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This visual essay is based on a premise that doesn't really hold true for me, in that I have never really felt that I "see" when I read. So when Mendelsund tries to convince me that "seeing" is a false impression that's disconnected from the actual experience, I'm already there. If there's a revelation to be had from that, it's just that I thought other people with a stronger visual sense would have a different experience. Maybe not.

Outside of that, I definitely enjoyed Mendelsund's flair for visual metaphor, and the book's questioning of the experience of reading. It's kind of amazing how much The Master and HIs Emissary is impacting everything else I read that comments on perception and phenomenology and philosophy of mind. Here, Mendelsund describes what we "see" of the characters and settings we read about as fragmented, detailed in parts but not additive—more details don't create a more vivid image, even if they do create a more rounded understanding.

I kept thinking of the left-brained mode of perceiving, the one that dissects and strips of context, that knows the parts that make up a whole but can't seem to understand how to put them together. Mendelsund isn't using that framework, but everything he says fits the idea that literature and language more generally is the domain of the dissecting left brain.

I'm not sure whether it's a story with a long digression in the middle, or a story with a long framing device bookending it, but either way an odd construction—a tale split in the middle by another story as long as the rest combined. That middle story is the more vivid one to me, the characters more fleshed out, the setting more vivid, and that sort of works given that the middle story is meant to be almost an infection, capable of carrying additional details even if they aren't told.

The outer story drapes itself in the weight of loss, and I don't know that it quite carries it. Those human elements aren't what has stuck with me, at least. Not in the same way as the more fairy tale-like middle story, which spans generations and continents. That one is a story of duelling dark magicians, more compelling but I guess less weird than a lonely fisherman stumbling onto the fringes of that story. So what this really is, is a weird story that manages to explain itself without losing its impact.

If I were able to write fiction, I think this is the kind of fiction I’d like to write. The first book in the Monk & Robot series is gentle and thoughtful, but manages to pick at some anxieties I’ve been having for a long time, about purpose and direction and satisfaction. There’s not much in the way of conflict, but plenty in the way of insight, and it’s short enough that I basically inhaled it.

Even more than the characters, I want to spend more time with the book’s religious system, which is revealed in small details but still largely mysterious by the end of the book. The best fictional religions have a way of concisely showing what’s important in a given world—which I guess real religions do, too, but those are so much more multilayered and convoluted from centuries of revision and interpretation that it takes real scholarship to that heart. A religion in a fiction is more concentrated by necessity, but still abstracted enough to have that feeling of mystical importance, a distilled philosophy dressed in metaphor. I’m hoping Chambers delves into it more in the sequel.

An interesting book that doesn't quite achieve what it promises (the humble task of resolving the age-old question of what consciousnes is and how it emerges from unconscious matter). The authors seem convinced that it does, and maybe something is lost in the translation from math-heavy research papers to accessible prose, but I don't think I'm any closer to grasping it.

The key chapter on self makes a distinction between consciousness and self-awareness that I'm having a particularly hard time with, essentially saying that many creatures have qualia experiences of the world, but only humans are aware of themselves having them (unless they're actively engaged in something like the mirror test, at which point a self-aware self emerges only to disappear once the mirror is removed). And I just can't grok the concept of consciousness without awareness.

The idea of consciousness as a process, like a basketball game or hurricane, seems accurate but not exactly groundbreaking, and also an oversimplification. After all, a game is only a game because of the conscious actors playing it, and a hurricane is a dramatic example but that comparison relies on the drama of the image; a waterfall is a similarly context-dependent arrangement of water, but you'd be hard-pressed to convince me that saying ""consciousness is like a waterfall"" would tell me anything useful. Game, hurricane, and waterfall are all categories that emerge out of conscious beings assigning names and categories to physical processes; it's hard to see how they can be used to explain the emergence of consciousness itself.

I did find it was wonderfully written, and its descriptions of mental processes were clear and informative. I don't feel much closer to understanding the mystery of the self, but there's plenty to chew on regardless.