Cognitive Poetics and the Dilemma of Writing

"Who are you?"

I should clarify that this is not an existential question thrown at your eyes to prod your soul. No. It is an earnest question that I feel I must always ask before I begin to write. I cannot see you and we most likely have never met, nor will we ever. I can take no pleasure in watching your eyebrows rise, or a dimple appear on your cheek as you deny me the smile that would otherwise be my full reward. And although you could, if sufficiently touched, respond by leaving me a comment in the text box below, the chances are that this is the first and only step on a longer journey of mutual acquaintance which we will never walk together...

So in reality, this is a question addressed to myself, and one which I badly need to answer if I am to write at all; for I have lately come to realise that the burning motivation I have to write, and the intense sense of purpose it brings to me, are themselves only the result of the delight I take in connecting with another mind. 

To wit, an anecdote...

Last nite I met old friend whom I had not seen in around 15 years. Naturally, it could have been an awkward evening of stunted conversation and disappointment as we both realised how little we now had in common. As it turned out, it was a delight, mostly because she remains a very good conversationalist: entertaining, attentive and empathic. 

In fact, so caught up were we in the simple, yet sadly rare pleasure of conversing, that much of the evening was spent alternately defining, praising and mourning the loss of this art. We spoke for example about a common gripe, which is when a conversation begins, but is very soon after interrupted or abandoned completely before you feel you have had a chance thoroughly to explore it. I must confess that when my mother and sister are together they excel in this sport, driving me crazy as a result. Certainly it is one of my pet-hates to have to skim pebble-like over the surface of an issue, able only to utter trite truisms; but beyond this, and here perhaps I can only speak for myself, there is also something downright depressing about being denied the possibility to make a more profound connection with another mind. It only takes a couple of thwarted attempts to build a deeper and more solid foundation to another mind for me to find myself reeling in, packing up and gazing out.

When I reflect upon the intense pleasure I feel in making these connections, I am reminded of a very interesting body of literary theory which I only stumbled across when I was preparing for the defence of my Ph.D. Most basically, Cognitive Poetics seeks to explain the literary with reference to the findings of Cognitive Psychology, which in itself is informed by evolutionary theory. Its starting point is a series of simple questions: Why do we read literature? Why are we interested in characters that don't exist? Why do we take pleasure in the intricate nuances of meaning generated by a proficient poet? The answer, cognitive theorists would have us believe, is that as a social and cooperative species, whose young require a long period of care, education and upbringing, it is of immense evolutionary advantage to humans to want to understand the minds of others. After all, if we are intrinsically motivated to empathise with other minds by a powerful sense of curiosity and pleasure, then as a species, we will stand a greater chance of collective success.

For a cognitive theorist, one of the main functions of literature is to stimulate our sense of empathy, to give us practice in perspective-taking, in imputing intentions to actions, and generally to impress upon us the rich complexity that is another mind. And all this we enjoy because it has suited evolution for millions of years that we be intrinsically rewarded for any actions which increase our ability to survive and thrive as a species.

As a relatively new paradigm, Cognitive Poetics is still finding its limits, and more traditional theorists have particular reason to resist its advance. Those of a Marxist, Post-structuralist or Psychoanalytical stripe resent its claims to draw upon the authority of 'science', a body of knowledge which they refuse to accept has a privileged status. Certainly, Cognitive Poetics does have its limits, and rather tends to efface the socio-political themes of literature. However, that said, I certainly feel that since the 90s, the humanities have suffered from a malaise brought on by the same tired old Marxist, Post-structuralist and Psychoanalytical readings of texts. In this intellectual climate, we need to embrace something radical and progressive in order to re-invigorate and re-validate our disciplines. Maybe it boils down to whether the approach of cognitive literary theorists appeals to your temperament, as William James would certainly have argued. In which case I can only speak for myself when I say that I cautiously embrace the discipline, for it chimes well with my own experience of communicating in speech and in writing.

In a sense then, a good conversationalist should be like a good author, as he or she would be defined by a cognitive theorist; that is not only an endlessly rich and diverse mind, but also an individual who constantly makes decisions at the level of discourse, lexis, sentence structure, intonation and timing to showcase this richness and diversity. Such qualities, when combined with the patience and attention required to display an authentic interest in the mind of one's interlocutor, can only serve to draw us in with curiosty and pleasure, for it is in our nature as a species to take an elemental delight in the the minds of others. 

But of course there is an essential difference between speech and writing, which brings me full circle to ponder once more my initial question. Who, indeed, are you? I cannot see you, I do not know you, and we will most likely never meet. So how can I be motivated to build a bridge to a mind which qua me does not exist?

Altruism and the limits of Darwinism

I am very fond of my neurologist friend for a number of reasons. For one thing, he is Hungarian, and therefore possessed of a unique and fascinating language as well as a devil-may-care attitude and certain weakness for hard liquor that I find so refreshing having lived among Germans now for 6 years. But I think the true source of my tender feelings for him stem from the very childlike attachment he has to people. Quite simply, it seems physically to pain him to be alone. Many's the time he has phoned me during those occasions when his girlfriend - also a doctor - has been on duty to beg for someone to accompany him while he undertakes such homely little projects as stew-making, pickling or preserving.

But despite all his homely qualities, my friend is most definitely a neurologist at heart, and tends to over-emphasise the biological or materialist influences upon human life during our regular philosophical discussions. Such was the case last week when we met for Jenga and mulled wine in a bar up in the old town. I had just talked over with him my reasons for wanting to leave the town and so had begun a general discussion on what the purpose of a life ought to be. Predictably, he answered as a life-scientist and spoke of life's purpose purely in terms of the imperative to pass on your genes and ensure the survival of your offspring.

Now it's not that I do not agree with him. In fact, I remember holding and propounding similar views myself when I first met my ex-wife back in 2002. Also, my thesis is written in the field of Inter-disciplinary Nineteenth Century Studies, and specifically the exchange of ideas between literature, theology and evolutionary biology in the post-Darwinian period. In short, not only do I know a thing or two about the evolutionary argument, I also find it very convincing... up to a point; for in my opinion, what makes humans unique in comparison to other species is the way in which we often disregard the so-called biological imperative to selfishly pass on our own genes and are motivated instead to sacrifice our own advantages and, at times, our life for others.

Now you could argue, as my neurologist friend did in fact, that we are not unique among species in our sometime tendency for self-sacrifice. True, individuals of many species use alarm calls which, in alerting other members of their species to the presence of danger, also make it much more likely that they themselves will become the quarry. But a moment’s reflection will surely impress upon you the chasm of difference between the mechanistic chirping of a marmot at the shadow of an eagle and the intrinsic motivation, year after year, to care for the sick and the elderly as so many unsung heroes and heroines in our communities currently do. Indeed, it is a testament to how complex and rationalised the motivations of such individuals are that they often spring from a system of values which for some even goes by the name of religion.

Of course, you could view the emphasis which many of the world’s religions place upon charity as itself the product of evolution, an extra-corporeal tool which serves to increase our ability to survive as a race as much perhaps as evolved immunity to some diseases. But it is important to understand that if we do go down this path of reasoning, we are merely creating the illusion of understanding charitable behaviour by appending the label ‘evolution’ to a set of processes so complex that we haven’t even begun to truly understand them.

This was how I argued with my dear friend, as his sleepy girlfriend yawned on his shoulder. “I’m almost finished honey.”, I reassured her with a smile, “Then you can go home.”. So my conclusion in a nutshell was and is this: that if you want to look for the identity of an individual, that essential part of themselves which can be ascribed to their own will and character rather than the selfish urges and drives of their race, that part of themselves which has risen above the eternally looping hum and chatter of their biology to contribute something which has real meaning, then look for what they have done for others. At the end of any human life our saving grace should be that underneath all that vanity and selfishness, there is enough love to matter.

Four things I have learned

Be positive and outgoing, other people are what is important in life so listen more than you speak and always be curious.

Don't try to control things too much, especially if they are running against you. Do what you can then change your focus and work on something that gives you pleasure.

Always have something you can look forward to, but remember too that the secret of a more lasting happiness is to get lost in the rhythms of a life lived rather than expected.

And when it comes to truth, what is true is only what is useful to you. So embrace difference and never let your philosophy harden into dogma.

The Storm Runner, or How I Ended up Spending the Night in a Swiss Mountain Tee-Pee

OK, so you're in the Swiss Alps, it's 7 pm and the end of another long day on the trail. You have just walked across a lonely and level plain studded with silver lakes and snow fields and are now switch-backing up a 2,900 m ridge between two valleys and two language communities. It is the best time of day, when the quality of the sunlight, so glorious all day, softens and takes on the gentler hues of rosy golds and pinks.

But you are a little apprehensive and walking fast. The saddle is still quite far above you and you need to get over and down onto the other side before dusk sets in. You are tired, but bouyed up by the beauty of the landscape and the anticipation of spending the coming night in the austerity of high altitude.

You eventually hit the saddle and new vistas open up. New mountains to find on the map, different contours and glaciers and onward valleys, and a chance to survey the land immediately below: another lonely level plain but this time peppered with sheep. It is still up here, the wind lazily footers about among the few blades of grass poking through the rocks before petering out in the triumph of silence.

You descend 200 m to the plain and scout out a place to pitch your tent, some place level, somewhat raised and sheltered. Before long you find a spot next to a small lake which, though a little exposed, is so picturesque that you cannot resist it. You pitch, eat a ravenous meal of bread, cheese and sausage washed down with schnapps from a small plastic bottle, and lie back on your mat to savour the exquisite views of the nearby snow capped mountains and the sweet aching pain of your feet.

The first thing you notice is the wind... it must have been slowly gaining in strength all the time you were eating but only now do you realise it is no longer the still, warm evening it had been on the ridge. A pang of anxiety as you recall the warning of storms down in the valley. You try to put it out of your head and enjoy the sound of the wind playing merry havoc with the fabric of your tent, try to recall similar evenings on Greek island beaches when the furious meltemi was at full pelt, whipping up waves and driving shards of sand hard against the nylon. Just make sure all lines are tight and all pegs are secure and you will be fine. You try to relax, but the wind is getting stronger, intermittently mastering the fabric so totally in the duration of a short, sharp gust that you feel perilously exposed.

You stick your head out and look around. Over on the other side of the ridge, a pack of battered clouds are gathering, mingling with the dusk to darken the sky and rob the earth of the welcome colours of the evening.

Your dilemma: to stay put and sit it out here at 2,700m with only 700 g of sil-nylon and a hiking pole separating you from the elements? Or to up sticks and descend 700 metres to the tree line and the shelter of the forest? It has already been a long day and you really can't face the prospect of another hour's walk, very probably under heavy rain and with lighting bolts to dodge. You lie back again, trying to convince yourself that this little tent can make it. But when another gust comes, shaking the tent poles so convincingly that they rattle and bend like garden canes, you know you have to get yourself out of there and down... and quick.

It usually takes you around twenty minutes to break camp. You do it in five. Soon, you are bounding across the plain through the thickening wind and now spats of rain, while all the while bemused looking sheep stare on, placidly, chewing the cud like it is a summer's day. You feel like laughing out loud, except that you don't. Harder and more persistent rain is falling, soaking your down jacket from the outside even as sweat soaks it from the inside. The rocks are slippy and twice you go over on your ankle in a way which would normally cause you stop dead and  hop around in pain. But you are as in a tunnel, so chock full of adrenaline that you can only focus on your next foot fall and your ultimate destination of the tree line. How far can it be now? Two hundred? Three hundred metres? At this pace another fifteen minutes? Half an hour?

It is at this point, soaked through and lung-burst, with lightning bolts crackling around you, that something huge and white looms up in front of your eyes, rain pelting down off of its smooth sloping sides.

It is a tee-pee.

You have no time to think and so hurdle the fence that surrounds it, throw yourself in through the front flap, and slither the last few feet into the interior on your belly.

You lie there for a moment as rain batters off the canvas then slowly raise your head from the hot, steaming, soggy mess of your folded arms.

There in the centre of the tee-pee is an ornate and ceremonial candle holder, all baroque twists of iron topped off with a glass casing containing a candle surrounded by rock crystals. Around the perimeter are about ten beds, arranged in a circle with their foot ends pointing toward the candle. All are emaculately dressed and ready, it seems, to receive their guests.

'Is this a cult dwelling?', you say out loud, unable quite to take it all in.

The thunder and lightning continue to crackle. The rain batters down on the canvas. You remember the vacant faces of the sheep up on the mountain, and now this extraordinary scene.

Suddenly relieved from the grip of adrenaline, and now with a keen sense that you have just burst into an incredible story, you laugh out loud.

I never did find out what that place was. I spread out my things on the floor as the rain pelted down harder onto the reassuringly thick canvas walls of the tee-pee and fell asleep. In the morning, I packed up at first light and got the hell out of there, down to the valley floor where I wandered into a hotel breakfast room, replete with gentile Swiss German guests, nursing a bruised ankle, but also an insane pride hidden in the folds of my 100 yard stare. My adventure, so new and strange, was too impossible to tell. It would need reflection, distance and a cool head to wrap the right words around it. So instead I just strutted to and from the buffet and grinned into my coffee, allowing the images to tumble past my mind's eye like rain.

Oh Liver! - A very short story

Oliver loved life. Oliver lived life. Oliver loved and lived according to no plan, bumbling through his days with a happy competence which all around him envied but never begrudged him. He was endlessly open, up for anything, and rapturously affirmative of all that came his way -- good, bad or indifferent. 

Oliver was young and had left school early. He had no head for figures, letters, books himself, but was always willing to listen if not learn. He earned his money by playing bass guitar in the popular city centre club ‘The big ‘O’’ with the up-and-coming rock band ‘One over Zero’. The band was enjoying modest success with a sound critics had described as “an eclectic aural orgasm approaching Dionysian proportions”, and “evidence that the wah-wah pedal may be a new form of life”. But Oliver had no time to read the press. After each gig Oliver’s natural good looks and easy manner would propel him effortlessly into the company of many beautiful people. They loved him on every level, as Oliver did each and every one of them -- without exception. 

As he climbed off-stage after their trade mark final song ‘If I Said This is Me, Where Would You Draw the Line?’, the body of his admirers crystallised around his presence precipitating, in that moment, the infinitude of finely honed lust which had escalated throughout the performance. And there they were. A thronging mass of worship with every body tightened in frantic attempts to touch the man. As the circle tightened, jewellery clattered onto the floor; hairstyles lovingly prepared in front of bedroom mirrors for hours before the performance were flattened; painted faces were smudged and smeared as new shoes were stamped on. Both man and woman clamoured for a part of Oliver, and he loved it.
The ritual was the same every time. There would be drinks at the bar and a futile attempt at conversation as words shot at Oliver were lost among the sensations offered by less garrulous flunkies. Then, after pleasing each and every one of his admirers by gratefully receiving all that they could give, he beckoned them leave. Out in the city streets the entourage gambolled like lambs through the traffic. If one of the number fell - as was so often the case - Oliver was the first to stop and lend his hand. His unbridled hedonistic drive somehow fortuitously linked to humility, he led the party on.

It happened to be Zoe’s flat that night and the party was already in full swing. Someone had monopolised the stereo with one of the few bootleg copies of ‘One over Zero’s’ embryonic studio tracks. Sound raged and filled the room; faces were ripped apart by smiles.

In a far corner, the lead guitarist was attempting to engage a semi-nude female in conversation. She was daubed from head to foot in green food dye and had arranged sprigs of foliage apparently at random around her scant attire. It struck the guitarist that she closely resembled a classical nymph. This interested him greatly and he was earnestly awaiting an opportunity to inquire whether she had consciously cultivated this image. But there was something about her demeanour which had as yet precluded him from asking. She had barely said a word to him since he had somewhat nervously sauntered over and had singularly failed to look him in the eye. Eventually he dismissed his curiosity and decided to engage her in chat. After all, he thought as another hypnotic bass line swelled through the room, you are at a party.

“Pete wrote some really cool lyrics to this tune... don’t you think?”

Nothing, save a hint of a smile which, he thought for a moment, could have been directed toward the mirror behind him. “Eh?”, he persisted.
The synthetic nymph’s eyes suddenly sparkled into life. Ah, a connection, he thought. She held out her arm, took his hand away from his hip, and placed it upon her breast.

“Do you feel that? That is my reaction.” she breathed.

The guitarist crinkled his brow. He suddenly felt weary and vaguely self conscious. Drawing his hand slowly away he attempted to mimic her non-commital smile. Then, as the still smiling nymph left, he studied the label on his bottle of merlot with something remarkably akin to desperation.

Meanwhile Oliver - and many others - was enjoying himself. He had, as usual, innocently found himself involved in a sexual act with a bewildering number of people. The precise details need not concern us; it suffices to say that from the outside in, it seemed clear that all were were applying themselves to increasing the overall levels of stimulation in the room. At that moment the door to this strangely silent harem was opened by a roller-skating Russian offering sundry pills to the random collection of limbs writhing upon the bed, the floor, from the window. On meeting with silence and the specific kind of indifference that arises when a dozen hedonists are involved in a number of immoral, illegal and impossible acts of mutual self enjoyment, the Russian cut a neat figure eight around two adjacent collections of flesh and left. 

The daubed nymph entered. Sliding off what remained of her clothing she searched the mass of flesh for an opening; a way in. At that moment Oliver displayed his reflexive intuition and bobbed to the surface, welcoming the nymph into the throng with a smile. He was like that. She padded slowly over to where he lay, the guitarist’s palm print still adorning her breast. Oliver saw only her smile and knew that all was well. He threw out his hand and drew her near, holding her gently to his unadorned breast. Oliver closed his eyes and all went dark. Oliver threw his head back and breathed deeply. The floor quivered with the syncopated rhythm of many bodies. Looking up at Oliver’s beautiful lips the nymph seemed to say “Who are you?”

Oliver said nothing, for Oliver could never exist.

Preparing myelf for a disappointment... or between glorious self justification and the purgatory of homelessness

Today, we finally found a flat... or maybe we didn't. It seems that the fates intend to keep us swinging between glorious self-justification and the purgatory of homelessness for a time longer...

Maria was contacted today by sms, a rare response to our long running ad on the internet, about a flat that was available in the centre of the oberstadt. Not only was it a 2 room kitchen bathroom with balcony in such a location as to raise eyebrows, but from their method of contacting us we could safely assume that this was a private deal... without the kind of competition that we have found so... inconvenient.

Being a hardened old Wohnung-nik of three months service, I could not be moved by these details and read her email of our imminent viewing with forced detachment, focussing instead on the three lessons that I still had to plan... but it looked good and I did allow myself a brief recon. of the apartment block on the way back up the road from work, learning thus that it was indeed a location worthy of fantasies of self-justification.

Maria and I met outside the flat at 1 pm and went for the viewing and, from the moment they opened the door, it went exceedingly well. If we can be said to have a secret weapon as a couple, something so heart-warmingly charming that even the most stoney faced German has to yield, it must be Maria when confronted with a particularly cute young puppy... and this couple had a really, really cute young husky pup type thing with a full-on tilting head and waggling gait.

From thence on, as we intermittently broke off our viewing to pet and coo over this plasmataki (I feel the Greek word best here), things went well, so well in fact that we were offered the apartment there and then... and we took it.

Walking out into the sunshine again, it felt almost too normal, as if nothing had really happened, as if our nightmare was not yet over...

On parting from Maria I headed homeward for to waste my vacant afternoon sleeping, dreaming and reading. As for Maria, she headed back to work where she would receive confirmation from the landlord. It was somewhere in the middle of ceiling gazing whilst contemplating the fate of Chris McCandless that I got a terse sms from Maria stating only that you should "Read your email". The message I read as follows:

Fuck it! The owner wants to meet us and she is not giving the appartment until 15th of April for some reason. It was too easy to be true. And I've already cancelled Max, that house is gone. Hope she will like us.

I hope so too...

And who is Max?

Max is the owner of a cute little sunny apartment in the Sudviertel which we had good chance of getting if it weren't for the fact that we told him definitively that we were no longer interested in it on account of finding this other one.

FXXX !!!

Why should I camp in Greece

Here is a little piece I just wrote for a facebook group about camping in Greece. Kinda neatly sums up why I do it.

Why should I camp in Greece?

For me, the main advantage of Greece's climate is that one can spend time outdoors comfortably. Not only this, every little effort made to explore further off the beaten track rewards the visitor with inspiring vistas and the proximity of raw natural beauty. On the smaller islands in particular, the experience of living in a little tent on a quiet island beach can be magical. So if you think you might like to spend

A: your days fishing, walking, swimming or reading
B: your evenings in your 'local' beachside taverna
C: your nights sipping raki outside your tent under a dome of stars while listening to the waves breaking on your front porch...

... this might well be the kind of holiday for you.

Can I Free Camp in Greece?

Let's get the facts straight: free camping is technically illegal in Greece. In practice, however, the law is applied to prevent gypsy settlements, and summer camping is tolerated and even welcomed in quieter places (which means NOWHERE on places like SANTORINI, MYKONOS, PAROS, IOS etc.) as long as the following conditions are met:

A: You respect the locals which means no nudity, no drugs, no 'commune'
atmosphere. As a general rule, think scout camp; not peace camp.
B: It also means being discrete with your pitch. Seek out remote beaches
with few visitors and facilities. Don't pitch in the prime spot on the beach and if possible pitch off the sand. AND ALWAYS BE SCRUPULOUS ABOUT
GARBAGE AND MATTERS RELATED TO YOUR TOILET!!! Basically, the sea is for soapless bathing and tavernas, cafes, bars etc are for... well, I think you understand.
C: Relatedly, the money that you are saving by not paying for accommodation should go to the locals in the form of payment for coffees, drinks, meals, shopping and souvenirs. Free camping will only continue to be tolerated AND WELCOMED if you show the locals that you appreciate the beauty of their home and pay for the privilege of staying there.

And where can I free camp? Got any suggestions?

Yes. The following places are tried and tested. Here is my top 3.

1. Crete: Souyia, Agia Roumeli, Lendas, Gavdos. Many other places on the south coast in Heraklion province (esp. near Tsoutsouras and Keratokambos)

2. Donousa island, Kyklades (although definitely out of season as it can get quite crowded in high summer.)

3. Tilos, Dodecanese.

And what about organised sites?

If you have experience camping elsewhere in Europe, don't expect Greece to be the same. Most sites are simply no more that an olive grove with a shower and toilet block. Often times they are some way away from shops or places of interest and have no transport links. Having said this, there are some really beautiful sites in some really beautiful places. Again, if you like the simple life of walking, swimming, fishing, reading, eating, drinking all accompanied by heart-breaking beauty, these are the kind of places for you.

When and where should I go?

As a rule, avoid high seasons and popular resorts because the campsite will be so crowded and have such terrible facilities that you will feel like you are in "Bridge on the River Kwai". Here, again, are my top 5 sites (again all on islands).

1. Aegiali Camping, Amorgos, Kyklades.

2. The campsite called something like Stefanos Camping or Flower Camping on Patmos, Dodecanese.

3. The little site on the tiny island of Koufonissi, Kyklades.

4. Camping Paleohora, Hania Province, Crete.

5. Camping Rocks, Patitiri, Alonissos Island, Sporades.


If you want any further details, do not hesitate to message me. I am always happy to talk about this topic.

Happy camping and remember always to respect nature, your hosts and your fellow campers.

A