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©
Douglas R. Hofstadter. Used by permission. |
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Douglas R. Hofstadter, a noted author, cognitive scientist
and proud Stanford son, returns
to Stanford in February, 2006, with a lecture called Analogy
as the Core of Cognition. Hofstadter is College of Arts
and Sciences Professor of Cognitive Science, and Director of the
Center for Research on Concepts and Cognition, at Indiana University.
Although he is the author of eight major books, Hofstadter is best
known for his magisterial first work, Gödel,
Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid (a.k.a. GEB:EGB
[a.k.a. GEB]), published in 1979 and awarded the Pulitzer
Prize in 1980. In a sense, this dazzling and well-known work is
the core of all of Hofstadter’s subsequent writings:
it certainly contains the seeds of the ideas and formal approaches
that fill those later writings — the core being the natural
place to look for seeds, after all.
Or perhaps the throwaway apple core is not the best analogy
for Hofstadter’s thoroughly delicious first book. Perhaps
a better analogy is the core of “core curriculum,”
for GEB has certainly become a centerpiece in the education
of many students of artificial intelligence, intelligent artifice,
the mind, and the I — not to mention the more
traditional fields of computer science, psychology, linguistics,
et al. There is a generation of readers who came of age when
GEB was fresh and new and long on the New York Times bestseller
lists, and for whom GEB may have been the first serious
book they read: for this generation, GEB was a core part
of a largely extracurricular general education — a work that
taught us, on the cusp of the latest Information Age, that we ourselves
could bridge the gap between C.P. Snow’s “two cultures,”
between left-brain and right-brain concerns and approaches, and
that our new computers (along with new approaches to mathematics,
and music, and art) might help us to do so. Indeed, by encompassing
and synthesizing aspects of these very diverse fields Hofstadter
has helped us to understand that perhaps what is most important
in human cognition takes place in some holistic center, some core
of our mind, rather than on the “right” or the “left”
side of our crania.
Unless by core we mean something else entirely:
for example, the sort of core that a nuclear reactor has, the place
in which all the action occurs, the fissions and chain reactions
and transmutations and creation of new elements. In a revealing
preface to the Twentieth-Anniversary Edition of GEB, Hofstadter
divulges not only that his first book is not really about Gödel
or Escher or Bach, popular opinion (and its title!) notwithstanding
— but also that this popular opinion mystifies him somewhat:
“Many people think the title tells it all: a book about a
mathematician, an artist, and a musician. But the most casual look
will show that... [t]here’s no way the book is about these
three people!” Still, although this opinion is clearly better
than the brief “description” given in the newspapers
(“A scientist argues that reality is a system of interconnected
braids.”), Hofstadter is never one to encourage misunderstandings
or unintended readings, and in this same Twentieth-Anniversary Edition
preface, he offers among “The Key
Images and Ideas that Lie at the Core [!] of GEB”
this very clear and concise expression of his topic: “how
it is that animate beings come out of inanimate matter.” In
many ways, this topic (along with its many manifestations and transformations)
could be said to be at the core of many of Hofstadter’s writings.
Gödel, Escher, Bach is a lively weave of what
we think of (or at least thought of, pre-Hofstadter) as rather disparate
thematic threads. But these thematic threads are only the warp of
Hofstadter’s tapestry: its woof is the book’s set of
lively and remarkable formal features, on both micro- and macro-levels.
Of course the book has all the structural attributes one would expect
in a book: chapters, lists, tables, notes and indexes, for example.
But between chapters are curious Carrollian dialogues that serve
the obvious purpose of introducing theoretical (mathematical, formal,
etc.) topics that will be treated in a (somewhat) more traditional
manner in each upcoming chapter. These may also provide what might
be called comic relief from some of the intensity of propositional
calculus and discussions of formal systems — but it would
be short-sighted indeed to see these as merely entertainments that
allow us to step outside the formal constraints of the serious mathematical
book: so far, so Gödel. But no, these dialogues are much more:
as they comment on and embody characteristics of musical forms they
become a Bachian Bacchanal of formal play, and a serious attempt
not only to illuminate one art with another art’s light, but
also to translate between and among art forms. Likewise, as Hofstadter’s
formal play is inspired by a very serious purpose, so is his formal
seriousness bedecked with playfulness: you’ll find in the
bibliography a citation for an imaginative (and imaginary) work
of Hofstadter’s alter ego, Egbert
B. Gebstadter, and in the index an entry leading purposefully
(and ever so playfully) to a trio of typos in the main text —
all together a real pot-pourri.
Le
Ton beau de Marot: In Praise of the Music of Language, from
nearly twenty years later (1997), is also a book of both theory
and practice: its principal topic is translation (in the most
traditional
sense), and it is, of course, replete with practical examples —
including eighty-eight translations of a single brief poem by Clément
Marot, “A une Damoyselle malade,” sometimes known by
its first line, “Ma mignonne” — the almost minimalist
form of which (28 three-syllable lines) makes Hofstadter’s
massive treatment seem all the grander. Clearly, Hofstadter’s
principal interest is not Marot at all (a lesson we should have
learned from GEB), but rather poetry translation generally
— and perhaps less translation for translation’s sake,
than translation as a means to understand language, and language
as a means to understand human thought. This is not to say that
the actual translations play second fiddle to the book’s “cognitive
science” basso ostinato: on the contrary, the multitude
of translations of Marot, along with close readings and discussion
of them, are the theme-and-variations vehicle through which Hofstadter
conveys his most profound ideas — or, once again, the formal woof and thematic warp.
Although GEB continues to be widely seen as Hofstadter’s trademark
work, he expresses some disappointment that Le Ton beau —
in his introductory words to the book (words which he will reaffirm
a few years later), probably the best book I will ever write
— did not seem to take its place in the hearts of many of his
readers. Hofstadter’s own explanation for this — and his
decision to include it in so prominent a place in GEB’s
own Twentieth-Anniversary Edition preface — are telling: “In
some sense, GEB was a ‘forward-looking’ book, or
at least on its surface it gave that appearance [...] Well, by contrast,
Le Ton beau de Marot might be seen as a ‘backward-looking’
book, not so much because it was inspired by a sixteenth-century
poem [...] but because there simply is nothing in the book’s pages
that could be confused with glib technological glitz and surreal
futuristic promises. Not that GEB had those either, but many people seemed
to see something vaguely along those lines in it....” Perhaps what these readers mistook for “glib technological glitz” in GEB is actually something they would also find in abundance in Le Ton beau de Marot: Hofstadter's characteristic
charisma.
Structurally and formally, Le Ton beau de Marot is as playful
and odd as was GEB. In a place analogous to GEB’s
inter-chapter dialogues, Le Ton beau’s chapters are
separated (or joined?) by poetic interludes of translation and
discussion, the pages of which are numbered separately to enhance
the sense
that this is a distinct structural part of the book. But Hofstadter’s
remarkably formalist and intellectual book about poetic translation
is, at the same time, rich with emotion: in addition to its occasional
joyous bawdiness (in a jocular translation and discussion of a
Marot paean to the breast) and some no-holds-barred polemics (against
Nabokov in particular, which one critic unfairly called a “tantrum”
— it’s not, although it is an emotional and heartfelt
critique), Le Ton beau is deeply, remarkably, and perhaps
unexpectedly moving. Without a hint of the maudlin, the book relates
the story of the heart-rending death of Carol Hofstadter, the
author’s
still very young wife. But the story of this personal tragedy has
much more than a bit part in Le Ton beau: in fact, Carol’s
presence and absence, and Hofstadter’s abiding love for her,
are tangible throughout, very literally from cover to cover: from
the multiple puns in the title, through the dedication, the introduction,
the translations, all the way to the endnotes and index... and
even in the front-cover art and dust-jacket author photo, which
has a
hidden meaning relating to Carol. (By the way, speaking of endnotes
and index — here, as everywhere else in Hofstadter’s
oeuvre, phantom works, hidden gems and oddly moving moments grace
not only the text proper, but also the entire apparatus; it pays
to pay close attention.)
Recurring throughout Hofstadter’s work is this question
of animacy arising from inanimacy: thought and language and feelings
blooming from unthinking, unspeaking and unfeeling stuff; beauty
and depth arising from places inherently outside the realm of the
aesthetic. Gödel, Escher and Bach are clearly representative
of the animacy/inanimacy question — but so, for example, is
Hofstadter’s own love for his wife, which endures even across
the boundary between life and death: can the beauty and depth of
all these things really be expressed fully in mere marks on a
page,
transmitted as mere sound waves or as patterns of light and dark?
And on an even deeper level, how are these marks and patterns
created,
and how is their resulting depth and beauty perceived, in the physical
matter of the brain? Hofstadter certainly addresses the “mind-brain
problem” explicitly to pose the question in one particular
and narrow form. But he is interested in much more than just this
narrow question: he is interested in “meta-acts” which
themselves embody or even transcend the question (hence his choice
of three particularly “meta” characters in GEB).
In many cases, though, the seemingly mundane act of translation
becomes a transcendent meta-act for Hofstadter. The persistent
awkwardness of modern machine translation belies the opinion
that translation is a mundane and mechanical act, and is especially striking given the
relatively advanced state of
natural language mimicry.
Hofstadter’s continuing interest and activity in translation
touches not only (and not even principally) Marot — although Le Ton
Beau de Marot is by far his fullest treatment of the “problems ”of
translation — but also of his own work. As he tells the story of this
topic, “A very different strand of my intellectual life was my deep involvement
in the translation of GEB into various languages, and this led me, perhaps
inevitably, in retrospect, to the territory of verse translation” (GEB,
p.P-20). It is the “inevitably” that seems the most astute, for
now it seems that Hofstadter’s work, at its “core,” was always about
translation, in any of a large number of its multifarious guises. Still, Le
Ton beau does focus on a specific type of formal and highly structured
and constrained translation of the most traditional sort, between human languages.
And Hofstadter characteristically imposes even greater constraints, by focusing
on a single poem, itself with remarkable formal constraints. Even within these
tight strictures, though, an entirely new work emerges: a sizable chunk of Le
Ton beau is dedicated to the problems of translating Alexander Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, arguably the most
important work in Russian literature.
Onegin not only offered Hofstadter a test case for
comparative translation in Le Ton beau, where he dedicated
several chapters to it: it also became his next major work, this
time as a translator rather than author (although his “Translator’s
Preface” to the work is a major essay in itself).Onegin
is not only a much larger canvas than was “Ma Mignonne”
(5300 lines, in nearly 400 tightly-structured sonnet-like stanzas)
on which to practice his art of poetic translation. Onegin
is also an ideal object on which Hofstadter can focus his artistic
and intellectual interests: as its own “formal system”
(a central concept in GEB) it is highly disciplined; at the
same time, it is a linguistically playful, sparkling work. And yet,
through all its formalism, within all its formal constraints, it
remains a deeply romantic and moving novel of love and loss. All
of these characteristics lie at the core of Hofstadter’s own
artistic and intellectual value system — in Pushkin he had
clearly found a kindred spirit — and his translation, completed
for the bicentennial of Pushkin’s birth (1999), both
reveals and revels in their shared passion for language, precision,
play and spark, in ways that most previous attempts have not. Hofstadter’s
“novel versification” (as he wittily subtitled it) of
Pushkin’s famous “novel in verse” is both a loving
tribute to the original and a wonderful addition to the family of
Onegin translations into English.
Fluid Concepts and Creative Analogies (1995) is a
set of essays and experiments of Hofstadter and a sort of cognitive
science circle (fittingly called the “Fluid Analogies Research
Group,” part of the aforementioned Center for Research on
Concepts and Cognition) that he has led at Indiana University for
many years. This collection reveals in concrete, programmatic
form
many of the facets of Hofstadter’s own concerns as a thinker
and writer in cognitive science: efforts in “artificial intelligence”
(a term and an approach that Hofstadter at first embraced, then
later traded in for the more comprehensive — and more fitting
— name, “cognitive science”), creativity studies,
computer modeling of human cognition, and, of course, analogy.
Analogy here is presented not only as the core of cognition,
but also as a core concern for any computer modeling of human thought.
And here it becomes clear that Hofstadter’s own primary concern
in “artificial intelligence” is not to create a machine
that thinks, but rather to use a machine to model, and thus better
understand, how we think. As Hofstadter writes in his closing
words to Fluid Concepts, he’s aiming not for programs
that better mimic natural human language, for example (which he
calls mere window dressing), but rather for computer
architectures that go much further... toward capturing the
genuine fluid mentality of the way we think — that same
fluidity for which Alan Turing famously hoped to test his black
box in what became known as the Turing Test.
Shortly after GEB’s smashing success, Hofstadter
and philosopher Daniel Dennett composed and arranged
and, in 1981, published The Mind’s I: Fantasies and Reflections
on Self and Soul, a marvelous collection of essays and short
fiction, each piece followed by a reflection by one
of the editors. In some ways the structure of this book seems more
standard, and perhaps less experimental, than Hofstadter’s
other books. But the collection itself, as an anthology, is a marvel:
Borges fantasies appear alongside academic works on artificial
intelligence,
programming, psychology, philosophy, paradoxes and puns. (Pre-dating
and pre-dicting Fluid Concepts’ resistance to mistaking
flashy natural-language “AI” programs for true human-like cognition,
Hofstadter here waxes eloquently ludic: Is a soul greater than the hum
of its parts? [p. 191]) It is a sign of his continuing curiosity and generosity
that he sees so much value in such a wide-ranging set of works,
engages with them so deeply, and shares both the works and his
engagement with his readers in such an approachable collection.
Such a mix of genres, such enthusiastic engagement — even such a meaning-packed pun! — is typical Hofstadter.
The other major work of “early Hofstadter” is
Metamagical Themas: Questing
for the Essence of Mind and Pattern, a collection of his
Scientific American columns written in the early 1980s, along
with several previously unpublished essays. (Hofstadter’s
column in Scientific American succeeded the venerable and
long-running column of Martin Gardner called Mathematical
Games. His curious title is, characteristically, an anagrammatic
homage to Gardner’s.) Here too Hofstadter’s authorial generosity and enthusiasm shine: since much of the work comes from
a monthly column, the reader normally implied is here made flesh, as Hofstadter quotes liberally from letters and contributions
he’s received from Scientific American readers. Metamagical Themas is very much
in the spirit of GEB, and even includes some sections that
had been excluded from it, such as the marvelous — and marvelously
neological — Tortoise/Achilles dialogue “Who Shoves Whom Around Inside
the Careenium?” In a typically Hofstadterian strange-loopy twist, in this
dialogue Hofstadter appears not only as author, but also as a character
in the dialogue of his own fictional creations. Here not only is
the “implied reader” fully realized — the “real author” is fully implied, too.
Ambigrammi: un microcosmo ideale per lo studio della
creatività (1987) is a curious, and, sadly, little-known
work, published only in Italian. Its principal topic is one of
several droll and quirky art forms that pepper (and otherwise
spice up)
Hofstadter’s larger works: ambigrams (a word of Hofstadter’s
own coining), that is, text forms that are symmetrical, in that
they can be read in several directions (for example, forward and
backward, in rotation, in mirror image, etc. — in fact, in
sixteen distinct symmetrical ways). Some of Hofstadter’s other
“cognitive” art forms, such as his musically-inspired
“Whirly Art” and his letter-inspired “gridfonts,”
were shown in a recent exhibition; Hofstadter discusses all these
forms in the exhibition catalog
— and they do all receive some explanation and treatment throughout
his larger works — but ambigrams remain by far the most completely
illustrated, explained and elaborated, in both the examples and
taxonomy contained in the book, and in a fanciful dialogue between
Hofstadter and his erstwhile alter ego.
The ambigram form encapsulates many aspects of human cognition,
and Hofstadter explicates and exemplifies these here much as he
does those aspects of poetry translation, formal logical systems,
musical forms, etc., in his other books: perception and categorization,
formal constraints, elasticity and fluidity of thought, creativity,
play, and analogy — and though he takes each of his many art
forms quite seriously, it’s clear that he is insterested
not only in each particular what of human creativity and cognition,
but especially in the how.
During his career Hofstadter has written, lectured, experimented and,
above all, thought about an exceptionally wide variety of
human endeavors, all in pursuit of that question he has posed continually
since writing GEB more than a quarter century ago: “how
it is that animate beings come out of inanimate matter.” After
this incredibly varied quarter century of work, is it possible to
concede that the answer to this question lies in the simple statement
that he forcefully makes in the title of his Stanford Presidential
Lecture: that analogy is the very core of
cognition? True, there have been plenty of other candidates in Hofstadter’s
work for the “core” of “cognition” —
cognition itself being the “core” of the animacy that
is contained in our fundamentally inanimate careenia, the cogito
of our sum, the I of our mind. Is the core of cognition
and animacy essentially only self-representation and self-reference
(as in Bach, in our DNA and elsewhere)? Is it essential incompleteness
(as in Gödel’s Theorem and elsewhere)? Is it strange
loops and tangled hierarchies (as in Escher, in Hofstadter’s
own forthcoming book, I Am a Strange Loop, and elsewhere)?
Is it in the patterns, puzzles, paradoxes, puns, poetry, and programming
that we see throughout Hofstadter’s work? Or is it elsewhere?
Elsewhere.... Perhaps it is precisely in analogy
that we find the common thread of all these cognitive and creative
phenomena, and thus the common element in the endeavors that make
us human, and thus the core of our humanity. We await the answer
— or at least a fascinating exploration of more facets of
the question — at the core of this lecture: it will
be here, if it’s anywhere at all.
Really, though, is this the last word in Hofstadter? Of
course... not. Who could even imagine such a thing?
Text by Glen Worthey
Humanities Digital Information Service
Stanford University Libraries
Thanks
to Ever Rodriguez for Web site
and other technical assistance.
©2006 Stanford
University Libraries
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