We call this process the imagination. It turns out that imagination is not some airy-fairy quality that artists use to paint pictures. It's a faculty that's at work every second of every day. Without our permission, our imaginations range around connecting one set of perceptions to another. The imagination builds fantasy landscapes and experiences and then moves into them to see what they're like. Some blends are nice: being alone together with Elle MacPherson on a tropical island. Some are horrible: my kids' being kidnapped. Regardless, what we imagine can arouse strong emotions and can powerfully shape the way we think and behave. This is the point made effectively by Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner in their fascinating new book, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind's Hidden Com-plexities. "The next step in the study of mind," they write, "is the scientific study of the nature and mechanisms of the imagination."
I came upon this book through my semi-professional hobby of examining consumer behavior. Anybody who watches people as they shop quickly perceives that the economist's model of human behavior—in which we are rational actors calculating costs and benefits—doesn't really explain much. (Why do some people fall in love with Jaguars but not Corvettes?) Nor does Thorstein Veblen's model—in which consumers are involved in a status race to keep up with the Joneses. (Do you really think that's how you select your purchases? And if you don't, what makes you think everyone else is shallower and more status-crazed than you are?)
The key to consumption is not calculation or emulation. It's aspiration. The minds of shoppers relentlessly race ahead of reality. People tend to buy the things that set off light shows in their imaginations. But once an item ceases to fire their visions (because it no longer seems to provide a pathway to some idyllic future), they lose interest in it, and their imaginations go off in search of something new and exciting. Kids go through this process with dispiriting speed, as any parent can tell you on Christmas afternoon.
Reading Fauconnier and Turner as they summarize the literature on imagination and offer their own theories (Fauconnier is a professor of cognitive science at the University of California at San Diego, and Turner is a University Professor and a behavioral scientist at the University of Maryland), one realizes that we are only beginning to understand how imagination works. Still, they do offer a few significant insights. For example, they suggest that the culture we inhabit creates templates that they call "entrenched integration networks." In response to certain stimuli, people from the same culture tend to have similar responses. It took tens of thousands of years for language to develop, for instance, but children can learn it in a few years—and once the template is embedded in their brains, it is stubbornly entrenched. If you had seen the word "chair" when you were eighteen months old, you would have seen just a bunch of shapes. But now when you see those shapes you think of something to sit on. It is nearly impossible to go back and see the word "chair" as just shapes again. You cannot prevent your brain from making that blend.
"Cultures work hard," Fauconnier and Turner write, "to develop integration resources that can then be handed on with relative ease." Death is a terrifying prospect, but each culture comes up with a set of rituals to help the imagination get a handle on it. The figure of the Grim Reaper is a blend of several aspects of death—darkness, the harvest, bones, afterlife, and so on—put into graspable form. We treat corpses as sacred objects and develop rituals for their disposal because we need some physical way to organize our responses to the death of a loved one.