What does it mean to be smart? Is it the ability to reason
logically, to perform complex mathematical feats or recall obscure bits of
information? Or is it skillful functioning in a world where things are
constantly changing and demanding our attention? Claxton argues that in real
life, we must use not only our brain but our arms and legs and everything else
to figure out what to do next, and that this is the true meaning of
intelligence. Being smart, according to this author, really has little to do
with the ability to reason well.
A passage from a page near the end of this book captures the
author’s main point:
“I think it is time to reclaim the concept of intelligence
from the abstract world of disembodied symbols and propositions, logical
arguments and rigorous deductions, and proclaim its wider relevance to the
challenges and complexities of everyday life. To deal well with life’s demands
requires a full body – not just for getting around and implementing actions,
but because a well-integrated, well-tuned, highly resonant body is itself the
organ of intelligence. The brain plays an important part in that integration,
allowing loops of information from the skin and the spleen, the hands and the
heart, the gut and the gullet to be brought together in fruitful discourse. But
without all those loops carrying fast-changing information about what is
possible and what is desirable, and without the constant conversation between
all the far-flung outposts of the body, the brain would not be intelligent at
all. It is only as good as the intelligence it receives. The condition of my
body, and my awareness of its humming, shimmering activity, constantly
modulates my ability to be smart.”
A recurring motif in this book is that we do not have bodies—we are bodies. The author argues that the brain is not so much the
“executive in charge” of our bodies, but, rather, the organ that responds to
multiple streams of intelligence and information coming into it from all
corners of the body. It isn’t so much that we “think” with our gut as that we
“know” in our gut.
A number of fascinating experiments are reviewed and
described in this easy-to-read book, including a number of interesting studies
involving measurements of electrical conductance in the skin. One particularly
fascinating experiment showed that people who were presented with stacks of
cards to choose from “figured out” the pattern in those stacks first in their
bodies, and only later in their minds. Measurements of skin conductivity showed
unmistakable “blips” of activity when their hand hovered over the correct stack
before they were able to explain why they were choosing that particular card.
Only later, if ever, were they able to articulate the way they’d solved the
In another experiment, children were shown photos of kids,
some from their own kindergarten class, and even when they claimed to not
recognize the kids in the photos, their skin conductance showed a noticeable
jump upward when they gazed at pictures of children they had gone to school
with. So, their bodies “knew” their former classmates, even if they had no
mental recall of that.
I have known for a long time that my body “knows” things
before my mind does, so it’s exciting to find that this truth has now been
confirmed with controlled scientific studies. Other studies are summarized that
show that merely changing the body’s posture can effect a change in mood or
emotion, another truth that many of us have already figured out on our own.
These and other fascinating experiments are summarized and described in
easy-to-understand language and it's a fascinating glimpse into a body of
literature that many people will never have the chance to read. In the realm of
“science books for the public,” this one is one of the best I’ve read recently.
There’s a lot of review in this book for those of us already
familiar with the workings of the human body, with theories of complex adaptive
systems (which the body is) and with ways to increase awareness of one’s own
body through techniques such as yoga and tai chi, but I think this is fine
since it means the main ideas will be accessible to all readers. There’s a
complete set of notes and references and a very well-done index, too, all of
which make the book even more useful than most.
It’s been a long time since I read a nonfiction book on this
sort of topic and, I have to admit, I found it a little dry, despite the fact
that the author makes a good attempt to keep the tone light and to inject humor
when explaining complex ideas. Again, this could be because much of the book
(at least the first half and portions of the second) were review for me, so I
wasn’t learning much. This really isn’t the fault of the book, though—it just
shows that I may not be the intended audience.
If you’re curious about how your body makes you smart, and
want to learn how to improve your body’s learning abilities, take a look at
this book and try some of the techniques he suggests. Yoga. Tai chi.
Biofeedback. All of these (and other body-awareness methods) will open your
mind to all sorts of new possibilities. I would add to that list Feldenkrais,which is a body-awareness method that has opened up all sorts of new realms of
understanding for me. It’s fun and you’ll learn a lot, I promise. And, as the
author shows, it’s when we’re learning that we feel most alive, and this
learning happens all over our body—not just in our brain.
I took this shot yesterday, at the height of the 2016 blizzard, from my upstairs window. Snow swirled and the wind howled and you really couldn't see a thing. Our power was on, though, so all was good.
This morning after the storm had passed and the sun had come out, I was able to venture out. This is what that street actually looked like:
And, yes, those white lumps are cars. When I tried to walk closer to get a better shot, the snow came to my thighs, so I gave up on that attempt and turned to look the other way, down the street. Not much better.
The large lump of snow to the left was created by a truck with a plow on
its front that got stuck in the road last night. I guess they abandoned their attempt to clear the parking lot next door after they got the truck dug out, but now our street is blocked by the remains of their attempt. It'll probably be there until Tuesday when the temperature is supposed to get to 45 F. We'll see.
The good news is we have a nice clear driveway, as can be seen here (yes, that's my car, still half-buried), thanks to this guy, my dear hubby and proud owner of a working snowblower!
Until the thaw....that's it from Complexity Simplified.
On this date in 1809 a boy named Edgar Poe was born in Boston, the second child of a couple of touring actors. His father disappeared soon after he was born and his mother died a short time later, leaving him an orphan. John Allan of Richmond, Virginia, took Edgar in as a foster son and we now know that boy by his full name: Edgar Allan Poe.
I was a huge Poe fan at the age of ten or so and read as many of his gothic horror tales as I could get my little hands on. This man knew how to tell a gripping story, one that caught and held a reader's attention, and his work certainly held my attention. I loved his poetry, as well, but it's only in recent years that I've learned another impressive fact about this important writer: Edgar Allan Poe invented the detective story.
Yes, before Arthur Conan Doyle created Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie introduced us to Poirot and Miss Marple, Poe wrote about C. August Dupin, an expert in "ratiocination," as it was known then. The word "detective" did not exist at the time Poe was writing, but the ability to reason things out with a nearly-supernatural ability (ratiocination) was of great interest to readers in those days.
Arthur Conan Doyle gives Poe credit for inventing this genre: "Each [of Poe's detective stories] is a root from which a whole literature has developed...Where was the detective story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it?"
Indeed, the formula used by Conan Doyle so brilliantly can be seen in its entirety in Poe's three detective stories -- "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" (published 1841), "The Mystery of Marie Roget" (1842) and "The Purloined Letter" (1844). We have the brilliant detective, Dupin, his companion -- a "normal" fellow who is Poe himself and serves as the narrator of the story about Dupin's amazing crime-solving abilities -- and a police chief, Prefect G-, a fellow who tries hard, but needs Dupin's skills to solve tough crimes.
Poe explained his intent in writing these detective tales and a fourth story, "The Gold Bug," (which is similar and involves a code-breaking protagonist), as an attempt to arouse intellectual excitement in his readers by involving them in solving puzzles. He contrasted this with his intent in writing the Gothic horror stories I so loved as a child (such as "The Fall of the House of Usher.") These were meant to arouse emotional excitement in readers, and they certainly succeed in doing that.
His poetry, though, had a different intent altogether. To Poe, poetry was only meant to express beauty. And while his poems are, in fact, beautiful and metrical and basically like music, he never strays far from his focus on the dark and mysterious side of life.
Poe's own life ended in a mystery. He was found injured one evening on a roadside, beaten and delirious, and died in the hospital soon thereafter. It is now thought that he was involved in some sort of ballot-box-stuffing scheme and got caught and beaten for it, but the full truth remains shrouded in the past. Edgar Allan Poe died on Oct. 7, 1849, at only 40 years of age, after a brief, brilliant career as a writer who changed the course of literature forever.
I'll end with a quote from his most famous poem, "The Raven." Published in 1845, this poem is the piece that made Poe a household name. Many children (including yours truly) memorized this first stanza and can still, decades later, recite it from memory:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--