Simon Critchley on Religion and Death
Simon Critchly is Professor and Chair of Philosophy at the New School for Social Research in New York. He is the author of many books,including On Heidegger's Being and Time and Infinitely Demanding: Ethics of Commitment, Politics of Resistance. The Book of Dead Philosophers was written on a hill overlooking Los Angeles, where he was a scholar at the Getty Research Institute. He lives in Brooklyn.
Qusetion: Does religion or philosophy best prepare us for death
Critchley: There’s an aspect of religious thinking which I think is superior to philosophical thinking and this appears historically with the person of St. Augustine and Augustine’s Confessions. The center of Augustine’s Confessions are 3 deaths, death of his friend, death of his mother and the death of his son. This death of mother is the key, this key death and what you’re getting in Augustine and elsewhere in the Christian tradition is this extraordinary meditation on grief or mourning, and the way in which grief, if you like, defines what it means to be human. You know, a human life can be punctuated in terms of a series of acts of grief, death of a parent, a mother or a father or a child, or whatever and these things structure what it means to be a self but they do it by tearing us apart, by really sundering us and the religious tradition has got a much, I think the Christian tradition has got a much, is much better on that than the philosophical tradition. What I don’t like about the idea of the philosophical death, although I defended it in the book, is there’s a certain selfishness and, if you like stoicism, at the heart of it. You know, it’s about me, Socrates or Epicurus dying, my dying well, my death surrounded by my disciples. What this overlooks is the fact that death comes into the world, comes into the world to us through the death of others and so this question of grief I think is the key. They have something to work on more on the future because that’s the question of love, the relation between death and love. The death that really, you know in the sense you could say perhaps finally my death isn’t so important. It’s the death supposed that we love that are truly important and how do we think about that?
Question: How has secularization in the West affected view of death?
Critchley: A very revealing issue in this regard are our attitudes towards suicide and our attitude towards suicide are already still completely colored by Christianity, and in the ancient world, it was no ignominy to kill oneself. Certain people, it was a noble death if it was done in a noble way. Often one was, it was required of one, Seneca was asked to kill himself by his employer, Nero, sort of employee one, but there we are. Suicide was no shame and the idea that begins with Christianity is the idea that death is something, that life is something given, all right, over which one has no dominion. It’s something given over which not one has no dominion. Therefore to take one’s life is to as it were assume the role of God. So, therefore suicide is illegitimate. It is blasphemous, and we’re still very much stuck with it, with those of the debates. Think back to its own, the Terri Shaivo debate, the issue, a few years ago. We, it seems to me that one thing that the [emaciation] [09:01] of the history of philosophy can allow one to think about is the fact that suicide should be something that was, is within everybody’s power. I think it’s, you know, a minimum of human dignity, consisting of the fact that one’s got the right to take one’s life, not willing really but you know, in the right circumstances. So, I still think we’re very much in the grip of religious frameworks of a [fool] [09:31] so, I don’t, you know, so secularization, yeah, but really how far? The other thing I’d say about secularization is that the only metaphysics in which we believe these days are really, is the metaphysics of medical science, and medical science which really means technology, and medical science and technology being used as an instrument which furthers our longevity. Longevity is seen as an unquestioned good in life, unquestioned good and this is a very strange thought. When you look the history of humanity and the history of philosopher as I’ve done, the brevity of human life was often something to be celebrated. A brief, brilliant, meteoric, wonderful life was a great thing. Whereas the idea we have is that, you know, I was raised in Sweden and Swedes die, I think, it’s 83 is the, you know, the average age of death and they’re very proud of this. This is one of the achievements of [serving] democracy. If you don’t die when you’re 83, they’re sort of cheated. They feel as they’ve sort of failed in some way or they should have lived for longer.
Question: How would you prefer humans appreciate death?
Critchley: There were different heroes in the book but the hero in many ways is, one hero is Montaigne, Michel de Montaigne, 16th century French. A writer which develops the essay has this amazing form and in his essay to philosophize is to learn how to die which is a phrase that he takes from Cicero from antiquity. He says a number of things. The line which I think sticks with me is the following. He says, he who has learned how to die has unlearned how to be a slave. He who has learned how to die has unlearned how to be a slave. What that means is that the person who, what that means is a slavery because this is slavery to the fear of death. It’s the fear of death that really enslaves us. It’s that fear of death that grips us and makes us want to believe that death is an illusion or death is a passage to some afterlife, some immortality, whatever. Freedom by contrast consists in the acceptance of our mortality and this is a very I think paradoxical conclusion but for me, very important is that freedom consists in the acceptance of the determination of our life by necessity, right. The one thing that gives life meaning is the certainty of death, this frame, and without that, life would rapidly become meaningless. Look at the following example. Look at the, what if we had immortal life here on earth. I think if we had immortal life here on earth, life would soon become meaningless. There’s a very good literary example of this from Gulliver’s Travels, from Book 3 of Gulliver’s Travels. It’s the, Swift talks about these creatures called the struldbrugs and the struldbrugs have immortal life on earth and they’re marked with a red spot in the middle of their forehead. He shows them slouching against walls, sort of having lost the will to live many generations previously, lost the use of language, lost any sense of the purpose and points of life. So, immortal life on earth would rapidly become meaningless. I think immortal life would also rapidly become as a rather, rather boring if we were conscious. So, as were the big message of this is that a free human life consists in accepting our mortality and affirming our life in relationship to that mortality. At the end of the book, I try and talk about the idea of creature in us and I go back to a, this is a theological line. The theological tradition is full of fascinating things when it comes about, comes to mortality but the idea of being a creature which usually seen as being a creature in relationship to Creator, namely God, but what I take from the idea of being a creature is that we are, we’re dependent. We’re not as if we’re, we’re not Robocop. We’re not, you know, we’re not self-sufficient beings, you know. We are creatures, who are frail and dependent upon others, and that’s what we have to accept. I think human history, particularly history of the last few hundred years, is full of delusions of omnipotence through technology, usually some point in the future, let’s say 15 years away, somewhere there’s not quite now but not quite that far away. I think that’s a great pity, I mean, fantasies about artificial intelligence, fantasies that will be, you know, cloning and all the rest. I mean, the fact is that what it means to be a human is to be a frail creature, the softest, that loves that has an extraordinary range of emotions and creates servicing and a creature that dies.
The philosopher talks about how suicide has become a taboo and how death could be regarded differently.
One victim can break our hearts. Remember the image of the young Syrian boy discovered dead on a beach in Turkey in 2015? Donations to relief agencies soared after that image went viral. However, we feel less compassion as the number of victims grows. Are we incapable of feeling compassion for large groups of people who suffer a tragedy, such as an earthquake or the recent Sri Lanka Easter bombings? Of course not, but the truth is we aren't as compassionate as we'd like to believe, because of a paradox of large numbers. Why is this?
Compassion is a product of our sociality as primates. In his book, The Expanding Circle: Ethics, Evolution, and Moral Progress, Peter Singer states, "Human beings are social animals. We were social before we were human." Mr. Singer goes on to say, "We can be sure that we restrained our behavior toward our fellows before we were rational human beings. Social life requires some degree of restraint. A social grouping cannot stay together if its members make frequent and unrestrained attacks on one another."
Attacks on ingroups can come from forces of nature as well. In this light, compassion is a form of expressed empathy to demonstrate camaraderie.
Yet even after hundreds of centuries of evolution, when tragedy strikes beyond our community, our compassion wanes as the number of displaced, injured, and dead mounts.
The drop-off in commiseration has been termed the collapse of compassion. The term has also been defined in The Oxford Handbook of Compassion Science: ". . . people tend to feel and act less compassionately for multiple suffering victims than for a single suffering victim."
That the drop-off happens has been widely documented, but at what point this phenomenon happens remains unclear. One paper, written by Paul Slovic and Daniel Västfjäll, sets out a simple formula, ". . . where the emotion or affective feeling is greatest at N =1 but begins to fade at N = 2 and collapses at some higher value of N that becomes simply 'a statistic.'"
The ambiguity of "some higher value" is curious. That value may relate to Dunbar's Number, a theory developed by British anthropologist, Robin Dunbar. His research centers on communal groups of primates that evolved to support and care for larger and larger groups as their brains (our brains) expanded in capacity. Dunbar's is the number of people with whom we can maintain a stable relationship — approximately 150.
Some back story
Professor Robin Dunbar of the University of Oxford has published considerable research on anthropology and evolutionary psychology. His work is informed by anthropology, sociology and psychology. Dunbar's Number is a cognitive boundary, one we are likely incapable of breaching. The number is based around two notions; that brain size in primates correlates with the size of the social groups they live among and that these groups in human primates are relative to communal numbers set deep in our evolutionary past. In simpler terms, 150 is about the maximum number of people with whom we can identify with, interact with, care about, and work to protect. Dunbar's Number falls along a logorithmic continuum, beginning with the smallest, most emotionally connected group of five, then expanding outward in multiples of three: 5, 15, 50, 150. The numbers in these concentric circles are affected by multiple variables, including the closeness and size of immediate and extended families, along with the greater cognitive capacity of some individuals to maintain stable relationships with larger than normal group sizes. In other words, folks with more cerebral candlepower can engage with larger groups. Those with lesser cognitive powers, smaller groups.
The number that triggers "compassion collapse" might be different for individuals, but I think it may begin to unravel along the continuum of Dunbar's relatable 150. We can commiserate with 5 to 15 to 150 people because upon those numbers, we can overlay names and faces of people we know: our families, friends and coworkers, the members of our clan. In addition, from an evolutionary perspective, that number is important. We needed to care if bands of our clan were being harmed by raids, disaster, or disease, because our survival depended on the group staying intact. Our brains developed the capacity to care for the entirety of the group but not beyond it. Beyond our ingroup was an outgroup that may have competed with us for food and safety and it served us no practical purpose to feel sad that something awful had happened to them, only to learn the lessons so as to apply them for our own survival, e.g., don't swim with hippos.
Imagine losing 10 family members in a house fire. Now instead, lose 10 neighbors, 10 from a nearby town, 10 from Belgium, 10 from Vietnam 10 years ago. One could almost feel the emotion ebbing as the sentence drew to a close.
There are two other important factors which contribute to the softening of our compassion: proximity and time. While enjoying lunch in Santa Fe, we can discuss the death toll in the French revolution with no emotional response but might be nauseated to discuss three children lost in a recent car crash around the corner. Conflict journalists attempt to bridge these geotemporal lapses but have long struggled to ignite compassion in their home audience for far-flung tragedies, Being a witness to carnage is an immense stressor, but the impact diminishes across the airwaves as the kilometers pile up.
A Dunbar Correlation
Where is the inflection point at which people become statistics? Can we find that number? In what way might that inflection point be influenced by the Dunbar 150?
"Yes, the Dunbar number seems relevant here," said Gad Saad, PhD., the evolutionary behavioral scientist from the John Molson School of Business at Concordia University, Montreal, in an email correspondence. Saad also recommended Singer's work.
I also went to the wellspring. I asked Professor Dunbar by email if he thought 150 was a reasonable inflection point for moving from compassion into statistics. He graciously responded, lightly edited for space.
Professor Dunbar's response:
"The short answer is that I have no idea, but what you suggest is perfect sense. . . . One-hundred and fifty is the inflection point between the individuals we can empathize with because we have personal relationships with them and those with whom we don't have personalized relationships. There is, however, also another inflection point at 1,500 (the typical size of tribes in hunter-gatherer societies) which defines the limit set by the number of faces we can put names to. After 1,500, they are all completely anonymous."
I asked Dunbar if he knows of or suspects a neurophysiological aspect to the point where we simply lose the capacity to manage our compassion:
"These limits are underpinned by the size of key bits of the brain (mainly the frontal lobes, but not wholly). There are a number of studies showing this, both across primate species and within humans."
In his literature, Professor Dunbar presents two reasons why his number stands at 150, despite the ubiquity of social networking: the first is time — investing our time in a relationship is limited by the number of hours we have available to us in a given week. The second is our brain capacity measured in primates by our brain volume.
Friendship, kinship and limitations
"We devote around 40 percent of our available social time to our 5 most intimate friends and relations," Dunbar has written, "(the subset of individuals on whom we rely the most) and the remaining 60 percent in progressively decreasing amounts to the other 145."
These brain functions are costly, in terms of time, energy and emotion. Dunbar states, "There is extensive evidence, for example, to suggest that network size has significant effects on health and well-being, including morbidity and mortality, recovery from illness, cognitive function, and even willingness to adopt healthy lifestyles." This suggests that we devote so much energy to our own network that caring about a larger number may be too demanding.
"These differences in functionality may well reflect the role of mentalizing competencies. The optimal group size for a task may depend on the extent to which the group members have to be able to empathize with the beliefs and intentions of other members so as to coordinate closely…" This neocortical-to-community model carries over to compassion for others, whether in or out of our social network. Time constrains all human activity, including time to feel.
As Dunbar writes in The Anatomy of Friendship, "Friendship is the single most important factor influencing our health, well-being, and happiness. Creating and maintaining friendships is, however, extremely costly, in terms of both the time that has to be invested and the cognitive mechanisms that underpin them. Nonetheless, personal social networks exhibit many constancies, notably in their size and their hierarchical structuring." Our mental capacity may be the primary reason we feel less empathy and compassion for larger groups; we simply don't have the cerebral apparatus to manage their plights. "Part of friendship is the act of mentalizing, or mentally envisioning the landscape of another's mind. Cognitively, this process is extraordinarily taxing, and as such, intimate conversations seem to be capped at about four people before they break down and form smaller conversational groups. If the conversation involves speculating about an absent person's mental state (e.g., gossiping), then the cap is three — which is also a number that Shakespeare's plays respect."
We cannot mentalize what is going on in the minds of people in our groups much beyond our inner circle, so it stands to reason we cannot do it for large groups separated from us by geotemporal lapses.
In a paper, C. Daryl Cameron and Keith B. Payne state, "Some researchers have suggested that [compassion collapse] happens because emotions are not triggered by aggregates. We provide evidence for an alternative account. People expect the needs of large groups to be potentially overwhelming, and, as a result, they engage in emotion regulation to prevent themselves from experiencing overwhelming levels of emotion. Because groups are more likely than individuals to elicit emotion regulation, people feel less for groups than for individuals."
This argument seems to imply that we have more control over diminishing compassion than not. To say, "people expect the needs of large groups to be potentially overwhelming" suggests we consciously consider what that caring could entail and back away from it, or that we become aware that we are reaching and an endpoint of compassion and begin to purposely shift the framing of the incident from one that is personal to one that is statistical. The authors offer an alternative hypothesis to the notion that emotions are not triggered by aggregates, by attempting to show that we regulate our emotional response as the number of victims becomes perceived to be overwhelming. However, in the real world, for example, large death tolls are not brought to us one victim at a time. We are told, about a devastating event, then react viscerally.
If we don't begin to express our emotions consciously, then the process must be subconscious, and that number could have evolved to where it is now innate.
Gray matter matters
One of Dunbar's most salient points is that brain capacity influences social networks. In his paper, The Social Brain, he writes: "Path analysis suggests that there is a specific causal relationship in which the volume of a key prefrontal cortex subregion (or subregions) determines an individual's mentalizing skills, and these skills in turn determine the size of his or her social network."
It's not only the size of the brain but in fact, mentalizing recruits different regions for ingroup empathy. The Stanford Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education published a study of the brain regions activated when showing empathy for strangers in which the authors stated, "Interestingly, in brain imaging studies of mentalizing, participants recruit more dorsal portions of the medial prefrontal cortex (dMPFC; BA 8/9) when mentalizing about strangers, whereas they recruit more ventral regions of the medial prefrontal cortex (BA 10), similar to the MPFC activation reported in the current study, when mentalizing about close others with whom participants experience self-other overlap."⁷
It's possible the region of the brain that activates to help an ingroup member evolved for good reason, survival of the group. Other regions may have begun to expand as those smaller tribal groups expanded into larger societies.
There is an eclectic list of reasons why compassion may collapse, irrespective of sheer numbers:
(1) Manner: How the news is presented affects viewer framing. In her book, European Foreign Conflict Reporting: A Comparative Analysis of Public News, Emma Heywood explores how tragedies and war are offered to the viewers, which can elicit greater or lesser compassionate responses. "Techniques, which could raise compassion amongst the viewers, and which prevail on New at Ten, are disregarded, allowing the victims to remain unfamiliar and dissociated from the viewer. This approach does not encourage viewers to engage with the sufferers, rather releases them from any responsibility to participate emotionally. Instead compassion values are sidelined and potential opportunities to dwell on victim coverage are replaced by images of fighting and violence."
(2) Ethnicity. How relatable are the victims? Although it can be argued that people in western countries would feel a lesser degree of compassion for victims of a bombing in Karachi, that doesn't mean people in countries near Pakistan wouldn't feel compassion for the Karachi victims at a level comparable to what westerners might feel about a bombing in Toronto. Distance has a role to play in this dynamic as much as in the sound evolutionary data that demonstrate a need for us to both recognize and empathize with people who look like our communal entity. It's not racism; it's tribalism. We are simply not evolved from massive heterogeneous cultures. As evolving humans, we're still working it all out. It's a survival mechanism that developed over millennia that we now struggle with as we fine tune our trust for others.
In the end
Think of compassion collapse on a grid, with compassion represented in the Y axis and the number of victims running along the X. As the number of victims increases beyond one, our level of compassion is expected to rise. Setting aside other variables that may raise compassion (proximity, familiarity etc.), the level continues to rise until, for some reason, it begins to fall precipitously.
Is it because we've become aware of being overwhelmed or because we have reached max-capacity neuron load? Dunbar's Number seems a reasonable place to look for a tipping point.
Professor Dunbar has referred to the limits of friendship as a "budgeting problem." We simply don't have the time to manage a bigger group of friends. Our compassion for the plight of strangers may drop of at a number equivalent to the number of people with who we can be friends, a number to which we unconsciously relate. Whether or not we solve this intellectual question, it remains a curious fact that the larger a tragedy is, the more likely human faces are to become faceless numbers.
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