In Borges’ The God’s Script and Cortazar’s Axolotl, both authors regard consciousness as a sort of prison, as an inescapable weakness of the living condition. In The God’s Script, Tzinicán eventually learns the divine formula he had been chasing, yet he is only able to do so by transcending human consciousness and completely disconnecting from himself. Until that point, Tzinicán had been lost in the impossibility of trying to decipher the word that he believed could summarize the universe in its entirety. Similarly, in Axolotl, the narrator is only able to truly understand and inhabit the mind and being of the Axolotl by fully and irreversibly inhabiting it - again entirely disconnecting from his own self. Consciousness, in both these stories, has distinct and immovable walls. It is not a malleable landscape but a single room in which the soul speaks to itself in personalized code. While the occurrences in such a room may feel transcendent or formless, the only way for them to truly be so would be if the ceiling of the room could be broken - a hypothetical considered by both stories, but in reality impossible. Even if it were possible, all that could exit one’s cage would be something all but unrecognizable from that which it departed. 

What I am curious about, however, is whether Borges and Cortazar - and whether I, myself - see consciousness itself as the prison or the biological or human containment of consciousness as the real limiter. Is our humanity the warden of our own consciousness? I suppose Borges and Cortazar may be panpsychists, as they offer the idea of transcending said limitations, but through the act of restructuring the unity of our consciousness. Indeed, such a novel reunification would need to involve weaving our consciousness into the fabric of the universe itself, elevating it from the plane of biology. This is most evident in The God’s Script where, by learning the code, Tzinicán has witnessed the tangible interconnectedness of the universe in a way that has disassociated him from his previous self. However, in Axolotl, I would argue that the surreal transformation that the Narrator undergoes is, in fact, his penetrating the fabric of the universe and allowing it to morph him in a divine and impossible manner. In having our consciousness merge or be influenced by the consciousness (continuing the panpsychism train of thought) that makes up the fabric of the universe in these ways, it loses the subjective quality of human experience that defines it - and thus actualizes us. 

The Heteronyms are a compelling philosophical vehicle through which Pessoa explores consciousness and identity.  They present an interesting argument about the fluidness of consciousness and the self. The Heteronyms are essentially authorial personas that Pessoa inhabits and through which he writes. Yet, they are significantly more than just alter-egos. As Jonardon Ganeri writes in Inwardness, “To assume a heteronym is not merely to don a disguise or wear a mask, but to transform oneself into another I.”  In this way, Pessoa is using his Heteronyms to decentralize himself and, therefore, to be able to process and regard his own experiences through a variety of wholly autonomous lenses. He is then able to contemplate different aspects of his own self with less bias and hindering familiarity. At the same time, despite how much richer his experiences become, he also loses touch with his own personal identity - in its singular and true nature - and, ironically, the self that conceived of all the Heteronyms in the first place. Drawing from this multiplicity, Ganeri contemplates consciousness as a fluid structure in which independent selves coexist while taking turns coming into focus. He writes, “Pessoa describes the structure of inwardness very well when he writes: ‘And amid all this confusion I, what’s truly I, am the centre that exists only in the geometry of the abyss: I’m the nothing around which everything spins, existing only so that it can spin, being a centre only because every circle has one.’” 

What is so fascinating to me about Pessoa's Heteronyms are the manner in which their experimental use ended up shattering the illusion of a central identity for Pessoa. As he rotated between selves, the illusion of an absolute gravitational center, around which they all orbited, was lost, and the construct of Pessoa was dispersed between the selves he created. Something I don’t quite understand about Pessoa’s arguments is how the Heteronyms are actually selves. If the self is just an amalgamation of rotating selves, are those selves not also amalgamations? Using Pessoa’s logic, one would eventually find themself to be a collection of ones and zeros and anything of greater unity would have to be divided into rotating factors. Any of Pessoa's Heteronyms are of far too great complexity to be able to be single entities. Furthermore, if such heteronymic selves are truly autonomous, then where did they come from? Pessoa would say – I believe – from different aspects of his experience of life.  But how can one aspect exist on its own without being dependent on others? If I were to create a heteronym based off of my reactionary and chaotic side, would such a side be able to exist if my reactionary and chaotic side were not simultaneously balanced by a rational and organized one? The differences between aspects of a single simultaneous experience are what bring different ‘sevles’ into existence. There is no rotation, but rather uniquely personal factors whose prominence in one’s experience waxes and wanes, all of which are tied together through a single point, the center, or rather, the self. 

Plato sees time as the perceivable and inherent movement of things, a movement that is likewise inherently tied to the workings of the universe. In his reasoning, time was created by the demiurge simultaneously to the creation of the cosmos, making the universe as close to eternal as possible without reaching the real eternality of those forms that transcend time. Indeed, time itself is modeled after the pattern of eternity and, while infinite, is a small distance away from eternity. 

Time is the motion of everything that acts as an engine driving the universe, making it tangible and even visibly existent. The past and future, Plato refers to as “species of time” – motions that exist within the greater motion of time, yet do not work to define time. Irrespective of the scientific arguments that can be made to counter Plato’s rationale, where I most disagree with Plato is in his placement of the present. 

Plato’s theory divides time into three parts, which are defined by motion yet cannot provide motion to that which would exist only within one of them. Taking this idea, then, greater time experiences could then be argued to be created by the contiguousness of the events within these parts (past, present, future.) Such motion would only be comprised of “moments” or points put together in an infinitely fast stop-motion, as something is not in motion when residing at any place within the past present or future (even if those species of time are said to be in motion themselves)- which all things do -, and so could never gain fluid motion. 

Furthermore, a “moment” is infinitely divisible and so, even if the two most similar of consecutive points (one residing let's say in the past and the next in the “present”) could be, by almost all scales, judged to be a fluid motion, the difference between them can be split infinitely, and so this fluidity would never occur. In Plato’s theory, the existence of the present (which, in itself, is an infinitely divisible “moment”) serves to make that which exists within time static, contradicting the purpose and essence of time that Plato himself argues. Instead, within the fundamentals Plato provides, time would have to exist with zero discernible or separate parts/species, and the engine that it is could only produce and embody motion within a dimension we cannot fathom - a dimension in which the true embodiment and movement of what we call the past, present and future can only be understood.

In chapter five of Galileo’s Error, author Philip Goff considers the problematic effect that a dualistic view of the world imposes upon our relationship with nature. In his eyes, many people are closet dualists. Ignoring logic, these closet dualists are unable to perceive human consciousness as solely a series of brain processes. Materialist David Papineau explains this succinctly, claiming, “It is almost psychologically impossible to believe that conscious experiences are physical processes in the brain” (189). Our innate dualistic perspective can become harmful, disrupting our relation to the natural world. Goff writes, “The dualist conceives of the natural world as a mechanism lacking in the consciousness that sanctifies human existence. It is therefore something to be exploited rather than revered” (189). Dualism assigns us an inherently superior role in a constructed universal hierarchy. While materialism humbles us and panpsychism unites us, dualism exists dependent on the divisions it has created. Panpsychism, conversely, radically harmonizes us with nature by grounding us in the fabric of the cosmos itself. As Goff elaborates, “If panpsychism is true, the rainforest is teeming with consciousness. As conscious entities, trees have value in their own right: chopping one down becomes an action of immediate moral significance” (191). This ‘immediate moral significance’ assigns us a moral duty to protect the natural world, whereas dualism only propels us to action with logical, self-serving motivation. Panpsychism changes our relationship with nature by denying us exclusivity in our exceptionality. We are intertwined, it suggests, with forces and entities just as miraculous and sacred as those that glide through our own veins. As Goff incisively states, “We are conscious creatures embedded in a world of consciousness" (191).

I wonder, however, if materialism accomplishes this same unity as panpsychism, or if it does the opposite. I would think it has the power to do both. A materialistic philosophy is a natural womb for nihilism. If the universe, ourselves included, is just of a cold, binary nature, then what meaning does any sort of empathy or connection provide? At the same time, such a perspective can make the illusion of soul seem all the more magical and essential. If everything is of stale, scientific construction, why not rise out of such bleak existence by using the human gift of creating meaning where none exists? Furthermore I wonder if it might be worth teaching panpsychism, even if it is unproven and generally considered implausible. Goff opines on this, suggesting that, “it’s reasonable to assume that children raised in a panpsychist culture would have a much closer relationship with nature and invest a great deal more value in its continued existence” (191). I would argue (even if I don’t really believe it) that, if we are seemingly eternally fated to never comprehend consciousness as it really is, why not theorize in a way that gives us communion with the precocious, endangered world we live in, rather than through a lens that disbands us into an uninspired, numerical void. 

Borges’ The Library of Babel is a humbling contemplation of the human mind. It explores our insatiable desire for individual mastery and for confirmation that our existence is one of sense and importance. To the last point, Borges writes: “Infidels claim that the rule in the Library is not "sense;' but "non-sense;' and that "rationality" (even humble, pure coherence) is an almost miraculous exception.” The “infidels” Borges describes are, I believe, those who deny human exceptionality and indelibility. Those on the opposite end of the spectrum, who are devoted and/or righteous, are those who comb through infinity to keep the illusion alive.  Assuming for now that “the library” is the human mind, to then claim that the human mind is not constituted of complex and meaningful substance or of divine truth is to make meaningless our perpetual search for our most godly, immortal and extraordinarily human core. To make such a search meaningless would lead those who have spent their lives keeping the library, in order to relish in their own perceived exceptionality, fall into a state of agonizing agoraphobia and would make the library itself a lifeless prison, devoid of substance. The last line, “my solitude is cheered by this elegant hope”, further highlights our need to know powerful communion with the universe and to fawn over our illusory, ineffaceable connection to it. 

Aristotle argues that our perception of time is grounded in the changes we observe in our surroundings and yet, that time, by itself, is impossible to perceive. He sees time as the measure of movement, as it pertains to the before and the after. In this way, Aristotle sees time as unidirectional and sequential, as it is the human perception of change that dictates how we define it. Our perceptions allow us only to see time in this sequential, forward-moving manner. Time - as a measurement of movement -  is a number of sorts, and it is a differentiator between successions of change. As Aristotle states, “time is neither identical with nor entirely independent of movement.”  What this means is that when referencing a unit of time or the duration of an event, we are just comparing it to another commonly respected duration and not to any objective measurement. Aristotle doesn’t limit the definition of movement to physical motion but instead classifies it through the broader idea of change. Such change might be related to the quality, quantity and location of something. 

While a student of Plato, Aristotle diverges from his teacher’s definitions of time. Plato sees time as identical to motion, whereas Aristotle views it as something quantifiable that is dependent on motion. Aristotle also sees time as something that cannot be perceived individually. This runs contrary to Plato’s theory of a more real and concrete time. Overall, Aristotle’s definition of time is more abstract than Plato’s. In my opinion, Aristotle’s definition/explanation of time is strong in how it grounds the idea of time in the human experience. Time, as we understand it, is a construct born out of our limited biological perspective; it is dependent on our umwelt. Aristotle comprehended this at a time when most scholars believed humans to be the center of the universe and believed in anthropomorphic gods who ruled earth. This difference is more than theoretical, it is existential and centuries ahead of his time.