Maps Of Meaning Jordan Peterson Quotes

The purpose of life, as far as I can tell… is to find a mode of being that’s so meaningful that the fact that life is suffering is no longer relevant.

The secret to your existence is right in front of you. It manifests itself as all those things you know you should do, but are avoiding.

We believe that in reducing the scope and importance of our errors, we are properly humble; in truth, we are merely unwilling to bear the weight of our true responsibility.

I dreamed I saw my maternal grandmother sitting by the bank of a swimming pool, that was also a river. In real life, she had been a victim of Alzheimer’s disease, and had regressed, before her death, to a semi-conscious state. In the dream, as well, she had lost her capacity for self-control. Her genital region was exposed, dimly; it had the appearance of a thick mat of hair. She was stroking herself, absent-mindedly. She walked over to me, with a handful of pubic hair, compacted into something resembling a large artist’s paint-brush. She pushed this at my face. I raised my arm, several times, to deflect her hand; finally, unwilling to hurt her, or interfere with her any farther, I let her have her way. She stroked my face with the brush, gently, and said, like a child, “isn’t it soft?” I looked at her ruined face and said, “yes, Grandma, it’s soft.

Of course, my socialist colleagues and I weren’t out to hurt anyone – quite the reverse. We were out to improve things – but we were going to start with other people. I came to see the temptation in this logic, the obvious flaw, the danger – but could also see that it did not exclusively characterize socialism. Anyone who was out to change the world by changing others was to be regarded with suspicion. The temptations of such a position were too great to be resisted.

Our behavioral patterns are exceedingly complex, and psychology is a young science. The scope of our behavioral wisdom exceeds the breadth of our explicit interpretation. We act, even instruct, and yet do not understand. How can we do what we cannot explain?

Life without law remains chaotic, effectively intolerable. Life that is pure law becomes sterile, equally unbearable. The domination of chaos or sterility equally breeds murderous resentment and hatred.

Rejection of the unknown is tantamount to “identification with the devil,” the mythological counterpart and eternal adversary of the world-creating exploratory hero. Such rejection and identification is a consequence of Luciferian pride, which states: all that I know is all that is necessary to know. This pride is totalitarian assumption of omniscience – is adoption of “God’s place” by “reason” – is something that inevitably generates a state of personal and social being indistinguishable from hell. This hell develops because creative exploration – impossible, without (humble) acknowledgment of the unknown – constitutes the process that constructs and maintains the protective adaptive structure that gives life much of its acceptable meaning

Every explorer is therefore, by necessity, a revolutionary, and every successful revolutionary is a peacemaker.

Behavior is imitated, then abstracted into play, formalized into drama and story, crystallized into myth and codified into religion—and only then criticized in philosophy, and provided, post-hoc, with rational underpinnings

Something we cannot see protects us from something we do not understand. The thing we cannot see is culture, in its intrapsychic or internal manifestation. The thing we do not understand is the chaos that gave rise to culture. If the structure of culture is disrupted, unwittingly, chaos returns. We will do anything — anything — to defend ourselves against that return.

The Great Mother aborts children, and is the dead fetus; breeds pestilence, and is the plague; she makes of the skull something gruesomely compelling, and is all skulls herself. To unveil her is to risk madness, to gaze over the abyss, to lose the way, to remember the repressed trauma. She is the molestor of children, the golem, the bogey-man, the monster in the swamp, the rotting cadaverous zombie who threatens the living. She is progenitor of the devil, the “strange son of chaos.” She is the serpent, and Eve, the temptress; she is the femme fatale, the insect in the ointment, the hidden cancer, the chronic sickness, the plague of locusts, the cause of drought, the poisoned water. She uses erotic pleasure as bait to keep the world alive and breeding; she is a gothic monster, who feeds on the blood of the living.

The Great Mother impels—pushes (with certainty of mortality) and pulls (with possibility of redemption)—development of consciousness and of self-consciousness.

Alternatively, perfection might be regarded as the absence of all unnecessary things, and the pleasures of an ascetic life.

Anyway, the fervent hope of every undisciplined person (even an undisciplined genius) is that his current worthlessness and stupidity is someone else's fault. If—in the best of cases—it is society's fault, then society can be made to pay. This sleight-of-hand maneuver transforms the undisciplined into the admirable rebel, at least in his own eyes, and allows him to seek unjustified revenge in the disguise of the revolutionary hero. A more absurd parody of heroic behavior can hardly be imagined.

The “natural” human tendency to respond to the stranger, the strange idea and the creative individual with fear and aggression can be more easily comprehended, once it is understood that these diverse phenomena share categorical identity with the “natural disaster.

...todo momento de amenaza es también, simultáneamente, un momento de oportunidad.

El destino obliga a todos los miembros de la raza humana a comprender su aislamiento, su individualidad, su sometimiento abyecto a las duras condiciones de la existencia mortal.

El miedo es la postura a priori, la respuesta natural a todo para lo que no se ha designado e incorporado una estructura de adaptación conductual.

La aceptación de la información anómala aporta terror y posibilidad, revolución y transformación. El rechazo del hecho insoportable asfixia la adaptación y estrangula la vida.

Anomalies manifest themselves on the border between chaos and order, so to speak, and have a threatening and promising aspect. The promising aspect dominates, when the contact is voluntary, when the exploring agent is up-to-date – when the individual has explored all previous anomalies, released the “information” they contained, and built a strong personality and steady “world” from that information. The threatening aspect dominates, when the contact is involuntary, when the exploring agent is not up-to-date – when the individual has run away from evidence of his previous errors, failed to extract the information “lurking behind” his mistakes, weakened his personality, and destabilised his “world.” The phenomenon of interest – that precursor to exploratory behaviour – signals the presence of a potentially “beneficial” anomaly. Interest manifests itself where an assimilable but novel phenomenon exists: where something new “hides,” in a partially comprehensible form. Devout adherence to the dictates of interest – assuming a suitably disciplined character – therefore insures stabilisation and renewal of personality and world. Interest is a spirit beckoning from the unknown – a spirit calling from outside the “walls” of society. Pursuit of individual interest means hearkening to this spirit’s call – means journeying outside the protective walls of childhood dependence and adolescent group identification; means also return to and rejuvenation of society. This means that pursuit of individual interest – development of true individuality – is equivalent to identification with the hero. Such identification renders the world bearable, despite its tragedies – and reduces unnecessary suffering, which most effectively destroys, to an absolute minimum. This is the message that everyone wants to hear. Risk your security. Face the unknown. Quit lying to yourself, and do what your heart truly tells you to do. You will be better for it, and so will the world.

El temor es la reacción innata a todo lo que no se ha vuelto predecible, como consecuencia de una conducta exitosa, creativa, exploratoria asumida en su presencia, en algún momento del pasado.

La personalidad atrofiada experimentará la vida como una carga, como una responsabilidad demasiado pesada para soportarla, y recurrirá al resentimiento y al odio como respuestas -justificables-.

La participación en actos cuyo único propósito es la expansión del dolor y el sufrimiento inocentes es algo que destruye el carácter; el encuentro directo con la tragedia, en cambio, puede potenciarlo.

The modern mind, which regards itself as having transcended the domain of the magical, is nonetheless still endlessly capable of “irrational” (read motivated) reactions. We fall under the spell of experience whenever we attribute our frustration, aggression, devotion or lust to the person or situation that exists as the proximal “cause” of such agitation. We are not yet “objective,” even in our most clear-headed moments (and thank God for that).

Anything that interferes with such attainment (little old ladies with canes) will be experienced as threatening and/or punishing; anything that signifies increased likelihood of success (open stretches of sidewalk) will be experienced as promising or satisfying. It is for this reason that the Buddhists believe that everything is Maya, or illusion: the motivational significance of ongoing events is clearly determined by the nature of the goal toward which behavior is devoted

Lo desconocido es el enemigo eterno del Homo Sapiens y su mayor amigo, que desafía constantemente la facilidad individual para la adaptación y la representación, que empuja constantemente a hombres y mujeres mayores profundidades y hacia cimas más altas.

Nuestro gran poder tecnológico convierte las consecuencias de nuestros errores y debilidades individuales en cosas cada vez más graves; si deseamos seguir expandiendo nuestro poder, también debemos expandir continuamente nuestro saber. Por desgracia, es horrible pedir algo así.

El cambio que altera lo actualmente predecible y ordenado también implica potencial para avanzar hacia un futuro más prometedor. Lo inesperado es, en sí mismo, información, una información necesaria para la expansión constante de la competencia adaptativa. Esa información viene envuelta en peligro y promesa.

Por definición, nuestros patrones habituales de acción solo bastan para cosas y situaciones de determinada significación: solo sabemos como actuar en presencia de lo que nos es familiar. La aparición de lo inesperado nos saca de la complacencia inconsciente, axiomática, y nos obliga (dolorosamente) a pensar.

Escogemos un camino u otro en cada punto de decisión de nuestra vida, y acabamos siendo la suma total de nuestras decisiones. Al rechazar nuestros errores, ganamos una seguridad a corto plazo, pero renunciamos a nuestra identidad con el proceso que nos permite transcender nuestras debilidades y tolerar nuestras vidas dolorosas y limitadas.

In the most basic of situations-- when we know what we are doing, when we are engaged with the familiar-- these fundamental tendencies suffice. Our actual situations, however, are almost always more complex. If things or situations were straightforwardly or simply positive or negative, good or bad, we would not have to make judgements regarding them, would not have to think about our behavior, and how and when it should be modified-- indeed, would not have to think at all. We are faced, however, with the constant problem of ambivalence in meaning, which is to say that a thing or situation might be bad and good simultaneously (or good in two conflicting manners; or bad, in two conflicting manners).

What is known and what is unknown is always relative because what is unexpected depends entirely upon what we expect (desire)-- on what we had previously planned and presumed. The unexpected constantly occurs because it is impossible, in the absence of omniscience, to formulate an entirely accurate model of what actually is happening or of what should happen.

The Sumerians considered themselves destined to “clothe and feed” such gods, because they viewed themselves as the servants, in a sense, of what we would call instinctive forces, “elicited” by the “environment.” Such forces can be reasonably regarded as the Sumerians regarded them—as deities inhabiting a “supracelestial place,” extant prior to the dawn of humanity. Erotic attraction, for example—a powerful god—has a developmental history that predates the emergence of humanity, is associated with relatively “innate” releasing “stimuli” (those that characterize erotic beauty), is of terrible power, and has an existence “transcending” that of any individual who is currently “possessed.” Pan, the Greek god of nature, produced/represented fear (produced “panic”); Ares or the Roman Mars, warlike fury and aggression. We no longer personify such “instincts,” except for the purposes of literary embellishment, so we don't think of them “existing” in a “place” (like heaven, for example). But the idea that such instincts inhabit a space—and that wars occur in that space—is a metaphor of exceeding power and explanatory utility. Transpersonal motive forces do wage war with one another over vast spans of time; are each forced to come to terms with their powerful “opponents” in the intrapsychic hierarchy. The battles between the different “ways of life” (or different philosophies) that eternally characterize human societies can usefully be visualized as combat undertaken by different standards of value (and, therefore, by different hierarchies of motivation). The “forces” involved in such wars do not die, as they are “immortal”: the human beings acting as “pawns of the gods” during such times are not so fortunate.

We don't like inconveniences [...] Ignored inconveniences accumulate, rather than disappear. When they accumulate in sufficient numbers, they produce a catastrophe—a self-induced catastrophe, to be sure, but one that may be indistinguishable from an “act of God.” Inconveniences interfere with the integrity of our plans—so we tend to pretend that they are not there. Catastrophes, by contrast, interfere with the integrity of our whole stories, and massively dysregulate our emotions. By their nature, they are harder to ignore—although that does not stop us from trying to do so. Inconveniences are common; unfortunately, so are catastrophes—self-induced and otherwise. We are adapted to catastrophes, like inconveniences, as constant environmental features. We can resolve catastrophe, just as we can cope with inconvenience—although at higher cost. As a consequence of this adaptation, this capacity for resolution, catastrophe can rejuvenate. It can also destroy. The more ignored inconveniences in a given catastrophe, the more likely it will destroy.”.

The phenomenon of the "creative ilness", described in detail by Henri Ellenberger, in his massive study of the history of the unconsious, is alive and well in our own culture. Ellenberger described its characteristic elements: A creative illness succeeds a period of intense preoccupation with an idea and search for a certain truth. It is a polymorphous condition that can take the shape of depression, neurosis, psychomatic ailments, or even psychosis. Whatever the symptoms, they are felt as painful, if not agonizing by the subject, with alternating periods of allevation and worsening. Throughout the illness the subject never loses the thread of his dominating preoccupation. It is often compatible with normal, professional activity and family life. But even if he keeps to his social activities, he is almost entirely absorbed with himself. He suffers from feelings of utter isolation, even when he has a mentor who guides him through the ordeal (like the shaman apprentice with his master). The termination is often rapid and marked by a phase of exhilaration. The subject emerges from his ordeal with a permanent transformation in his personality and the conviction that he has discovered a great truth or a new spiritual world.

I have been searching for decades for certainty. It has not been solely a matter of thinking, in the creative sense, but of thinking and then attempting to undermine and destroy those thoughts, followed by careful consideration and conservation of those that survive. It is identification of a path forward through a swampy passage, searching for stones to stand on safely below the murky surface. However, even though I regard the inevitability of suffering and its exaggeration by malevolence as unshakable truths, I believe even more deeply that people have the ability to transcend their suffering, psychologically, and practically, and to constrain their own malevolence, as well as the evils that characterise the social and the natural worlds.

The world can be validly construed as a forum for action, as well as a place of things. We describe the world as a place of things, using the formal methods of science. The techniques of narrative, however – myth, literature, and drama – portray the world as a forum for action. The two forms of representation have been unnecessarily set at odds, because we have not yet formed a clear picture of their respective domains. The domain of the former is the 'objective world' – what is, from the perspective of intersubjective perception. The domain of the latter is 'the world of value' – what is and what should be, from the perspective of emotion and action. The world as forum for action is 'composed,' essentially, of three constituent elements, which tend to manifest themselves in typical patterns of metaphoric representation. First is unexplored territory – the Great Mother, nature, creative and destructive, source and final resting place of all determinate things. Second is explored territory – the Great Father, culture, protective and tyrannical, cumulative ancestral wisdom. Third is the process that mediates between unexplored and explored territory – the Divine Son, the archetypal individual, creative exploratory 'Word' and vengeful adversary. We are adapted to this 'world of divine characters,' much as the 'objective world.' The fact of this adaptation implies that the environment is in 'reality' a forum for action, as well as a place of things. Unprotected exposure to unexplored territory produces fear. The individual is protected from such fear as a consequence of 'ritual imitation of the Great Father' – as a consequence of the adoption of group identity, which restricts the meaning of things, and confers predictability on social interactions. When identification with the group is made absolute, however – when everything has to be controlled, when the unknown is no longer allowed to exist – the creative exploratory process that updates the group can no longer manifest itself. This 'restriction of adaptive capacity' dramatically increases the probability of social aggression and chaos. Rejection of the unknown is tantamount to 'identification with the devil,' the mythological counterpart and eternal adversary of the world-creating exploratory hero. Such rejection and identification is a consequence of Luciferian pride, which states: all that I know is all that is necessary to know. This pride is totalitarian assumption of omniscience – is adoption of 'God’s place' by 'reason' – is something that inevitably generates a state of personal and social being indistinguishable from hell. This hell develops because creative exploration – impossible, without (humble) acknowledgment of the unknown – constitutes the process that constructs and maintains the protective adaptive structure that gives life much of its acceptable meaning. 'Identification with the devil' amplifies the dangers inherent in group identification, which tends of its own accord towards pathological stultification. Loyalty to personal interest – subjective meaning – can serve as an antidote to the overwhelming temptation constantly posed by the possibility of denying anomaly. Personal interest – subjective meaning – reveals itself at the juncture of explored and unexplored territory, and is indicative of participation in the process that ensures continued healthy individual and societal adaptation. Loyalty to personal interest is equivalent to identification with the archetypal hero – the 'savior' – who upholds his association with the creative 'Word' in the face of death, and in spite of group pressure to conform. Identification with the hero serves to decrease the unbearable motivational valence of the unknown; furthermore, provides the individual with a standpoint that simultaneously transcends and maintains the group.

Después de todo, nuestras grandes teorías racionalistas -fascistas, pongamos por caso, o comunistas- han demostrado su inutilidad esencial en el espacio de unas pocas generaciones, a pesar de su naturaleza intelectualmente atractiva.

Como individuos medievales, ni siquiera necesitamos que la persona genere afecto. Con el ícono basta. Pagamos grandes sumas de dinero por prendas de ropa y objetos personales levados o creados por los famosos e infames de nuestro tiempo.

Hemos perdido el universo mítico de la mente preexperimental, o al menos hemos dejado de propiciar su desarrollo. Esa pérdida ha dejado nuestro creciente poder tecnológico más peligrosamente a la merced de nuestros sistemas de valoración, que todavía son inconscientes.

El orden -el territorio explorado- se construye a partir de caos y existe, simultáneamente, en oposición a ese caos (más exactamente al caos *nuevo*; a lo desconocido, ahora definido en oposición al territorio explorado). Todo lo que no es orden -es decir, no predecible, no usable- es, por defecto (por definición), caos. El extranjero, -cuyos comportamientos no pueden predecirse, que no es habitante del *cosmos*, cuya existencia y dominio no han sido sacralizados- es equivalente al caos (y no solo igual al casos metafóricamente).

En estado natural, por decirlo de algún modo, a los seres humanos no les gusta pensar como lógicos, ni siquiera como empiristas. Hace falta entrenamiento para pensar así. Pero aun en ausencia de ese entrenamiento, seguimos pensando, aunque lo hacemos de manera más subjetiva, como seres -poco razonables-, idiosincráticos, emocionales que habitan unos cuerpos de tamaño determinado, con unas propiedades particulares y constreñidas.

Nuestros duramente conseguidos métodos adaptativos luchan por dominar, a menudo de forma violenta, en un individuo dado, entre individuos dentro de sociedades, y entre sociedades. Por tanto, se suscita el problema de la organización.

Una información suficientemente novedosa transmitida verbalmente podría alterar el paradigma semántico, episódico y procedimental simultáneamente, aunque la totalidad de esos efectos podría no manifestarse durante años -y, no infrecuentemente, durante generaciones.

La seguridad de la sociedad predecible proporciona un antídoto al miedo, pero una sociedad demasiado rígida garantiza que tarde o temprano se producirá su propia destrucción.

El futuro trae consigo lo desconocido; por tanto, la inflexibilidad y la falta de voluntad para cambiar traen la certeza de la extinción.

Es la aprehensión clara del peligro mortal y la posibilidad infinita que acecha por todas partes la que ha potenciado la consciencia humana mucho más allá de su pariente más cercano, en un proceso que se ha prolongado durante eras. Somos capaces de ver lo desconocido en todo, como consecuencia de nuestros sistemas cognitivos elaborados: peor aún (mejor): somos capaces de ver el peligro mortal en todo lo desconocido. Ellos nos hace sin duda angustiados, pero también (si no salimos corriendo) despiertos.

Es la tendencia expansiva, exploratoria del hombre, su curiosidad innata, la que constituye a la vez una gracia salvadora y un error mortal.

El reconocimiento del yo desnudo, expuesto de manera indigna a los estragos del tiempo y el mundo, insoportable y altamente motivador, condena al hombre y a la mujer a llevar una carga y a sufrir por la vida y la muerte.

Así pues, la anomalía es -alimento- espiritual en el sentido más literal: lo desconocido es la materia prima a partir de la cual se fabrica la personalidad en el curso de la actividad exploratoria. El acto de rechazar la anomalía transforma la personalidad en algo hambriento, en algo senil y en algo cada vez más temeroso del cambio, pues cada fracaso a la hora de enfrentarse a la verdad erosiona la capacidad de enfrentarse a la verdad en el futuro.

Los seres humanos son curiosos sobre la estructura y la función de todo, y no iba a ser menos en el caso de ellos mismos; nuestra capacidad para contar historias refleja nuestra capacidad para describirnos a nosotros mismos.

El ejemplo arquetípico o último del salvador es el redentor del mundo, el Mesías: héroe creador y redentor del mundo, revolucionario social y gran reconciliador.

Cuando la estructura de una institución se ha vuelto corrupta -sobre todo de acuerdo a sus propios principios- criticarla es un acto de amistad.

La transformación de circunstancias -ambientales- como consecuencia de causas puramente naturales constituye la causa más inmediatamente evidente del deterioro de la estabilidad cultural. Una sequía prolongada, inundaciones, terremotos, plagas, -los sucesos más horribles y arbitrarios de la naturaleza- son capaces de convertir en impotentes, de un plumazo, a las sociedades mejor adaptadas.

La actitud tiránica mantiene a la sociedad en una predictibilidad homogénea y rígida, pero la condena a un derrumbamiento final.

Nuestras insignificantes debilidades se acumulan y multiplican, y se convierten en grandes males de Estado.

A medida que nuestro poder tecnológico se expande, el peligro que planteamos aumenta, y las consecuencias de nuestra estupidez voluntaria se multiplican.

Resulta cada vez más necesario que nos corrijamos a nosotros mismos, no a otros, y que aprendamos explícitamente lo que ello significa.

El sentido de nuestras limitaciones no es el sufrimiento; es la existencia misma. Se nos ha otorgado la capacidad soportar voluntariamente el peso terrible de nuestra mortalidad. Le damos la espalda a esa capacidad y nos degradamos a nosotros mismos porque tenemos miedo de la responsabilidad.

Un acontecimiento significativo existe en la frontera entre el orden y el caos.

because no matter how different our genes or life experiences may be, or how differently our plastic brains are wired by our experience, we all have to deal with the unknown, and we all attempt to move from chaos to order. And this is why many of the rules in this book, being based on Maps of Meaning, have an element of universality to them. —

Behavior is imitated, then abstracted into play, formalized into drama and story, crystallized into myth and codified into religion—and only then criticized in philosophy, and provided, post-hoc, with rational underpinnings. Explicit philosophical statements regarding the grounds for and nature of ethical behavior, stated in a verbally comprehensible manner, were not established through rational endeavor.

Combining evolution, the neuroscience of emotion, some of the best of Jung, some of Freud, much of the great works of Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Solzhenitsyn, Eliade, Neumann, Piaget, Frye and Frankl, Maps of Meaning, published nearly two decades ago, shows Jordan’s wide-ranging approach to understanding how human beings and the human brain deal with the archetypal situation that arises whenever we, in our daily lives, must face something we do not understand. The brilliance of the book is in his demonstration of how rooted this situation is in evolution, our DNA, our brains and our most ancient stories. And he shows that these stories have survived because they still provide guidance in dealing with uncertainty, and the unavoidable unknown.

As coisas desmoronam por vontade própria, mas os pecados dos homens aceleram sua degeneração.

...At the same time, something odd was happening to my ability to converse. I had always enjoyed engaging in arguments, regardless of topic. I regarded them as a sort of game (not that this is in any way unique). Suddenly, however, I couldn't talk—more accurately, I couldn't stand listening to myself talk . I started to hear a “voice” inside my head, commenting on my opinions. Every time I said something, it said something— something critical. The voice employed a standard refrain, delivered in a somewhat bored and matter-of-fact tone: You don't believe that. That isn't true. You don't believe that. That isn't true. The “voice” applied such comments to almost every phrase I spoke. I couldn't understand what to make of this. I knew the source of the commentary was part of me, but this knowledge only increased my confusion. Which part, precisely, was me— the talking part or the criticizing part ? If it was the talking part, then what was the criticizing part? If it was the criticizing part—well, then: how could virtually everything I said be untrue? In my ignorance and confusion, I decided to experiment. I tried only to say things that my internal reviewer would pass unchallenged. This meant that I really had to listen to what I was saying, that I spoke much less often, and that I would frequently stop, midway through a sentence, feel embarrassed, and reformulate my thoughts. I soon noticed that I felt much less agitated and more confident when I only said things that the “voice” did not object to. This came as a definite relief. My experiment had been a success; I was the criticizing part. Nonetheless, it took me a long time to reconcile myself to the idea that almost all my thoughts weren't real, weren't true—or, at least, weren't mine. All the things I “believed” were things I thought sounded good, admirable, respectable, courageous. They weren't my things, however—I had stolen them. Most of them I had taken from books. Having “understood” them, abstractly, I presumed I had a right to them—presumed that I could adopt them, as if they were mine: presumed that they were me . My head was stuffed full of the ideas of others; stuffed full of arguments I could not logically refute. I did not know then that an irrefutable argument is not necessarily true, nor that the right to identify with certain ideas had to be earned.

The world can be validly construed as forum for action, or as place of things. The former manner of interpretation – more primordial, and less clearly understood – finds its expression in the arts or humanities, in ritual, drama, literature, and mythology. The world as forum for action is a place of value, a place where all things have meaning. This meaning, which is shaped as a consequence of social interaction, is implication for action, or – at a higher level of analysis – implication for the configuration of the interpretive schema that produces or guides action. The latter manner of interpretation – the world as place of things – finds its formal expression in the methods and theories of science. Science allows for increasingly precise determination of the consensually validatable properties of things, and for efficient utilization of precisely-determined things as tools (once the direction such use is to take has been determined, through application of more fundamental narrative processes). No complete world-picture can be generated, without use of both modes of construal. The fact that one mode is generally set at odds with the other means only that the nature of their respective domains remains insufficiently discriminated. Adherents of the mythological world-view tend to regard the statements of their creeds as indistinguishable from empirical “fact,” even though such statements were generally formulated long before the notion of objective reality emerged. Those who, by contrast, accept the scientific perspective – who assume that it is, or might become, complete – forget that an impassable gulf currently divides what is from what should be.

But the delights of his previous life were ashes in his mouth and he ventured forth a third time

The "world" of the Sumerians was not objective reality, as we presently construe it. It was simultaneously more and less—more, in that this "primitive" world contained phenomena that we do not consider part of "reality," such as affect and meaning; less, in that the Sumerians could not describe (or conceive of) many of those things that processes of science have revealed to us. Myth is not primitive proto-science. It is a qualitatively different phenomenon.

The known, our current story, protects us from the unknown, from chaos—which is to say, provides our experience with determinate and predictable structure. Chaos has a nature all of its own. That nature is experienced as affective valence, at first exposure, not as objective property. If something unknown or unpredictable occurs, while we are carrying out our motivated plans, we are first surprised. That surprise—which is a combination of apprehension and curiosity—comprises our instinctive emotional response to the occurrence of something we did not desire. The appearance of something unexpected is proof that we do not know how to act—by definition, as it is the production of what we want that we use as evidence for the integrity of our knowledge. If we are somewhere we don’t know how to act, we are (probably) in trouble—we might learn something new, but we are still in trouble.

Dicho de otro modo, nuestras creencias pueden modificar nuestras reacciones a todo, incluso a aquellas cosas tan primarias y fundamentales como son la comida y la familia. Con todo, seguimos constreñidos indeterminadamente por el hecho de nuestros límites biológicos.

I will utter things which have been kept secret from the foundation of the world. (Matthew 13:35)

When you set of expectations alters, the valence of phenomena instantly changes

When your set of expectations alters, the valence of phenomena instantly changes.

The 'natural,' pre-experimental, or mythical mind is in fact primarily concerned with meaning - which is essentially implication for action - and not with 'objective' nature.