Читать книгу The Hour Between Dog and Wolf: Risk-taking, Gut Feelings and the Biology of Boom and Bust - John Coates, John Coates - Страница 9

Evolutionary biologists frequently look back over our past and try to spot the small advances here and there, the minor differences between us and our animal cousins, which might account for humans’ phenomenal ascent to the top of the food chain. They have found, not surprisingly, that many of these advances occurred in our body: the growth of vocal cords, for instance; or an opposable thumb, which gave us the manual dexterity to make and use tools; even an upright posture and a lack of fur – the former, it has been argued, minimising the body surface exposed to the midday sun, the latter making the cooling of our body so much easier, and both together permitting us to lope after swifter but fur-covered prey until it collapsed from heat exhaustion. On the African savannah we did not need to outrun or outfight our prey, so this theory claims, merely outcool it.

Many of the advances leading to our dominance over other animals did indeed take place in the body, which over time became taller, straighter, faster, cooler, more dextrous and much more talkative. Other advances of equal importance occurred in the brain. According to some evolutionary accounts, human prehistory was driven by the growth of our neo-cortex, the rational, conscious, newest and outermost layer of the brain. As this brain structure blossomed, we developed the ability to think ahead and choose our actions, and in so doing became liberated from automatic behaviours and an animal enslavement to immediate bodily needs. This story of the brain’s evolution and the increasingly abstract nature of human thinking is for the most part correct. But it is also the subplot of the evolutionary story that is most prone to misunderstanding. It can too easily imply that our bodies became ever less important to our success as a species. An extreme example of this view can be found in science fiction, where future humans are frequently portrayed as all head, a bulbous cranium sitting atop an atrophied body. Bodies, in sci-fi and to a certain extent in the popular imagination, are seen as relics of a bestial prehistory best forgotten.

The very existence of such a story, lurking in the popular imagination, is yet another testament to the staying power of the ancient notion of a mind–body split, according to which our bodies play a secondary and largely mischievous role in our lives, tempting us from the path of reason. Needless to say, such a story is simplistic. Body and brain evolved together, not separately. Some scientists have recently begun to study the ways in which the lines of communication between body and brain became more elaborate in humans compared to other animals, how over time the brain became more tightly bound to the body, not less. With the benefit of their research we can discern another story about our history that is at once more complete and far more intriguing – that the true miracle of human evolution was the development of advanced control systems for synchronising body and brain.

In modern humans the body and brain exchange a torrent of information. And the exchange takes place between equals. We tend to think it does not, that information from the body constitutes nothing more than mere data being input into the computer in our head, the brain then sending back orders on what to do. The brain as puppet master, the body as puppet, to change analogies. But this picture is all wrong. The information sent by the body registers as a lot more than mere data; it comes freighted with suggestions, sometimes merely whispered, at others forcefully shouted, on how your brain should use it. You experience the more insistent of these informational prods as desires and emotions, the more subtle and dimly discernible as gut feelings. Over the long years of our evolutionary prehistory, this bodily input to our thinking has proved essential for fast actions and good judgement. Indeed, if we take a closer look at the dialogue between body and brain we will come to appreciate just how crucially the body contributes to our decision-making, and especially to our risk-taking, even in the financial markets.

WHY ANIMALS CAN’T PLAY SPORTS

To free ourselves from the philosophical baggage that has impeded our understanding of body and brain, we should begin by asking a very basic question, perhaps the most basic in all the neurosciences: why do we have a brain? Why do some living creatures, like animals, have a brain, while others, like plants, do not?

Daniel Wolpert, an engineer and neuroscientist at the University of Cambridge, provides an intriguing answer to this question when he tells the tale of a distant cousin of humans, a sea squirt called the tunicate. The tunicate is born with a small brain, called a cerebral ganglion, complete with an eyespot for sensing light, and an otolith, a primitive organ which senses gravity and permits the tunicate to orient itself horizontally or vertically. In its larval stage the tunicate swims freely about the sea searching for rich feeding grounds. When it finds a promising spot it cements itself, head-first, to the sea floor. It then proceeds to ingest its brain, using the nutrients to build its siphons and tunic-like body. Swaying gently in the ocean currents, filtering nutrients from passing water, the tunicate lives out its days without the need or burden of a brain.

Fig. 2. The bluebell tunicate.

To Wolpert, and many like-minded scientists, the tunicate is sending us an important message from our evolutionary past, telling us that if you do not need to move, you do not need a brain. The tunicate, they say, informs us that the brain is fundamentally very practical, that its main role is not to engage in pure thought but to plan and execute physical movement. What is the point, they ask, of our sensations, our memories, our cognitive abilities, if these do not lead at some point to action, be it walking, or reaching, or swimming, or eating, or even writing? If we humans did not need to move then perhaps we too would prefer to ingest our brain, a metabolically expensive organ, consuming some 20 per cent of our daily energy. Scientists who believe the brain evolved primarily to control movement – Wolpert calls himself and his colleagues ‘motor chauvinists’ – argue that thought itself is best understood as planning; even higher forms of thought, such as philosophy, the epitome of disembodied speculation, proceed, they argue, by hijacking algorithms originally developed to help us plan movements. Our mental life, they argue, is inescapably embodied. Andy Clark, a philosopher from Edinburgh, has put this point nicely when he states that we have inherited ‘a mind on the hoof’.

To understand the brain, therefore, we need to understand movement. Yet that has turned out to be a lot harder than anyone imagined, harder in a sense than understanding the products of the intellect. We tend to believe that what belongs in the pantheon of human achievement are the books we have written, the theorems we have proved, the scientific discoveries we have made, and that our highest calling involves a turning away from the flesh, with its decay and temptation, and towards a life of the mind. But such an attitude often blinds us to the extraordinary beauty of human movement, and to its baffling mystery.

Such is the conclusion drawn by many engineers who have tried to model human movement or to replicate it with a robot. They have quickly come to a sobering realisation – that even the simplest of human movements involves a mind-boggling complexity. Steven Pinker, for example, points out that the human mind is capable of understanding quantum physics, decoding the genome and sending a rocket to the moon; but these accomplishments have turned out to be relatively simple compared to the task of reverse-engineering human movement. Take walking. A six-legged insect, even a four-legged animal, can always keep a tripod of three legs on the ground to balance itself while walking. But how does a two-legged creature like a human do it? We must support our weight, propel ourselves forward, and maintain our centre of gravity, all on the ball of a single foot. When we walk, Pinker explains, ‘we repeatedly tip over and break our fall in the nick of time’. The seemingly simple act of taking a step is in truth a technical tour de force, and, he reports, ‘no one has yet figured out how we do it’. If we want to observe the true genius of the human nervous system, we should therefore look not so much to the works of Shakespeare or Mozart or Einstein, but to a child building a Lego castle, or a jogger running over an uneven surface, for their movements entail solving technical problems which for the moment lie beyond the ken of human understanding.

Wolpert has come to a similar conclusion. He points out that we have been able to program a computer to beat a chess grandmaster because the task is merely a large computational problem – work out all possible moves to the end of the game and choose the best one – and can be solved by throwing a lot of computing power at it. But we have not yet been able to build a robot with the speed and manual dexterity of an eight-year-old child.

Our physical abilities are awe-inspiring, and they remain so even when compared to those of the animals. We tend to think that as we evolved out of our bodies and into our larger brains we left physical prowess behind, with the brutes. We may have a larger prefrontal cortex relative to brain size than any animal, but animals outclass us in pretty well any measure of physical performance. We are not as large as an elephant, not as strong as a gorilla, nor as fast as a cheetah. Our nose is not nearly as sensitive as a dog’s, nor our eyes those of an owl. We cannot fly like a bird, nor can we swim underwater for as long as a seal. We get lost easily in the forest and end up walking in circles, while bats have radar and monarch butterflies have GPS. The gold medals for physical achievement in all events therefore go to members of the animal kingdom.

But is this true? We need to look at the question from another angle. For what is truly extraordinary about humans is our ability to learn physical movements that do not in some sense come naturally, like dancing ballet, or playing the guitar, or performing gymnastics, or piloting a plane in an aerial dogfight, and to perfect them. Consider, for example, the skills displayed by a downhill skier who, in addition to descending a mountain at over 90 miles an hour, must carve turns, sometimes on sheer ice, at just the right time, a few milliseconds separating a winning performance from a deadly accident. This is a remarkable achievement for a species that took to the slopes only recently. No animal can do anything like this. Little wonder that Olympic events draw such large crowds – we are witnessing a physical perfection unequalled in the animal world.

Remarkable feats of physical prowess can also be viewed in the concert hall. The fingers of a master pianist can disappear in a blur of movement when engaged in a challenging piece. All ten fingers work simultaneously, striking keys so rapidly that the eye cannot follow, yet each one can be hitting a key with varying force and frequency, some lingering to hold the note, others pulling back almost instantly, the whole performance modulated so as to communicate an emotional tone or conjure up a certain image. The physical feat by itself is extraordinary, but to think that this frenzied activity is so closely controlled that it can produce artistic meaning almost beggars belief. A piano concert is an extraordinary thing to watch and hear.

Humans have always dreamed of breaking the bonds of terrestrial enslavement, and in sport, as in music and dance, we have come close to succeeding. Our incomparable prowess led Shakespeare to sing of our bodies, ‘In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an Angel!’ We have to wonder, how did we develop this physical genius? How did we learn to move like the gods? We did so because we grew a larger brain. And with that larger brain came ever more subtle physical movements, and ever more dense connections with the body.

The brain region that experienced the most explosive growth in humans was, of course, the neo-cortex, home to choice and planning. The expanded neo-cortex led to the glories of higher thought; but it should be pointed out that the neo-cortex evolved together with an expanded cortico-spinal tract, the bundle of nerve fibres controlling the body’s musculature. And the larger neo-cortex and related nerves permitted a new and revolutionary type of movement – the voluntary control of muscles and the learning of new behaviour. The neo-cortex did indeed give us reading, writing, philosophy and mathematics, but first it gave us the ability to learn movements we had never performed before, like making tools, throwing a spear, or riding a horse.

There was, however, another brain region which actually outgrew the neo-cortex and contributed to our physical prowess – the cerebellum (see fig. 3). The cerebellum occupies the lower part of the bulge that sticks out of the back of your head. It stores memories of how to do things, like ride a bike or play the flute, as well as programmes for rapid, automatic movements. But the cerebellum is an odd part of the brain, because it seems tacked on, almost like a small, separate brain. And in some sense it is, because the cerebellum acts like an operating system for the rest of the nervous system. It makes neural operations faster and more efficient, its contribution to the brain being much like that of an extra RAM chip added to a computer. The cerebellum plays this role most notably in the motor circuits of our nervous system, for it coordinates our physical actions, gives them precision and split-second timing. When the cerebellum is impaired, as it is when we are drunk, we can still move, but our actions become slow and uncoordinated. Intriguingly, the cerebellum also streamlines the performance of the neo-cortex itself. In fact, there is archaeological evidence indicating that modern humans may actually have had a smaller neo-cortex than the troll-like Neanderthals; but we had a larger cerebellum, and it provided us with what was effectively a more efficient operating system, and hence more brainpower.

The expanded cerebellum led to our unparalleled artistic and sporting achievements. It contributed as well to the expertise we rely on when we entrust ourselves to the hands of a surgeon. Today, when our body and brain embrace, when we apply our formidable intelligence to physical action, we produce movements that are like nothing else ever seen on earth. This is a uniquely human form of excellence, and it deserves as much highbrow recognition as the works of philosophy, literature and science that occupy our pantheons.

REVVING THE BRAIN

Movement needs energy, and that means the brain has to organise not only the movement itself, but also the support operations for the muscles. What are these operations? It turns out that they are not all that different from those of an internal combustion engine. The brain must organise the finding and ingesting of fuel, in our case food; it must mix the fuel with oxygen in order to burn it; it must regulate the flow of blood in order to deliver this fuel and oxygen to cells throughout the body; it must cool this engine before combustion causes it to overheat; and it must vent the carbon dioxide waste once the fuel is burned.

These simple facts of engineering mean that our thoughts are intimately tied to our physiology. Decisions are decisions to do something, so our thoughts come freighted with physical implications. They are accompanied by a rapid shift in our motor, metabolic and cardiovascular systems as these prepare for the movements that may ensue. Thinking about the options open to us at any given moment, scrolling through the possibilities, triggers a rapid series of somatic shifts. You can often see this in a person’s face as they think – eyes widening or squinting, pupils dilating, skin flushing or blanching, facial expressions as labile and fleeting as the weather. All thoughts involving choice of action involve a kaleidoscopic shift from one bodily state to another. Choice is a whole-body experience.

We are forcefully reminded of this fact whenever we contemplate the taking of risks, especially in the financial markets. When reading of the outbreak of war, for example, or watching stock prices crash, the information provokes a strong bodily response: you inhale a quick lungful of air, your stomach knots and muscles tense, your face flushes, you feel the thump, thump of a heart gearing up for action, and a thin sheen of sweat creeps across your skin. We are all so familiar with these physical effects that we take them for granted and lose sight of their significance. For the fact that information, mere letters on a page or prices on a screen, can provoke a strong bodily reaction, can even, should it create uncertainty and stress, make us physically ill, tells us something important about the way we are built. We do not regard information as a computer would, dispassionately; we react to it physically. Our body and brain rev up and down together. Indeed, it is upon this very simple piece of physiology that much of the entertainment industry is built: would we read novels or go to the movies if they did not take our bodies on a rollercoaster ride?

The point is this, and I cannot emphasise it enough: when faced by situations of novelty, uncertainty, opportunity or threat, you feel the things you do because of changes taking place in your body as it prepares for movement. Stress is a perfect illustration of this point. We tend to think that stress consists primarily of troubling thoughts, of being upset because something bad has happened or is going to happen to us, that it is a purely psychological state. But in fact the unpleasant and dangerous aspects of the stress response – the nervous stomach, the high blood pressure, the elevated glucose levels, the anxiety – should be understood as the gastro-intestinal, cardiovascular, metabolic and attentional preparation for impending physical effort. Even the gut feelings upon which traders and investors rely should be seen in this light: these are a lot more than mere hunches about what will happen next; they are changes taking place in the bodies of traders and investors as they prepare an appropriate physical response, be it fighting, running away, celebrating, or whimpering for relief. And because movement in times of emergency has to be lightning fast, these gut feelings are generated quickly, often faster than consciousness can keep up with, and are transmitted to parts of the brain of which we have only a dim and diffuse awareness.

CONTROLLING OUR INTERNAL WEATHER

For body and brain to be unified in this way, they must conduct a non-stop dialogue, a process, mentioned above, called homeostasis. Oxygen levels in the blood must be maintained within tight bands, and are kept so by a largely unconscious modulation of our breathing, as must heart rate and blood pressure. Body temperature too must be maintained within a degree or two of 37 degrees Celsius. Should it drop, say, below this band, the brain instructs our muscles to shiver and adrenal glands to raise our core temperature. Blood sugar levels too must be reported and then maintained within narrow bands, and should they fall, bringing on symptoms of low blood sugar, the brain promptly responds with a number of hormones, including adrenalin and glucagon, which liberate glucose stores for release into the blood. The amount of bodily signals being processed by the brain, coming as they do from almost every tissue, every muscle and organ, is voluminous.

Much of this bodily regulation is a job allotted to the oldest part of the brain, known appropriately as the reptile brain, and specifically to a part of it called the brain stem (see fig. 3). Sitting on top of the spine and looking like a small, gnarled fist, the brain stem controls many of the automatic reflexes of the body – breathing, blood pressure, heart rate, sweating, blinking, startle – plus the pattern generators that produce unthinking repetitive movements like chewing, swallowing, walking, etc. The brain stem acts as the life-support system of the body; other, more developed parts of the brain, ones responsible for, say, consciousness, can be damaged, leaving us ‘brain dead’, as they say, yet we can live on in a coma as along as the brain stem continues to operate. However, as animals evolved, the nervous circuitry linking their visceral organs such as the gut and the heart to the brain became more sophisticated. From amphibians and reptiles through mammals, primates and humans, the brain grew more complex, and with it came an expanded capacity for regulating the body.

An amphibian such as a frog cannot prevent the uncontrolled evaporation of water from its skin, so it must remain in or close to water at all times. Reptiles can retain water, and therefore can live in both water and desert. But they, like amphibians, are cold-blooded, and that means they depend on the sun and warm rocks for their heat, and become all but immobile in cool weather. Because they do not take responsibility for controlling their body temperature, amphibians and reptiles have relatively simple brains.

Mammals, on the other hand, took on far greater control of their bodies, and therefore needed more brainpower. Most notably, they began to control their internal temperature, a process called thermoregulation. Thermoregulation is metabolically expensive, requiring mammals to burn a lot of fuel to generate body heat, to shiver when cold and sweat when hot, and to grow fur in autumn and moult in the spring. An idling mammal burns about five to ten times the energy of an idling reptile, so it needs to store a lot more fuel. As a result mammals had to develop greatly increased metabolic reserves; but once equipped with them they were free to hunt far and wide. The advent of mammals revolutionised life in the wild, and could be likened to the terrifying invention of mechanised warfare. Mammals, like tanks, could move a lot farther and a lot faster than their more primitive foes, so they proved unstoppable. But their mobility required more carefully managed supply lines, something that was accomplished by more advanced homeostatic circuitry.

Humans in turn took on even more control over their bodies than lower mammals. This development is reflected in a more advanced nervous system and a more extensive and animated dialogue between body and brain. We find some evidence for this process in studies comparing the brain structures among animals and humans. In one noteworthy study of comparative brain anatomy, a group of scientists looked at differences in the size of various brain regions (size is measured as a percentage of total brain weight) among existing primates to see which regions correlated with life span, a measure they took as a proxy for survivability. Their study showed that in addition to the neo-cortex and cerebellum, two other brain regions grew relatively larger in humans, most notably two regions playing a role in the homeostatic control of the body – the hypothalamus and the amygdala (fig. 3).

The hypothalamus, a brain region found by projecting lines in from the bridge of your nose and sideways from the front of your ears, regulates our hormones, and through them our eating, sleeping, sodium levels, water retention, reproduction, aggression and so on. It acts as the main integration site for emotional behaviour; in other words it coordinates the hormones and the brain stem and the emotional behaviours into a coherent bodily response. When, for example, an angry cat hisses, and arches its back, and fluffs its fur, and secretes adrenalin, it is the hypothalamus that has assembled these separate displays of anger and orchestrated them into a single coherent emotional act.

Fig. 3. Basic brain anatomy. The brain stem, often called the reptile brain, controls automatic processes such as breathing, heart rate, blood pressure, etc. The cerebellum stores physical skills and fast behavioural reactions; it also contributes to dexterity, balance and coordination. The hypothalamus controls hormones and coordinates electrical and chemical elements of homeostasis. The amygdala processes information for emotional meaning. The neo-cortex, the latest evolved layer of the brain, processes discursive thought, planning and voluntary movement. The insula (located on the far side and near the top of the illuminated brain) gathers information from the body and assembles it into a sense of our embodied existence.

The amygdala assigns emotional significance to events. Without the amygdala, we would view the world as a collection of uninteresting objects. A charging grizzly bear would impress us as nothing more threatening than a large, moving object. Bring the amygdala online, and miraculously the grizzly morphs into a terrifying and deadly predator and we scramble up the nearest tree. The amygdala is the key brain region registering danger in the outside world and initiating the suite of physical changes known as the ‘stress response’. It also registers signs of danger inside the body, such as rapid breathing and heart rate, increased blood pressure, etc., and these too can trigger an emotional reaction. The amygdala senses danger and rouses the body to high alert, and is in turn alarmed by our body’s arousal, this reciprocal influence of body on amygdala, amygdala on body, occasionally feeding on itself to produce runaway anxiety and panic attacks.

Some of the most important research showing that connections between brain and body became more elaborate in humans is that conducted by Bud Craig, a physiologist at the University of Arizona. He has mapped out the nervous circuitry responsible for a remarkable phenomenon known as interoception, the perception of our inner world. We have senses like vision, hearing and smell that point outwards, to the external world; but it turns out we also have something very like sense organs that point inwards, perceiving internal organs such as the heart, lungs, liver, etc. The brain, being incurably nosey, has these listening devices – receptors that sense pain, temperature, chemical gradients, stretching tissue, immune-system activation – throughout the body, and like agents in the field they report back every detail of our viscera. This internal sensation can be brought to consciousness, as it is with hunger, pain, stomach and bowel distension, but most of it, like sodium levels or immune-system activation, remains largely unconscious, or inhabits the fringes of our awareness. But it is this diffuse information, flowing in from all regions of the body, that gives us the sense of how we feel.

Interoceptive information is collected by a forest of nerves that flow back from every tissue in the body to the brain, travelling along nerves that feed into the spinal cord or along a superhighway of a nerve, called the vagus nerve, that travels up from the abdomen to the brain, collecting information from the gut, pancreas, heart and lungs. All this information is then channelled through various integration sites – regions of the brain that collect disparate individual sensations and assemble them into a unified experience – ending up in a region of the cortex called the insula, where something like an image of the overall state of the body is formed. Craig has looked at the nerves connecting body and brain in various animals, and has concluded that the pathways leading to the insula are present only in primates, and further that an awareness of the overall state of our body may be found uniquely in humans.

Lastly and most controversially, Craig, along with other scientists such as Antonio Damasio and Antoine Bechara, has suggested that gut feelings and emotions, rationality and even self-consciousness itself, should be seen as more advanced tools that emerged over the course of evolution to help us regulate our body.

As evolution progressed, body and brain entwined in an ever more intimate embrace. The brain sent out fibres to touch every tissue in the body, asserting control over heart, lungs, gut, arteries and glands, cooling us when hot, warming us when cold; and the body in turn pumped message after message back into the brain, telling of its wants and needs, and making suggestions as to how the brain should behave. In this manner, feedback between body and brain became more complex and extensive, not less so. We did not grow a larger brain just to fit it inside a withering body of the kind seen in sci-fi movies. The brain grew in order to control a more sophisticated body – a body that can handle a sword like Alexander, play the piano like Glenn Gould, control a tennis racket like John McEnroe, or perform open-brain surgery like Wilder Penfield.

Through the research surveyed here, from anatomy, physiology and neuroscience, we have today come to see the body as an éminence grise, standing behind the brain, effectively applying pressure at just the right point, at just the right time, to help us prepare for movement. Scientists, by small steps, are thus patiently stitching closed an ancient wound opened up between mind and body. By doing so they have helped us understand how body and brain cooperate at crucial moments in our lives, like the taking of risks, including, most certainly, financial risks.