Through the fictional autistic narrator, Christopher, author Mark Haddon introduces a vital theme, not only apparent throughout The Curious Incident of the Dog in Night-time, but also evident in the non-fictional accounts of autism provided by Oliver Sacks (throughout his Anthropologist on Mars). The theme is that of Occam’s razor, which (in Christopher’s translation from latin) states, “no more things should be presumed to exist than are absolutely necessary” (Haddon 90).
There is certainly evidence enough to argue that Christopher’s mental state is an illustration of this tenet. For one, he (like other autistic individuals) considers the non-goal-oriented chit-chat that so greatly comprises human interaction as unnecessary: “I didn’t reply to this either because Mrs. Alexander was doing what it called chatting, where people say things to each other which aren’t questions and answers and aren’t connected” (Haddon 40). [As Feinberg describes this phenomenon, albeit rather bluntly: individuals with Asperger’s (the less-severe and more functional form of autism), “…cannot see the point in social chit-chat. They do not ming having a discussion…on a particular issue in order to establish the truth of the matter…But just a casual, superficial chat? Why bother? And what on earth about? How?...it is both too hard and pointless” (Feinberg 172). Perhaps a more neutral and reflective tone is found in Oliver Sacks’ description of the same sentiments (or lack there of) in Temple Grandlin: “By professional standards, she is extraordinarily successful, but other human interactions—social, sexual—she cannot ‘get’” (Sacks 260). Indeed, the emotional understanding and communication that serves as the basis for such social interactions (be it chit-chat or deep empathic exchange) rests on an individual’s ability to share the emotions of the other person, an ability that is also lacking in Sacks’ other true-life character, Stephen: “He seemed not to understand different emotions and would laugh if one of the children had a temper tantrum or screamed” (201).
In turn, Christopher’s direct, simplistic thinking is another example of the reductionist motif. He does not waste time in mincing words or thoughts, but states and attends to things without the presumed prefrontal cortical inhibition that causes otherwise neuro-normative individuals to hold their tongues: i.e. when Christopher explains to Mrs. Alexander why he does not feel sad about his mother’s (supposed) death: “I don’t feel sad…because mother is dead. And because Mr. Shears isn’t around anymore. So I would be feeling sad about something that isn’t real and doesn’t ecist. And that would be stupid” (Haddon 75). Or, when Christopher shows up at his mother’s house and genuinely asserts to Mr. Shears that “I’m going to live with you because Father killed Wellington with a garden fork and I’m frightened of him” (192). Likewise, Oliver Sacks’ depiction of Temple’s lack of “…diffidence or embarrassment (emotions unknown to her)” (Sacks 262) while displaying her bedroom and squeeze-machine “…with a complete absence of inhibition or hesitation” (265). Thus the regular tentativeness, humbleness, or self-consciousness that might be expected of a non-autistic individual is not apparent. Such is the case, as well, with Steven Wiltshire who “…seemed to have no sense of either vanity or modesty, but showed [Oliver Sacks] his drawings, commented on them, in an ingenuous way and with total absence of self-consciousness” (Sacks 205).
A further embodiment of the theme present in Occam’s razor is the presumed “hypertrophy of a single mental faculty” (Sacks 193) to the exclusion of all others that characterize savant talents. Inherent in this distinction is a cleavage of all (or most) other mental faculties that unrelated (and thus unnecessary to) the hypertrophized faculty—i.e. verbal/communicative skills, emotional competence, etc. Christopher compares this to the otherwise normative state of mind, wherein “most people are almost blind and they don’t see most things and there is lots of spare capacity in their heads and it is filled with things which aren’t connected and are silly, like ‘I’m worried that I might have left the gas cooker on” (Haddon 144). Thus, at least to Christopher, such non-autistic minds to not cleave the unnecessary or surperfluous.
It is crucial to note, however, that to define “necessary” or its counterpart, “superfluous” is entirely subjective. Indeed, Christopher sees what others may deem necessary as silly, or stupid (in his words); while most non-autistic individuals would deem his retention of every detail when looking at a farm field, for instance, as equally unnecessary—disadvantageous, in fact. Thus it can be argued that perspective is inherently correct.
This, of course, leads into the discrepancy over whether savantism is a deficit or a gift. Most would see it as a disadvantage, if it is to be accompanied by social deficits and interpersonal dysfunctional; however, as Temple asserts, “If I could snap my fingers and be nonautistic, I would not…Autism is par of who I am” (Sacks 291); “It is possible that persons with bits of these [autistic] traits are more creative, or possible even geniuses…If science eliminated these genes, maybe the whole world would be taken over by accountants” (292).
In summation, then, one individual’s take on Occam’s razor may be entirely different than another’s: unnecessary and necessary (and the removal of and/or implementation of each) are highly dependant upon perspective—which, itself, is colored by an individual’s predisposition, emotional interior, exterior, and cognitive capacities. The very insistence that deficits such as autism are unnecessary can even be lumped into this discrepancy.
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To complement your Occam's razor perspective-- the way most people today express that law is "the simplest explanation is the most likely one". If you consider it with those words, rather than in terms of "necessary" and "superfluous", you have a whole new way of looking at the difference of autistics. To Christopher, for example, the simplest explanations are what the neurotypical would consider ludicrously conflated arrangements of data. Though he does indeed strip situations and analyses down to what he feels necessary, he does this using his specific way of "interfacing" with the world, which in many ways is far more complex than most people's.
ReplyDelete“Except I can’t remember anything before I was about 4 because I wasn’t looking at things in the right way before then, so they didn’t get recorded properly” (Haddon, 77).
ReplyDeleteSomething that I found fascinating in The Curious Incident of a Dog in the Night-Time is Haddon’s use of Christopher, an autistic-child, as the narrator. The reader is drawn into Christopher’s world which is filled with facts and uncertainty. I think that what makes this novel so likeable is that Haddon is able to put a face to the word autism. He is able to humanize Asperger Syndrome by making the entirety of the novel an actual product of the illness. Christopher sees life as being about facts and yes and no questions. He gradually alludes to the fact that he does not possess a neurotypical mind, but he himself never says it because to him, his mind sees “things in the right way.” Because the novel is told through his eyes, Christopher allows the reader to notice his “differences,” but only through his speech and storytelling. He recognizes his differences because he is told them by Siobhan and his father, but to Christopher, his autism defines who he is. He was not “normal” before he began to show symptoms.
It makes me very happy when an inborn difference like Asperger's can be thought of as a viable and even desirable facet of the spectrum of humanity. I think one of the worst traits of society as a whole is the reflexive rejection of anything or anyone at all unusual or confusing. I love Asperger's remark, “For success in science or art, a dash of autism is essential” (Page 2).
ReplyDeleteMy best friend of more than 10 years might be a great example of that principle. Much of our friendship has been based on being social outsiders. We met at a summer camp called the Academic Talent Development Program, essentially a camp for kids who would rather be in a classroom learning about electromagnetism than play kickball (to borrow an example from Page). And even at ATDP, we were loners for the first few days, until we found each other. We became immediate friends and spent what seemed like the rest of the summer plotting out roll-playing games in our heads.
The social environment of school was miserable for both of us, and it continued to get worse year after year. My social life took a strong upward turn halfway through high school when I became seriously involved in theater, but my best friend never had such a transformative social experience. He is comfortable around me, but he has told me for years of his anxiety at social gatherings and parties and of his difficulty in reading the subtleties of indirect communication. For most of his life, he has had few truly close friends and has been tormented by social anxiety. Over all, he has many qualities that suggest mild Asperger's Syndrome, with which he recently gave himself a speculative diagnosis.
In addition to his social awkwardness and physical and behavioral tics, he is one of the most intelligent and creative people I know. He has been writing and playing music with regimental persistence for several years while breezing through top-notch schools with near-perfect grades. This semester he decided to leave the Ivy-League university where he was academically successful but socially lost to finish the novel he began writing last Fall. A few weeks ago he broke 300 pages and the midpoint of his plot.
If I can follow Simon Baron-Cohen's theory of the autism spectrum, I would say that my friend is significantly higher than average but perhaps lower than Tim Page, the author of "Parallel Play" in the New Yorker. I think his gifts outweigh his deficits many times over (especially since his self-diagnosis has allowed him to modify his own behavior and thinking considerably). What intrigues me is the blurry line that signifies the boundary between "unusual but gifted" and mentally/emotionally handicapped. My friend is certainly on the former side, but many others are not so clearly defined.
Something I was hoping we could discuss in class is the difficulty of defining just what autism is. Sacks wrestles with this, but doesn't reach any clear conclusions. The idea that autistic people lack the capacity for empathy seems to me wrong. My own experience with autistic people, and this week's reading, lead me to believe that the "lack of empathy" definition misses the mark. Grandin has an incredible capacity for empathy--with animals--but also shows a deep, albeit abstract, sense of other peoples' inner states, to the degree that she can envy what they experience. Envy and longing require some "theory of mind" and empathy--if these were truly absent, one couldn't function as Grandin does. Small amounts of empathy and "theory of mind" are required for everyday interactions, most of which are well within the reach of people with Asperger's. Perhaps it is more a deficiency of introjection--projecting others' traits into yourself; that is, temporarily feeling like someone, stepping into that person's shoes, as opposed to feeling for someone--than an absence of empathy. The "lack of empathy" definition disturbs me partly because I can't empathize with not having empathy; it doesn't make sense to me; I don't see how it's possible. The only people I can imagine who might truly be devoid of empathy are psychopaths. I'm hoping we can talk about other possible, more comprehensive, more precise ways of defining autism.
ReplyDeleteI’m thinking about stories and mental conditions and their similarities and all that. It’s pretty evident: a story (especially a novel?) presents new ways of perceiving the world. That’s especially true of all these (fictionalized or not) first person narratives- the stories act almost like miniature neurological disorders- infecting and effecting your mind. Each sentence is like a synaptic snap that you can’t control. You’ve read it; you’ve thought it.
ReplyDeleteI mean: Asperger’s alters the information that gets relayed to your brain; so too does a story. It’s an interesting point of differentiation between novels and film: novels overtly control one’s perceptions. They allow one to experience almost the opposite of Christopher’s experience: they select specific details and events and present them to the reader to construct a larger narrative. They streamline and select, moreso, I think, than other forms of art.
(Note: This is a continual struggle for Christopher: the question of what information is necessary and beneficial to present to the reader. Same for the brain: what information is prudent to send on over? Too much and you’ll end up keeling over in a train station.)
Framing the piece as a murder mystery novel (at least initially; I must admit, I wish they’d kept up that device as the work continued) is a perfect description for the autistic experience (and perhaps for the majority of neurological disorders?). After all, these experiences are ones that force those afflicted (though this is surely too negative a term) to decode the world. Christopher is engaged in a continual detective game on people’s everyday intentions...
I think of the fantastic quote: “Prime numbers are what is left when you have taken all the patterns away. I think prime numbers are like life. They are very logical but you could never work out the rules, even if you spent all your time thinking about them.” (pg 12) Christopher deduces patterns, he believes there’s a fundamental pattern to everything, even something as seemingly random as the selection of prime numbers (remember: there’s no formula for determining which numbers are prime). The world, people, the human brain, is simply an incredibly complex logical pattern that refuses to be cracked, and muddles your mind all up. Looks like we’re all in need of a detective.
The murder mystery tropes come in handy as well due to the fact that, as was discussed by Sacks as well as Haddon), autistic individuals favor a central structure to base themselves around. And a structure need not have a complex set of Cartesian logic to it; you can like red and hate yellow simply because it gives you a system to assign values to, potentially no less ridiculous than other modern value systems (Are “good” and “bad” the same as “red” and “yellow” when it comes down to it?).
(And of course detective work and autism go hand in hand; heck, it seems pretty evident that Sherlock Holmes himself had at least a mild autistic condition.)
There’re more questions about necessity... and intimacy, and the worth of social relationships. We so favor communal sensibilities (and why not, we’re communal creatures) that when someone doesn’t necessarily exhibit these, we always seem to end up asking, as Oliver Sacks sometimes does, “Where is the soul?” The relationship with the stars, with the rats, with the self; these relationships can certainly be just as valid.