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People can misinterpret almost anything so that it coincides with views they already hold. They take from art what they already believe, and I wonder how many people have ever had their views about anything important changed by a work of art.

Stanley Kubrick, filmmaker Apophenia is an error of perception that is a normal human experience: The tendency to interpret patterns in meaningless data as if it were meaningful. Although all living things recognize patterns, humans may be the only ones to assign symbolic meaning—sometimes deeply nuanced or with powerful emotional content—to those patterns. Music and especially smells do this. It's what makes us feel nostalgia. However, when those connections are spurious and erroneous, that's apophenia. It's the constant, changing interpretations of patterns that makes human experience so fascinating. In fact, pattern recognition and interpretation is fundamental to human existence. Before one can ask "What is the meaning of life?" one must first answer, "Is there a meaning of life?" Is the human condition just a serious case of apophenia?

John W. Hoopes, anthropologist

THINGS FALL APART One of the fundamental principles of the physical universe is entropy—the tendency of complex systems to move

towards disorder over time. The poet William Butler Yeats famously described entropy in his poem “The Second

Coming” with the lines, “Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer / Things

fall apart; the centre cannot hold . . .”

Things fall apart. That phrase, in particular, has tremendous descriptive power if we apply it to human history. It

seems that all achievements, all invention, all creations eventually fall apart, beginning with our own bodies and

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Pattern recognition, narrative, and the search for meaning

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ending, of course, with the planet itself, which scientists tell us will be destroyed in about six billion years, when our

sun’s core runs out of hydrogen, turning it into a red giant which will engulf Mercury, Venus, and Earth.

Yet despite the inevitability of entropy—or perhaps because of it—human beings have always relentlessly sought

order amidst the chaos, meaning among the randomness. Our greatest intellectual achievements (such as

mathematics, empirical science, and engineering) are a testament to our ability to find logical patterns in the face of

confusion. To make sense out of the world. If you really want to understand human beings this is a good place to

start. If you examine a list of human achievements from the dawn of civilization to the present, encompassing

everything from fire building to nuclear fusion, the one thing that seems to unite them all is that they all represent an

attempt at imposing patterns, order, and structure on the world around us.

Here are a few examples. These are all ways that human beings have tried to explain the world around them (and

the world inside them); every one of these things is an attempt at finding patterns in chaos, at creating order and

meaning to give purpose to our existence:

o Myth, legend, folktales, oral storytelling

o Religion, cultural traditions and ceremonies, faith

o Logographic writing (writing such as Chinese, that uses symbols to represent ideas)

o Alphabetic writing (writing such as English, that uses symbols to represent sounds)

o Government, law, social institutions

o Marriage, families, gender roles

o Tribes, clans, nations

o Music, art, literature, expressions of imagination

o Logic, mathematics, science

o Philosophy, reasoning, argument

o Technology, invention, machines, engineering

This is just a tentative list; I’m sure you could think of many other things.

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Consider a simple hypothetical example. One hundred years from now scientists develop a spaceship advanced

enough to transport a group of explorers to a planet in another solar system. There they are, hundreds of these brave

souls, standing on a strange new planet surrounded with their supplies.

What do they do now?

You can probably answer this question for yourself quite easily. They will do what human beings have always done:

they will plant crops, they will build shelters, they will make laws, they will worship gods, they will establish rituals

that will, in time, become traditions. They will write books and compose music and draw pictures and tell stories.

They will measure things, quantify things, and put things into test tubes and examine them under microscopes. They

will ask questions and speculate about the answers, but they won’t really be satisfied until they find the answers with

certainty. They will invent machines to make their lives easier and, if possible, to extend their lives as long as

possible. Some of these inventions will be beneficial and some will be harmful and some will be both at the same

time. And if they are wise they will live in harmony with this new world rather than pollute and destroy it.

The point is that we are always trying to create order out of chaos; we are always trying to find patterns in the static.

This is what it means to be a human being. This is what English 12 is all about.

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HOW WE BEGIN Since this is an English course, let’s talk about what language has to do with this.

From our earliest childhood until the day we die, we use language to make sense out of the world. And not words

only; music and mathematics are two essential languages that we use to understand our environment and express

how we interpret it. The best description of mathematics I have ever heard is that it the language of science. It isn’t

a language in the way that we ordinarily use the term because we can’t use mathematics to communicate a wide

range of different ideas. For example, I can’t use mathematics to tell you that I am feeling happy today. But as a

system of formal logic mathematics could be said to be a kind of language that helps us describe the physical

universe and our interaction with it, expressing ideas that cannot be captured in words alone.

The same could be said of music. Like mathematics, music is a highly sophisticated logical system that uses

symbolism to represent sense experiences (in the case of music, the sense experiences are sounds). Like

mathematics, music is a language that allows us to express things that are often outside the boundaries of words.

We are all born with a capacity to comprehend the abstract language of mathematics and music and the same

capacity is innate for the language of ordinary speech (obviously the specific language we learn depends on our

environment—Japanese babies learn Japanese—but the ability to learn to speak a language in the first place is

innate).

The power of language is not only that it helps us to communicate with each other, but it helps us understand the

world around us. We gain comprehension by naming things, by describing experiences, by putting our feelings into

words.

Now in one sense this may seem obvious; of course we use language to understand things! Yet if you think about it,

there is a very fundamental question involving our use of words to make sense of things, and that question is this:

How can words mean anything?

If you think about it, words never really take us anywhere directly. They only lead to other words. Let’s say that

you are out for a walk one day and you come upon a beautiful river. It’s so beautiful you decide that you want to

share it with me (I can’t imagine that you’d bother, but let’s pretend just for the sake of argument). You come find

me and together we walk to the river and I see it in all its beauty. Fair enough.

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But suppose you decided to simply *tell* me about the river instead of taking me to see it for myself. How does that

work, exactly? You start by saying, “You have to see this beautiful river!” From there, let’s pretend the conversation

unfolds like this:

ME: What’s a river?

YOU: It’s a fast-moving body of water that flows from higher to lower ground.

ME: What’s water?

YOU: It’s a compound of hydrogen and oxygen.

ME: What’s oxygen?

YOU: It’s an element.

ME: What’s an element?

YOU: It’s a pure chemical substance.

ME: What’s a substance?

YOU: It’s matter with a specific chemical composition.

ME: What’s matter?

And so on. This conversation could go on until almost every word in the English language has been used, and it

could then continue in circles forever. It’s as if the words don’t actually refer to anything real, but just refer you to

more words in a never-ending cycle.

Yet when you tell me that you have discovered a beautiful river, I *do*, in fact, know what you mean. I understand.

But how? How do the words take me to understanding? It can’t be because of the other words they lead me to,

because that process could go on infinitely. At a certain point, words must “jump the track”, so to speak, and create

meaning in my mind. How do they do this? (There’s no easy way to answer this, because the only way you can

answer it is through more words, and even if I understand *those* words I still don’t know how *those* words

brought me to understanding.)

As you can see, there is great power in language but also great mystery. It is not only one of the defining traits of

our humanity; it is also essential to our ability to think, reason, and function in a complex society. Everything comes

down to language: our relationships with other people, our vocation, our understanding of the world, even our very

thought process. Every subject you study in school actually involves two things: the subject itself, and the language

used to explore the subject. Thus mastering any subject (biology, music, pottery, calculus, history—anything)

involves not only mastery of the content, but mastery of the language used to understand that content. In a sense,

English 12 is your most important course this year, because your ability to read, write, communicate, and think

clearly underscore everything else you do. If you doubt that, try studying something—anything—without using

language.

THE CRAZIES I was talking to a friend of mine recently who insisted that scientists have discovered a cure for cancer but that big

drug companies and governments are conspiring to keep the cure a secret because they profit enormously from

selling cancer-treating drugs. This friend of mine is an intelligent, educated person, yet he holds this one incredibly

bizarre belief. I asked him if he had any evidence of this global conspiracy (which, according to him, involves

several governments of the world’s most powerful countries colluding with multiple pharmaceutical companies) and

he said, “Of course there’s no evidence. They suppress all the evidence!” To him, the lack of evidence is actually a

reason to believe in the conspiracy, rather than to doubt it.

How can an intelligent, rational person believe something so bizarre? Yet if there is one thing the internet has helped

us understand, it is that the world is full of intelligent people who believe crazy things. These people are sometimes

called “conspiracy theorists”. Some of them insist that the famous 1969 Apollo 11 moon landing was a hoax; that

the entire thing was filmed on a secret sound stage by legendary film maker Stanley Kubrick, and that Kubrick felt

so guilty about it that he put “secret messages” in his later films confessing to the hoax (if you want to know what

Kubrick thought of such nonsense, read the quotation at the beginning of this course overview). Some of them insist

that the September 11, 2001 attacks on the World Trade Center were caused not by Al-Qaeda terrorists but by the

American government itself. Some of them go beyond the realm of the bizarre into pure fantasy: there are

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conspiracy theorists who believe that every government in the world is controlled by a powerful, secret organization

called the Illuminati whose members have been given great power by—you guessed it!—aliens.

Conspiracy theories are a powerful example of what psychologists call apophenia: the tendency shared by all human

beings to see patterns where none exist; to see purpose where there is only coincidence; to see meaning where there

is only randomness. We all do this to some extent. Faces in the clouds, the daily horoscope, the superstitious rituals

of some athletes: all are examples of apophenia. In the absence of a meaningful pattern, we will sometimes go out

of our way to invent one. Sometimes this is fairly harmless, and sometimes it can be quite destructive. One thing is

certain: history has proven again and again that we should never underestimate the human potential for otherwise

rational people to believe crazy things.

The human tendency towards not only pattern recognition but apophenia, and how we can guard against apophenia

(as well as the extent to which we should) is a central theme in English 12.

THE NARRATION IMPERATIVE

Human beings have always been story tellers. The word “narrative” comes from the Latin word narrare, meaning to

tell or to recount. Narrative is one of our most important intellectual tools for constructing a picture of reality.

Long before science, mathematics, or philosophy, we used stories to make sense of the world. Religion is one of

humanity’s oldest system of social organization and all religions are based on stories. This tendency to think in

terms of story, of narrative, seems to be hard-wired into us. We tend to see ourselves as the main character moving

through a sequence of events punctuated by conflicts with ourselves, our environment, and other people. Each

I DON’T BELIEVE

ANY OF THOSE

CONSPIRACY

THEORIES . . .

THEY’RE ALL

JUST A TRICK

BY THE

ILLUMINATI.

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human life can be seen as a narrative. You are the main character in the unfolding novel that is your life.

Philosopher and consciousness researcher Owen Flanagan made the following observation: “Evidence strongly

suggests that humans in all cultures come to cast their own identity in some sort of narrative form. We are inveterate

storytellers.” In other words, we can’t help it. Just examine the conversations you have during a typical day—

chances are you spend a great deal of time telling stories (“Guess what happened to me?”; “You gotta hear this!”; “It

was so funny!”). Anytime someone asks, “What happened?” they are, essentially, asking to hear a story.

Stories are powerful. They can bring complex ideas to life and give purpose and inspiration to ordinary experiences.

They are easy to remember. They captivate our imagination. They can be used to instruct and encourage but also to

control and manipulate. They can create hope or despair, inspiration or melancholy, passion or apathy, joy or

sorrow. This is probably one reason why some people are so easily deceived by conspiracy theories; they are

powerful stories that are far more interesting than the ordinary truth. You tell me: which story below is more

interesting?

1. There is an ancient continent called Atlantis which sunk to the bottom of the

Atlantic ocean. The governments of the world know about the existence of

Atlantis, but they have conspired to keep its existence a secret. Atlantis contains

countless riches along with astonishing new technologies, some of which were

given to the ancient Atlantans by aliens.

2. There is nothing at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean except for sand, rock, and strange-looking fish.

See what I mean? Story #1 is complete nonsense, but a great story. Story #2 is the truth, but rather boring. (By the

way, I am not suggesting that truth is always boring—far from it. The American writer Mark Twain once said that

truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, and he was right. My point is simply that a good story has tremendous

power, even if it is not true.)

The fundamental role of narrative in the human experience—and our tendency to put everything into narrative

terms: science, religion, politics, everything—is a central theme of English 12.

THE MEANING MAKERS When I was twenty years old I had a nightmare. This is what happened: I was alone in a huge wooden house of

Victorian design. The house was crumbling, decaying, decrepit. Mold in the walls and rotten floorboards.

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The house had no furniture; every room was bare. The windows were thick with dirt and grime. I stood in a room

in which a single dirty light bulb dangled from a fixture in the ceiling. The walls inside the house were covered with

a tattered, faded yellow wallpaper dotted with rips and stains. The ceilings were very low; with my hand raised

above my head I could easily touch the ceiling. I was engulfed by a horrible sense of claustrophobia. I started to

walk through this massive, deserted house. My feet echoed horribly on the creaky floorboards.

Then, from somewhere else in the house, echoing madly through the hallways, an angry scream. Then another. In

the strange way that you sometimes know things in dreams I knew that this scream was the cry of a monster that was

hunting me. I spent several frantic (and horribly stressful) minutes running through the house, never actually seeing

this creature, but always hearing it screaming, always off in another room somewhere else.

Eventually I got out of the house and climbed into a car, a 1930s roadster.

I started the engine (incredibly enough, it worked) and prepared to drive away. For some reason, just before I hit the

accelerator, I turned my head to look back at the house.

At that moment I saw, high up in the house, a shadowy figure standing in

one of the attic windows.

It waved at me.

Then I woke up.

It was a terrifying dream. And it’s also a pretty good story (and we all

love narratives, don’t we?). But does it mean anything?

Before we can answer that we have to be clear about what “meaning” means. Or, to put it another way, if we say

that something means something, what do we mean by that? There are actually two different ways we can use this

word, and there is an important difference between these two uses.

First, I can say that the dream means something in that it is important to me and I learned something from it. In this

sense, the word “meaning” means a value or importance that I choose to give to something. I had a horrible dream,

but when I woke up I thought about the dream and decided that it means this or that. I not only made sense out of it;

I gave sense to it. In other words, I had a dream, and I gave it meaning.

Second, I can say that the dream means something in that it has an importance that comes from outside me. In this

sense, the word “meaning” means a value or importance that something has that didn’t come from me. In ancient

times people believed that dreams were messages from the gods or family ancestors in the spirit realm. In the

nineteenth century the idea arose that dreams might be messages from one’s subconscious mind. In both paradigms

the point is that the dream contains a meaning that the dreamer has to decipher; the dreamer doesn’t decide what that

meaning is. Usually, when people ask what a dream “means”, they are giving credence to the second idea, that

dreams have a meaning that comes from outside us.

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My point is not to talk about dreams per se, but to use them as an example of our incredible need to give meaning to

things. We don’t just look for patterns and tell stories; we constantly ask what, if anything, they mean.

Let me give you another example.

In 2010 the tiny island nation of Haiti suffered a devastating earthquake. Already one of the world’s poorest

countries, Haiti was thrown into a state of disaster that continues to this day. The death toll was well over 100,000

people, with three million people displaced (one third of Haiti’s entire population). Haiti’s industry and

infrastructure were devastated, hundreds of thousands of buildings destroyed, with total damages approaching eight

billion dollars.

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Not long after the earthquake I was listening to a call-in show on CBC radio that was discussing the tragedy. The

host of the show was talking about the tragic irony of one of the world’s poorest countries being struck by such a

horrific natural disaster, as if Haiti didn’t have enough problems already. He then made a statement that I found, at

the time, somewhat peculiar. He said, “It is so hard to understand why things like this happen.”

Huh?

Anyone with even a rudimentary knowledge of science knows exactly why earthquakes happen; they happen

because of a phenomenon known as “plate tectonics.” Without getting too technical, you could think of it like this:

the earth’s surface (including under the oceans) is made up of layers of rock called plates. The plates are all

connected together like a jigsaw puzzle, and when they move against each other at the point of connection—a point

called a fault—it causes earthquakes.

So there’s really no mystery about why this earthquake happened in Haiti; it’s relatively straightforward. Haiti sits

on a fault between two massive plates: the Caribbean plate and the North American plate, making Haiti especially

vulnerable to earthquakes. The pressure between the two plates builds up over time, and in 2010 it resulted in a

massive earthquake.

However, I’m pretty sure that the CBC radio host knew about plate tectonics. I think when he talked about how

hard it is to understand why things like this happen he was not referring to an absence of scientific knowledge, but

rather he was struggling to give greater meaning or purpose to the event. He wasn’t curious about the mechanics of

plate tectonics, but was rather asking why God (or the gods or fate or the cosmos or the universe) would “allow”

such a thing to occur. This statement is a powerful (and very common) example of human beings as meaning-

makers. We are seldom content with a purely physical explanation of why things occur, but instead we look for an

underlying meaning or purpose, regardless of whether or not one exists.

This search for meaning underscores everything we do as human beings: science, religion, mathematics, literature,

music, art, architecture. We are on a quest to figure things out, to explain them, and at the end of the day we are

always asking what the point is. We not only want to know what but we long to know why. The kind of answer we

come up with will depend, in no small part, on the narrative that we accept.

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WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE?

There’s an enormous amount I would still like to tell you, but I think I’ve pretty much run out of room. We will

continue this conversation in class for the next four months—and hopefully, you will continue thinking and reading

about these issues long after English 12 has concluded. For now, let me leave you with a poem that I am very fond

of. I think it says some very important things about what we’ll be doing together for the semester. It’s called “The

Wayfarer” by the poet Stephen Crane.

The Wayfarer

The wayfarer, Perceiving the pathway to truth, Was struck with astonishment. It was thickly grown with weeds. "Ha," he said, "I see that none has passed here In a long time." Later he saw that each weed Was a singular knife. "Well," he mumbled at last, "Doubtless there are other roads."

Stephen Crane

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SYLLABUS (EXTREMELY TENTATIVE) WEEK 1

Neil Postman, “The God-Makers”

Noam Chomsky, “The Purpose of Education” (video interview)

WEEK 2

Jon Ronson, “The Missing Piece of the Puzzle”

Gene Weingarten, “Fatal Distraction”

Nancy Macdonald, “A Hot Day, a Parked Car—and Tragic Consequences” (interview with Jodie Edwards)

WEEK 3

Alain de Botton, “Tragedy” from Status Anxiety

Franco Zeffirelli (director), Hamlet

WEEK 4

Hamlet

WEEK 5

George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four

WEEK 6

Nineteen Eighty-Four

WEEK 7

Nineteen Eighty-Four

WEEK 8

Nineteen Eighty-Four

Lexington, The Economist, “The War of the Words”

WEEK 9

Stephen Dunn, “At the Smithville Methodist Church”

Alain de Botton, “Meritocracy” from Status Anxiety

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WEEK 10

Sherry Turkle, “Connected but Alone” (TED talk)

Sherry Turkle, “Be Careful What You Wish For”

Brandon Keim, “The Science of Handwriting”

WEEK 11

Jean-Paul Sartre, “The Wall”

Rachel Riederer, “Patient”

Katy Butler, “What Broke My Father’s Heart”

WEEK 12

Marc Forster (director), Stranger than Fiction

Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

WEEK 13

Stephen Dunn, “I Come Home Wanting to Touch Everyone”

Reshma Memon Yaqub, “The Washing”

John Donne, “A Hymn to God, my God, in my Sickness”

WEEK 14

Viktor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning

WEEK 15

Man’s Search for Meaning

WEEK 16

Man’s Search for Meaning

WEEK 17

Man’s Search for Meaning

WEEK 18

Provincial exam practice exercises

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