The Runaway Species. David Eagleman

gain knowledge about their surroundings.

      As we grow up, we simulate the future each time we consider alternatives or wonder what might happen if we choose a different path. Whenever we buy a house, pick a college, ponder a potential mate, or invest in the stock market, we accept that most of what we consider may be wrong or may never occur. Expectant parents ask, “Will it be a boy or a girl?” Not yet sure, they discuss alternatives for names, clothing, decor and toys. Penguins, horses, koalas, and giraffes all produce single offspring, but none is known to brood over this question the way humans do.

      Thinking about what-ifs is so rooted in our daily experience that it’s easy to overlook what an imaginative exercise it is. We endlessly speculate on what might have been, and language is designed to make it easy for us to download our simulations to one another.¹¹ If you had come to the party, you would have had fun. If you’d taken this job, you’d be rich by now – but unhappy. If the manager had swapped pitchers, the team would have won the game. Hope is a form of creative speculation: we imagine the world as we wish it to be rather than as it is. Without realizing it, we spend a great portion of our lives in the realm of the hypothetical.¹²

      Simulating futures comes with the benefits of safety: we try out moves in our minds before trying them out in the world. As the philosopher Karl Popper said, our capacity to simulate possible futures “allows our hypotheses to die in our stead.” We run a simulation of the future (what would happen if I stepped off this cliff?) and adjust our future behavior (take a step backward).

      But more than keeping ourselves alive, we use these mental tools to flesh out worlds that don’t exist. These alternative realities are the vast plains from which our imaginations reap their harvest. What-ifs put Einstein in an elevator in deep space in order to understand time. What-ifs carried Jonathan Swift to islands of lumbering giants and teeny Lilliputians. What-ifs led Philip K. Dick to a world in which the Nazis had won the Second World War. What-ifs conveyed Shakespeare into the mind of Julius Caesar. What-ifs transported Alfred Wegener to a time when the continents were fused. What-ifs allowed Darwin to witness the origin of species. Our gift for simulation paves new roads for us to travel. The business magnate Richard Branson has started more than one hundred companies, including a spaceline that will fly civilians beyond Earth’s atmosphere. To what does he attribute his knack for entrepreneurship? His ability to imagine possible futures.

      And there’s one more factor that turns on the turbobooster of creativity, something that lives beyond your brain. Other people’s brains.

      CREATIVITY IS SOCIALLY ENHANCED

      F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway were young impoverished friends in Paris. The young Robert Rauschenberg had romantic relationships with painters Cy Twombly and Jasper Johns in his twenties, before any of them were famous. The twenty-year-old Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein during a summer spent with fellow writers Percy Bysshe Shelley and Lord Byron. Why do creators gravitate toward one another?

      A reigning misconception suggests that creative artists function best when they turn their backs on the world. In her 1972 essay “The Myth of the Isolated Artist,” author Joyce Carol Oates addressed this: “The exclusion of the artist from a general community is mythical … The artist is a perfectly normal and socially functioning individual, though the romantic tradition would have him as tragically eccentric.”¹³

      

      A context in which no one cares, no one pays attention, no one offers support or encouragement is a worst-case scenario for an aspiring creative. The go-it-alone artist, chronically cut off from his or her peers, is a mythical creature. Creativity is an inherently social act.

      Few figures epitomize the lone artist more than Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh. He lived in the shadows of the artistic establishment and sold few paintings in his lifetime. But a close look at his life tells a story of someone engaged with his peers. He corresponded with many young artists in letters filled with shoptalk and unvarnished critiques of other painters. When he received his first good review, he sent a cypress tree to the critic as a present. He and Paul Gauguin made plans at one point to build an artist colony in the tropics. So why do people still say that Van Gogh was a splendid isolationist? Because it feeds into a satisfying story about the fountainhead of his genius. But the story is a myth. Neither a misfit nor a loner, he was an active participant in his time.¹⁴

      And the social network doesn’t just apply to artists: it applies to all branches of creative invention. E.O. Wilson wrote that “the great scientist who works for himself in a hidden laboratory does not exist.”¹⁵ Although many scientists might like to believe they work in ingenious solitude, they in fact operate in a vast web of interdependency. Even the problems they take to be important are influenced by the larger creative community. Isaac Newton, arguably the greatest mind of his time, spent much of his life trying to master alchemy, as that was a prevalent preoccupation in his era.

      We’re exquisitely social creatures. We labor without pause to surprise each other. Imagine that each time your friend asked you what you did today, you answered precisely the same way. It’s not clear the friendship would last for long. Instead, humans seek to astonish each other, to amaze, to inject wonder, surprise, incredulity. This is what we’re wired to do for one another, and this is what we seek in one another.

      And this, by the way, is part of the reason why computers aren’t terribly creative. Whatever you put in is exactly what you get back out – phone numbers, documents, photos – and this capacity often serves us better than our own memories. But the exactitude of computers is also why they’re so bad at, say, cracking a funny joke or acting sweet to get what they want. Or directing a movie. Or giving a TED talk. Or penning a tear-jerking novel. To achieve a creative artificial intelligence, we would need to build a society of exploratory computers, all striving to surprise and impress each other. That social aspect of computers is totally missing, and this is part of what makes computer intelligence so mechanical.

      DON’T EAT YOUR BRAIN

      A small mollusk known as the sea squirt does something strange. It swims around early in its life, eventually finds a place to attach like a barnacle, and then absorbs its own brain for nutrition. Why? Because it no longer needs its brain. It’s found its permanent home. The brain is what allowed it to identify and decide on its place to anchor, and now that the mission is accomplished, the creature rebuilds the nutrients of its brain into other organs. The lesson from the sea squirt is that brains are used for seeking and decision-making. As soon as an animal is settled in one place, it no longer needs its brain.

      Even the most committed couch potato among us wouldn’t eat his own brain, and this is because humans don’t have a settling point. Our constant itch to combat routine makes creativity a biological mandate. What we seek in art and technology is surprise, not simply a fulfillment of expectations. As a result, a wild imagination has characterized the history of our species: we build intricate habitats, devise recipes for our food, dress in ever-changing plumage, communicate with elaborate chirps and howls, and travel between habitats on wings and wheels of our own design. No facet of our lives goes untouched by ingenuity.

      Thanks to our appetite for novelty, innovation is requisite. It’s not something that only a few people do. The innovative drive lives in every human brain, and the resulting war against the repetitive is what powers the colossal changes that distinguish one generation from the next, one decade from the next, one year from the next. The drive to create the new is part of our biological make-up. We build cultures by the hundreds and new stories by the millions. We surround ourselves with things that have never existed before, while pigs and llamas and goldfish do not.

      But where do our new ideas come from?

      CHAPTER 2

      THE BRAIN ALTERS WHAT IT ALREADY KNOWS

      On January 9, 2007, Steve Jobs stood on the MacWorld stage in his jeans and a black turtleneck. “Every once in a while, a revolutionary product comes along that changes everything,” he declared. “Today, Apple is going to reinvent the phone.” Even after years of speculation, the iPhone was a revelation. No one had seen anything