The Enigma of Self: Unpacking What It Means To Be 'Us' (Or Not)

Ah, the age-old question, isn't it? What truly defines 'me'? Is there a singular, coherent 'self' pulling the strings, or are we just a wonderfully elaborate trick of the light, orchestrated by the brain? These are the kinds of profound, head-scratching inquiries that Sue Blackmore and Ben Alderson-Day bravely tackle in their recent work, Our Brains, Our Selves. And honestly, it’s quite a ride, albeit one with a few bumps in the road, if you ask me.

You see, the book aims for a truly ambitious goal: to demystify the perplexing relationship between our grey matter and that elusive sense of 'I'. It attempts to lead us through the labyrinth of consciousness, to a place where perhaps the very notion of a distinct self is revealed as, well, an illusion. It's a compelling argument, certainly, and for anyone just dipping their toes into these deep philosophical waters, it offers a remarkably accessible, even inviting, entry point. That’s a genuine strength, no doubt about it.

But then again, sometimes, in striving for clarity, one might just simplify a little too much. The book champions the idea that the self is essentially a clever 'user interface,' a kind of internal predictive model. And while this metaphor is quite elegant, it does raise an eyebrow or two. If the 'self' is just an illusion, who precisely is it that's experiencing this illusion? Who is the 'user' of this interface, if not, in some sense, a self? This, in truth, is where the narrative occasionally stumbles into a philosophical thicket, wrestling with implications that are, to put it mildly, knotty.

For instance, the authors tend to talk about 'conscious contents' rather than tackling consciousness as a whole. And, you know, it’s a neat sidestep, allowing them to focus on the 'what' without getting bogged down in the 'how' or 'why' of the subjective experience itself. But the problem, if we're being candid, is that it almost feels like avoiding the elephant in the room – that irreducible 'what-it's-like-ness' of being. The very thing, you could say, that makes us feel like us.

And it's interesting, really, because while the book earnestly tries to avoid dualism – the idea of mind and body as separate entities – some of its explanations, particularly around the 'illusion' of self, inadvertently dance a bit close to the line. It's almost as if, in trying to show us the strings, they accidentally imply a puppeteer. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift, but one that seasoned philosophers might find themselves scrutinizing.

Ultimately, Our Brains, Our Selves is a thought-provoking read, a stimulating mental workout that will undoubtedly spark many a lively discussion. It’s an admirable effort to make complex ideas palatable, a genuine gift for the intellectually curious. Yet, one can’t help but feel that perhaps, just perhaps, the 'self' isn't quite so easily dismissed, and the mysteries of consciousness remain, beautifully and stubbornly, just that – mysteries.