Inherent Instability

One of the major themes throughout Richard Powers’ Echo Maker is that of “the self” as a fluid and constantly changing entity. Each character challenges the assumption that members of our species—biologically endowed, as we are, with the prefrontal cortical advantage of self-concepts and self-awareness—are inherently coherent, consistent, or predictable. In Mark’s case, his very disorder (Capgras) is a direct reversal of such supposition, as are the unravelings of Karin’s and Weber’s respective personalities, David’s stoic and tolerant perspective, and Barbara Gillespie’s personal history (morphing from high-functioning journalist to mysterious nurse’s aid). Frequently, in fact, Powers addresses the notion that it may be delusional to believe in the constancy of self, or the qualities that define us as individuals. As Weber reflects, “our sense of physical embodiment [does] not come from the body itself. Several layers of brain [stands] in between, cobbling up from raw signals the reassuring illusion of solidity” (Powers 258). Or, as Karin sums it up: “the whole race suffer[s] from Capgras” (Powers 347).
Interestingly, each character’s “self” seems to be primarily determined by its relation to others (either another person or another thing). Mark, for instance, gains his identity as his sister’s brother, as his father’s son, as an accident victim, as a sufferer of Capgras, as an employee at IBP, as a buddy of Rupp and Cain, etc. Karin, likewise, gains her identity as Mark’s sister, as the daughter of Marks’ parents (her parents), as a caretaker, as someone who has been unfaithful in relationships, as a former smoker, and so on. Weber’s, in turn, is based upon his research, his publications, his relation to his wife (Sylvie), his holistic stance in neuroscience, and his role as a father (amongst other things). Thus whenever any of these external or “other” entities change, so the “self” that is reliant upon them for its definition changes. In the broadest and most apparent situation, Mark’s accident alters not only his perception of reality and his functional capabilities, but also alters his sister’s perception of reality and her functional capabilities. The latter alteration is a direct byproduct of Mark’s personal alteration—which, ultimately (as the reader discovers) has been precipitated by the entrance of Barbara Gillespie (an “other”) into an element of Mark’s self (in this case, his extended peripersonal space, just beyond his car on a highway in Nebraska). Simply put, the “self” is interdependent upon the “other.”
This notion fits in quite well with Nancy Cantor’s and Hazel Markus’s concept of a “working self,” as outlined by Ledoux in Synaptic Self. As the author summarizes, the working self is “…a subset of the universe of possible self-concepts that can occur at any one time—it is the subset that is available to the thinking conscious person at a particular moment, and is determined in part by memory and expectation, and in part by the immediate situation” (Ledoux 256). In turn, the manner by which certain motives are acted upon (and the manner by which certain goals are pursued) contribute to this sense of self, inasmuch as they endow a person with agency—or the free will to direct his/her actions. (As a mundane example, a person with a preference for dark chocolate is a separate individual from a person who dislikes dark chocolate and prefers hard candy, inasmuch as each—when a craving arises—pursues a different entity: the one with the relative incentive salience. Given some conditioning, however, such tastes are surely subject to change: if the dark chocolate, say, is mixed with ipecac, a taste aversion may develop that steers the former chocolate-lover in the opposite direction. Likewise for the hard candy fan)
Another similarity between Ledoux’s and Powers’ takes on the self is the acknowledgment of innate mechanisms that seem to underlie the more fluid and changeable personal identity. As Ledoux explains, one neural correlate of behavior is rooted in the dopaminergic pathways that exist in organisms whose brains possess an amygdala, tegmentum, accumbens, pallidum, and motor cortex. At the presentation of a novel conditioned stimulus (in this case, one that seems threatening—i.e. a tone associated with a painful shock), the lateral nucleus of the amygdala is activated, “…which, in turn, activates the central nucleus of the amygdala…[whose outputs] initiate the expression of species-typical defense responses (like freezing and associated autonomic changes) as well as activate arousal systems in the brain stem” (Ledoux 248). These structures, and their neurotransmitters (dopamine being the most important here) are universal, much like the postulated primary incentives and the respective drives to acquire them (i.e. food, sex, water—in no particular order). Thus, in contrast with the inconsistency of the less concrete self (i.e. the personality, labels one adopts, one’s individual preferences or secondary incentives like fame, money, or dark chocolate), the system that gives rise to basic responses and evolutionarily conserved functions (i.e. defensive reactions or defensive actions is quite consistent. Thanks to the central and basal amygdalar nuclei (amongst other structures), there exists an innate, unchanging response system, regardless of the personality built on top of, in reaction to, or as a byproduct of its functioning.
This notion of an inherent sameness or consistency as the basis upon which fluidity is constructed is also apparent in Powers’ writing. Most obviously, it is evident in his depiction of the Cranes’ migratory patterns: “Something in the birds retraces a route laid down centuries before” (Powers 4), wherein he underlines the innate (yet unconscious) tendency to return to some sort of root or home base. This is also apparent in his human characters, as Karin (for one) constantly complains of Nebraska’s inescapability and her futile efforts to escape her homeland (while also acknowledging her repeatedly unfaithful endeavors with David and Robert). In fact, Powers seems to point out benefits of a slight reversion to this earlier, ingrained, and unconscious behavior, frequently noting the advantage of losing the gauze of identity. Often, he casts Mark’s ostensible reversion in a positive light: “with an animal precision [Karin’s] had lost, his ears picked up stray pieces of surrounding conversations and wove them together” (Powers 37); “Damage had somehow unblocked him, removing the mental categories that interfered with truly seeing. Assumption no longer smoothed out observation…The lower the brain, the slower the fade. Love, in an earthworm, might never extinguish at all” (Powers 198). Perhaps this viewpoint is best expressed in Weber’s conclusion that “older creatures still inhabited us, and would never vacate” (Powers 231).
Both Ledoux and Powers point to several aspects of personhood: the malleability of the self, its inexistence without an “other,” and the innate, implicit basis upon which this fragile structure is seated. Thus individuation, in the human sense of personal identity, is not negated; rather, our uniqueness—our senses of self—seem to rest upon a firm and consistent base. This base, our innate evolutionarily conserved mechanisms (i.e. fear reaction and action, incentive sensitization, etc.) provides us with a secure jumping off point from which we can construct the less reliable and inherently unstable (yet explicit) selves—selves that we strive to establish continuity in, against all odds (even if that means confabulating from time to time).