Sputterpub's Blog

I object. I have a complaint. I may not have any right to voice it, but that’s never shut me up before.

I think I understand how evolution works. Natural selection has made sense to me since I first heard of it as a youngster. It’s no longer a theory; I even tested it myself when I constructed a “learning” machine for junior high science fair. My project became a tic-tac-toe expert by losing the ability to make losing moves. In other words, only winning moves survived to play again, so after a short while, the system “learned” to make no losing moves. It was like my matchboxes were programmed, designed by a creator to win, but the truth was that the survivor process did it all.

Clearly, evolution was, is and will be. It’s a wonderful system, but brutal. Elegant. But maybe not right.

The problem is this. The goal of evolution (not deliberate, probably, but real nonetheless) clashes with the goal of human cognition.

Selection rewards expediency. The fastest, the strongest, the most clever are the creatures who live to raise progeny. There is no evolutionary reward for wisdom, grace, or fineness.

Meanwhile, our brains seem stuck on causality and progress. We long for a story where effect follows cause. We want good narrative. But what the narrative always contains is a character, a protagonist, who is flawed and who through the action learns and develops. We all love the story of the prodigal son. We’re suckers for the kid who after a rough patch begins working “to potential.” The truth is, we find angels boring.

But natural selection doesn’t favor characters who develop. Sexual selection doesn’t either. We’re all locked in a process that rewards the slash-and-burn hero, when what we really long for is the wisdom of the (often celibate) sage.

This is a jarring clash. If God is behind this evolution routine, then maybe S/He needs to tweak the machine.

Dad advised us not to take too many notes in school. He told us about his college days, sitting in a lecture hall, surrounded by other students who were trying to write down everything the professor said. They ended up with a lovely collection of notes, but they had trouble passing the tests. That’s because they paid more attention to their note-taking than to the lecture.

Instead, he advised, sit up straight and pay attention. Watch the teacher and listen. When appropriate, write down the phrase or two that will bring back the experience, later.

When it came to studying for exams, all Dad had to do was review his notes and remember the lecture. The voluminous note-takers, on the other hand, had reams of their own writing to read, and no clear memory of being present in the class.

He taught us similarly about marking in textbooks. We never used highlighters – as Dad pointed out, people who use those pens tend to mark most of the book, again abandoning the student to a sea of undistinguished text to review for end-of-class contests. If you read for comprehension instead of trying to grab every sentence, if you don’t mark the book except to flag a page or two, or jot down a marginal summary of argument, then you can capture the book’s message without having to regurgitate the whole thing.

I think now what Dad was discussing was how to use your brain. I think he was skirting a 3D subject I’m contemplating lately. We’ve all heard of the left and right lobes. But there’s a front and back too. Consciousness and the subconscious. There are ways to harness those areas and put them to work for you.

If you’re trying to learn new vocabulary, for example, the trick is to make flash cards. The act of writing the vocabulary on the cards begins the memorization process. Then run through your cards right before bed. You’ll find that your brain works on them while you sleep.

I had lunch a few months ago with a friend, and she told me how exciting it had been for her to attend a TED talk, live.

I can’t remember whom she saw, but she glowed with the recent experience. She reported that the speaker began by referring to a classic philosophical question. It wasn’t the prisoner’s dilemma but it was nearly as familiar, and of course it evoked thought and provided perspective.

She said the speaker asked the audience to indicate how many had an opinion about the philosophical question, and almost no hands went up. He asked how many had opinions about their cellphone features and contracts. The auditorium sprouted a field of raised hands.

My interlocutor then looked at me, meaningfully. I sputtered. “That’s a form of manipulation!” I choked out around my wine. “Really. It’s not fair.”

“What do you mean? I thought the point he made was brilliant.”

“Look: it would be lovely if we were all thoughtful and had philosophical opinions and a yen for wisdom. Of course. But do such attributes contribute to one’s survival success? I don’t think so. Whereas it might be important – what kind of gear you have – in an emergency.

“Viewed that way,” I continued (I was on a roll), “it’s not at all surprising that everyone would be plugged into gear and commodities, and not so much into truth and wisdom. I’m not accusing that audience. But I may be indicting God.”

She had no recourse but to drink her own wine.

Most of the time, if you say “You’re wrong” to someone, you just get his back up. Even if you make it funny (“R-O-N-G: wrong!” my dad used to declare), the accused gets accused, gets defensive, argues or pouts and probably shouts.

But if you can find a way that’s fresh, aim a light that illuminates differently, then you have a chance that the wrongdoer will perceive himself in the act. Then there’s a shot at correction.

I’ll tell you an extreme example. Once upon a time, every tax-qualified retirement plan was sent to the IRS for an approval letter. It was part of my accidental career to submit plans for those letters, and there came a day (17 years ago) when I received about 45 approval letters in one delivery.

As my eyes scanned the mail I started to notice mistakes. Some letters referenced the wrong effective date, most contained inappropriate caveats, a few had both and some had other problems.

I was supposed to write to the IRS about each flawed letter, respectfully requesting a corrected version. But that’s tiresome, even with editing tools. I thought it would be more satisfying to present them all together.

It turned out to be more effective, too. I know from experience that the individual letter request almost always succeeds eventually, but never produces any result except the individual correction.

I sent the IRS a short courteous missive, in which I described the mail-opening experience. I observed that the letter flaws fell into a few categories, and I included a spreadsheet. My enclosure listed all the bad letters by name and case number, and then had several “flaw” columns where I put an X if applicable. The visual impact was strong.

Yes I received corrected letters. In a batch. But I was also asked to help the IRS perfect the letter-screening routine they then instituted. Like I said: satisfying.