try to solve our personal problems, then it follows that we will turn to our brain and to the thing that it does—think—to meet these and every other pressing life challenge. We ask that it answer everything from whether we should buy this or that car to whether life is worth living. We ask it to solve problems, lift our spirits, and understand our life purposes. Naturally this taxes and stresses a brain that is only the experimental model and that, like everything else in the natural world, comes without a crystal ball.
Stress causes the greatest number of doctors' visits annually. Yet we haven't noticed well enough that the issue is not just what is stressing us but also how poorly we are built to deal with that stress. We ask our experimental brain to work overtime to decide what line will sell next season, whether our son is drinking just a lot or has become an alcoholic, whether this passing feeling means that the universe has a purpose or that our medication is kicking in, where we should look to heal the hole in our heart and make life feel worthwhile . . . and everything else.
Not knowing what else to do, we set our brain racing off, whether or not it has good brakes, whether or not it is equal to the task, and whether or not the task is reasonable. The smarter we are, the more likely we will use our brain in these ways, and the more painful pressure we are likely to produce. Just as you would expect a bull to have difficulty in a china shop should it get it into its head to purchase a nice dinner service for eight, so you would expect a human being to have trouble solving his problems with this precise brain—or with any brain that also generates awareness and consciousness.
It is a certain profound misunderstanding that causes part of the pain that a smart person experiences and one that can be rectified in an instant. You do not have a brain that was designed to work well in all circumstances and in all regards. It was not designed to be equal to its tasks or to magically have the power to predict the future. How much less guilty and upset you might feel if you understood this and accepted this!
A smart person ought to be smart enough to see clearly the limitations of his species. At the same time, he ought to roll up his sleeves and do whatever he can to deal with the peculiarities and shortfalls of this particular brain model. As charming as it is to speculate about what sort of brain we might have had or might one day have, for now our species has this one. Accept that and deal with the consequences as smartly as you can.