19 March 1998

The picture of learning as involving the development of sensitivity to a subject matter suggests that learning is fundamentally a passive process of 'taking in', of 'opening up one's mind' and letting the world flood in. Of course, this would still involve actions of various kinds. There are the mental actions of directing one's attention and asking questions, as well as the physical actions involved in cultivating the right kind of sensitivity, such as trying and testing, feeling one's way.

That would make physical activity in the learning process merely a means to an end. And I am not happy with that idea. If this were true, a disembodied spirit could learn things. It would learn by attending and looking, perhaps by living its life vicariously, observing the actions of human beings as a silent on-looker and sharing in our experiences.

I don't want anything to turn on the metaphysical question whether the notion of a 'disembodied spirit' is conceivable. The following thought experiment would serve as well:

Buried deep underground in sealed chambers lie the remnants of an ancient civilization which preceded the human race. Each Ancient lies in its own tomb, withered, immobile, its brain kept alive on a supply of intravenous nutrients. Yet the Ancients do not live in darkness. For in addition to communicating with one another electronically, they are able to explore the outside world above ground via tiny, radio-controlled airborne TV cameras. These remote 'eyes' and 'ears' are disguised to look like a familiar inocuous insect — say, ladybirds (or 'ladybugs'). The ladybird-droids search far and wide into every nook and cranny of our human world. As a result, the Ancients are able to learn as much as we learn about the world around us — perhaps much more.

For all I can tell, there may be a ladybird-droid looking over my shoulder right now. Does it see what I am doing in tapping these keys? Could it see and understand what it sees? Why not?

The question seems rhetorical. The catch is that it is already implicitly written into the story that the Ancients at one time possessed a highly developed science, a technology that has proved capable of keeping them alive indefinitely in their present state. Their present learning involves taking in experience and drawing conclusions on the basis of what they learned in the past.

We need to alter the example. Let's say that by some automatically regulated process of bio-engineering the Ancients are able to produce offspring. Like a human infant, a newly bio-engineered Ancient learns to communicate. Its electronically transmitted baby talk, under the influence of its carers, gradually takes the shape of the Ancient mother tongue. It listens and babbles, and all the time drinks in experience of the outside, human world.

The Ancients who sealed themselves in underground tombs were once physically active. Their offspring have never been physically active. Yet the offspring are able to learn a language, to learn from their experience. That all seems to make sense. I mean, I have a picture of it in my mind. If this were a science fiction story, I could follow the story. The poor little mites!

They 'learn a language'. How? I suppose a carer relays a bit of experience with the message, 'This is called...'. Just as we do, the Ancient offspring learn, by trial and error, the difference between a dog and a cat, a red circle and a green circle, a red circle and a red square, and so on. No problem? — Hmm. I'll have to think more about this.