The otherness of thought
October 16, 2011 – 11:26 amThat annoying tune in your head that has been pestering you all morning? Lets have a look at it. Regard it (or listen to it mentally, if you will). Before you drew it into the spotlight of analytical awareness, it was presumably there, not as an object, but as part of the subject. Once you look at it (listen to it . . .), it becomes an object—something other than you, and your sense of being the author of it vanishes. I wish to examine this dual character of elements of experience: being either a focal object, distinct from self, or forming part of the background field of experience that is constitutive of being a subject.
Thoughts, in more-or-less compressed linguistic form, have this character too. Most thoughts arise, and if pressed, we would claim agency: I thought that. But thoughts can also be found to arise without agency. Indeed, the first lesson learned in basic mindfulness training or in contemplative meditation is that thoughts arise and flow in a stream without prompting, as if welling from a spring. Did you ever have a thought that was incongruous? One that expressed an opinion you are sure you do not hold? One that voices an offensive or indefensible view? The difference between the notionally bidden and the insistent unbidden thought lies not in their source, but in the attribution of agency: the sense of being the author or source of the thought. Once a thought is examined and subject to scrutiny, it becomes an object, as distinct as a cup.
Look now at the cup at your right hand (replace with any other familiar object in your immediate surround, if you don’t have a cup). Prior to making the cup the immediate object of your attention, it was part of your environment. We even say it was within your visual field, as if it were lurking with intent to strike your retina. Before your attention, the cup is part of your world, and provides part of the background against which any attended object is perceived. The cup, then, shares something with the melody and the thought: it can be the central focus of attention, in which case it pops out of the background field of the experienced world (or the world of experience) and is clearly an object. But when it is not the focus of attention, it is part of the ground of the subject. You can cast your attention all around and you will never find any such ground, for what you are doing is akin to looking for the darkness using a flashlight.
The buddhists regard thought as a sixth sense. This is an eminently sensible point of view, and one that Western psychological science (hah!) would do well to attend to. As attention roams over the field of the present, turning from cup to tune to thought, the world arises. The persistent and perverse insistence that perception is the business of uncovering (within) a world (without) prevents us from taking this basic character of experience seriously. The phenomenological tradition in continental philosophy should have helped here, but it has proved to be a linguistic swamp, one proponent more unintelligible than the last, as if experience required a new language. Part of this stems from mistakenly clinging to the notion of the subject as an invariant persistent unity for whom experience arises. William James (and many others) have more accurately pointed to the unity of subject and object in direct experience, and have managed to conduct the subsequent discussion in plain English. Perhaps progress can be made, first by taking seriously the notion of thought as another “perceptual” modality, and secondly by attending to the fluctuating field of self and other that is the play of attention, in which elements of experience vacillate between self and other.
This seems to me to be a prerequisite to a phenomenologically informed psychiatry too.