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May 2012
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Mind & Brain
How Physics and Neuroscience Dictate Your "Free" Will
By Christof Koch
|
April 12, 2012 |
Image: Photoillustration by Aaron Goodman
In a remote corner of the universe, on a small blue planet gravitating
around a humdrum sun in the outer districts of the Milky Way, organisms
arose from the primordial mud and ooze in an epic struggle for survival
that spanned aeons.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, these bipedal creatures thought
of themselves as extraordinarily privileged, occupying a unique place in
a cosmos of a trillion trillion stars. Conceited as they were, they
believed that they, and only they, could escape the iron law of cause and effect that governs everything. They could do this by
virtue of something they called free will, which allowed them to do
things without any material reason.
Can you truly act freely? The question of free will is no mere
philosophical banter; it engages people in a way that few other
metaphysical questions do. It is the bedrock of society’s notions of
responsibility, praise and blame. Ultimately it is about the degree of
control you exert over your life.
Let’s say you are living with a loving and lovely spouse. A chance
meeting with a stranger turns this life utterly upside down. You begin
talking for hours on the phone, you share your innermost secrets, you
start an
affaire de coeur. You realize perfectly well that this
is all wrong from an ethical point of view; it will wreak havoc with
many lives, with no guarantee of a happy and productive future. Yet
something in you yearns for change.
Such gut-churning choices confront you with the question of how much
say you really have in the matter. You feel that you could, in
principle, break off the affair. Despite many attempts, you somehow
never manage to do so.
In my thoughts on these matters of free will, I neglect millennia of
learned philosophical debates and focus on what physics, neurobiology
and psychology have to say, for they have provided partial answers to
this ancient conundrum.
Shades of Freedom
I recently served on a jury in United States District Court in Los
Angeles. The defendant was a heavily tattooed member of a street gang
that smuggled and sold drugs. He was charged with murdering a fellow
gang member with two shots to the head.
As the background to the crime was laid out by law enforcement,
relatives, and present and past gang members—some of them testifying
while handcuffed, shackled and dressed in bright orange prison
jumpsuits—I thought about the individual and societal forces that had
shaped the defendant. Did he ever have a choice? Did his violent
upbringing make it inevitable that he would kill? Fortunately, the jury
was not called on to answer these irresolvable questions or to determine
his punishment. We only had to decide, beyond a reasonable doubt,
whether he was guilty as charged, whether he had shot a particular
person at a particular place and time. And this we did.
According to what some call the strong definition of free will,
articulated by René Descartes in the 17th century, you are free if,
under identical circumstances, you could have acted otherwise. Identical
circumstances refer to not only the same external conditions but also
the same brain states. The soul freely chooses this way or that, making
the brain act out its wishes, like a driver who takes a car down this
road or that one. This view is the one most regular folks believe in.
Contrast this strong notion of freedom with a more pragmatic conception
called compatibilism, the dominant view in biological, psychological,
legal and medical circles. You are free if you can follow your own
desires and preferences. A long-term smoker who wants to quit but who
lights up again and again is not free. His desire is thwarted by his
addiction. Under this definition, few of us are completely free.
It is the rare individual—Mahatma Gandhi comes to mind—who can steel
himself to withhold sustenance for weeks on end for a higher ethical
purpose. Another extreme case of iron self-control is the
self-immolation of Buddhist monk Thich Quang Duc in 1963 to protest the
repressive regime in South Vietnam. What is so singular about this
event, captured in haunting photographs, is the calm and deliberate
nature of his heroic act. While burning to death, Duc remained in the
meditative lotus position, without moving a muscle or uttering a sound,
as the flames consumed him. For the rest of us, who struggle to avoid
going for dessert, freedom is always a question of degree rather than an
absolute good that we do or do not possess.
Criminal law recognizes instances of diminished responsibility. The
husband who beats his wife’s lover to death in a blind rage when he
catches them in flagrante delicto is considered less guilty than if he
had sought revenge weeks later in a cold, premeditated manner. Norwegian
Anders Breivik, who shot more than 60 people in a cold-blooded and
calculated manner in July 2011, is a paranoid schizophrenic who was
found to be criminally insane and will probably be confined to a
psychiatric institution. Contemporary society and the judicial system
are built on such a pragmatic,
psychological notion of freedom.
But I want to dig deeper. I want to unearth the underlying causes of actions that are traditionally thought of as “free.”
A Clockwork Universe
In 1687 Isaac Newton published his
Principia, which enunciated
the law of universal gravitation and the three laws of motion. Newton’s
second law links the force brought on a system—a billiard ball rolling
on a green felt table—to its acceleration. This law has profound
consequences, for it implies that the positions and velocities of all
the components making up an entity at any particular moment, together
with the forces between them, unalterably determine that entity’s
fate—that is, its future location and speed.
This is the essence of determinism. The mass, location and velocities
of the planets as they travel in their orbits around the sun determine
where they will be in a thousand, a million or a billion years from
today, provided only that all the forces acting on them are properly
accounted for. The universe, once set in motion, runs its course
inexorably, like a clockwork.
A full-blown setback for the notion that the future can be accurately
forecast was revealed in the form of deterministic chaos. The late
meteorologist Edward Lorenz came across it while solving three simple
mathematical equations characterizing the motion of the atmosphere. The
solution predicted by his computer program varied widely when he entered
starting values that differed by only tiny amounts. This is the
hallmark of chaos: infinitesimally small perturbations in the equations’
starting points lead to radically different outcomes. In 1972 Lorenz
coined the term “butterfly effect” to denote this extreme sensitivity to
initial conditions: the beating of a butterfly’s wings creates barely
perceptible ripples in the atmosphere that ultimately alter the path of a
tornado elsewhere.
Remarkably, such a butterfly effect was found in celestial mechanics,
the epitome of the clockwork universe. Planets majestically ride
gravity’s geodesics, propelled by the initial rotation of the cloud that
formed the solar system. It came as a mighty surprise, therefore, when
computer modeling in the 1990s demonstrated that Pluto has a chaotic
orbit, with a divergence time of millions of years. Astronomers cannot
be certain whether Pluto will be on this side of the sun (relative to
Earth’s position) or the other side 10 million years from now! If this
uncertainty holds for a planet with a comparatively simple internal
makeup, moving in the vacuum of space under a sole force, gravitation,
what does it portend for the predictability of a person, a tiny insect
or an itsy-bitsy nerve cell, all of which are swayed by countless
factors?
Chaos does not invalidate the natural law of cause and effect, however.
It continues to reign supreme. Planetary physicists aren’t quite sure
where Pluto will be aeons from now, but they are confident that its
orbit will always be completely in thrall to gravity. What breaks down
in chaos is not the chain of action and reaction, but predictability.
The universe is still a gigantic clockwork, even though we can’t be sure
where the minute and hour hands will point a week hence.
Origins of Uncertainty
The deathblow to the Newtonian dream—or nightmare, in my opinion—was
the celebrated quantum-mechanical uncertainty principle, formulated by
Werner Heisenberg in 1927. In its most common interpretation, it avers
that any particle, say, a photon of light or an electron, cannot have
both a definite position and a definite momentum at the same time. If
you know its speed accurately, its position is correspondingly ill
defined, and vice versa. Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle is a radical
departure from classical physics. It replaces dogmatic certainty with
ambiguity.
Consider an experiment that ends with a 90 percent chance of an
electron being here and a 10 percent chance of it being over there. If
the experiment were repeated 1,000 times, on about 900 trials, give or
take a few, the electron would be here; otherwise, it would be over
there. Yet this statistical outcome does not ordain where the electron
will be on the next trial. Albert Einstein could never reconcile himself
to this random aspect of nature. It is in this context that he famously
pronounced, “
Der Alte wu?rfelt nicht” (the Old Man, that is, God, does not play dice).
The universe has an irreducible, random character. If it is a
clockwork, its cogs, springs and levers are not Swiss-made; they do not
follow a predetermined path. Physical determinism has been replaced by
the determinism of probabilities. Nothing is certain anymore.
But wait—I hear a serious objection. There is no question that the
macroscopic world of human experience is built on the microscopic,
quantum world. Yet that does not imply that everyday objects such as
cars inherit all the weird properties of quantum mechanics. When I park
my red Mini convertible, it has zero velocity relative to the pavement.
Because it is enormously heavy compared with an electron, the fuzziness
associated with its position is, to all intents and purposes, zero.
Cars have comparatively simple internal structures. The brains of bees,
beagles and boys, by comparison, are vastly more heterogeneous, and the
components out of which they are constructed have a noisy character.
Randomness is apparent everywhere in their nervous system, from sensory
neurons picking up sights and smells to motor neurons controlling the
body’s muscles. We cannot rule out the possibility that quantum
indeterminacy likewise leads to behavioral indeterminacy.
Such randomness may play a functional role. If a housefly pursued by a
predator makes a sudden, abrupt turn midflight, it is more likely to see
the light of another day than its more predictable companion. Thus,
evolution might favor circuits that exploit quantum randomness for
certain acts or decisions. Both quantum mechanics and deterministic
chaos lead to unpredictable outcomes.
Afterthought to Action
Let me return to solid ground and tell you about a classical experiment
that convinced many people that free will must be an illusion. This
experiment was conceived and carried out in the early 1980s by Benjamin
Libet, a neuropsychologist at the University of California, San
Francisco.
The brain and the sea have one thing in common—both are ceaselessly in
commotion. One way to visualize this is to record the tiny fluctuations
in the electrical potential on the outside of the scalp, a few
millionths of a volt in size, using an electroencephalograph (EEG). Like
the recording of a seismometer, the EEG trace moves feverishly up and
down, registering unseen tremors in the cerebral cortex underneath.
Whenever the person being tested is about to move a limb, an electrical
potential builds up. Called the readiness potential, it precedes the
actual onset of movement by one second or longer.
Intuitively, the sequence of events that leads to a voluntary act must
be as follows: You decide to raise your hand; your brain communicates
that intention to the neurons responsible for planning and executing
hand movements; and those neurons relay the appropriate commands to the
motor neurons that contract the arm muscles. But Libet was not
convinced. Wasn’t it more likely that the mind and the brain acted
simultaneously or even that the brain acted before the mind did?
Libet set out to determine the timing of a mental event, a person’s
deliberate decision, and to compare that with the timing of a physical
event, the onset of the readiness potential after that decision. He
projected onto a screen a point of bright light that went around and
around, like the tip of the minute hand on a clock. With EEG electrodes
on his or her head, each volunteer had to spontaneously, but
deliberately, flex a wrist. They did this while noting the position of
the light when they became aware of the urge to act.
The results told an unambiguous story, which was bolstered by later
experiments. The beginning of the readiness potential precedes the
conscious decision to move by at least half a second and often by much
longer. The brain acts before the mind decides! This discovery was a
complete reversal of the deeply held intuition of mental causation.
The Conscious Experience of Will
Why don’t you repeat this experiment right now: go ahead and flex your
wrist. You experience three allied yet distinct feelings associated with
the plan to move (intention), your willing of the movement (a feeling
called agency or authorship), and the actual movement. If a friend were
to take your hand and bend it, you would experience the movement but
neither intention nor agency; that is, you would not feel responsible
for the wrist movement. This is a neglected idea in the debate about
free will—that the mind-body nexus creates a specific, conscious
experience of “I willed this” or “I am the author of this action.”
Daniel Wegner, a psychologist at Harvard University, is one of the
trailblazers of the modern study of volition. In one experiment, Wegner
asked a volunteer to wear gloves and stand in front of a mirror, her
arms hanging by her sides. Directly behind her stood a lab member,
dressed identically. He extended his arms under her armpits, so that
when the woman looked into the mirror, his two gloved hands appeared to
be her own. Both participants wore headphones through which Wegner
issued instructions, such as “clap your hands” or “snap your left
fingers.” The volunteer was supposed to report on the extent to which
the actions of the lab member’s hands were her own. When she heard
Wegner’s directions prior to the man’s hands carrying them out, she
reported an enhanced feeling of having willed the action herself,
compared with when Wegner’s instructions came after the man had already
moved his hands.
The reality of these feelings of intention has been underscored by
neurosurgeons, who must occasionally probe brain tissue with brief
pulses of electric current. In the course of such explorations, Itzhak
Fried, a surgeon at U.C.L.A., stimulated the presupplementary motor
area, which is part of the vast expanse of cerebral cortex lying in
front of the primary motor cortex. He found that such stimulation can
trigger the urge to move a limb. Michel Desmurget of INSERM and Angela
Sirigu of the Institute of Cognitive Science in France discovered
something similar when stimulating the posterior parietal cortex, an
area responsible for transforming visual information into motor
commands. Patients commented, “It felt like I wanted to move my foot.
Not sure how to explain,” or “I had a desire to roll my tongue in my
mouth.” Their feelings arose from within, without any prompting by the
examiner.
Free the Mind
I have taken two lessons from these insights. First, I have adopted a
more pragmatic conception of free will. I strive to live as free of
constraints as possible. The only exception should be restrictions that I
deliberately and consciously impose on myself, chief among them
restraints motivated by ethical concerns: do not hurt others and try to
leave the planet a better place than you found it. Other considerations
include family life, health, financial stability and mindfulness.
Second, I try to understand my unconscious motivations, desires and
fears better. I reflect deeper about my own actions and emotions than my
younger self did.
I am breaking no new ground here—these are lessons wise men from all
cultures have taught for millennia. The ancient Greeks had “
gnothi seauton”
(“know thyself”) inscribed above the entrance to the Temple of Apollo
at Delphi. The Jesuits have a nearly 500-year-old spiritual tradition
that emphasizes a twice-daily examination of conscience. This constant
internal interrogation sharpens your sensitivity to your actions,
desires and motivations. This will enable you not only to understand
yourself better but also to live a life more in harmony with your
character and your long-term goals.
This article was published in print as "Finding Free Will."
Adapted from Consciousness: Confessions of a Romantic Reductionist
, by Christof Koch, © Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 2012. All rights reserved.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR(S)
Christof Koch is chief scientific officer at the Allen institute
for Brain Science in Seattle and Lois and Victor Troendle Professor of
Cognitive and Behavioral Biology at the California Institute of
Technology. He serves on Scientific American Mind's board of advisers.