I Am a Strange Loop - Douglas R. Hofstadter [96]
Whichever may be the case, I urge you to go out and see the film; it’s a poignant masterpiece. And if by some strange chance your very own sweetheart, sitting at your side and savoring the movie with you, has just returned to the nest after une toute petite amourette with some third party, just imagine how she or he is going to start squirming when that last scene arrives! But why on earth would someone outside the movie feel the sting of a volley of stern rebukes made by someone inside the movie? Ah, well… analogy has force in proportion to its precision and its visibility.
Chantal and the Piggybacked Levels of Meaning
Let’s now explore an analogy whose two sides are more different than two cookies or two lovers, more different even than a straying wife and a straying cat. It’s an analogy that comes up, albeit implicitly, when we are watching a video on our TV — let’s say, a show about a French baker, his wife, his friends, and his cats. The point is that we are not really watching the cavortings of people and cats — not literally, anyway. To say that we are doing so is a useful shorthand, since what we are actually seeing is a myriad of pixels that are copying, in a perfect lockstep-synchronized fashion, dynamically shifting patterns of color splotches that once were scattered off some animate and inanimate objects in a long-ago-and-faraway French village. We are watching a million or so dots that “code” for those people’s actions, but luckily the code is very easy for us to decode — so totally effortless, in fact, that we are sucked in by the mapping, by the isomorphism (the screen/scene analogy, if you will), and we find ourselves “teleported” to some remote place and time where we seem to be seeing events happening just as they normally do; we feel it is annoyingly nitpicky to make fine distinctions about whether we are “really” watching those events or not. (Are we really talking to each other if we talk by phone?)
It is all too easy to forget that moths, flies, dogs, cats, neonates, television cameras, and other small-souled beings do not perceive a television screen as we do. Although it’s hard for us to imagine, they see the pixels in a raw, uninterpreted fashion, and thus to them a TV screen is as drained of long-ago-and-far-away meanings as is, to you or me, a pile of fall leaves, a Jackson Pollock painting, or a newspaper article in Malagasy (my apologies to you if you speak Malagasy; in that case, please replace it by Icelandic — and don’t tell me that you speak that language, too!). “Reading” a TV screen at the representational level is intellectually far beyond such creatures, even if for most humans it is essentially second nature already by age two or so.
A dog gazing vacantly at a television screen, unable to make out any imagery, unaware even that any imagery is intended, is thus not unlike Lord Russell staring blankly at a formula of his beloved system PM and seeing only its “easy” (arithmetical) meaning, while the other meaning, the mapping-mediated meaning due to Gödel, lies intellectually beyond him, utterly inaccessible, utterly undreamt-of. Or perhaps you think this comparison is unfair to Sir Bertrand, and in a way I agree, so let me try to make it a little more realistic and more generous.
Instead of a dog that, when placed in front of a TV screen, sees only pixels rather than people, imagine little three-year-old Chantal Duplessix, who is watching La Femme du boulanger with her parents. All three are native speakers of French, so there’s no language barrier. Just like her maman and papa, Chantal sees right through the pixels to the events in the village, and when that wonderful final scene arrives and Aimable rakes the cat over the coals, Chantal laughs and laughs at Aimable’s fury — but she doesn’t suspect for a moment that there is another reading of his words. She’s too young to