Our Personal Monkeysphere

You've probably come across the concept of Dunbar's number even if you're not familiar with the name of it. (I wasn't until recently.):

Dunbar's Number

It's a proposed relationship between the size of a primate's neocortex and the number of individuals "with whom one can maintain stable social relationships -- relationships in which an individual knows who each person is and how each person relates to every other person." In other words, the size of the primate brain controls the maximum number of community members whom you can really "know." For human beings, this number is estimated at about 150. I first came across this concept in an article originally called "The Law of Monkey." Unfortunately, that formerly clean, plain-text essay is now available only (as far as I could find) as a headache-inducing, badly formatted page on the Cracked website:

What Is the Monkeysphere?

The author begins with the example of a pet monkey. How many pet monkeys could you accumulate before they became, as he puts it, just a faceless "sea of monkey" whose separate members you couldn't care about as individuals? "We each have a certain circle of people who we think of as people. . . .Those who exist outside that core group of a few dozen people are not people to us. They're sort of one-dimensional bit characters."

This attitude doesn't make us sociopathic or in any sense evil. According to the Dunbar's Number hypothesis, it arises from an inescapable limitation of our brains. It explains the reason for the phenomenon described in the quotation at the top of the page: "One death is a tragedy. One million deaths is a statistic."

The author of the essay imagines the reader protesting, "So I'm supposed to suddenly start worrying about six billion strangers? That's not even possible!" No, it's not, at least not in the emotional sense we care about people we know well. One of my idols, C. S. Lewis, writes somewhere that the modern world's global news media constantly inundate us with disasters we can't do much of anything about. Our brains aren't designed to cope with that flood of information about the plights of strangers. (And he was writing long before satellite news services and the internet.) As a Christian author, he didn't view this limitation as rephrehensible, just as a fact. We have a duty to help other people as far as our personal situations allow, not to shoulder the burdens of the entire world single-handedly.

Of course, as rational rather than purely instinctual beings, we do often manage to rise above that limitation and care about people we don't know, in an intellectual even if not an emotional way. Virtues, including concern for others, consist of choices, not the vagaries of feelings that ebb and flow. While emotion may generate the ignition spark, deliberate choice provides the fuel for the long haul. I feel sad for the people in Gaza and Ukraine. But it's rationality, not emotion, that keeps me donating to Episcopal Relief and Development. Religious and charitable organizations, however, often try to augment this rational awareness with emotional appeals. From the earliest years of the Christian movement, as demonstrated in Paul's epistles, the church taught members to think of fellow believers as sisters and brothers. Charities, rather than restricting their messages to generalizations about refugees, starving children, homeless people, or abused animals, also send us pictures of cute, sad-eyed kids, puppies, and kittens.

Pictures alone, though, don't make the strongest impact. Whether in electronic or snail-mail solicitations, they're usually accompanied by stories. Messages from charities introduce us to real, particular families, children, and animals. Stories, whether factual or fictional, build empathy. Think of what UNCLE TOM'S CABIN did for the anti-slavery cause, BLACK BEAUTY for animal welfare, or Upton Sinclair's THE JUNGLE for food safety. The power of stories to generate empathy makes them vital to the life of the human species.

Margaret L. Carter

Please explore love among the monsters at Carter's Crypt.

The Power of Stories

The blog of fantasy author Deborah J. Ross, "In Troubled Times," includes a post on the healing function of stories:

How Stories Save Us

She's writing here mainly about true stories, the sharing of our personal experiences, both storytelling and "story-listening." Stories "can heal and transform us" and "also become beacons of hope." Shaping experience into a narrative structure brings patterns out of "seeming chaos." "No matter how scattered or flawed our lives may appear, as we tell our stories, we gain something." Storytelling helps us realize "even tragedies have order and consequence."

Ross also reflects on the power of stories to inspire empathy. We feel a bond with characters we can care about. At this point she brings up the effect of fictional characters on readers. "Hopeful stories provide an antidote to fear-driven stories," a principle that applies to both real-life narratives and imaginary ones. The strongest such narratives have the potential to "create a bridge of empathy, even with people who appear to be 'on the other side' of arguments."

I'm especially interested in how this process works with imaginative creations -- stories and characters effective enough to inspire what Tolkien calls "secondary belief" (a step beyond mere "suspension of disbelief"). Empathy reminds me of "mirror neurons," which activate in our own brains when we witness someone else performing an action or displaying an emotion:

Mirror Neurons

Mirror neurons can "help explain how and why we 'read' other people's minds and feel empathy for them." A neuroscientist quoted in that article says, "This neural mechanism is involuntary and automatic. . . . with it we don't have to think about what other people are doing or feeling, we simply know. It seems we're wired to see other people as similar to us, rather than different. . . . At the root, as humans we identify the person we're facing as someone like ourselves." There seems no reason why we shouldn't react this way to characters in novels as well as people in the primary world.

In AN EXPERIMENT IN CRITICISM, C. S. Lewis declares that fiction enables us to share the viewpoints of others, not only people different from us, but nonhuman creatures as well, and not only sapient species such as elves or extraterrestrials, but plants, animals, maybe even stars or rocks. "In reading great literature," he writes, "I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see." In our experiences of stories, we can recognize entities very unlike us as "someone like ourselves."

Ross connects experiences of viewpoint-sharing and empathy with positive stories, which she maintains can counter "fearmongering" and thereby bring about concrete change in a troubled world. Let's hope so.

Margaret L. Carter

Please explore love among the monsters at Carter's Crypt.

Leave Them Wanting More?

Here's an essay by Cory Doctorow about fiction, movies, and games giving audiences what they need instead of what they want, or think they want:

Against Lore

Writers hijack the reader's "empathic response. . . . A storyteller who has successfully captured the audience has done so by convincing their hindbrains to care about the tribulations of imaginary people." Part of accomplishing this trick consists of drawing the reader or viewer into collaborating with the creator, so to speak. Our minds ruminate on what might happen next, how the fictional crisis will be resolved, and how the writer will pull it off. The tension builds, to be released when the outcome fulfills, exceeds, or subverts our expectations in a satisfying way.

"Your mind wants the tension to be resolved ASAP, but the pleasure comes from having that desire thwarted. . . . You don't give the audience what it wants, you give it what it needs." What fun would a fantasy roleplaying game be if every monster could be killed in one blow? Who would want to know the killer in a murder mystery in advance (on first reading, at least -- I've read many detective novels with pleasure over and over, because the enjoyment of a well-written mystery lies in more than learning whodunit)? Readers of romance know the hero and heroine will find fulfillment in a happily-ever-after conclusion, since that's inherent in the definition of a romance, but we want to remain in suspense until the end as to how the writer will accomplish the seemingly impossible feat of getting them together.

On one level, according to Doctorow, writers, stage magicians, con artists, and cult leaders are all doing the same thing. "Getting us to care about things that don't matter is how novels and movies work, but it's also how cults and cons work." They "leave blanks" for the audience (or mark) to fill in. They don't tell us everything; rather, they privide gaps for our imaginations to work. Horror mavens often note that the monster in the reader's mind usually exceeds anything the writer or filmmaker can reveal on the page or screen.

According to Doctorow, the skilled creator or performer "delights in denying something to the audience, who, in turn, delights in the denial. Don't give the audience what they want, give them what they need. What your audience needs is their own imagination." As far as that statement goes, I agree with his analysis. He makes lots of cogent points. I emphatically part ways with him, however, when he presents an argument against supplying too much "lore." Why do "series tend to go downhill"? First off, he states this alleged problem like a universal truth. To the contrary, in my view, many series just keep getting better, as the format allows for expansion and exploration of the fictional world. Barbara Hambly's Benjamin January historical mystery novels offer only one example of several I could mention. He applauds the fact that, "The first volume in any series leaves so much to the imagination" and the background elements "are all just detailed enough that your mind automatically ascribes a level of detail to them, without knowing what that detail is." No real argument there. If the author does a good job, we're eager to learn more about the setting and characters, and our minds are "churning with all the different bits of elaborate lore that will fill in those lacunae and make them all fit together." But Doctorow proposes that an author's filling in those "lacunae" is usually a bad thing.

He insists, "A story whose loose ends have been tidily snipped away seems like it would be immensely satisfying, but it's not satisfying –- it's just resolved," and "Lore is always better as something to anticipate than it is to receive. The fans demand lore, but it should be doled out sparingly. Always leave 'em wanting more." Well, a fictional work literally following this principle would leave me feeling cheated. When I start a new Barbara Hambly mystery, the first thing I do is flip to the back looking for the author's afterword and am slightly let down if there isn't one. I've reread the appendices to S. M. Stirling's alternate history PESHAWAR LANCERS more often than I've reread the novel itself. I want the monster to be numinous and enigmatic for much of the story, sure, but by the end I want a clear look at it. I want to know its origin, strengths, and weaknesses. I enjoy the detailed description of Wilbur Whateley after his death in Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror." In an SF story, if there are aliens I want to know all about their biology and culture. Politics aside, my major gripe with J. K. Rowling is her failure to deliver that guidebook to the Harry Potter universe she kept promising. Her worldbuilding appears sloppily ad hoc, a problem the snippets on the Pottermore site didn't fix.

Maybe this tendency on my part comes from having begun my professional career in literary analysis rather than fiction? (I started writing, though, as an aspiring horror author. Does any teenager, no matter how bookish, aspire to be a literary critic? But I DID always want more backstory, more delving into the mind of the "monster.") Or it could be just a quirk of my personality. How do you feel about lore? Do you avidly read guidebooks to your favorite authors' series? Or do you prefer some facets of the stories to stay unexplained?

Margaret L. Carter

Please explore love among the monsters at Carter's Crypt.

Types of Telepathy

In reading THE SCIENCE OF STAR TREK, by Mark Brake, I'm naturally reminded of Vulcan telepathy (not discussed much if at all in this book, though). I don't recall the scope and nature of Spock's telepathic power being strictly defined in the original series. For complete access to the consciousness of another, Vulcans must perform a mind meld. From the episode with the alien Horta, we know language poses no barrier. Spock comprehends the thoughts of aliens through mind melds even if the other species aren't humanoid. However, he seems to exercise some limited form of telepathy without melding; in one later episode, we witness him silently "making a suggestion" to a humanoid antagonist who's not mentally on guard. The "Empath" episode introduces a young woman whose species, if she's typical, is mute. Rather than truly telepathic, they're empathic, sensing emotions but not thoughts. It seems unlikely that this species could have a technologically advanced culture, with no ability to communicate precise concepts, especially abstract ones.

Some theories of telepathy assume the participants must share a language for mutual understanding. Others postulate a universal mental "language" so that access to someone's thoughts automatically allows total comprehension. The title character of "The Mindworm," C. M. Kornbluth's classic psychic vampire tale, can hear the surface thoughts of everybody near him but can understand them only if the subject is mentally verbalizing in a language he knows (a limitation that proves his undoing when he clashes with Eastern European immigrants who recognize him from their native folklore).

Does a telepath "hear" only what the subject is thinking of at the moment or delve at will into all the contents of the person's mind? If the former, can you mask your secrets by deliberately thinking of something else? The telepath in Spider Robinson's VERY BAD DEATHS, so sensitive to the clamor of other people's minds that he lives as a hermit, picks up only surface thoughts. In Robert Heinlein's TIME FOR THE STARS, the telepathic twins "just talk," communicating silently in much the same way they do aloud. Trying to open themselves totally to each other's minds produces chaotic confusion, like being inside someone else's dream, so they don't bother.

On the other hand, some fictional telepaths can rummage through people's minds and quickly learn everything about the subject's past and present. Trying to conceal anything from a psychic with this power by simply thinking of pink elephants would be futile.

Here's a big question that I've never seen addressed, except implicitly in the STAR TREK "Empath" episode: Would a completely telepathic species have a language at all? It seems to me that they wouldn't have a reason to evolve it naturally. On the other hand, for any kind of advanced civilization to develop, surely they would have to invent language sooner or later. They would need a system of writing in order to keep records. They would need a way to communicate at long distance. Even if they got along without speech, surely written language would be a prerequisite for complex societies and any but the most rudimentary technology. It wouldn't evolve naturally, however. Geniuses among them would have to create it, as cultures on Earth invented mathematical notation. A first-contact premise of interstellar explorers from Earth meeting extraterrestrials whose only form of language is written, to whom audible speech is an alien concept, would make an exciting, challenging story.

Margaret L. Carter

Carter's Crypt