I once knew a statistician of international note. Over a period of four years we used to meet regularly to put the world to rights. We talked about science, about research, about the nature of knowledge, about cycling, about the weather, about psychology ; in fact, we discussed just about everything because he, being a statistician, was involved in a number of academic disciplines and had fascinating insights into the workings of the relevant areas of research.
He had truly impressive powers of concentration. How often did he pull me back on to the topic when my butterfly mind strayed too long or too far from where it ought to have been. He told me of his habit of mentally shutting himself away when he needed to think deeply about something that was puzzling him. He would begin by relaxing both physically and mentally, and then proceeding merely to contemplate a simple verbal/visual description of the puzzle. Before long he would be in a deep trance ; in a different state of consciousness.
The world about him assumed a vagueness that seemed unreal ; the people became mere shadows, ghosts. The reality of what he was conscious of – the puzzle – grew more and more clear ; that simple mental formulation or description of the puzzle became more concrete than anything experienced in ordinary waking awareness ; it became hard, bright and clear, while the material world around him faded and became insignificant. New images came to mind ; his knowledge of the puzzle took on different arrangements ; arguments were formulated ; solutions were evaluated ; alternatives considered. All this without any mental effort.
At the end, he would emerge from this state of consciousness and back into the pale world of everyday experience ; and he would often have a definite idea about the puzzle’s solution. And equally often he would have only a feeling of having learned something about the solution, but unable to say what that something was. Hardly ever could he have given a full account of his meditations. But always an answer eventually emerged from repetitions of the exercise.
Well, what would a psychologist make of this? There surely has to be a suspicion of self-hypnosis. Certainly. But what is meant by hypnosis? Not many psychologists would relish giving a meaningful account of that, even if they knew how to try.
What would a poet make of it? There surely has to be a suspicion of the Muse at work, who takes over the thinking of the poet. For doesn’t every poet know that he cannot both think of what he is to write and actually write it at the same time? And isn’t the poetical vision quite different from the worldly one? Isn’t it through the poets that our knowledge grows?
And the musician, too. Is it possible to both play a piece and think about how to play it at the same time? Surely only beginners do that, and badly.
There is much to know about states of consciousness ; perhaps there is more than we can know ; for consciousness is the foundation (or foundations) of our being. So deep would be our excavations into our being that maybe to know all is to die. Or, to be more precise, to die from this world. That is how my friend the statistician thought of it as he recalled occasions of leaving the ghostly world of everyday experience behind and entering the sharper, brighter, harder, more concrete world where answers were to be found to the puzzles that beset us here.
Adventures of ideas 