Broken Hearts and Broken Livers

In a new paper, Beyond the Blues, German psychologists Postert et al discuss how the Hmong people of South East Asia talk about sadness - or rather, how they don't, because they don't really have a word for it.

Based on anthropological fieldwork in a number of Hmong communities in Laos, the focus of this article is on the Hmong term tu siab, literally "broken liver". This is usually translated as "sadness" in the dictionaries, but the authors say that, although it is certainly the closest thing the Hmong have to a word meaning sadness, it is not the same because:

The instance of becoming ‘sad’ in Western contexts is that ‘something bad happened’... This may involve disappointment in personal relationships, but also other afflictions beyond the social realm. At the core of the emotional experience of ‘sadness’ are basic violations of values deeply embedded in Western conceptions of the individual. The afflicted individual feels resigned, passive, out of control...

In Hmong language, the concept of ‘broken liver’ has a strong emphasis on kin relations. It pertains very often to social situations of isolation and neglect from one’s kin including consanguines, patrilineal ancestors, or affines or their unmarried daughters in cases of romantic love. Persons with a ‘broken liver’ may have been voluntarily offended, excluded, or separated from these persons by bad fortune...

One of the highest Hmong values, a person’s vital social integration, is at stake here. However, a state of ‘broken liver’ is usually far from resignation. Contrary to the assumed passivity of a ‘sad’ individual, a ‘broken liver’ is an affective marker highly mobilising social relations and interdependencies ... having a member in one’s group whose liver is ‘broken’ appeals to the collective commitment of all relatives...

[like the English "guilt" and "shame", but unlike "sadness"] ‘broken liver’ demonstrates characteristics of a socio-moral emotion in everyday pragmatics of Laotian Hmong villages. It is typically evoked in a – conscious or unconscious – transgression of an important sociocultural rule. When a man is assumed not to accord to basic principles of social reciprocity by keeping substantial gains from an opium sale for himself, close relatives may develop signs of a ‘broken liver’ signalling their disapproval...

In short, the argument is that the Hmong "broken liver" differs from our "sadness" in being an active response rather than a passive reaction, a social statement rather than an individual feeling, in having a moral dimension, and so on.

But isn't that much like our "broken heart"?

"Breaking someone's heart" is a moral issue. It's not good to be a heartbreaker. If someone broke your friend's heart, you'd be angry. It's a specifically social emotion in the sense that it generally results from betrayal, abandonment, or disrepect. It's true that while the Hmong's "liverbreak" seems to extend to all close relationships, "heartbreak" often has a romantic connotation; but we do talk about "breaking your mother's or father's heart", so even that's not an absolute rule.

Consider this recently broken heart. Doesn't Tulisa's heartbreak fit the tu siab bill?

If so, then the main difference between Hmong and English terminology is that they only have a concept of 'heartbreak', and lack a general concept of 'sadness'. That's quite interesting, but I'm not sure how much to read into it. English doesn't have a word for 'déjà vu'; we had to borrow it from the French, but surely that doesn't mean that no English people ever felt it until the French explained it to them.

I'm no expert but judging by this paper, Hmong emotion terminology is really very similar to ours. The big difference is that the Hmong (in common with other East Asian cultures) link emotions to the liver, which to Westerners sounds silly, but it's no more silly than our talk about emotions being in the heart. They're both just metaphors.

Replace "liver" with "heart", and the following Hmong terms (listed in the paper) look very familar -

• zoo siab  ‘pleased, happy’ (lit. ‘good liver’)
• siab npau  ‘angry’ (lit. ‘liver boiling’)
• chob siab  ‘inwardly offended’ (lit. ‘pierced liver’) etc.

Don't those all make sense? We talk about being "hearty" or "heartened", "taking heart" or having our "hearts lifted" when we're happy or confident; our "blood boils" when we're angry; we talk about feeling "cut", "stung", "pierced" by criticism or insults, and we suffer "heart-rending" traumas.

This is certainly a very interesting paper, but it didn't leave me feeling that the Hmong's emotional life is all that different to ours.

Postert, C., Dannlowski, U., Müller, J., and Konrad, C. (2012). Beyond the Blues: Towards a Cross-Cultural Phenomenology of Depressed Mood Psychopathology, 45 (3), 185-192 DOI: 10.1159/000330944

Free Will: A Dangerous Idea?

The British Journal of Social Psychology has published a fiery rebuke to psychologists who argue that belief in free will makes people more ethical.

Recent much-publicized studies have claimed that scepticism about free will makes people behave less morally. "Disbelief in Free Will Increases Aggression and Reduces Helpfulness" as the title of one of hese papers puts it.

In his article (free pdf), British 'independent researcher' James B. Miles says that these experiments are flawed, because they didn't distinguish between determinism (lack of free choice) and fatalism (lack of the ability to change events).

More fundamentally, though, Miles says that free will is used to justify things, such as punishment and poverty, that would otherwise be seen as scandalous -

Western law recognizes that the penal system is so harmful to the existing life and future opportunities of persons that to convict requires evidence beyond a reasonable doubt. Yet libertarians provide no objective evidence whatsoever for the existence of free will, and therefore no apparent justification for the mass poverty and brutal punishments that belief in libertarian free will often brings with it. The leading legal theorist Stephen J. Morse freely admits that harsh prison conditions and execution are only morally tolerable where the presumption of free choice exists...

...In June 2009, the Joseph Rowntree Foundation published research showing that up to 83% of Britons think that ‘virtually everyone’ remains in poverty in Britain not as the result of social
misfortune or biological handicap but through choice (Bamfield & Horton, 2009, p. 23; 69% of those surveyed agreed with the statement and an additional 14% were unsure but did not disagree.) Because of their belief in the fairness of ‘deserved inequalities’, such respondents were discovered to have become almost completely unconcerned with the idea of promoting greater equality while at the same time asserting that Britain was a beacon of fairness that offered opportunities for all...

...Free will may just be the primary excuse many use to legitimize a contempt for the poor that would exist independent of their professed belief in free will, but free will assertion nonetheless provides the ethical fig leaf for such contempt that would be far harder to rationalize (and therefore tolerate) without the myth of free will.

This is a polemical piece (remarkably so, for an academic journal), and clearly this is only one side of the story, but it's hard to deny that he has a point: there's a dark side to the belief in free will. If you doubt free will, and yet praise the myth of it, as some scientists seem to be doing, you need to accept that you're condemning some people (prisoners, most obviously) to suffer as a result "through no fault of their own".

Personally, I think the great majority of people do believe in free will and always will - the arguments against it have been around for millenia, they're as convincing as they'll ever be, and they haven't convinced most people, however irrational that might make most people. So I think the debate over belief in free will is academic; it's not going away.

 Miles JB (2011). 'Irresponsible and a Disservice': The integrity of social psychology turns on the free will dilemma. The British journal of social psychology / the British Psychological Society PMID: 22074173

The Wriggling Brain

What do we mean when we talk about "the brain"?

Easy, right? It's this:

Certainly, this is the image that comes to my mind.

But this is not an image of a brain. It's an image of a dead brain.

In a living brain, all kinds of interesting things are happening. Things we literally can't begin to imagine. Because these are hard to visualize, they can't enter the mental picture.

To picture the living brain as just a yellowy lump is like picturing Wikipedia as a disc. It's accurate as far as it goes, but it misses the whole point. You could download Wikipedia onto a BluRay disc, and then you could describe that disc as "Wikipedia" and you wouldn't be wrong, but Wikipedia is much more than a silver circle.

It doesn't help much that we know that there's more to the living brain than a yellowy lump. Yes, most of us know that the living brain is somehow responsible for thought, feeling, perception, and consciousness.

But we have no idea of how it does so, we don't have any feel for this relationship. We agree with the idea that brain = mind, but that's just an abstract equation. Just as most of us know that e=mc2, but only physicists understand it.

All this leads to philosophical problems. Wittgenstein wrote:

Look at a stone and imagine it having sensations. - One says to oneself: How could one so much as get the idea of ascribing a sensation to a thing? One might as well ascribe it to a number! - And now look at a wriggling fly and at once these difficulties vanish and pain seems able to get a foothold here.

What he meant is that we only feel that we can ascribe pain (or any "internal" mental state or event) to something which is behaving "externally".

Now in most cases, that's fine. Most inanimate objects really don't have mental states. But brains do. The brain, we feel, is inanimate; it's just a yellowy lump. By itself the brain is like Wittgenstein's stone - it seems.

So, we feel, the brain itself can't really have mental states, only walking, talking, behaving people can, like wriggling flies. Except we know on an abstract level that brains do have mental states; so we tie ourselves into philosophical knots about "brains" and "persons", asking whether a person is more or less or the same as a brain, and so on.

The whole problem could be removed, I think, if instead of a yellowy lump, we could picture the living brain in all its active complexity; if we could talk about "the brain", not as an inanimate object, but as the most animate thing in the world.

In the brain there are hundreds of billions of cells, and each one is a hive of movement - not visible to the naked eye or even to a microscope, but the movement of ions and neurotransmitters and ultimately information.

I think many philosophical puzzles would lose their edge if we could somehow get a feel for all that; if we could replace the accurate, but misleading, yellowy lump picture of "the brain" with one that captures the complexity and dynamism of the thing: a city, a hive of insects, a vast machine.

The Hidden Face Within

One of these two images contains a hidden picture of a face. Which one?

This was the question faced by participants in a remarkable psychology experiment just published, Measuring Internal Representations from Behavioral and Brain Data.

Five healthy volunteers were presented with a series of random black and white grid patterns. Each grid square was either black or white, and this was randomly determined on each trial.

There was no pattern to the images, they were completely random. But the subjects were told that half of the patterns contained a hidden face, and that their job was to work out which ones did. Each subject saw over 10,000 random images and they took about 1 second to judge each one.


The volunteers "detected" a face in 44% of the images. Somehow, all five of them convinced themselves that they were seeing faces in many of the grids. The authors say that

Upon completion of the experiment we debriefed observers, and all expressed shock that no face was ever presented.

That's strange enough in itself, but here's the really clever bit. The authors compared the patterns which were declared to contain a face, to the ones that were reported as empty. The image below shows the average "face" grid, minus the average "non face" grid, for each individual subject:

As you can see, this reveals...a face! Kind of. The top half shows the raw average; the bottom half shows the statistically significant differences from random noise.

In Subjects 1 and 2, the face is pretty clear, with eyes, a nose and a mouth. For 3 and 4, it's less coherent, but you might be able to see it if you look hard enough. For Subject 5, not really.

What this means is that people (at least, most of them) were not just seeing faces in any noise. They tended to see faces when the random patterns happened to resemble a kind of primitive face, but it was a different face for each person. The authors say that these strange faces correspond to the individual's internal representations, or models, of "a face", that each subject was "seeing" in the noise.

Finally, the whole experiment was conducted while EEG data was being recorded from the participant's brains. The EEG results revealed that there was a clear difference in the neural activity associated with "face" compared to "nonface" stimuli - except in Subject 5, who you'll remember had the least coherent "internal face".

What's exciting about this approach is that it investigates perception in a purely "top down" way. Normally, when we look at anything, what we end up perceiving is a product of "bottom up" influences - the raw data - and "top down" ones - what we expect to see. In this experiment, there was no real "bottom up" data; it was all "top down".

This is a form of pareidolia - perceiving familiar things in random stimuli. Seeing the face of Jesus in your sock, that kind of thing. It works for sounds too: in the famous White Christmas Experiment, people report "hearing" music in pure white noise - when told to expect it. Real-life examples of this include the "Islam Is The Light" doll, and my personal favorite, the singing paedophile Christmas mouse.

Finally, I wonder what embodied cognition theorists make of this paper. Because this paper claims to be "Measuring Internal Representations from Behavioral and Brain Data"; embodied cognition (at least the radical kind) is the theory that "internal representations" either don't exist, or at least don't explain anything about human cognition.

Smith, M., Gosselin, F., and Schyns, P. (2012). Measuring Internal Representations from Behavioral and Brain Data Current Biology DOI: 10.1016/j.cub.2011.11.061

Neuroskeptic In The Papers

Two more academic papers have appeared that refer to this blog:

The Openness of Illusions is a philosophy piece about the epistemological implications of optical illusions. It cites my post about a paper dealing with the spooky Hollow Face Illusion. Long-time readers will remember this, but most of you probably won't, so here it is again; it truly is weird:

In my view, an even better demonstration of the same effect is the incredible magic dragon:

You can make your own dragon by printing it out from this helpful page. It takes like 5 minutes to make and it'll provide hours of philosophical fun.

Meanwhile, Stereotypes and stereotyping: What's the brain got to do with it? takes a neuro-skeptical look at the psychology and neuroscience of prejudice. It flatters me with a mention:

It should go without saying that activity in the brain does not indicate in any way whether a mental act is hard-wired (Beck, 2010). It is equally absurd to argue that the amygdala is on anyone’s team or feels occasionally upset. Alas, non-experts should not be expected to spot such fundamental flaws in reasoning without help.

Thus scientists using neuroscientific methods to study phenomena of social relevance are not only expected to be particularly critical towards over-interpreting their own findings, but also to monitor the ways in which their and other researchers’ data are reported in the media. Courageous attempts to counter overblown neuroscience-based claims in non-scientific outlets have so far resulted in numerous critical blogs (e.g., http://www.talkingbrains.org; http://neuroskeptic.blogspot.com) as well as in the publication of counterstatements in popular magazines (e.g., Aron et al., 2007).

Do You Have Free Will?

I mean you, specifically.

I'm not asking whether people have free will. I think they do - except you. You're the one person on earth who doesn't have it.

If you disagree - how would you convince me that you do have it?

Alternatively, if you're one of the people who doesn't believe in free will - I agree with you, people don't have it... except me. I'm special.

-

This might seem like one of those thought experiments that only philosophers could care about, but it's of more everyday importance than the general question of 'whether we have free will'. That's an interesting debate, but really it doesn't change anything. If we have it, we always have, and if we don't, we never will. Either way, here we are, and we'd better get on with our lives.

On the other hand, the question of whether an individual has free will has real consequences. It can even be a matter of life or death. It comes up in court cases. Lawyers and psychiatrists don't use the words "free will", they'll talk about responsibility or capacity or sound minds, but what they mean, in essence, is what the rest of us mean by the term free will.

In some of these cases, free will is what you want - if, say, psychiatrists want to confine you to a hospital, and you say you don't want to be there. Other times it's the reverse - if you've committed a crime, and your defense is that some kind of mental or neurological illness made you do it, then you're arguing that you don't have it (or didn't, at the crucial moment.)

But while lots of people have opinions on the abstract "Free Will" question, I don't think many people pay attention to the issue of their own free will or lack of it - until they end up in court. We just assume that if everyone else has it, so do we, and vice versa.

Yet how can we be so sure? Everyone accepts that people differ in regards to how much free will they have. Wwhen people say "I believe people have free will", they don't really mean all people - they surely make an exception for babies, people in a coma, people having a seizure, and probably children, people with dementia, people with severe mental illness... Likewise, people who don't believe in free will recognize that there's a difference between a normal adult and one of those people.

But where do we draw the line, and how do you know which side you're on? This seems to me the most important questions to be asking about free will.

An Objective Measure of Consciousness...?

Could a puff of air in the eye offer a way to evaluate whether someone is conscious or not?

Yes it could, say Cambridge's Tristan Bekinschtein and colleagues in a new paper about Sea slugs, subliminal pictures, and vegetative state patients.

It's all about classical conditioning of the kind made famous by Pavlov. This is learning caused by the pairing of two stimuli, one of them somehow meaningful (usually unpleasant). So if I were to ring a little bell before, say, pepper spraying you, and I did that repeatedly, you would probably close your eyes whenever I rang that bell. Or just punch me, but you see the point.

Anyway, the key is that there are two kinds of classical conditioning. In the unhelpfully named "delay" conditioning, the warning stimulus overlaps with the painful one. Like if I started ringing my bell, then kept ringing it while I sprayed you with my other hand. In other words, there is no delay between the two stimuli... I said it was badly named.

By contrast in "trace", conditioning there is a delay - the warning stops shortly before the second stimulus. Bekinschtein et al argue that trace conditioning requires conciousness. While delay conditioning can occur without awareness of the link between the two stimuli, only conscious awareness can bridge the time gap in trace conditioning.

In trace experiments (in which rather than pepper spray, the unpleasant stimulus is just a puff of air in the eye), people who, when asked, can't explain the relationship ("sound means puff") don't learn to blink when they hear the sound. But with delay conditioning, this "unconscious" conditioning can occur. Likewise, under anaesthesia, trace conditioning is lost.

At first glance this looks like a piece of psychological trivia, but it could have literally life-or-death consequences. If trace conditioning is a measure of concious awareness then it could be used as a way of working out whether brain-injured people in a "coma" or "vegetative state" are aware or not.

This paper is in fact a follow-up to the author's own 2009 study showing that some people in a vegetative state do show trace conditioning - and the ones who did were more likely to subsequently wake up.

One snag is that the humble sea slug, Aplysia, can undergo trace conditioning, yet it is presumably not conscious, at least not in any recognizable sense.

But Bekinschtein et al say that trace conditioning is a product of convergent evolution. Alplysia can do it and we can do it, but we use different means to the same end. Their argument is that while in Alpysia trace conditioning is known to be dependent on just a handful of individual neurons in the creature's tiny "brain", in humans it requires an intact hippocampus (containing millions of cells). People with hippocampal damage, who suffer amnesia, also can't do trace conditioning.

That's a good point but does that mean such hippocampal patients aren't conscious? That would be weird because, apart from the amnesia, they seem perfectly normal. Presumably they're just not conscious of the relationship between things separated in time...

Also, primitive pathways for conditioning might still exist in humans, able to reactivate under special conditions. They do acknowledge this with a discussion of experiments showing that trace conditioning in the absence of conscious awareness of the relationship can occur but only when the warning stimuli are "scary", like pictures of snakes. They say that with generic, neutral stimuli there is no good evidence of unconscious trace conditioning, but this seems like a fairly fine distinction.


Ultimately, it's a very nice idea but only more studies on "unconscious" patients will tell us whether it's really able to measure consciousness in a useful way.

Bekinschtein TA, Peeters M, Shalom D, and Sigman M (2011). Sea slugs, subliminal pictures, and vegetative state patients: boundaries of consciousness in classical conditioning. Frontiers in psychology, 2 PMID: 22164148

The Limits of (Neuro)science

Will science ever understand the brain?

To start off with, it must be admitted that science has done a pretty good job of explaining pretty much everything else in the universe, so just going on past experience, it probably will.

But some say that, sure, the scientific method is fine for things like chemistry, but not for others. The human brain (or some aspect of it: consciousness, the mind, love, belief, or whatever) is the most popular exception. Science just won't work on it, we're told. It's too complex.

Maybe, but I find this view rather blinkered. It relies on taking our current state of knowledge as an eternal truth.

To see humanity as a mystery surrounded by a world of unmysterious things is a very new idea. It would have seemed bizarre just 300 years ago. Back then, nature was pretty much inscrutable. At best human life was no more mysterious. In many ways, less so. There were no end of philosophical, psychological and religious theories, many of them so plausible that they're still around today.

The notion that humans are complex and hard, while nature is easy, is an illusion created (ironically) by the successes of reductionist science. Some of the biggest questions facing mankind for eons have answered so well, that we don't even see them as questions. Why do people get sick? Bacteria and viruses. Why does the sun shine? Nuclear fusion. Easy.

But only easy now. Think of the billions of people who lived and died before say 1800 - they saw the sun every day and they had no idea why it shone, and they knew no-one else did. You may not understand nuclear fusion, but you know that physicists do, you know it's no mystery. 300 years ago, it would have been very tempting to think that no-one would ever know, that the answers were known only by God.

So, to confidently claim that explaining the human mind will just be too hard is presumptuous. It may or may not be, I don't know. Historically, though, the theory that things are inexplicable has a bad track record.

Then there's the idea that humanity is not so much hard, as different. Philosophers have spent many pages coming up with new ways of phrasing that point. Nature is material, but we're spiritual. Nature is in-itself, but we're for-itself. And so on. If we can understand the mind at all, it certainly won't be through reductionistic, mechanistic, rationalist, objectivist (phew) science, they say.

Again, this seems perfectly plausible... to us, now. But people used to say the same thing about living things in general. That was vitalism, the idea that physics and chemistry were fine for inert matter, but anything alive was radically different.

At a certain point in history, when biology was almost completely seperate from (and primitive compared to) the other sciences, that seemed fine. But it turned out to be wrong. With the benefit of hindsight. Nowadays, no-one sees a radically difference between nature and bacteria, plants or animals... well, except humans.

Maybe the mind will never be understood within the framework of the rest of science. I don't know, but I don't think anyone else does right now, either.

Mountains of Mental Disorders

This is a story about a man who lived in a house. Here it is:

The house was a lovely thatched cabin, situated in a wooded valley between two little hills, set against the spectacular scenary of a snow-capped mountain. He'd been born there, and he'd lived there all his life.

One day, there was a knock on the man's door. He opened it to find two official-looking people carrying clipboards, with serious expressions on their faces.

"Hello, sir. We are officials from the Ministry of Mountains. Sorry it took us so long."
"Oh... excuse me?", the man replied, puzzled.
"We're very sorry we didn't get here earlier."
"I'm afraid that I don't know what you mean. I wasn't expecting any..."
"Hmm. Let me explain. The Ministry of Mountains exists to help people who live on mountains. So, you see, we're here to..."
"Ask for directions to the mountain? It's about 10 miles down the road. Just look up - you can't miss it."

The official looked unamused.
"No. We're here to help you, sir."
"Help you to cope with the rigors of mountain living!" the other chimed in, helpfully.
"But... I don't live on a mountain."
"I'm afraid you do. Look - " and the first official unfolded a large map. "Do you agree that there is a mountain, here?" and she pointed to a spot 10 miles down the road.
"Yes. Actually I just told you about i..."
"...and, do you agree that you live - here?"
"Of course, but..."

"So you do live on the mountain. The very ground beneath our feet right now is part of that mountain nearby."
"No it's not." The man protested. "This is a valley, miles away. I mean just look outside. We're clearly not on a mountain now, are we?"
"How old fashioned. That's what we used to think. But, thanks to advances in geology, we now appreciate that these hills and valleys are merely a part of the mountain."
"Yes!" the other said, whipping out a textbook and becoming increasingly enthusiastic. "You see, a mountain is merely a mass of rock, and this rock extends underground for a considerable distance... It's impossible, really, to draw a line on the map and say categorically, this side is mountain, this isn't. So 'mountains' are an arbitrary construct. 'Hills' are likewise just protrusions of the underlying mountain and..."

The man was even more confused now. "Umm... well, I suppose, technically...but..."
"...so yes, so you do live on a mountain. And we know that this is very difficult. You're exposed to all kinds of dangers like blizzards, altitude sickness, avalanches..."
"Not really. It's nice here. It doesn't even snow most years."
"That's unlikely. You agree that mountains have blizzards and avalanches? Right. And you earlier agreed that there's no dividing line between you and a mountain. So logically..."
"Er..."
"So you are in danger! Don't worry, though. We're here to help. To start off with, we're going to reinforce your house with six tons of cement, to protect you against rockfalls. The construction crew will arrive tomorrow morning. Now, as for those blizzards..."
The man had had enough of this.
"This is absurd. Now look - there is a guy who really does live on top of the mountain in a rickety old shack. Old Grandpa McHermit. He might actually need your help. I don't. Get out! And if I see anyone with a bag of cement tomorrow morning, I'll shove it right up their..."

---

As you may have guess, this story is a metaphor. There is a movement in psychiatry at the moment, away from a 'categorical' view of mental illness towards a 'spectrum' view. Mental disorders are not things you either have or don't - defined according to some arbitrary cut-off. Rather, they're things that everyone has, to some degree.

This has already happened, or is happening, to autism, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, personality disorders, and more.

Now, the "spectrum" or "dimensional" approach has much to recommend it. It's true that diagnostic cutoffs are arbitrary. It's true that the categorical approach doesn't capture the true degree of variation that real people display.

My worry is that these new "spectra" are, in practice, merely the old categories, just bigger. We still think of people as being ill or not-ill, although we may call it on the spectrum or off it. Worse, we still think of "ill" in the same way as we used to i.e. as referring to the most severe end of the spectrum. The only difference is that we've expanded the old category of "ill" to cover more people.

This is evident in the fact that we still use the old categorical labels. It's the autism (or schizophrenia or bipolar) spectrum, even though "autism", in the old sense of a discrete disorder, is now supposed to be just one extreme of that spectrum. Yet the point about an extreme is that it's unusual, so why call it that?

We don't call the rainbow the red spectrum. We don't call height the midget spectrum. We don't call hills part of the mountain spectrum.

The point is, we really think of color and height and altitude as spectra, not as approximations to an extreme point, and that's good, because they are. Now it might well be possible to think of autistic or bipolar traits in the same way - but not if we call them autistic and bipolar traits. And not if we just rename them, while keeping the mental associations the same.

Not unless we can find a way of referring to what's currently called the autism spectrum without making anyone think of autism when they hear it. Similarly for "bipolar" and all the rest. Until we get to that point, there's a real risk that "spectra" will just be big categories.

Edit: This post has been very kindly translated into Hebrew over at the alhasapa.com blog.

The Ethics of Forgetfulness Drugs

Drugs that could modify or erase memories could soon be possible. We shouldn't rush to judge them unethical, says a Nature opinion piece by Adam Kolber, of the Neuroethics & Law Blog.



The idea of a pill that could make you forget something, or that could modify the emotional charge of a past experience, does seem rather disturbing.



Yet experiments on animals have gone a long to revealing the molecular mechanisms behind the formation and maintanence of memory traces. Much of the early work focussed on dangerously toxic drugs but recently more targeted approaches have appeared.



Kolber argues that we should not shy away from research in this area or brand the whole idea unethical. Rather we should consider the costs and benefits on a case-by-case basis.

The fears about pharmaceutical memory manipulation are overblown. Thoughtful regulation may some day be appropriate but excessive hand-wringing now over the ethics of tampering with memory could stall research into preventing post-traumatic stress in millions of people. Delay could also hinder people who are already debilitated by harrowing memories from being offered the best hope yet of reclaiming their lives.

He says that

Given the close connection between memory and a sense of self, some bioethicists...worry that giving people too much power to alter their life stories could ultimately weaken their sense of identity and make their lives less genuine.



These arguments are not persuasive. Some memories, such as those of rescue workers who clean up scenes of mass destruction, may have no redeeming value. Drugs may speed up the healing process more effectively than counselling, arguably making patients more true to themselves than they would be if a traumatic experience were to dominate their lives.

This is a complex issue. I can see his point, although I'm not sure the rescue worker example is the best one. A rescue worker, at least a professional one, has chosen to do that kind of work. The experiences that are part of that job are ones they decided to have - or at least that they knew were a realistic possibility - and that may be an expression of their identity.



The argument is perhaps more convincing in the case of someone who, quite unexpectedly, suffers an out-of-the-blue trauma. In this case, the trauma has nothing to do with their lives; if it interferes with their ability to function, it might "stop them from being themselves".



Kolber ends by quoting a fascinating story from Time magazine in 2007, which I didn't catch at the time:

Take a scenario recounted by a US doctor in 2007 (ref. 9). The doctor had biopsied a suspected cancer patient and sent a tissue sample to a pathologist while the woman was still in the operating room. Thinking she was completely sedated, the pathologist announced a bleak prognosis over the intercom.



The patient, who had received only local anaesthesia, heard the news and began to shriek, “Oh my God. My kids!” An anaesthesiologist standing by quickly injected her with propofol, a sedative that causes some people to forget what happened a few minutes before they were injected.



When the woman woke up, she had no memory of hearing her prognosis.

Kolber A (2011). Neuroethics: Give memory-altering drugs a chance. Nature, 476 (7360), 275-6 PMID: 21850084