Skip to main content

Mary's Room

 Lately I have been thinking about Frank Jackson's thought experiment, variously called Mary the super-scientist or Mary's Room. I have even preached about it a couple of times, and a recording of the last time, at St. Matthew's Dunedin, is here. The thought experiment goes something like this:

Mary is the world's most brilliant neurophysiologist. her specialty is the perception of colour. She knows absolutely everything there is to know about colour: how the retina is affected by light, how the brain processes the information etc. When it comes to colour perception,  there is not one fact that it is possible to know that she does not know. By a huge irony, however, Mary is herself only able to see monochromatically. That is, though she knows all it is possible to know about colour, she has never experienced colour vision herself. One day, due to some freak happenstance,  her monochromatism is ended, and she is able to see colours. The question is: does she know anything after the happenstance that she didn't know before?

Jackson's experiment is part of his knowledge argument against Physicalism: the belief that the universe is entirely physical; Jackson's argument is that if Mary knows something after her monochomatism is ended that she didn't know before, then there are things in the universe, most notably various mental states, that are not physical. Personally I find Jackson's argument overwhelming, and the counterarguments I have seen, at least to date, rather less than convincing. As another example of one of these non physical realities, you could give an exhaustive description of a piece of music by describing everything physical about it: the way the vibrations of wood or brass or catgut are produced, how they travel in the air, how they affect the eardrum and the intricate mechanism behind it, how the resulting nerve impulses are processed by the brain - but you would not have mentioned anything of importance about the piece of music as MUSIC.

So what is it that Mary knows now, that she didn't know before? Well, it's almost impossible to say, precisely because what is known is not physical: it is subjective rather than objective and to describe it in objective terms is impossible. A physicalist might, of course agree with this, and reply that because only physical things exist, the subjectively discerned thing, that cannot be described in objective terms, do not in fact exist and are some kind of illusion. Which is impossible to answer, except by looking at the purple of a thistle or the yellow of a Swiss dandelion meadow or the red of blood and knowing that what you are seeing and are so moved by is real enough to need no evidence other than its own witness. Richard Rohr sums it up quite well, here.

Of course our knowledge of the divine is of the same sort as our knowledge of colour, or of music, or of beauty, or of our own existence for that matter: it is subjective. Such knowledge is no less important for not being objective and perhaps we should abandon the futile attempt to make it so but rather "be still and know..."

Comments

Anonymous said…
One of the best thought experiments ever. Thank you for the post and links.

I'm not able to find your archived sermon on Mary's room. Do remember the name of the sermon?

Cheers,

Julian.
Kelvin Wright said…
I think you may just have to be patient. St. Matts seem to be a week or two behind posting their sermons.
Anonymous said…
Cheers Kelvin.

I found it. It's called 'Knowing Jesus'. It has been posted. Great Sermon ! :)

All the best,

Julian.

Popular posts from this blog

Ko Tangata Tiriti Ahau

    The Christmas before last our kids gave us Ancestry.com kits. You know the deal: you spit into a test tube, send it over to Ireland, and in a month or so you get a wadge of paper in the mail telling you who you are. I've never, previously, been interested in all that stuff. I knew my forbears came to Aotearoa in the 1850's from Britain but I didn't know from where, exactly. Clemency's results, as it turns out, were pretty interesting. She was born in England, but has ancestors from various European places, and some who are Ngāti Raukawa, so she can whakapapa back to a little marae called Kikopiri, near Ōtaki. And me? It turns out I'm more British than most British people. Apart from a smattering of Norse  - probably the result of some Viking raid in the dim distant past - all my tūpuna seem to have come from a little group of villages in Nottinghamshire.  Now I've been to the UK a few times, and I quite like it, but it's not home: my heart and soul belon...

Kindle

 Living as I do in a place where most books have to come a long way in an aeroplane, reading is an expensive addiction, and of course there is always the problem of shelf space. I have about 50 metres of shelving in my new study, but it is already full and there is not a lot of wall space left; and although it is great insulation, what is eventually going to happen to all that paper? I doubt my kids will want to fill their homes with old theological works, so most of my library is eventually going to end up as egg cartons. Ebooks are one solution to book cost and storage issues so I have been  using them for a while now, but their big problem has been finding suitable hardware to read them on.  I first read them on the tiny screens of Ipaqs and they were quite satisfactory but the wretchedness of Microsoft Reader and its somewhat arbitrary copyright protection system killed the experience entirely. On Palm devices they were OK except the plethora of competing and incomp...

En Hakkore

In the hills up behind Ranfurly there used to be a town, Hamilton, which at one stage was home to 5,000 people. All that remains of it now is a graveyard, fenced off and baking in the lonely brown hills. Near it, in the 1930s a large Sanitorium was built for the treatment of tuberculosis and other respiratory ailments. It was a substantial complex of buildings with wards, a nurses hostel, impressive houses for the manager and superintendent and all the utility buildings needed for such a large operation. The treatment offered consisted of isolation, views and weather. Patients were exposed to the air, the tons of it which whistled past, often at great speed, the warmth of the sun and the cold. They were housed in small cubicles opening onto huge glassed verandas where they cooked in the summer and froze in the winter and often, what with the wholesome food and the exercise, got better. When advances in antibiotics rendered the Sanitorium obsolete it was turned into a Borstal and...

The Traitor

A couple of people have questioned me privately about the Leonard Cohen song The Traitor , and about Cohen's comments on the song, "[The Traitor is about] the feeling we have of betraying some mission we were mandated to fulfill and being unable to fulfill it; then coming to understand that the real mandate was not to fulfill it; and the real courage is to stand guiltless in the predicament in which you find yourself". What on earth does he mean, and why am I so excited about it? For the latter, check with my psychiatrist. For the former, my take on the song is this: The Traitor is another of those instances, as in The Partisan , where Leonard Cohen uses a military metaphor to speak of life in general and human love in particular. Many of us hold high ideals: some great quest or other that we pursue. These are often laudable things: finding true love, finding the absolute love of God, becoming enlightened, spreading the Gospel, writing the great novel or some such ...

Camino, by David Whyte

This poem captures it perfectly Camino. The way forward, the way between things, the way already walked before you, the path disappearing and re-appearing even as the ground gave way beneath you, the grief apparent only in the moment of forgetting, then the river, the mountain, the lifting song of the Sky Lark inviting you over the rain filled pass when your legs had given up, and after, it would be dusk and the half-lit villages in evening light; other people's homes glimpsed through lighted windows and inside, other people's lives; your own home you had left crowding your memory as you looked to see a child playing or a mother moving from one side of a room to another, your eyes wet with the keen cold wind of Navarre. But your loss brought you here to walk under one name and one name only, and to find the guise under which all loss can live; remember you were given that name every day along the way, remember you were greeted as such, and you neede...