Michelle: The famous philosopher Descartes said, "I think, therefore I am." But what if he had it completely backward? What if the truth is, "I am, therefore I think"—and a 13-pound iron rod proved it? Mark: Whoa, hold on. A 13-pound iron rod? That sounds less like philosophy and more like a workplace safety video. What are you talking about? Michelle: I'm talking about the core idea in a fascinating and deeply humane book, The Disordered Mind: What Unusual Brains Tell Us About Ourselves by Eric R. Kandel. Mark: Kandel... that name sounds familiar. Michelle: It should. He's not just any author; he's a Nobel Prize-winning neuroscientist. And his life's work was sparked by a profound childhood question after his family fled Nazi-occupied Vienna: How can a cultured society turn to such evil? That question drove him to understand the biological roots of human behavior. Mark: Wow, so he's coming at this from a deeply personal place. That iron rod story you mentioned sounds like a good place to start. It feels like it gets right to the heart of his argument. Michelle: It absolutely does. It’s probably the most dramatic and unsettling proof that our very self isn't some ghost in the machine. It's made of meat and electricity.

Mark: Okay, I'm hooked. Tell me about this iron rod. Michelle: The year is 1848. A 25-year-old railway foreman in Vermont named Phineas Gage is known by everyone as a model employee. He's efficient, level-headed, well-liked. He’s the guy you want in charge. One afternoon, he's using a tamping iron—basically a big metal spear—to pack explosive powder into a rock. Mark: I can already see where this is going, and it’s not good. Michelle: A spark ignites the powder. The explosion launches the tamping iron, which is over three feet long and weighs 13 pounds, straight at him. It enters under his left cheekbone, passes behind his eye, tears through the front of his brain, and exits out the top of his skull, landing some eighty feet away. Mark: He’s dead. He has to be. Michelle: That's what everyone thought. But minutes later, Phineas Gage is sitting up, conscious, and talking. He’s taken to a doctor, and miraculously, he survives. He physically recovers. But the man who returns is not Phineas Gage. Mark: What do you mean? Michelle: His friends and family said it best: "Gage is no longer Gage." The responsible, well-mannered foreman was gone. In his place was a man who was erratic, disrespectful, impulsive, and profane. He couldn't hold a job. He lost all his social graces. The physical wound healed, but the person he was had been completely erased by that iron rod. Mark: That's chilling. So what part of his brain was damaged? What did the rod actually destroy? Michelle: It destroyed a large part of his left frontal lobe. And this is the key insight. The frontal lobe, particularly the prefrontal cortex, is where so much of our personality resides. It’s what governs our ability to make decisions, to plan for the future, to understand social rules, and to control our impulses. Mark: It’s like the CEO of the brain, handling all the executive decisions and social etiquette. And his just got... fired. Violently. Michelle: Exactly. Gage's case was the first stark piece of evidence that our moral compass, our personality, our very character, is tied to a specific, physical part of the brain. It’s not some abstract quality. It’s hardware. And that hardware can be broken. Mark: It’s not just personality, right? I feel like I've heard about this with memory too. I'm thinking of the famous patient H.M. Michelle: Yes, Henry Molaison, or H.M. His story is just as foundational, and in some ways, even more heartbreaking. In the 1950s, H.M. suffered from debilitating epilepsy. To treat it, a surgeon removed a part of his brain called the hippocampus on both sides. Mark: And did it work? Did it stop the seizures? Michelle: It did. But it came at an unimaginable cost. From that day forward, H.M. could no longer form new long-term memories. He could remember his childhood, but he couldn't remember what he had for breakfast. He would meet his doctor, Brenda Milner, every day for years, and every single day, it was like meeting her for the first time. He was trapped in the present moment for the rest of his life. Mark: I can't even fathom that. To have your past but no future, no way to build new experiences. Michelle: But here’s where it gets even more interesting. Dr. Milner discovered something incredible. She gave him a task: trace a star while only looking at his hand in a mirror. It's very difficult. The first day, he was terrible at it. The next day, he had no memory of ever doing the task before, but... he was better at it. And the day after that, better still. Mark: Wait, how is that possible if he can't form new memories? Michelle: Because Kandel explains there are different kinds of memory. H.M. had lost his explicit memory—the conscious recall of facts and events, which depends on the hippocampus. But his implicit memory—the unconscious memory for skills, like riding a bike or, in this case, mirror-drawing—was intact. That system relies on different brain regions. This proved memory isn't one thing; it's a collection of different systems. Mark: This is fascinating but also a bit terrifying. It feels like it reduces us to just biological machines. If our 'self' can be scooped out or destroyed by an accident, what does that say about free will or the soul? I know some critics of this kind of biological focus worry about that. Michelle: That’s a really important point, and Kandel addresses it head-on. He argues this understanding doesn't diminish our humanity; it deepens it. He calls it a "new humanism." The idea is that by understanding the biological machinery, we can have more empathy for people whose machinery works differently. It moves us away from blaming people for their conditions and toward understanding them as biological realities. It's not about being a machine; it's about appreciating the incredible, fragile, and unique machine that each of us is.

Michelle: That's a perfect transition, because while Gage and H.M. show what happens when a part of the brain is removed, other disorders show what happens when the brain's operating system just runs... differently. And that's where the line between 'disorder' and 'normal' gets incredibly blurry. Mark: You’re talking about things like depression or schizophrenia, right? Where it's not a single injury, but something more complex. Michelle: Exactly. Take schizophrenia. We often think of it as just a "break from reality," but Kandel describes it as a profound disorder of thought and volition. He tells the story of Elyn Saks, a brilliant woman who became a law professor at USC, but who also lives with schizophrenia. She describes a psychotic episode she had while studying at the Yale library. Mark: What happened? Michelle: She was with two classmates, trying to work on a legal memo. Suddenly, her thoughts started to unravel. She looked at her friends and announced, "Memos are visitations. They make certain points. The point is on your head. Have you ever killed anyone?" Mark: Oh, wow. That's... intense. I can't imagine how her classmates reacted. Michelle: They were terrified. She then climbed out onto the library roof, waving her arms and yelling about Florida lemon trees and demons. It's a vivid, frightening picture of a mind's logic coming completely undone. Mark: That's terrifying. How can someone function with that happening inside their head? What is biologically going on? Michelle: Well, recent research, which Kandel details, points to a fascinating process. During adolescence, our brains go through a period of "synaptic pruning." Mark: Hold on, 'synaptic pruning' sounds like gardening. What's actually happening in the brain there? Michelle: It's a great analogy, actually. The brain is like a gardener, trimming away weak or unnecessary connections between neurons to make the remaining pathways more efficient. It's a crucial part of normal development. But studies have found a gene, called C4, that is more active in people with schizophrenia. This gene seems to tag too many synapses for removal. The gardener gets a little too aggressive. Mark: So it's like the brain is over-optimizing its connections and accidentally deletes important files, leading to scrambled thoughts? Michelle: That's a perfect way to put it. The very system designed to streamline thought ends up disrupting it. But here's the twist, and this gets to the heart of Kandel's book. This "disordered" process reveals something fundamental about how all our brains work. Mark: How so? Michelle: Kandel points out that this 'loosening of associations,' this ability to make bizarre, unexpected connections—while terrifying in psychosis—is also a hallmark of creativity. He discusses the well-documented link between mood disorders like bipolar disorder and artistic or literary genius. Mark: Right, the "tortured artist" trope. Is there actually science behind that? Michelle: There is. Studies have found that writers and artists have vastly higher rates of bipolar disorder than the general population. Kandel references the psychiatrist Hans Prinzhorn, who, in the 1920s, collected thousands of artworks from patients in psychiatric institutions. He found their art, especially from those with schizophrenia, was raw, unfiltered, and remarkably original. It was a direct line to their unconscious, unfettered by social convention. Mark: So the same "glitch" that causes psychosis might also, in a different context, fuel creativity? Michelle: Precisely. It's not that mental illness causes genius. Rather, it suggests that the brain mechanisms for creativity and for some mental disorders might overlap. Both involve a loosening of inhibitions, a willingness to let the mind wander into strange territory and connect seemingly unrelated ideas. For an artist, that's a feature. For someone in a psychotic state, it's a bug that has taken over the whole system. It shows us that the boundary between a 'normal' mind and a 'disordered' one is not a solid wall; it's a porous membrane.

Mark: I see. So we started with a very stark idea—that our self is physical, tied to specific brain parts like in the case of Phineas Gage. But we've ended up in a much more nuanced place. These 'disorders' aren't just deficits; they're variations that reveal the very mechanisms of thought and creativity. It's less about a 'normal' brain versus a 'broken' one. Michelle: Exactly. And that's Kandel's ultimate point. He calls it a 'new humanism.' By understanding the biological basis of our individuality—whether it's our personality, our memories, or even our struggles—we can have a deeper, more empathetic appreciation for the vast spectrum of human experience. The goal isn't to just 'fix' brains, but to understand them. Mark: It moves the conversation away from judgment and toward curiosity. Instead of asking "What's wrong with you?", we can ask "How does your brain work?" Michelle: Yes! And Kandel, having seen the absolute worst of what happens when society judges and dehumanizes a group of people, is passionate about this. He believes science can be a powerful tool for empathy. When we see that a person's struggles are rooted in their biology, in the intricate and unique wiring of their brain, it becomes much harder to stigmatize them. Mark: It really makes you think... what part of your own 'self' do you take for granted as just 'you,' when it might be the result of a unique wiring in your brain? What does 'know thyself' even mean in the age of neuroscience? Michelle: That's the question that sits at the heart of this book. It's an invitation to look at ourselves and others with a new kind of wonder. Mark: We'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Does this biological view of the mind feel empowering or unsettling? Find us on our socials and join the conversation. Michelle: It’s a conversation worth having. Mark: This is Aibrary, signing off.