Drawing on philosophy, neuroscience, and artificial intelligence, Simple Minds explores the construction of the mind from the matter of the brain.

An innovative theory of consciousness, drawing on the phenomenology of Edmund Husserl and supported by brain-imaging, presented in the form of a hardboiled ..

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Commentary on “Searle and the ‘Deep Unconscious’”Dan Lloyd (bio)Can another person know my thoughts with better authority than I know them myself? With his affirmative answer to this question, Freud invented the twentieth-century human, a being whose mind is accessible to scrutiny from outside, and whose attempts at conscious self-explanation are at best partial and in many cases wrong. Even as Freud’s scientific influence wanes, the shift of authority (...) he inaugurated is still gathering strength. Now the mind is open to many outsiders. Not only psychoanalysts, but behaviorists, cognitive scientists, and neuroscientists are all striving to read my mind, and yours. Against this historical sea change stands the solitary John Searle, whose work is consistently animated by fierce adherence to first person authority and surly attacks of any theory that could be exploited to undermine that authority. To most readers Searle’s positions seem stubbornly anti-scientific and covertly dualistic, despite his insistence to the contrary. And since science is good and dualism is bad, Searle’s arguments have become standing obstacles for theorists to discuss, debate, or dismiss.Buttressing his insistence on first person authority, Searle defends a Cartesian view of mental representation or intentionality, holding that an intentional entity is a conscious entity, either in actuality or potentiality. Deeply unconscious representations are therefore impossible. Eric Gillett has joined the debate just here with a pointed critique of Searle’s argument (also discussed in Lloyd 1990). Gillett performs a double service by challenging Searle’s premises and offering some positive grounds for the deep unconscious. I agree with Gillett that establishing the existence of deeply unconscious representations requires a theory of intentionality that is independent of conscious awareness. Ruth Millikan’s evolutionary teleology is an excellent candidate, in its pursuit of real function and real content (vs. “as-if” interpretation) for mental items.Some questions remain. First, if deeply unconscious entities are clinically important, then in addition to a defense-in-principle of their existence we will need some method of identifying specific deep representations in particular cases. Millikan’s functionalism links content to broad biological and environmental contexts, and thereby seems to be an unwieldy tool for content ascription. If deeply unconscious representations get their content in the way Millikan describes, how can the clinician make use of them?Second, and more important, Millikan’s theory shares with many others the ambition to explain all intentional entities, conscious and unconscious alike. This leads to a new dualism of mental contents, a split between intentional content and conscious content, since the comprehensive theory of intentionality will assign mental content both [End Page 201] shallow and deep, irrespective of consciousness. This is a perplexity that transcends particular theories of intentionality, since what my mental states represent seems at least partly dependent on my environment or context, but my current state of consciousness is exclusively dependent on my brain. How, in theory, can these two concepts of content be reconciled?In sum, deeply unconscious representations do not come cheap. One way to escape the new dualism of content is to deny that the deep entities are representations. Instead, they might be dispositions or the “mechanisms, instinctual drives, structures, and energies which can never become conscious under any conditions,” as Gillett suggests. (In Lloyd 1994 I explore the possibility of a dispositional unconscious understood via connectionism.) On this view, mental content could remain within our first person authority, while the causal processes that manage that content remain out of sight. I wouldn’t have to guess what I’m thinking, but I would depend on the sciences of the mind to tell me how I come to think it.Related ArticlesFeature Article: Searle and the "Deep Unconscious"Commentary: Commentary by LloydDan Lloyd Dan Lloyd, Department of Philosophy, Trinity College, Hartford, CT 06106, U.S.A.ReferencesLloyd, D. 1990. Loose connections: Four problems with Searle’s argument for the ‘Connection Principle.’ Behavioral and Brain Sciences 13: 615–16. Google ScholarLloyd, D. 1994. Connectionist hysteria: Reducing a Freudian case study to a network model. Philosophy, Psychiatry, & Psychology 1, no. 2: 69–88. Google ScholarCopyright © 1996 The Johns Hopkins University Press... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Commentary on “Towards a Design-Based Analysis of Emotional Episodes”Dan Lloyd (bio)To think about grief is to think about many things. My one-year-old daughter was practicing opening and closing a cabinet door as I puzzled over a response to Wright, Sloman, and Beaudoin’s “Toward a Design-Based Analysis of Emotional Episodes.” She was completely absorbed in her project, and as I watched my elf at her task, I thought about the (...) voices of loss that speak briefly in section 3.1. How terrible it would be to lose a loved one. With that, I was overcome with a pang of love for my daughter, and further thought about the paper ceased.In the authors’ terms, my feelings about my daughter were “perturbances,” states that interfered with the internal management of my thought process, derailing it from the deliberate project of responding to the paper. Reading and thinking about loss activated the attachment structures involving those whose loss would be most devastating to me. The activation of the attachment structure was my episode of intense feeling, arising in me with an insistence level that temporarily exceeded my academic pursuits. The whole sequence of mental events arose through the interaction of major processes of perception, beliefs, “motivators,” plans, self-monitoring, and global control. The mind, according to the authors, is a collection of such processes.Is that all there is? The familiar objection to this brand of functionalist analysis is that it leaves out the most important part of mind, namely, conscious experience. Such an “architecture” for an “intelligent agent” is at best a simulation of some aspects of cognition, but the feelings, the moods, the subjective what-it-is-like of experience are missing. And without them, say the familiar critics, the mind is missing. The authors are naturally aware of this objection, and are careful to hedge their project: “In our discussion the ‘phenomenological problem’ is factored out and placed to one side.”I wonder, however, whether the authors are too quick to concede that their model omits the phenomenal. The symptoms of grief expressed by its sufferers would all be considered reports of the experience of grief, aspects of its phenomenology. The authors use these reports to guide their analysis of the functional processes of grief, and their analysis in turn explains why the grievers experience their losses as they do. Functionalist psychologists usually base their analyses on strictly observable responses obtained in cognitive psychology experiments. In using first-person reports as their guide, the authors inaugurate a promising union of phenomenology and functionalism. After their treatment of grief, the left over and left out phenomenology is noticeably slimmer.What remains of grief is its pain. In the spirit [End Page 127] of the paper, I will close with a brief speculative extension of the authors’ approach, using it to examine the core of the experience of grief. Like physical pain, emotional pain is curiously resistant to description, and not even easy to remember. (One remembers that one was in pain, and that it was hateful, but such reminiscences are faint shadows of the experience itself.) Though its phenomenology is elusive, pain has a clear function. It is aversive. As the authors note, pain involves “dispositions to terminate or reduce some state or process.” In their terms, pain is a motivator with a very high insistence level. Motivators motivate plans, and an aversive motivator would principally motivate a plan to remove the cause of the pain. However, grief and other chronic emotional pains are marked by irremediability. There can be no plan that replaces the loss, only fantasy plans or reversions to infant strategies of last resort (like crying). Within the cognitive architecture proposed by this paper, emotional pain is thus characterized by a collision of two processes, a highly insistent motive meeting a vacuum where a plan should be. The unanswered insistence would make the collision hateful, while the absent plan would leave a state partly without intentional content, and thus hard to describe or remember. This breakdown, arguably, is the pain—an emergent state or states arising in just this sort of wrenching bind.The traditional critic will insist that the painfulness... (shrink)