Chapter 4
TECHNOLOGICAL
TRANSFORMATION AND ASSIMILATION
In the previous chapter I examined the various kinds
of psychological attributes that constitute our identity and their relative
importance. I argued that, even after allowing for the differing contributions
to connectedness of the various attributes, we can rationally be concerned for
our future phases more than proportionally to the degree of connectedness. In
this chapter I will focus on various changes in or additions to the self,
especially as effected through our bodies. Although normative issues will
arise, most of the discussion will deal with the metaphysics of identity. In
the first of three sections I will distinguish augmentative from deteriorative
transformation. Then in Part II, in trying to develop principles to help decide
when a new ability or a physical change becomes part of us, I will develop an
account of functional integration. After considering how we assimilate changes
in ourselves I will distinguish enhancement from supplementation—a distinction
that can help clarify normative issues. Part III investigates whether a
psychological reductionist should in any way grant intrinsic significance to a
person’s body.
I. AUGMENTATIVE AND
DETERIORATIVE Transformation
Augmentative vs. Deteriorative Transformation
A rough distinction can be made between deteriorative changes or transformations
in a person’s characteristics, and what I will call augmentative (or developmental) changes. Deteriorative changes
weaken or destroy some personal attribute without any compensating addition.
Deteriorative changes include losing my ability to do arithmetic in my head; a
weakening of visual discrimination; the fading away of a disposition; the loss
of a memory, and so on. Augmentative changes preserve at least some of an
existing attribute but add to it or alter it. Examples include having your eyes
and optical center replaced with a synthetic optical system capable of seeing
in a broader spectrum; the addition of foreign language skills to preexisting native
language ability; and the acquisition of a new desire. I said the distinction
was a rough one because there will be cases which could be classified either
way; the two classes are not sharply disjoint. Consider the case above where my
visual system is replaced with a synthetic optical system. If my new system
maintains all the capabilities of the original while also allowing me to see
into the infrared, ultraviolet, and microscopically, then this is a pure case
of augmentative change. However, the synthetic system might give me these new
abilities while, let us say, delivering inferior night vision or weaker color
differentiation. In this latter case the change may be predominantly
augmentative but also partly deteriorative. We could alter the example to
change the mix along a spectrum from entirely augmentative to entirely
deteriorative. More psychologically oriented examples of augmentative changes
that involve some loss include a disposition for generosity becoming more
selective in its objects; a system of beliefs becoming modified to more
accurately reflect the truth.
Augmentative
changes are likely to result in less reduction in connectedness than are
deteriorative changes in any particular aspect of self. This is because they
keep some or all of the old characteristic while adding to it or altering it,
whereas deteriorative changes simply take away an attribute or replace it with
something unrelated. It is easy to slide from metaphysical to normative
thinking in personal identity discussions, so here I will make explicit what I
mean: We will generally prefer
augmentative to deteriorative changes. Most of us in most circumstances would
rather trade an existing ability for an altered one of greater power or range,
or trade a belief-system for an altered one of higher accuracy, than have an
ability or belief-system destroyed. This will be important when considering the
desirability of changes in ourselves, but the question of desirability should
be kept distinct from that of the actual change in connectedness. The change in
connectedness between person-stages is an objective matter. The fact that I
find a particular augmentative change more desirable than a particular
deteriorative change in itself has nothing to do with the extent of reduction
in connectedness. We should not weight the deteriorative change more heavily
simply because we find it less desirable. If I lose a small amount of visual
ability, the change in connectedness can be smaller than if my new visual
system has powerful but only slightly overlapping abilities compared with my
old. I may prefer the augmentative change even though the loss of connectedness
is greater than would be the case with the deteriorative change.
The
same principle applies to changes in a person as a whole, as well as to
individual characteristics: In one possible situation, I undergo a series of
physical, cognitive, and emotional changes resulting in a person-stage
stronger, smarter, and more emotionally well-tuned than my current stage. In a
second possible situation, I suffer a gradual physical, cognitive, and
emotional decline, becoming weaker, duller, and emotionally less integrated
than my current stage. The degree of connectedness between current and future
person-stages in the two possible situations depends only on the extent of the
change; the degree of connectedness is unaffected by the direction of change. If the extent of the developmental
(augmentative) changes are similar to the extent of the deteriorative changes,
then the change in connectedness will be similar. In practice, developmental
changes involve smaller changes in connectedness since they add to and
partially modify existing characteristics. Deteriorative changes, by destroying
or impairing existing characteristics, tend to involve larger changes in
connectedness. These practical differences, though, have nothing intrinsically
to do with the direction of change; they result from the objective nature of
the changes.
We
might alter the two possible situations so that the augmentation and
deterioration happen abruptly and discontinuously rather than gradually. In the
case of an abrupt deterioration (perhaps resulting from a major accident or
massive stroke, for instance) the later person-stage (if he were still a
person) might not be a stage of the same person as my current stage. The change
may have been so extensive and discontinuous that I cease to exist, being
replaced by a different person (or by no person,
just a living human body). The parallel between deteriorative and augmentative
change is preserved even under these conditions. It can equally be true that,
if I improve drastically and discontinuously rather than gradually, my current
stage and that future stage will not be stages of the same person.
Augmentative
and deteriorative changes, then, should be treated the same when estimating the
degree of reduction in connectedness. Despite the absence of any metaphysical
priority of one type of change over another, there can be an axiological or
normative difference between them. At least given the typical values people
hold, deteriorative changes we will see as undesirable,
developmental changes as desirable. In deteriorative change we lose
characteristics we value. In developmental change we willingly exchange old
characteristics for new or partly new characteristics we value more highly.
This is one way, as I argued in the previous chapter, that we can rationally
have self-interested concern for future stages more than proportionally to the
degree of connectedness between current and future stages. Most of would rather
survive—maintain psychological continuity—while gradually losing some
connectedness through developmental change than stay just as we are now. The
question arises: Would we, or should we, be willing to change so drastically and
abruptly that we have effectively been replaced by a different person, albeit
one who we believe is superior to us according to our current values? I now
turn to examine Raymond Martin’s argument that we would make such a choice if it were possible. Martin’s view, if
correct, strongly undermines the view that the extent of our (rational) concern
for our future stages depends on the degree of connectedness, at least in a
range of possible situations.
Raymond Martin on Tranformation and Replacement
This sub-section deals primarily with a normative
issue. The discussion will, however, lead me to clarify some terms involved in
the metaphysical issues of the next sub-section, terms such as
“transformation”, and “replacement.” The critical discussion here of a paper by
Raymond Martin follows naturally the previous sub-section and
helps prepare the way for the subsequent part. Martin’s view is especially
relevant since it sounds similar to the Transformationist view I defined in the
previous chapter. I will compare and contrast the two views after clarifying
what Martin is proposing.
Martin
presents two examples intended to show that identity is less important than
generally supposed. The first example involves a person fissioning into two, in
a manner familiar from Parfit. Some will respond to this kind of example by
being unimpressed. This may be on the basis that all that fission examples
demonstrate is that we do not care very much about the technical question of
the transitivity of identity. In other words, we do not lose our identity in
fission examples except in a narrow technical sense. Others, such as Lewis,
argue that fission examples fail to show that identity is not what matters.
Lewis holds that there are two persons sharing one person-stage prior to
fission; both of these persons retain their identity through the fission. Since
the fission example may be unpersuasive in showing that identity is not as
important as typically thought, Martin gives a second example. This example is
intended to demonstrate that not only is it not identity that matters most to
us in survival, neither is it continuity (with or without branching).
If
this second example is persuasive, it “will show that there are situations in
which many of us would prefer to give up our identities and transform into the
persons we most want to be rather than to retain our identities and fail to
make such a transformation.” It is neither our identity nor continuity that
matter most to us, Martin suggests. We value becoming who we most want to be
more than either of these. His example is as follows:
We
imagine that it is possible for a person to undergo a painless, safe, and
inexpensive operation in which we exchange some physical or psychological trait
for a better replacement. “So, for instance, you could, through a single,
almost instantaneous operative procedure, one say, that simply used sound waves
and involved no cutting, become physically better—stronger, more flexible, more
beautiful, and so on—[and] psychologically better—more patient, more generous,
more intelligent, and so on.” [295] The only cost to the procedure is that you
lose some memory of your life up to that point. “Because you have only one
chance at the operation, and the alternative ways of changing yourself
dramatically for the better are so onerous and unreliable, there would be a
tremendous incentive to change yourself drastically in all the ways you would
like to change to become the person you most want to be. However, the greater
the changes, the greater the tax on your personal memory. You could change
radically and become the person you most want to be (assuming you are not
already close to that sort of person), but only by ceasing to be either
physically or psychologically closely continuous with your current self. On
most theories of personal identity, perhaps on all psychological-continuity
theories, this would mean you could change radically and become the person you
most want to be only by ceasing to be the person you now are.”
Martin
believes that most people, if this procedure were available, would choose to do
it. He concludes that the fact that we would choose changes that would cost us
our identities shows that “becoming the persons we most want to be is what
matters primarily in survival.” [296] “This conclusion reveals something
fundamental and perhaps also startling about our most basic values. In simplest
terms, it reveals that many of us crave to be fulfilled more than we crave to be—that, paradoxically, we would choose
to cease to exist if by so choosing we could realize our deepest selfish
desires.”
In
order to address Martin’s view, and to prepare for my subsequent thoughts, I
will pause to define some terms such as disruption,
transformation, replacement, and becoming.
For the present discussion, the most important contrast is that between changes
to a person compatible with continuity, and changes in a person that
effectively result in the loss of the original person with a new person
appearing in their stead. I will use the term transformation in a way that seems to accord with Martin’s use
(though he does not explicitly define it). Transformation is a spectrum of
degrees of change from the slightest change in a person to total change in
which not a single original attribute remains. Transformation typically implies
some degree of change while leaving
something of the original intact. If nothing at all remains of the original, or
if the change is extremely small, we will not usually talk of transformation
(because to say “x is transformed” implies tht x still exists”). Nevertheless,
we can regard the cases where the term feels odd simply as extreme ends of the
spectrum of transformation. We will feel differently about different points (or
regions) along the transformation spectrum. Martin’s argument, and analysis of
it, requires that we be able clearly to distinguish between cases of
transformation in which we feel we would continue and cases of transformation
where we feel that we would not continue.
I will refer to cases near the conservative end of
the transformation spectrum as continuous transformations, or as sustaining
transformations.
I have already defined deteriorative changes as
those that “weaken or destroy some personal attribute without any compensating
addition.”
I will refer to those cases where most or all of the
original person’s characteristics have been destroyed, with new ones in their
place, as discontinuous transformations. (Discontinuous transformations
are therefore a subset of deteriorative changes; those involving a sudden,
dramatic deterioration rather than a gradual deterioration.)
When the transformation is discontinuous I will say
the person has been replaced.
When the transformation is continuous or sustaining
I will say the original person-stage has become the later person-stage.
Replacement involves the disruption of most or all
of a person’s central characteristics with new characteristics being put in
their place. Replacement is a form of transformation that starts to appear
about halfway along the spectrum. At earlier parts of the spectrum the
person-stage is becoming another stage. The central opposition is between
becoming and being replaced. We need not pretend there is any sharp line
between the two. There will be many clear cases and there will be a fuzzy
region where both descriptions can reasonably be applied. Parfit would place
the cut off between becoming and replacement at a loss of 50% of connectedness
over a day.
The
question at issue in Martin’s paper can now be stated as: Would most people
choose to be replaced if their replacement were the person they most want to
be? The main conclusion at issue is Martin’s view that an affirmative answer
shows that most important to us in survival is not identity but transforming
into the person we most want to be. (This seems to be a peculiar way for Martin
to state his conclusion, but he does
use the phrase “important to us in survival.” His way of stating it apparently
begs the question as to whether or not we survive the transformation. A better
phrasing would be: “most important to us in our considerations about the future
is not identity but transforming into the person we most want to be.”) I agree
that most of us, or at least many of us, would choose to undergo the operation
to transform into our ideal self. My view diverges from Martin’s in that I
think he has described the choice in a misleading way. Also, the conclusion he
draws, while accurate for some us, seems to be an overgeneralization.
Martin
presents the operation as a choice between either staying as you are or
transforming into your ideal self all at once, where the latter choice involves
giving up your identity. The operation involves such a massive change that
psychological continuity and personal identity are breached. In fact, I will
argue, undergoing this operation, in most cases, will not require us to relinquish our identity. This is because a major
part of our identity is constituted by our values and we would not want to
change our values. Our values form the core of our identity. This is not true for
everyone, and in some cases Martin’s description will be appropriate: Some
persons lack a strong core of values. These persons would give up their
identity through transforming. Although it seems to me that most of us could
transform into our ideal self without being replaced, the nature of the
identity of persons is sufficiently vague that no strongly compelling
demonstration can be made. It is at least arguable that even those of us with
well-developed values would be giving up our identity in transformation. If so,
this would show that it is not our identity
that matters to us in survival, but that part of our identity constituted by
our values. It is not true for all of us, as Martin claims, that transforming
into who we most want to be is the most important thing in survival. Values
differ: this will be true for some of us but not for others. Those who value
self-transformation strongly can undergo more changes in other characteristics
while maintaining identity.
What
is the basis for these claims? First, my claim that, for most of us,
transforming into our ideal selves would not require us to relinquish identity.
Martin attempts to influence our intuitions by the way he describes the
operation. What you are asked to give up is your memories of your experiences.
Abolishing these memories certainly would be a major loss, though the impact on
our degree of connectedness would be small. In an earlier chapter, when
examining the relative contribution to overall connectedness of particular
types of personal characteristic, I argued that memory contributed much less to
connectedness than other types of characteristic. (It only seems particularly
significant if we count as memory other things like skills and abilities.)
Undergoing the changes described by Martin would detract little from
connectedness, since memory is only a small part of it. If the memory losses
were all we had to give up, we could undergo transformation without coming near
loss of identity and replacement by a new person. In addition to this, most of
the other changes Martin describes involve additions to you or strengthening of
existing characteristics. When you acquire an attribute there need be no loss
of connectedness (unless it is incompatible with a pre-existing
characteristic). We measure connectedness not by the number of the later
stage’s characteristics shared by the earlier stage, but the converse. I may
come through the operation stronger, healthier, more imaginative, with new
abilities to play musical instruments, to comprehend abstractions previously
too difficult for me, and with the addition of new desires and dispositions
(compatible with the rest of my character). But these leave the characteristics
of my earlier stage intact. (Gaining other psychological characteristics will
mean giving up preexisting characteristics: gaining an attribute of tolerance
or serenity will mean giving up anger.) Neither the loss of declarative
memories nor the addition of new features removes a critical degree of
connectedness. If these are what transforming into my ideal self entails, then
I can become that ideal self rather than be replaced by him.
This
problem with the persuasiveness of Martin’s example can be remedied. We can
imagine that to become your ideal self, you would have to cut away much more
than memories. You would have to remove most of the desires, dispositions,
abilities, and intentions that constituted you. This would have to mean that
most of your existing characteristics are incompatible with your ideal self.
Certainly this is possible. However, it seems like an uncommon situation. For
the example to genuinely show the transformation to involve replacement, it
would have to mean that most of our existing characteristics would not exist in
the person we most want to be. This implies a high degree of self-rejection and
dislike. For some of us the example then would involve replacement, but for
most of us it would not.
Another
consideration corroborates the low likelihood that transforming into our ideal
self would mean our replacement rather than our continuation: Our ideal selves
will reflect our values, and our values form much of our connectedness. When I
examined, in an earlier chapter, the relative contributions to overall
connectedness of types of attribute, it turned out that values form a central
and widely ramifying part of our identity. Values shape many aspects of us;
they influence which (non-value) desires we act on or accept, affect which
skills and abilities we acquire or use, largely determine which intentions we form,
and they shape our long-term projects. If our values form the major part of our
identity, then we would have to become, rather than be replaced by, our ideal
self. This is because we would not choose to give up our values to transform
into the person we most want to be. Our ideal self is one that accords with our
ideals. It will include abilities and qualities that we do not yet have, but it
cannot have values incompatible with our current values. If I now value my
honesty and rationality, I will not conceive of my ideal self as a lying
irrationalist. If I will not give up my values in transforming into my ideal,
and my values constitute most of my identity, then I will not have to
relinquish my identity to become my ideal. For something to be my value, rather
than simply my desire, it must be integrated into a system of desires (as
explained in an earlier chapter). Since it is the integrated person—not some
errant transitory desire—who chooses the ideal self, the person’s conception of
their ideal self will not involve destruction of existing values. Your “values”
are not your values if you would do
away with them.
Even
if we grant that values are the weightiest component of our identity, we might
argue that all the other characteristics summed together outweigh the
contribution of our values. If so, in transforming into our ideal we could retain our values but lose our
identities. Though this could happen, and for some persons would happen, it
will be quite uncommon. Values may not be able to outweigh all other types of
characteristic added together in terms of contribution to connectedness, but
they will contribute at least a large minority. You would only lose continuity
in that case if your ideal involved the abolition of a large majority of your
other characteristics. Values are more likely to be outweighed by other
characteristics if the person has only weak values. An extreme case of this
would be a schizophrenic. In individuals with poorly integrated desires, values
exist weakly if at all. An individual with weak values but strong desires could
choose an ideal self that involved a discontinuity.
To
sum up: It is unlikely that most of us would be replaced by, rather than
become, our ideal self. Replacement seems more likely for certain persons such
as schizophrenics and those with weakly-formed values. Though it seems unlikely
to be a common result, I grant that it is arguable that even some normal
persons, in order to transform into the person they most want to be, would have
to give up so many characteristics other than their values that they would be
replaced. Granting these possibilities, should we concur with Martin’s view
that this shows that it is not our identity that matters most to us in survival
(or in our thinking about our place in the future), and that what does matter
most is transforming into our ideal self? Yes and no. Yes, we will have to
agree that identity is not the most important thing. Some, and possibly many,
of us would be willing to give up our identity to be replaced by an ideal self.
However,
it does not follow that what matters most to everyone is transforming into the
person we most want to be. The example reveals that we care most about the
continuation of our values—the core of our identity—rather than about our
identity as a whole. This conclusion is interesting and might lead us to
reevaluate some notions, such as the view that personal responsibility is tied
to the persistence of identity. Perhaps responsibility (for past actions and
commitments) instead is tied to the persistence of values even when identity is
lost. However, considering such possible implications would take me far afield.
When
I claim that it does not follow that what matters most to everyone is
transforming into the person we most want to be, I am not denying that this is
the most important thing for some of us. Our values are the most important
thing for each of us in our survival. Obviously Martin highly values
self-improvement and self-transformation. So do I, and so do many
self-reflective persons. But, in making a general claim that transforming into
our ideal is the most important thing in survival, Martin overgeneralizes. This
claim seems natural to Martin and may appeal to many of us, but not everyone
places any substantial value on self-transformation. Such people may be
self-satisfied, deluded about their own perfection, or simply minimally
self-aware or imaginative. Others may feel dissatisfied with who they are but
have little or no idea how they would improve if they could. What they care about
is the persistence of their values, and these do not happen to include
self-transformation. (Some will care about self-transformation but only when
brought about by the self.) Those to
whom self-transformation seems a natural value tend to reflect on themselves
and have developed a relatively high degree of self-awareness. They will tend
to be questioning, challenging, imaginative persons. (Or, to recognize negative
motivations, some of those to whom self-transformation seems a natural value
will be self-hating.)
It
is worth noting that the more strongly we value self-improvement and the more
broadly that value ramifies through our behavior, the greater the
transformation we can undergo before we feel that we will lose what matters in
survival. We might be willing to give up not only memories, desires, and
abilities in the process of transforming into our ideal but even some of our
other values. When we value self-transformation, we are really holding a
complex of values rather than one simple value. The drive to self-improvement
(if positively rather than negatively motivated) involves optimism (you must
believe that improvement is achievable), enjoyment of experimentation,
appreciation of novelty, tolerance of uncertainty, a willingness to take
responsibility for your destiny, enjoyment of challenge, and desires for
autonomy and self-direction. Self-transformation will also link to a
disposition to think critically and imaginatively.
I
will conclude this subsection by relating the present conclusions to the view I
called Transformationism in the previous chapter. Transformationism consists of
a normative claim to the effect that:
(2) Earlier stage A may reasonably care about later
stage B more than proportionally to the degree of connectedness between them;
i.e., continuity is significant, not just connectedness. This is because:
(i) the
person may value their life as a whole (or long stretches of their life).
(ii) B
may be closer to A’s conception of an ideal self.
(iii) the person may hold self-transformation
as a central goal.
The
conclusion I have reached here, through consideration of Martin’s example, that
what we value most in survival is the continuation of our values and, for some
of us, our becoming the person we most want to be, adds further support to the
previous chapter’s defense of (2)(ii) and (iii). Consideration of Martin’s
example gives further reason to believe we can reasonably have concern for our
future person-stages much more than proportionally to the degree of
connectedness we have to them. By complementing the earlier chapter’s ideas, we
can now see more clearly which parts of ourselves matter most in survival—which
parts will most strongly support our future-concern.
II.
INTEGRATION OF CHANGE
Assimilation
This section analyses the notion of assimilation in
order to determine when physical additions to us become part of us. I begin by
applying the idea of assimilation to modify Parfit’s criterion for continuity.
I will develop an account of assimilation in terms of functional integration.
It will turn out that functional integration seems to require something like
exclusive, or at least interference-free, access to and interdependence with a
part of the self. It does not require physical connection, conscious or direct
control, nor sensory awareness of the part.
Earlier
in the chapter I expressed dissatisfaction with the criterion for continuity
given by Parfit. According to this criterion, continuity persists so long as
there are overlapping chains of strong connectedness, where “strong
connectedness” is defined as persistence of at least 50% of the typical
psychological connectedness over the course of one day. The 50% connectedness
over the course of a day seems arbitrary. Why should we look at the degree of
psychological connectedness over the course of a day? Why not 3 hours? Or 14 days? Or 7 months? Or 23 seconds? The
50% condition, though an obvious choice, also seems uncomfortably arbitrary. I
will propose an alternative criterion for continuity, one suggested by the
considerations involving assimilation which occupy this section.
A
person is a reasonably well-integrated system of beliefs, desires, values,
abilities, and so on. Persons are dynamic entities, constantly changing in
response to both external and internal pressures. There are limits, however, to
the degree of change possible for a person to assimilate. Equivalently: there
will be a maximum rate at which changes in the self can be assimilated. This
will vary between individuals, with the extreme limits being set by the common
genetic, neurological, and biological nature of humans. If a person goes
through changes in excess of their ability to assimilate, they will
disintegrate or fracture. (Disintegration may occur for other reasons, such as
an extreme trauma, or neurochemical disorder.) Disintegration means that
personality fragments or decomposes: the systematic interrelationships between
elements of the self dissolve. This might occur because of (a) the loss of
elements or aspects of a person, leaving gaps that interfere with their overall
functioning. Fragmentation of this kind may be gradual, as in senility, or
sudden, as in the case of a head injury or neurotoxic accident. Disintegration
may also result from (b) the introduction of discordant elements that cannot be
assimilated.
Considering
the actual conditions in human beings that lead to disintegration or
fragmentation of self, the 50% connectedness criterion begins to look less
innocuous in its arbitrariness. The 50% criterion has been chosen because it is
in the middle of the range, and not because of any attention given to the
psychological nature of humans. Let us imagine someone undergoing change: each
day they lose 40% of their characteristics. (We can assume they receive new
characteristics in their place so that they are not simply being rapidly
erased.) After four days they will have only about one-eighth of their original
characteristics. Since less than 40% of their characteristics are changing over
the course of any one day, the same person would continue to exist, according
to Parfit’s criterion. Yet, it seems unlikely that anyone could survive such a
rapid transformation intact. They might survive if their core values and
associated beliefs were mostly untouched, so that almost all the changes were
restricted to less critical abilities, memories, beliefs, and desires. If there
is no such restriction on the transformation, then it seems psychologically
unrealistic to believe that a person would survive such rapid transformation.
They would be unable to assimilate the changes before the next round of
alterations arrived. I will not attempt to suggest a particular limit, such as
30%/day, or 15%/day change that would allow a person to continue as an
integrated individual. Such an attempt at precision would be unrealistic.
Nevertheless, I can now suggest an alternative criterion for continuity. It
will be less precise, on its face, than Parfit’s, but more psychologically
realistic:
Continuity is maintained (identity persists) so long
as the changes undergone by the person are limited enough so that fragmentation
(which would destroy personhood) does not occur. Rather than 50% connectedness
over the course of a day, identity persists so long as, over any given period
of time, the degree of change remains within the capacity of the person to
assimilate.
Over any time period, a person may be able to absorb
and integrate changes in 10% of their characteristics, or 20%, or
whatever. Whereas Parfit seems to assume that we could set the degree of change
to any percentage up to 50% and still secure the person’s continued identity,
my view modifies his criterion. I assume that there will be some critical point
or small range after which the extent of transformation becomes excessive;
there comes a discontinuity or phase change where transformation leads to
disintegration and an abrupt fall in connectedness.
ASSIMILATION AND
FUNCTIONAL INTEGRATION: Although I have
made what will be a minor modification in Parfit’s criterion of continuity for
most purposes, the idea of assimilation will lead me consider when some change
in us or addition to us becomes part of us. I will examine familiar cases of
psychological change, but will primarily be concerned with additions to our
abilities. When does an added ability, such as provided by a device, really
become part of us? Some people casually talk of their car as part of them, or
their computer, or their clothes as part of them. Is there any truth to these
statements? If not, could they become true as technology advances? To answer
these questions I will develop an account of assimilation. This will lead to a
distinction between supplementation and enhancement—a distinction with weighty
implications for normative issues such as fairness, merit, and good
competition. I will begin by proposing a notion of assimilation as functional
integration.
In
order to assimilate a new characteristic, we need to bring it into harmony with
our existing condition. We do this by functionally integrating it with us. When
we first acquire a new characteristic it may seem unfamiliar, odd, or awkward.
In the case of a new belief, we integrate it by coming to understand its
implications, how it supports or conflicts with our other beliefs (or how it is
irrelevant to our other beliefs), and (sometimes) how we came to hold the
belief. Before we go through this process, the belief is only peripherally our
belief. Until it is assimilated, it may have little effect on action if it is
overridden by conflicting established beliefs. (A largely unassimilated, unconscious,
or repressed belief may have some effects on behavior. The low level of
assimilation is nevertheless indicated by the unresponsiveness of the repressed
belief to the conscious beliefs.) In the case of forming—or being induced to
have—a new desire, we integrate it by bringing it into our system of desires,
accepting it, willingly letting it control our actions, and by working out its
place in our hierarchy of desires. Assimilation of new abilities, involving
physical modifications, appears to be quite different from assimilation of
beliefs and desires, yet entails analogous processes of mutual accommodation.
In this discussion I will be focusing primarily on assimilation of abilities
and physical alterations and additions.
Some
obvious points about assimilation of physical changes can be made quickly. As
Peter Unger notes: “For me to survive their replacement,
larger, more central parts of me will require more assimilation than smaller,
less central ones. More than this, a sequence wherein all my matter changes
over by several abrupt replacements of greater, more central parts will demand
more assimilation than a sequence where complete material changeover is by way
of the replacement of lesser, less central ones.” [152] Since Unger holds a
physical not a psychological continuity theory of personal identity, I should
note that a psychological reductionist would allow that continuity has been
maintained despite a sweeping material
changeover so long as this did not involve a sweeping change in function. Thus,
if I go through the Teletransporter, all of my matter is replaced but no change
is made in my functioning. Since, in the absence of teletransporters or
uploaded personalities, functional changes generally are tied to physical
changes, we can ignore this distinction for the purpose of developing an
account of assimilation.
Quite
apart from the foregoing point, there is reason to describe assimilation as
functional integration, rather than as physical or structural integration.
Physical or structural integration implies a direct physical connection between
parts of a single entity. Certainly, in most cases that come readily to mind, a
functionally integrated entity will also
be structurally or physically integrated. It would be a mistake to make the
latter a condition of integration
rather than a typical concomitant. We
can surely imagine entities that are spatially distributed, and we can surely
find them in the actual world. A corporation whose offices, resources, and
personnel are scattered across a city, country, or the world, may be counted as
an entity if we can find a concordance between the parts. If the vital skills,
knowledge, and resources of the corporation are divided spatially so that no
one location could function alone, and if communication and movement of
resources between locations ties them together, then we have a spatially
distributed entity. As computers and software have developed, the idea of
distributed processes and entities is becoming more familiar. Increasingly,
specialized, expensive supercomputers are being replaced by networked desktop
computers. These may often be physically connected through permanent wire or
fiber-optic lines, but may also be physically disconnected, working together by
temporarily hooking up to a communication system, or even by transmitting
signals through electromagnetic emissions. Early in the evolutionary process nature did not
have the means to secure communication and coordination between physically
separate structures. Simple organisms became physically connected, as when
cells formed. Technology is allowing us to separate functional integration from
physical connection, so this should be reflected in our account of the
assimilation of new abilities by persons.
The
kind of functional integration occurring when a person assimilates physical
changes depends heavily on internal processes. The situation is quite different
with artifacts. Our judgment that an artifact has survived through replacement
of its parts depends significantly on external relations. Consider the standard
example of the Ship of Theseus: Parts of the original ship are gradually
replaced with new material until none of the original parts of the ship remain.
As the old parts are removed, one by one, they are gathered and used to construct
another ship, identical in form. Many who consider this case are more inclined
to view the ship whose parts are being replaced as the original ship surviving
if that ship remains in use throughout the process: Between each replacement,
the ship is sailed. If that ship is never sailed, we may be more inclined to
judge as the original the ship constructed entirely out of the original parts.
We judge the ship-with-replacement parts as the continuing original partly
because it continues to fulfill the function of the original, whereas the ship
constructed out of the original parts is not used until completed, if then. By
fulfilling a function determined by its users’ purposes, the first ship wins
the title of continuer of the original.
When
a person undergoes changes, it is internal processes that count in
assimilation, not external functions and purposes. Even if a replacement or
addition is made to a person by someone else—such as a muscle graft, or a gene
inserted by a surgeon to alter neurochemical balances—it must still be
internally integrated with the rest of the system, unlike a ship’s new plank
that can simply be nailed into place. Functional integration is relevant both
to the person and the artifact, but in different ways. The replacement part of
the artifact becomes part of the artifact if it enables the artifact to
continue its functional role, a role determined by external factors. The
replacement part of the person becomes part of the person if the function of
the part becomes interwoven with the functions of the rest of the body. What is
the nature of this interweaving of function, this integration of parts?
For
something to be mine, for me to have assimilated it, need I have direct or
conscious control over it? This may seem plausible as a requirement if we
consider selected cases. This is my
arm because I can move it through an act of will. I can also feel sensations
directly with my arm. I can use someone else’s arm, but only either by asking
them to move it in a particular way or by grasping it and making it move by
applying external force. I can distinguish my vocal ability from that of
another person because only my own can I activate at will. If we consider other
cases, it will be obvious that unmediated or conscious control cannot be a
condition for something to have been assimilated by me. I have numerous
physical and cognitive functions over which I have little or no direct or
conscious control. I cannot directly alter my body temperature, nor can I will
my stomach to halt its digestive processes, nor can I switch off my ability to
recognize faces. That direct control over parts of ourselves can lead us to
think they are ours, reflects a deeper condition for functional integration
that has not yet emerged in this analysis.
Does
assimilation of a new characteristic necessarily mean that only the person
assimilating it has access to it in the standard way? This seems plausible: In
a legal and moral sense, we say that someone owns something—that thing is theirs, it belongs to them—if they have
exclusive rights to its use. (This might seem similar to the last question;
however, I may have exclusive access to the use of parts of myself that I have
no conscious control over.) Similarly, it seems plausible to require that for
me to be integrated with a part (a heart, for instance), there can be no other
person who is also integrated with it. Whether we consider a part of me that I
can consciously control, such as my arm, or an ability or function outside my
control, such as regulation of body temperature, it looks like only I can use
it in the standard way.
Again,
though, exclusive access is a typical consequence
of integration, but not a condition of it. In virtually all the cases familiar
to us, if some organ or ability is mine—if we are functionally integrated—that
organ or ability will not be integrated with anyone else. We do discover the
occasional exception, such as siblings who have been physically joined at birth
and who have developed in that condition. Consider two siblings joined at the
hip or back to back. Neither of them have exclusive access to their legs or
their heart. Yet, it seems reasonable to say of each of them both that it is
their heart and that they share it
with their sibling. Normally if I were to share an organ or ability with
another person, my integration with it would have to be disrupted and their use
of it would interfere with my use. Consequently, the more the other person had
access to it, the less access I would have. In special cases like that of the
joined siblings, two persons can share access without this disrupting the
organ’s normal functioning. By developing jointly, the siblings both have
become effectively integrated with the single heart. The situation is less
clear in regard to the shared use of their legs. If both brains can send and
receive nerve signals to and from the legs, conflicts will arise, and access by
one sibling will interfere with access by the other.
This
suggests that exclusive access is close to being a condition for integration
but needs modifying. A more accurate condition might be described as: Exclusive
access, unless shared access does not interfere with the functioning of the
part or the system. Stated another way: Access without interference by another
person. Exclusive access without interference does not require physical
attachment; the points of the above discussion of distributed entities still
apply. I could have access to abilities located physically externally to the
rest of me just as exclusively and just as immune to interference as more
standard internally-located parts. I might communicate, control, and be
influenced by an external organ or addition to my brain by means of signals,
just as in the file synchronization example above. I might encrypt these
signals so that no one else could access or interfere with my use of my
external part. If I were just as tightly integrated with this external device
as I am to an internal organ, or to either hemisphere of my brain, the
(modified) exclusive access condition gives us no reason to deny it to be
integrated with me.
Functional
integration, it turns out, seems to require something like exclusive, or at
least interference-free, access to a part of the self. It does not require
physical connection, conscious or direct control, nor sensory awareness of the
part. The initial plausibility of these non-conditions stems from their typical
concurrence with an underlying requirement for functional integration. This
condition I will call interdependence.
A system and a part can be interdependent in numerous ways, depending on their
functions, so I cannot give a thorough and universal account of
interdependence. A couple of examples should illuminate the condition
sufficiently for our purposes. Mere dependence of a person on an ability or part
will not suffice for that ability to count as functionally integrated with (and
so part of) them. The whole and the part must be bound together through
interdependence of function. In the case of beliefs and desires, as we have
seen, the nature of this interdependence is clear in essence. A belief, to be
my belief, must be interrelated with my other beliefs: they directly cause one
another to be supported or undermined to the extent that they are relevant to
one another). As briefly noted earlier, repressed beliefs may have effects on
behavior yet be only slightly integrated. This is because the person and the
repressed belief are less interdependent than in the case of other beliefs: The
person may be strongly though unconsciously influenced by the repressed belief,
but the belief has been pushed outside the person’s influence. The influence is
therefore one way, ruling out interdependence. For a desire to be mine, it must
be related to my other desires such that most of them contribute to a single course
of action, and they motivate only courses of action that do not interfere with
one another. (Similar comments apply here as applied to repressed beliefs.) We
can expect something similar to apply to abilities embodied in physical parts
of ourselves.
What
kind of interdependence of abilities is involved in functional integration?
How, for instance, are my abilities to see and to lift weights interdependent?
I can lift weights without being able to see, and I can see without being able
to lift weights. As this suggests, the interdependence we are looking for is
not a direct interdependence between one ability and another randomly chosen
ability. For an ability to be functionally integrated it must be integrated
with the person (their physical system) as a whole. How does my ability to lift
weights using my muscles differ from my using a forklift truck, such that we
say my muscles are part of me but the forklift is not? I may become dependent
on the forklift truck for gathering food: perhaps I am trapped in an
environment where I can only reach food by moving heavy rocks. The case of my
muscles differs in that we are interdependent: I need my muscles to move myself
and other things, but they also need me. To function, my muscles require a
constant supply of oxygen and nutrients to generate adenosine triphosphate for
energy, and they depend on my body’s waste removal system to handle
accumulations of lactic acid and other metabolic byproducts. The muscles cannot
perform their function without a support structure; they need to work together
with my body’s skeleton, ligaments, and tendons in order to exert force. My
bodily system needs the muscles for mobility, gathering food and water, and to
realize my other abilities.
An
objection might be raised when I say that while I would be dependent on the
forklift, it would not be dependent on me for its functioning. Surely, the
objection might go, does not the forklift depend on me for gasoline? If so, we
are dependent on each other to function, making the forklift, by this
criterion, part of me. In response I note that anyone else could just as
easily supply the truck with gasoline. It is true, in principle, that
someone else could supply my muscles with oxygen and nutrients. However, they
could only take over this function with enormous difficulty. If someone else
could get that deeply connected into my muscular system, very probably they
would disrupt my own control over and access to the muscles. So, although the
line between the forklift’s dependence on me to supply it with gas, and my
muscles dependence on me to supply them with energy and nutrients is not a
sharp one, they are far enough apart on a spectrum to say that the former is
not a case of significant interdependence whereas the second one is.
Suppose
my muscles and bones were rapidly wasting away. I replace their functionality
by means of a powered exoskeleton. Could this be part of me? Even though I
might depend on the exoskeleton in the same way I depended on my natural
muscles and bones, the exoskeleton would remain an external device since the
dependence is one way. What if I undergo a massive surgical procedure in which
the exoskeleton is linked directly to my nervous system? A large part of the
exoskeleton’s function now involves my nervous system. We are connected at a
much deeper, more pervasive level than if it were merely strapped to me and
controlled by voice commands. We might now grant the exoskeleton the status of
being part of me, though not so clearly as were my muscles. If we further suppose
that the exoskeleton responds to exercise and practice by becoming stronger and
more accurate, then it will be about as functionally integrated with me as were
my original muscles and bones.
The
kind of interdependence involved in functional integration, whatever the
physiological details, entails mutual
support, feedback, homeostasis, and adaptation. We saw how my muscles support and sustain the other
functions and abilities of my body, and how other somatic processes sustain the
muscles. Whether conscious or not, feedback is required to control and
coordinate any bodily ability. Whereas the basic model exoskeleton lacked any
direct feedback, the second type (exoskeleton-2), linked into my nervous
system, does fulfill the feedback proviso, thereby explaining why this model
more plausibly counts as part of me. Exoskeleton-2, while clearly functionally
integrated to a substantial degree, lacks some of the responsiveness we are
used to with our natural muscular-skeletal system. Since the Nineteenth Century
it has been recognized that functionally integrated systems exhibit
homeostasis—a tendency for the system to return to equilibrium after a
perturbation. Homeostasis crucially requires feedback, but also the means for
the parts of the system to influence one another in a coordinated manner.
Homeostasis need not result only in a return to a pre-existing state: if new
demands on the system are now being made routinely, restoring equilibrium
between a system and the demands on it will require adaptation—growth and
development (or atrophy in the event of decreased demands). We will be even
more inclined to grant exoskeleton-3 the status of self than its predecessor
because, in addition to mutual support and feedback, it adapts to the needs of
the body.
Assimilation
is a process starting with something that is only partly integrated in these
ways, and ending with something highly integrated. Should we withhold our
judgment that something has become part of us until assimilation is complete?
This is unnecessary for two reasons: First, there are perfectly normal and
familiar parts and aspects of ourselves that are not totally integrated with
us, yet we do not question their status as self. Second, something that is only
partially assimilated can be part of us so long as the degree of integration is
increasing in a goal-directed manner. On the first point, consider
psychological characteristics such as beliefs. When we first form or are
induced to hold a belief, we do not instantly realize many of its consequences,
implications, and prerequisites. If we were never to think of the belief again,
it were never to affect our actions, and it had no interaction with any of our
beliefs or desires, it would not genuinely become part of the system or ecology
of self. We can count it as part of us, even before significant integration has
yet occurred, if it is subject to a goal-directed process of increasing its
degree of integration. Since we are not normally completely integrated, it
would be inappropriate to impose on an added ability the requirement that it be
fully assimilated before it can be part of us.
To
summarize: We assimilate a part or an ability by functionally integrating it
with us. Functional integration requires interdependence between us and the
part or ability. Interdependence involves mutual support, feedback,
homeostasis, and adaptation. If we are functionally integrated with something,
then we will generally have exclusive access to that thing. We can only be
functionally integrated with it while sharing access if that shared access does
not interfere with these four aspects of interdependence. Functional
integration need not be an all-or-nothing matter, so there may be cases where
we cannot say definitely whether something is or is not part of us.
Interdependence implies exclusive access (or access without interference)
because another person having access to the part or ability is likely to
interfere with feedback and adaptation: Their control signals will often
interfere with our own, and their adjustments to the part’s function will
interfere with its adaptation to our needs. If the other person’s requirements
for the part’s function differ from ours, then homeostasis cannot be attained.
Enhancement vs. Supplementation
The account I have developed of assimilation of
abilities and additions to the person, as physically embodied, leads naturally
to a way of distinguishing the concepts of enhancement and supplementation. The
nature of and differences between enhancement and supplementation raise
normative issues. Clarifying this distinction helps productive discussion of
these normative issues (though is not sufficient to resolve them). Although I
will not address any normative issues here, I will point out how they are
affected by the enhancement/supplementation distinction. These normative issues
primarily revolve around notions of fairness in sports, games, and tests.
We
assimilate a new ability or addition to our system by functionally integrating
it with us, as described above. I will reserve the term “enhancement” for
additions to our abilities that we have assimilated in a manner that produces
enduring effects. According to this usage, if you have been
enhanced in some way then you have
changed rather than it being the conditions under which you are operating that
have changed. By contrast, if your abilities are being supplemented, then you
have not changed in any significant sense, but the conditions under which your
abilities function has changed. An example might help at this point, though
several examples will be needed to distinguish these two concepts more clearly.
Consider
two people each of whom can run 100 meters in 14 seconds. Both of them want to
be able to run the distance in a shorter time. The first person practices over
months, gradually building up her legs muscles and her ability to push herself
to the limit despite the discomfort. After six months, she is able to run 100
meters in 12.5 seconds. The second person does not practice hard, but completes
the course faster than ever before in, say, 13 seconds due to a strong wind
that pushes him along. I assume these are relatively uncontroversial cases,
given my analysis of functional integration and enhancement and
supplementation. I defined enhancement in terms of assimilating or integrating
changes, whereas supplementation involved changes external to self—changes in
the circumstances or conditions. The runner who puts herself through the
training has enhanced her abilities. She has made enduring changes in numerous
interrelated functions of her body and psychology. The runner who is assisted
by the gust of wind but who did not train enough to otherwise run faster than
14 seconds has not made any such enduring internal modifications. The second
runner in no way assimilates changes in such a way as to bring about an
increase in his running ability. As soon as the wind ceases, or when he runs
another race without the helpful gust, he can no longer run any faster than
before.
What
about a variant on this example, where the second runner’s improved speed,
instead of being assisted by wind is due to taking amphetamine before the race?
I defined enhancements as additions to our abilities that we have assimilated
in a manner that produces enduring effects. According to this, the second
runner’s ability has been supplemented rather than enhanced since he has not
made any enduring internal changes. He has supplemented his abilities by
forcing his body to work beyond its normal limits by causing the release of
neurotransmitters and hormones, depleting them in an unsustainable way. As soon
as the amphetamine has passed through his system he can no longer run any
faster than before. It might be objected that it is assimilation rather than the enduring
nature of the effect that matters more if a change is to be a part of us. We
might change, but transiently, before returning to a previous condition. The
fact that the effects of the amphetamine last only a few hours therefore does
not show that it is a supplement rather than a (transitory) enhancement.
This
objection has some force, though it does seem that the transitory nature of
this effect makes amphetamine a poor example of an enhancer. Furthermore, I
argued that assimilation or integration involves mutual support, feedback,
homeostasis, and adaptation. While the amphetamine does lead to internal
adaptation and homeostasis (at a temporary new state), it does not seem to be
involved in mutual support or feedback in any interesting sense. The body
responds to the amphetamine, but it does not respond to the body—such as by
increasing in supply. The effect is one way; the amphetamine affects the
runner, but the runner does not affect the drug (other than to simply use it
up). In this way it is rather like the runner who is pushed by the wind.
Amphetamine is a marginal case of enhancement. It sits on the borderline
between supplementation and enhancement. Since a person typically thinks of
their inherent abilities as those that last more than a few hours, we may be
inclined to think of stimulants more as supplementing our abilities than
enhancing them. However, we do
assimilate the drug in some respects, so it has some claim to being an enhancer
according to my criterion. If we are to count the effects of stimulants as
enhancement, we should consider them a marginal rather than exemplary instance
of the class.
As
with the conditions of assimilation, it is easy to conflate typical
accompaniments of enhancement with necessary conditions of it. In this case, it
might seem that an increased ability counts as a genuine enhancement only if
gaining that ability requires considerable effort. The first runner had to
practice and gradually develop a new level of ability. Genuinely having the
skill to do arithmetic in one’s head requires practice, whereas supplementing
one’s ability by using a calculator is much easier. We could easily find many
other pairs of examples where enhancement of abilities involves great effort,
whereas supplementing one’s abilities requires much less exertion. Exceptions
that undermine effort as a general requirement include organ implants and
muscle grafts. Once muscle has been grafted on (at least in an ideal procedure
in which nerves and ligaments have been fully connected) the extra strength is
part of the person just as much as the strength they had with their
pre-existing amount of muscle.
Enhancing
oneself need not require hard work, struggle, or long-term persistence,
although this may often be the case. So long as the new ability has been
assimilated and integrated into the rest of our body and cognition, it is part
of us. Cases like a brilliantly executed muscle graft aside, most enhancements
we are familiar with are attained only with effort, for reasons rooted in our
physiology and neurophysiology. Increases in physical abilities generally demand
repeated stresses or patterns of activity to effect changes in our physical
structure. Learning skills like balancing on one foot, playing the piano, or
multiplying large numbers in our head, necessitates repetition to change the
firing properties of our synapses.
Apart
from enhancements usually requiring more exertion than supplements to our
abilities, the increase in our abilities associated with enhancements will
typically endure longer than those associated with supplementation. In the case
of the runners, the second runner loses the ability to run a sub-14 second 100
meters as soon as the wind ceases blowing in his direction, whereas the first
runner’s improved ability will persist for longer. This persistence of
enhancements as compared to supplements again reflects the former’s
assimilation into the person’s whole system. Structural changes have been made
to improve function, whereas a supplement produces improved performance only so
long as it is supplied. However, it is the integration or assimilation of
changes that essentially characterizes enhancement and not the persistence of
the effect. We can imagine cases where supplementation (or marginal cases of
enhancement) might have longer-lasting effects than a relevantly similar
enhancement. Suppose we have the means to surgically implant a vial containing
a drug which releases a chemical to supplement our natural level of certain
neurotransmitters (the catecholamines) so as to produce heightened alertness
and ability to concentrate. If the vial released the chemicals over a period of
months or years, the effect could be as long lasting as an improvement produced
by a structural change induced by practice. Despite this, we would be receiving
a supplement (or at best an enhancer close to being a supplement) and not an
enhancement. As the chemical is introduced to the system it pushes the body’s
biochemistry in a particular direction. The body only remains in that state so
long as the chemical is supplied—and supplied in increasing doses as resistance
builds. Here we do not see the mutual support or positive adaptation that
characterizes assimilation.
Supplementation
does not change the underlying abilities of the person. Once ended, the person
returns to their previous state (perhaps with a temporary decline in ability).
Of course returning to a previous state is not sufficient to indicate
supplementation. Enhancements need not be permanent: If we discontinue
exercise, our muscles will gradually atrophy. If we do not practice our skills,
we will tend to lose them—some fairly quickly, others only partially over many
years (such as knowing how to ride a bicycle). Ending supplementation can
usually be expected to bring about a faster
decline in ability, since (clear cases of) enhancements involve integrated changes
not dependent on external supplies for their persistence. The crucial
difference, then, between enhancement and supplementation comes from the
former’s integration and the latter’s lack of integration rather than from one
requiring more effort or being more enduring than the other.
MERIT
IN CONTESTS, GAMES, AND TESTS:
Consideration of some normative questions regarding sports, games, and tests
may help to further illuminate the difference between supplementation and
enhancement. We will also discover difficulties in applying the distinction.
Although sharpening the distinction may not always resolve normative
disagreements, it will provide a sounder point of reference.
Persons
who compete in sports, or who play games with some seriousness of intent, or
who take tests, seek to improve their performance. Spectators, sporting organizations, testing
institutions, and the general public hold conflicting views as to what forms of
advantage-seeking are appropriate. In the case of sporting contests, certain
methods of improving abilities are seen as cheating, while others are granted
legitimacy. It is thought legitimate for runners to train hard, eat special
diets, engage in “carbohydrate loading”, train at high altitudes, receive
expert coaching, and to wear well-crafted running shoes. It is usually judged
as cheating if runners take stimulants, injure other competitors, or cover the
course on bicycle or automobile. Ben Johnson, for example, was disqualified at
the 1988 Olympics track events because he was found to have been taking the
steroid Stanozolol. One objection to the use of certain performance improving
substances and techniques claims that the user gains an unfair advantage over
the other competitors. I think this argument has been decisively refuted (see
Gardner, 1989). Whether justified or not, a more revealing objection to certain
techniques, for our purposes, is not that an advantage is gained over other
athletes but that an advantage is gained over the sport itself. The intended
purpose or the obstacles of the sport are overcome. The purpose of the contest
is to test the athlete. If some performance-boosting substance or aid is more
responsible for the gained advantage, then we will be testing the substance
rather than the athlete.
Since
enhancements are changes in the person, whereas supplements are external to the
person, if we want a sport to test the athlete perhaps we should allow
enhancements but not supplements. This may not yield a usable policy, since it
may be impractical to enforce the principle consistently, or we may be unable
always to decide whether a particular means of performance improvement is more
like an enhancement or a supplement. Consideration of a few cases will
demonstrate that this indeed can be a difficulty.
Consider
four methods an athlete might use to improve her performance. (i) She might
hire a dietician and consume a carefully-tailored diet including larger than
normal quantities of amino acids, vitamins, and other nutrients. (ii) She might
spent a month before a competition training at a high altitude in order to
force her body to utilize oxygen more efficiently. (iii) She might engage in
“bloodpacking.” In this procedure, some of the athlete’s blood is extracted,
strongly oxygenated, and then reinfused shortly before a contest. (iv) She
might ingest anabolic steroids over the months before a contest, gaining
additional strength and power. Many people would find methods (i) and (ii) perfectly acceptable, method (iii) dubious,
and method (iv) unacceptable. It is not clear that those judgments can be
justified in terms of testing the athlete rather than the performance-boosting
substance or technique.
Although
nutritional modification might be thought the least controversial, it might
seem similar in one way to more objectionable methods. While maintaining a
highly nutritious diet will simply allow the athlete to bring out her abilities
effectively, the practice of carbohydrate loading might be thought of as akin
to taking amphetamine. They do differ in that one will be described as
“natural” and the other as “unnatural” (though substituting the stimulant found
in the ephedra herb will confound this move), but both give the athlete a very
transient and unsustainable boost. Here it becomes uncertain whether we are genuinely
testing the athlete or the supplementation. Carbohydrate loading is allowed
probably for a combination of reasons: it is practically impossible to test
for; it is counted as natural; it is not harmful; and although it may
temporarily boost the athlete’s ability, it does not defeat the point of the
competition or make it easier (unlike using a bicycle in a running race).
Although the carbohydrate that is loaded is more plausibly seen as a supplement
than an enhancement, the overall performance of the athlete and her ability to
utilize the additional calories still depends to a high degree on her true
capacities as determined by long-term training. (That this seems to be as true
of amphetamine ingestion suggests that current rules are not actually based on
any goal of primarily testing the
athlete.)
High
altitude training probably provokes more suspicion of unfair advantage than
does carbohydrate loading and dietary expertise, perhaps because it is less
equally accessible. In terms of the goal of having a sport test the person
rather than a performance-increasing agent, however, high altitude training
seems more defensible. The athlete still must undergo the same
training—training that gradually makes integrated changes in the athlete’s
body—but the lower oxygen content of the air now provokes a stronger adaptive
response. This adaptation is considerably more enduring than the effects of
carbohydrate loading (or stimulant ingestion). The high altitude training does
result in enhancements to the athlete’s whole system, so the contest will test
the athlete in the desired manner.
Bloodpacking
or “bloodboosting” works because of effects on oxygenation, like high altitude
training. Nevertheless, bloodpacking has more in common with carbohydrate
loading in that the heightened performance capacity is transient. Clearly it is
a form of supplementation rather than enhancement. Again, this does not
necessarily mean we should rule it out in order to protect the integrity of the
sport. We may judge that the sport still primarily tests the athlete, the
supplementation merely adding slightly to performance without making the course
significantly easier.
Steroids
present an interesting case. They are universally rejected by sporting bodies
(though not by athletes) as legitimate performance aids, yet arguably they are
just as much enhancers as they are supplements. Steroids alone will not greatly
improve performance. They promote greater muscle anabolism and the resulting
growth in strength and power only when combined with hard training and good
nutrition. Their effects take months and endure for months after use is
discontinued—unlike stimulants, blood-packing, or carbohydrate loading. In
every way except their “naturalness” their effects appear similar in nature to
high altitude training. Anabolic steroids accelerate training-induced
adaptations in the athlete. These adaptations involve changes as
physically-integrated as those induced by training alone. Since steroids
enhance athlete’s abilities rather than supplementing them, there is no
justification for their prohibition if the grounds are the integrity of the
sport (rather than paternalistic concerns).
Similar
considerations arise outside sports, if we turn our attention to tests. These
include physical tests, but I will focus on cognitive tests such as IQ tests,
the SAT, GRE, LSAT, and GMAT, and various tests administered by potential
employers. The tests usually are given with the purpose of determining a
person’s abilities in order to ascertain how they are likely to perform at a
job or benefit from a certain level of training. If this is the purpose of the
tests, should the administrators prohibit, or at least discourage, the use of
neurochemical aids such as “smart drugs” or “nootropics” and mood modifiers
such as selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRI) of which the best known
is Prozac?
Nootropics
work differently from stimulants such as amphetamine or dexedrine, in that they
do not result in depletion in neurotransmitter levels when discontinued. Nor do
they generate neurotoxic byproducts. Typically they work by increasing the
supply of neurotransmitter either by supplying more of them or by slowing their
breakdown. Although the mechanism of action differs from the more familiar
stimulants, bearing in mind the conditions of functional integration, they are
clearly supplementing rather than enhancing cognitive function. If a test
administrator wishes to test only the integrated abilities of test taker, she
will want to exclude the use of such substances. If the intent is the related
but separable goal of testing how individuals will be able to perform tasks
over the long term, there will be no reason to exclude these generally
non-toxic drugs whose effects do not diminish significantly over time. So, although
both nootropics and stimulants are supplements, they may be treated differently
if what is being tested for are sustainable abilities rather than strictly
intrinsic, integrated abilities. (For the same reason, a few years after
electronic calculators became commonplace, mathematical tests began to allow
their use, recognizing that anyone would later have access to these devices.)
Mood
modifiers such as the SSRIs can be treated similarly to the cognition
augmenting drugs. The improvement in mood and productivity resulting from
supplementation will not result in functionally integrated change (generally
SSRI users revert to their former condition upon discontinuance), but these
substances appear to be usable over long periods of time. If, instead of using nootropics,
someone undergoes gene therapy (if we can call the augmentation of normal
function “therapy”) the result of which is to produce enduring and endogenous
increases in neurotransmitter production or improved regulation, then they will
have been enhanced rather than supplemented. Permanent changes will have been
made; no infusions will be needed, and the augmented functioning will be
attributable to the person rather than to a substance. In this case, whether a
test is intended to measure native ability or to measure sustainable
performance, there should be no objection to genetically-caused performance
enhancement.
As
a final example to help draw the slightly fuzzy line between supplementation
and enhancement, consider a series of devices starting with a handheld PDA
(personal digital assistant) and ending with a fully integrated
neuroprosthesis. Growing numbers of people are carrying around PDAs to help
them remember phone numbers, appointments, perform calculations, and to
communicate via e-mail and fax. Occasionally we may hear someone exclaim “I
couldn’t live without it. It’s practically a part of me.” In light of the
earlier discussion of the conditions of functional integration, it will be
clear that such talk is hyperbole. A PDA may be more flexible and powerful than
a paper-based organizer, but it is barely more integrated with the user. What
if such devices shrink until they can be worn in the form of a paper-thin
headband or a small earring, and become controlled by voice commands or gestures?
This would merely make our control over the device more natural. The PDA would
in no way adapt to us or be functionally interrelated with us in any deep way.
If the evolution of such devices were to continue, the clarity of the device
vs. integral part distinction might begin to blur, and eventually some
descendent of these devices might count as just as much part of us as does a
hemisphere of the brain and the functions it performs.
Suppose
these devices evolve beyond simple cleverness and programmability. They are
built with neural networks, genetic algorithms, fuzzy systems, and artificial
intelligence so that they monitor the wants and habits of the user and learn to
anticipate them. The device is connected to the body in such a way that it
notices changes in the skin’s electrical potential, alterations in brain wave
patterns, changes in pupil size, body temperature, and so on. It learns how
these changes are associated with various behaviors and demands on itself. It
might even be connected to implanted physiological tuning devices that alter
mood, hormone levels, or whatever. As the device becomes this interconnected
with us and responsive to us, and we come to depend on it more, we may begin to
feel the device to be a part of us. Taking the evolution of the device further,
suppose it is implanted in your brain. Nerve growth factor is used to induce
axons and dendrites to grow into the neuroprosthesis where they link up with
adaptable connectors. But the assimilation of the device is not simply physical.
You cannot immediately control it by issuing voice commands or gesturing at a
visual display. Instead, you learn to make it work by experimentation which
forges new connections and alters synaptic weightings. After a process of
assimilation, your cognition becomes distributed over your neural tissue and
the neuroprosthesis, so that the device cannot be removed with disrupting both
its and your functioning. You sense the results of the neuroprosthesis’
processes in a manner subjectively indistinguishable from your own. At that
point it no longer makes sense to distinguish yourself from the device, except
in the way that you might talk about the functions of your brain’s left
parietal lobe. This process of assimilation of a device proceeds in stages, so there
may a range of cases in which we have no clear answer to the question: “Is it
part of me?”
III. Intrinsic
and Instrumental Bodily Identity
Many of the changes in self considered in this
chapter are those brought about by making alterations to parts of the body. On
psychological reductionist accounts of identity, what matters in survival is
psychological connectedness and continuity. What exactly is the relationship
between these changes made on a physical level and their effects on personal
continuity? Does psychological reductionism commit us to the proposition that
physical continuity, in itself, contributes nothing to survival? If so, what
precisely does this claim mean?
In
considering these questions I will not
examine theories of personal identity as bodily continuity, nor defend
psychological reductionism against such theories. This dissertation starts from
an assumption of the truth of psychological reductionism in order to explore
the structure of such a view in detail. It is not my purpose to argue for
reductionism itself, nor to show that the psychological criterion is more
defensible than the physical criterion. Nevertheless, since changes to our
personalities, especially as considered in the current chapter, work through
physical causes, I find it necessary at this stage to clarify the
physical/psychological distinction. The main issue here is: To what extent is
psychological continuity or change independent of physical continuity or
change?
The
question of the relation between the physical and psychological aspects of self
seems especially pressing if we accept physicalism—as I do. On any version of
physicalism, psychological characteristics are ontologically dependent on some
physical embodiment. A person consists of an embodied psychology. All that
exists is physical stuff and its relations and organization. How then do we decide which characteristics are
psychological and so constitutive of identity, and which are merely physical
and so only instrumentally important to identity? If our behavior and
personality depend on the structures in our brains and bodies, which were
shaped by evolutionary pressures, we face the challenge of usefully separating
the intrinsic from the instrumental aspects of persons. If we modify a brain,
or alter a hormonal balance, or change the shape of a body, it might seem that
we would necessarily alter the
associated personality.
Certainly
we must grant that the continuity of many aspects of our bodies will contribute
in a major way to the continuity of our personalities. In the most general
terms, without a body of some kind,
it seems incoherent to imagine existing as persons at all. We would have to
exist without existing in any place or time. We could have no point of view or
sensations or perceptions, since these would have no location or field of
input. Possessing a body must be at least of great instrumental significance.
Apart from the need to have some kind of body, it also
seems clear that the particular body we have will deeply affect our identity.
Our personalities express themselves
through our bodies. To express our values, to act on our desires, to carry out
our intentions, we need to use our limbs, voices, facial expressions, and
physical capabilities. For most psychological characteristics a wide range of
embodiments would suffice. The expression of generosity, anger, or joy are
compatible with almost any human body, and with many possible non-human bodies.
Some bodies will serve our expressive needs better than others. If I were
unfortunate enough to have an accident that deprived me of all control over my
facial muscles, I would find it more difficult to express feelings of many
kinds. I might find it more difficult even to experience some of those feelings. Some psychologists have argued
that part of feeling an emotion (at least consciously) is its expression. (Can you be
angry while your muscles are relaxed, your blood pressure and cortisone levels
low, and your physical motions non-threatening?) If these psychologists are
correct, emotional continuity will limit the range of bodily configurations
compatible with maintaining a particular psychology. Even without being able to
somatically experience an emotion, we might experience it in a weaker form so
long as the emotion can have hormonal and neurological effects. Bodily form may
therefore limit the intensity or clarity of emotional ability more than
limiting the range of emotions we can
experience.
Among
the personal characteristics I have listed as contributing to personal
identity, I included abilities. Aside from the most cerebral, abilities
confront us with another reason to grant the importance of the body’s
contribution to personal continuity. To be a particular person with a
particular life requires specific physical abilities. If all the passion in my
life is bound up with testing experimental aircraft, I will need a body with
keen vision and fast reflexes. If my life revolves around running marathons
then, should I suddenly become paraplegic, I may feel that I am no longer quite
the same person (connectedness has dropped considerably). Even our bodily
appearance, because of others’ reactions to it and our responses to those
reactions, powerfully affects our sense of self, encouraging us to develop one
kind of personality rather than another. Two persons with similar bodies, say
obese bodies, may be influenced in quite different directions depending on the
way they choose to think, yet both may develop differently than they would have
had their bodies been different.
Given
these considerations, what sense is left of the psychological in psychological reductionism? We need not deny any
of the foregoing grounds for assigning great importance to the body’s
contribution to our identity or continuity. Here is my thesis and its
explanation:
THESIS: The contribution of bodily features to personal
continuity is entirely of instrumental importance. Parts of a body gain their
instrumental importance from their functional roles. The particular matter constituting a body, and even the
specific form of a body, have no
intrinsic significance for personal identity.
On
a psychological reductionist view, it will be clear that our survival does not
depend on the persistence of the same
matter constituting our bodies. We can see this even without invoking
imaginary possibilities. None of us worry that we will cease to exist within
months or years as a result of the turnover of cells and atoms through the
normal processes of metabolism and catabolism. Even those who believe
continuity of the body to be essential to personal survival do not attribute
intrinsic importance to the persistence of the very same matter in a body. I
will not argue further for the insignificance of material continuity; to do so
would be to repeat the arguments of Chapter 2, “Causal Conditions for
Continuity” and Chapter 3, “The Terminus of the Self.”
Although
the substance of the body lacks significance for our continuity surely our
bodily form has intrinsic importance?
If my body suddenly transformed into something radically different, into
something with different kinds and numbers of limbs, scaly skin, five times the
mass, and a frightening appearance, wouldn’t I have changed? Obviously this would bring about a change in me
that I would reasonably count as a reduction in connectedness. However, we need
not grant any intrinsic significance to bodily form. To see this, notice first
that the changes in form gain their significance from associated changes in
function and, second, that we can have changes in form that do not have
associated changes in function. On the first point, suppose that the bodily
transformation happened instantaneously—objectively (a miracle) or subjectively
(I awake from a brain transplant). At first I would be strongly connected to my
pre-transformation stage. My memories, intentions, dispositions, and values
would remain intact, as would some of my abilities. One immediate change would
be the loss of abilities incompatible with my new body and the gaining of new
abilities. My personality might begin to change after the transformation in
response to the form of my monstrous new body. If others feared me or attacked
me on a regular basis, I might become more taciturn, less sociable, and
experience a change in my feelings about my body from positive to negative.
Numerous everyday observations support the idea that the form and appearance of
individuals’ bodies affect their personality. Spotty teenagers tend to be more
shy than those with clear skin; unusually short people may develop defensive
attitudes or seek compensatory achievements; the beautiful may be more
confident or vain.
None
of this shows that bodily form, in itself, constitutes our identity. My
monstrous, reptilian body functions differently than my former human body. It
is this change in function, and the changes it leads to in my personality that
matter. Without hands with opposable thumbs, I will lose the ability to
accomplish certain tasks: the change in form brings a change in function. If
these tasks were important to me I will be unable to express part of who I was.
If I could compensate for this loss with tools, that part of my new form need
have no effect on my personality. The old and the new forms do not, in
themselves, make me who I am. Being healthy may, over time, affect my
attitudes, desires, intentions, and projects. The particular form of my immune
system has only instrumental importance to my health. If I can maintain my
health with differently formed organs, then the characteristics that constitute
me remain intact.
It
may be objected that the form of internal organs differs in significance from
the external form and appearance of my body. In the case of internal
structures, the objection might say, it is true that the form is irrelevant.
However, if my limbs change their form their function will necessarily also
change. I may no longer be able to run swiftly or jump high. Also, as in the
case of the spotty teenager, or when I become reptilian, others will react to
the change in appearance. If I were a model or an actor, the change in form would
necessarily bring with it a change in function. My massive, scaly body simply
cannot effectively present an Armani suit. This objection seeks to collapse the
distinction between form and function, at least in some cases (however that
range is delimited), in order to make us grant that bodily form can matter
intrinsically.
We
can reply by holding that even if
there were cases where form were inseparable, in principle, from function, it
would still be the function that we really care about. The distinction would
seem merely academic if form and function always were inseparable. If, as in
reality, the two are at least sometimes separable, it seems reasonable to pick
out function as what matters even in those cases where we cannot see how form
and function could be parted. We can reject the objection more firmly by
denying the existence of any relevant instances where form and function are
inseparable in principle. Suppose I am proud of my legs because they support me
well and enable me to move swiftly. A transformation into thick stubby legs
would continue to perform the same function if I relocated to a place with a
stronger gravity field. If the slim shape of my body affected my personality by
being attractive to others (and pleasing to myself), a change in form need not
change the associated function; the standards of attractiveness might change so
that my new, more adipose, shape had the same effects as the old. Our bodily
form, we can conclude, gains its significance from its effects on our
personality and from its enabling or restricting what we can do. The specific
effects of a bodily form and the abilities it gives us depend on our
environment and circumstances. Bodily form has instrumental but not intrinsic
significance.
I
have argued that neither the matter composing my body nor the form of my body
have any intrinsic significance for my identity. That leaves only bodily
functions and abilities as candidates for a way in which our bodies may have
intrinsic importance to our identity. Even here we should be careful in
granting more than instrumental importance. Only some bodily functions have intrinsic significance for identity. To
distinguish these from the others we should note that in saying some bodily
functions are intrinsically significant, I’m saying that some functions that are embodied have intrinsic significance.
Putting it this way stresses the importance of the function rather than its
particular embodiment. This follows from my rejection of the intrinsic
significance of bodily matter and form. Some of the intrinsically important
functions or abilities afforded by our bodies include the ability to
communicate (through gestures, facial expressions, sounds and words, posture,
etc.), to move through space, to have an effect on the world by affecting
objects, to perceive with our senses, and the sustenance of our life and
consciousness. These functions clearly are high-level and their functional role
is characterized quite abstractly. Each of these functional roles is tokened or
embodied in specific physical structures. These complex physical structures can
be broken down into collections of functional components. For example, our
ability to affect objects can be broken down into functional subsystems such as
the muscular-skeletal system, the nervous system, proprioceptive senses, and
energy production. Each of these can be further broken down. Our body’s
energy-producing function can be broken down into functional parts such as
digestion, hemoglobin, ATP, mitochondria, and so on. The particular embodiment,
the occupant of the functional role, has instrumental significance because it
is what actually embodies the high-level function. However, the particular
embodiment, the lower-level functions, lack intrinsic significance for our
identity. What matters to our personal continuity is, for instance, our ability
to perceive the world. In the world as it is, we do this through things like
muscular contractions of the lens of the eye, oxygenation of tissues, the
vibration of tiny bones in the ear, and so on. If the same high level functions
and abilities came to be embodied in other ways yielding the same level of
sensory ability and acuity, the functions crucial to the expression of our
selves would continue as before.
Changes
in high-level functions and abilities, such as our ability to communicate, to
perceive, and physically to affect the world, directly change us. A change in
my ability to perceive or to communicate will affect the degree of
connectedness between my phases. By contrast, a change in some lower-level
function such as the working of my retinal cells, will only affect
connectedness if it results in a change to the higher-level function. If my
failing retinal cells are replaced or supplemented with a synthetic implant so
that I continue to see as before, the change in function has no significance
for my connectedness. The intrinsic significance of changes in the high-level
functions is due to their directly
affecting what I can do and who I am; since they are the top-level functions,
when they change I must also change.
When lower-level functions change, I might
change but may not. This is not to
say that the effects on my identity of changes in high-level physical functions
does not depend on anything else, while changes in lower-level functions does.
Certainly, the overall effect on my identity will typically depend not only on
the change in physical function but also on how I respond to it. Suppose I
suffer a loss in hearing in the range normal for conversation. Depending on the
personality I already have, in response to this change I might (a) become more
assertive in having people repeat things and in seeking compensatory
strategies; or (b) become more shy and unwilling to socialize; or (c) become a
more angry person due to focusing on my frustration. This partial dependence of
the results of a change in physical function on existing personality, however,
does not detract from the intrinsic significance of the function that has
changed. It is merely a result of interdependence of personal characteristics.
Interdependence is just as true of the most purely psychological of attributes.
Interdependence of significance is not the same as instrumentality of
significance.
At
this point, it seems appropriate to note that the distinction between bodily
functions and psychological attributes may not be sustainable in every
instance. It may be that certain psychological attributes or modes of
experience not only happen to be
embodied in certain brain structures and chemical systems but have to be so embodied. Thinkers like
Roger Penrose and John Searle argue that features of persons such as
consciousness may necessarily require the very physical mechanisms that we find
in human beings. According to this view, brains made of silicon or optical
processors would not have these characteristics of persons. I strongly doubt
this view but need not argue it here. I will simply note that if they were
right then some bodily functions (such as neuronal function, or quantum
mechanical effects within synapses) would have intrinsic significance since
they would be type-identical with psychological attributes. In that situation,
we could say that only psychological attributes have intrinsic significance
only if we also granted that some physical functions were inseparable, even in
principle, from some psychological features.
Even
excluding the last possibility, I have granted intrinsic significance to
certain high-level physically-embodied functions which do not seem plausibly or
usefully described as psychological: the ability to communicate through
physical means, to move through space, to physically affect objects, to
perceive with our senses, and so on. All of these functions have numerous and
complex interrelations with psychological attributes and abilities, but are not
themselves psychological. This suggests that describing my form of reductionism
as “psychological reductionism”, or saying that I hold a psychological
criterion for reductionism, may be a little misleading. On the other hand,
these physically-embodied functions are not essentially physical. Although they
must have some bodily instantiation, what matters is the function and not its
particular embodiment. So it would also be misleading to say my criterion for
reductionism was partly psychological and partly physical. Since I do not have
a better term, and the existing one captures most of what I mean, I will
continue to describe my version of reductionism as psychological.
I’ll conclude this section by considering possible
objections to my denial of the intrinsic significance of bodily matter or form
for identity: What if someone were to insist that without this very nose they now have, they would lose part of their
identity? Or they might insist that being exactly six feet tall was itself
intrinsically part of their identity. Viewed instrumentally, these features
could plausibly be seen to be significant to a person’s identity. Perhaps that
height is privileged in their culture, enabling them to engage in activities
otherwise unavailable. Instrumentally, someone’s nose might matter, perhaps
because its shape reminds that person of someone they admire and so serves as a
constant reminder to live up this person’s standards. If we leave aside all
instrumental and functional considerations, what sense can still be made of
insisting on the intrinsic significance of these features for identity?
Those
committed to the intrinsic significance of their somatic features might try to
turn the question around and ask: “Why hold memories or desires or dispositions
to matter to identity? Can any reasons be given, or is it just a brute fact of
what actually matters? If the latter, why can’t I believe my height or nose
matters without further justification?” Rather than trying to make a
complicated argument in response, it seems adequate to state that, yes, it is a
brute fact. When we ask what matters
in this context, we are asking what is it that must continue for a person rather than an object to survive.
What I have shown is that physical features, in themselves, do not constitute us. They do contribute to our
identity, but do so in virtue of their functions and the way in which we make
use of them. If we make no use of a bodily feature, and it has no effect on us,
then it makes no sense to claim that it still matters to our continuation.
Another
approach might be taken by an advocate of the intrinsic significance of the
body. This approach claims that we can rationally attach intrinsic importance
to a particular body because of its history.
Such a claim may be made persuasively by a close analogy. Suppose you own an
original sketch by Leonardo da Vinci. Probably you would not be happy if I were
to take it away and replace it with a reproduction. If you are like most
people, you would want the original da Vinci. We might even suppose that, using
spectroscopic analysis and molecular nanotechnology, I have duplicated your
original exactly at the atomic level. My reproduction contains the same number
of the same elements (and each particle is indistinguishable) arranged in precisely
the same ways. If the original and the duplicate were mixed up, there would be
no way that anyone could tell which was which. Nevertheless, the objection
runs, most people would, perfectly reasonably, want to have the original. The
reason for this lies in the history
of the original. Only the original was actually touched and handled by the
great engineer and artist. By possessing and connecting with the original,
because of its direct causal connection with da Vinci, we are able to connect
with him (even if in a tenuous sense). This is something we can reasonably
value in itself. The argument, continues the objector, can easily be extended
to our bodies. We can rationally attribute intrinsic significance to the very
bodies we have because of their history. This consideration persists despite
the fact that a perfect copy or functional replacement could fulfill all
functions of the original.
I
am not convinced of the reasonableness of preferring an original artifact over
an atomically exact duplicate. (In the case of informational artifacts, such as
software and algorithms, such a preference becomes completely baffling.)
However, I do feel some affinity for such a preference, and cannot demonstrate
it to be irrational. If the preference is maintained even after one understands
that there is no practical difference, perhaps we cannot criticize such an
unconditional preference as irrational. However, the case of granting special
status to original artifacts (or natural objects) does not support granting
intrinsic significance to our bodies. The feeling that it does arises from a
confusion of the normative and metaphysical senses of “what matters” in survival. Just as I might
prefer to have da Vinci’s original sketch, I might prefer to keep my original
body, rather than having a brain transplant or go through a Star Trek transporter. If I knew I was
to have the brain transplant, I might care less about my future phases than if
I were to continue to inhabit the same body. If I held to this preference after
understanding all the facts of the situation, perhaps my preference would not
be irrational. Nevertheless, the fact that I have the same body, or that I
prefer to keep the same body, has no effect on the actual degree of
connectedness. My body’s history is a fact about it, not a constitutive
characteristic of it. If I had a tremendously strong preference for keeping the
same body, I might not care at all about the post-transplant phase. I seriously
doubt the rationality of such a pattern of concern, since it seems too far
detached from the facts. Even if we granted this concern not to be irrational,
it would not change the fact that I would survive the procedure. I might not
care that I would survive, but I would survive nonetheless. All my
psychological characteristics would persist, and all my physically-based
abilities and functions would persist. The way I feel about the procedure has
no effect on this.
Conclusion
In this final chapter I have filled out an account
of psychological reductionism so as to take account of the fact that our
psychologies are physically embodied, and that changes in our physical nature
can have effects on our identity. I have tried to grant the significance of our
physical existence while maintaining the primacy of the psychological or
functional level of our identity. Without this consideration of our physical
nature, and the relationship between our physicality and our psychology, a
psychological reductionist view of identity would be in danger of falling into
a faulty dualism.
While much of this dissertation has
followed the traditional path of ascertaining the conditions under which
identity is preserved, in this chapter and the previous one I have focused on
ways in which we can change and the significance of this to us. While some of
the examples used in formulating principles for continuous and discontinuous
transformation and assimilation have been imaginary or speculative, many have
drawn on self-transformative practices and technologies commonly employed. Over
the last few centuries, at least in the Western world, and particularly in
recent decades, increasingly humans have sought ways to transform themselves.
No longer content with their given identity, and faced with more alternatives
than ever, we have devised technologies, lifestyles, fashions, and beliefs that
increasingly allow us to transform ourselves—to create new identities in the
image of what we value. Given this continuing trend, and the accelerating
advances in genetics, biotechnology, neuroscience, computing, and other fields,
the normative issues touched on in this chapter—and related questions about the
propriety of altering the natural order—will receive increasing attention and
urgency. This dissertation was motivated by a desire to contribute towards an
improved understanding of these issues.
Wilhelm Reich, for example, used
this now widely accepted hypothesis in his therapy. Reich’s “body armoring”
idea suggested that repressed emotions manifest themselves as areas of tension.
By releasing the bodily tensions the emotions were released and experienced.
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