The Demon-Haunted World_ Science as a Candle in the Dark - Carl Sagan [97]
• I don’t know how, after such an experience, I could have just turned over and gone back to sleep.
• I believe in happy endings. I always have. Once you have seen a figure as tall as the room - with golden hair, and shining like a lighted Christmas tree, lifting up the little child beside us, how could you not? I understood the message the figure was relaying - to the little child - and it was me. We had always talked together. How else could life be bearable - in a place like this?... Unfamiliar mental states? You put your finger right on it.
• Who is really in charge of this planet?
12
The Fine Art of
Baloney Detection
The human understanding is no dry light, but receives infusion from the will and affections; whence proceed sciences which may be called ‘sciences as one would’. For what a man had rather were true he more readily believes. Therefore he rejects difficult things from impatience of research; sober things, because they narrow hope; the deeper things of nature, from superstition; the light of experience, from arrogance and pride; things not commonly believed, out of deference to the opinion of the vulgar. Numberless in short are the ways, and sometimes imperceptible, in which the affections colour and infect the understanding.
Francis Bacon, Novum Organon (1620)
My parents died years ago. I was very close to them. I still miss them terribly. I know I always will. I long to believe that their essence, their personalities, what I loved so much about them, are - really and truly - still in existence somewhere. I wouldn’t ask very much, just five or ten minutes a year, say, to tell them about their grandchildren, to catch them up on the latest news, to remind them that I love them. There’s a part of me - no matter how childish it sounds - that wonders how they are. ‘Is everything all right?’ I want to ask. The last words I found myself saying to my father, at the moment of his death, were ‘Take care’.
Sometimes I dream that I’m talking to my parents, and suddenly - still immersed in the dreamwork - I’m seized by the overpowering realization that they didn’t really die, that it’s all been some kind of horrible mistake. Why, here they are, alive and well, my father making wry jokes, my mother earnestly advising me to wear a muffler because the weather is chilly. When I wake up I go through an abbreviated process of mourning all over again. Plainly, there’s something within me that’s ready to believe in life after death. And it’s not the least bit interested in whether there’s any sober evidence for it.
So I don’t guffaw at the woman who visits her husband’s grave and chats him up every now and then, maybe on the anniversary of his death. It’s not hard to understand. And if I have difficulties with the ontological status of who she’s talking to, that’s all right. That’s not what this is about. This is about humans being human. More than a third of American adults believe that on some level they’ve made contact with the dead. The number seems to have jumped by 15 per cent between 1977 and 1988. A quarter of Americans believe in reincarnation.
But that doesn’t mean I’d be willing to accept the pretensions of a ‘medium’, who claims to channel the spirits of the dear departed, when I’m aware the practice is rife with fraud. I know how much I want to believe that my parents have just abandoned the husks of their bodies, like insects or snakes moulting, and gone somewhere else. I understand that those very feelings might make me easy prey even for an unclever con, or for normal people unfamiliar with their unconscious minds, or for those suffering from a dissociative psychiatric disorder. Reluctantly, I rouse some reserves of scepticism.
How is it, I ask myself, that channellers never give us verifiable information otherwise unavailable? Why does Alexander