subjectivity (sub•dzėk•ti-v
CHAPTER 2 The View from in Here
But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!
Shakespeare, As You Like It
LORI AND REBA SCHAPPEL may be twins, but they are very different people. Reba is a somewhat shy teetotaler who has recorded an award-winning album of country music. Lori, who is outgoing, wisecracking and rather fond of strawberry daiquiris, works in a hospital and wants someday to marry and have children. They occasionally argue, as sisters do, but most of the time they get on well, complimenting each other, teasing each other and finishing each other’s sentences. In fact, there are just two unusual things about Lori and Reba. The first is that they share a blood supply, part of a skull, and some brain tissue, having been joined at the forehead since birth. One side of Lori’s forehead is attached to one side of Reba’s, and they have spent every moment of their lives locked together, face-to-face. The second unusual thing about Lori and Reba is that they are happy–not merely resigned or contented, but joyful, playful and optimistic.1 Their unusual life presents many challenges, of course, but as they often note, whose doesn’t? When asked about the possibility of undergoing surgical separation, Reba speaks for both of them: ‘Our point of view is no, straight out no. Why would you want to do that? For all the money in China, why? You’d be ruining two lives in the process.’2
So here’s the question: if this were your life rather than theirs, how would you feel? If you said, ‘Joyful, playful and optimistic,’ then you are not playing the game and I am going to give you another chance. Try to be honest instead of correct. The honest answer is ‘Despondent, desperate and depressed’. Indeed, it seems clear that no right-minded person could really be happy under such circumstances, which is why the conventional medical wisdom has it that conjoined twins should be separated at birth, even at the risk of killing one or both. As a prominent medical historian wrote: ‘Many singletons, especially surgeons, find it inconceivable that life is worth living as a conjoined twin, inconceivable that one would not be willing to risk all–mobility, reproductive ability, the life of one or both twins–to try for separation.’3 In other words, not only does everyone know that conjoined twins will be dramatically less happy than normal people, but everyone also knows that conjoined lives are so utterly worthless that dangerous separation surgeries are an ethical imperative. And yet, standing against the backdrop of our certainty about these matters are the twins themselves. When we ask Lori and Reba how they feel about their situation, they tell us that they wouldn’t have it any other way. In an exhaustive search of the medical literature, the same medical historian found the ‘desire to remain together to be so widespread among communicating conjoined twins as to be practically universal’.4 Something is terribly wrong here. But what?
There seem to be just two possibilities. Someone–either Lori and Reba, or everyone else in the world–is making a dreadful mistake when they talk about happiness. Because we are the everyone else in question, it is only natural that we should be attracted to the former conclusion, dismissing the twins’ claim to happiness with offhand rejoinders such as ‘Oh, they’re just saying that’ or ‘They may think they’re happy, but they’re not’ or the ever popular ‘They don’t know what happiness really is’ (usually spoken as if we do). Fair enough. But like the claims they dismiss, these rejoinders are also claims–scientific claims and philosophical claims–that presume answers to questions that have vexed scientists and philosophers for millennia. What are we all talking about when we make such claims about happiness?
Dancing About Architecture
There are thousands of books on happiness, and most of them start by asking what happiness really is. As readers quickly learn, this is approximately equivalent to beginning a pilgrimage by marching directly into the first available tar pit, because happiness really is nothing more or less than a word that we word makers can use to indicate anything we please. The problem is that people seem pleased to use this one word to indicate a host of different things, which has created a tremendous terminological mess on which several fine scholarly careers have been based. If one slops around in this mess long enough, one comes to see that most disagreements about what happiness really is are semantic disagreements about whether the word ought to be used to indicate this or that, rather than scientific or philosophical disagreements about the nature of this and that. What are the this and the that that happiness most often refers to? The word happiness is used to indicate at least three related things, which we might roughly call emotional happiness, moral happiness, and judgmental happiness.
Feeling Happy
Emotional happiness is the most basic of the trio–so basic, in fact, that we become tongue-tied when we try to define it, as though some bratty child had just challenged us to say what the word the means and in the process made a truly compelling case for corporal punishment. Emotional happiness is a phrase for a feeling, an experience, a subjective state, and thus it has no objective referent in the physical world. If we ambled down to the corner pub and met an alien from another planet who asked us to define that feeling, we would either point to the objects in the world that tend to bring it about, or we would mention other feelings that it is like. In fact, this is the only thing we can do when we are asked to define a subjective experience. Consider, for instance, how we might define a very simple subjective experience, such as yellow. You may think yellow is a colour, but it isn’t. It’s a psychological state. It is what human beings with working visual apparatus experience when their eyes are struck by light with a wavelength of 580 nanometers. If our alien friend at the pub asked us to define what we were experiencing when we claimed to be seeing yellow, we would probably start by pointing to a mustard jar, a lemon, a rubber ducky, and saying, ‘See all those things? The thing that is common to the visual experiences you have when you look at them is called yellow.’ Or we might try to define the experience called yellow in terms of other experiences. ‘Yellow? Well, it is sort of like the experience of orange, with a little less of the experience of red.’ If the alien confided that it could not figure out what the duck, the lemon and the mustard jar had in common, and that it had never had the experience of orange or red, then it would be time to order another pint and change the topic to the universal sport of ice hockey, because there is just no other way to define yellow. Philosophers like to say that subjective states are ‘irreducible’, which is to say that nothing we point to, nothing we can compare them with, and nothing we can say about their neurological underpinnings can fully substitute for the experiences themselves.5 The musician Frank Zappa is reputed to have said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture, and so it is with talking about yellow. If our new drinking buddy lacks the machinery for colour vision, then our experience of yellow is one that it will never share–or never know it shares–no matter how well we point and talk.6
Emotional happiness is like that. It is the feeling common to the feelings we have when we see our new granddaughter smile for the first time, receive word of a promotion, help a wayward tourist find the art museum, taste Belgian chocolate toward the back of our tongue, inhale the scent of our lover’s shampoo, hear that song we used to like so much in school but haven’t heard in years, touch our cheek to kitten fur, cure cancer or get a really good snootful of cocaine. These feelings are different, of course, but they also have something in common. A piece of real estate is not the same as a share of stock, which is not the same