That Space between Words

Where knowledge ends and stories begin

Frustration may be the most unifying experience for writers. It's inevitable when wrestling particular scenes and elaborate ideas into the submission of coarse words. I would bleed out the dictionary to describe the Colorado mountains but still admit defeat in wholly succeeding, and acknowledge that always to some degree you just won't get it. That is because to be an author is to be a negotiator. I barter with words, plead them to deliver the full extent of my meaning, or else have it eternally remain in the privacy of my head. It takes a mad man to think the pen or tongue could distill those alpine precipices into scribbles of ink or a series of sounds. 

I recently traded this frustration for inquiry, asking to see this thing that eludes all words. Us common folk will speak of the space that lies between liking and loving, happiness and joy, the author and the poet. Surely, there is something more than intensity. Aristotle saw it when he distinguished between virtues of thought and virtues of character.¹ In the grand tale of philosophy, I have nothing new to share, but to me this is an enthralling discovery. This difference, whatever it may be, also separates two types of knowledge. One, I am writing with now. The other lies beyond the jurisdiction of words. It is why I cannot show you the mountains.

Perhaps you have heard of Mary. Mary is a brilliant scientist who, for whatever reason, has spent her entire life in a black and white room learning from black and white books and monitors. She has taken up optics and become a leading expert in everything to do with light. She understands its quantum nature, the correlation of frequency to colors, and even the neurological process between the retina and the brain. However, she has never seen a color for herself. One day, Mary leaves the room. We have a difficult question. Does Mary learn anything new? 

Just imagine seeing color for the first time. Photo taken in the Belfast Botanic Gardens.

Frank Jackson created Mary in an argument against physicalism and I am inclined to agree with his answer to our question: a resounding yes.² Mary learns something of color no book could ever teach. I will leave Jackson to argue his points. This illustration has aided me enough to begin my own.

I will call these two kinds of knowledge mind knowledge and soul knowledge, or Cognitio, the information Mary had while in the room, and Spiritus, what Mary learned upon leaving. The first we are familiar with in the age of computers, but we have lost our diligence in contemplating the second and we desperately need a resurrection. It will happen soon with the dawn of AI. Panic is setting in as we ask what sets us apart from machines. This ‘second knowledge’ holds the answer. I have identified two distinct properties between Cognitio and Spiritus. The former can be known to exist before it’s obtained. It is also transferable between minds, but Spiritus has neither trait.

What do I mean by ‘known to exist before it's obtained?’ You probably don’t know the number of shark attacks off Miami Beach over the past decade, yet you know that number exists. You also have an inclination on how to find it. Of course, your research may yield a false answer, but the ability to be false comes from the real existence of the right number. We may lack information, but we know it's out there and have the ability to willingly gain it. I have no idea how to speak German, make sushi, or how the Hagia Sophia was designed, but with intention and effort, I can choose to know any of these things. This knowledge is Cognitio.

Cognitio also has the ability to be transferred. It's just data. Like currency, we exchange it. We hold it in artificial minds (computers) and find it incredibly instrumental. Think about you giving me your phone number. In fact, this is the very definition of communication: transferring Cognitio. It is how we build and progress our societies.

Now what of Spiritus? I have found it is deeply intimate. We cannot know of its existence until we obtain it and therefore cannot intentionally pursue it. It can never move between minds like Cognitio, but by merely living we constantly fill a reservoir of it for ourselves. Spiritus is far more powerful than its younger brother. I have seen people’s beliefs shredded by the claws of reason, but somehow their reaction is to dig in their heels and refuse defeat. Spiritus demands it of them (that, and perhaps a dose of pride). Every piece of Cognitio you throw at them is pummeled. Yet despite its great power, Spiritus is subtle. It blends into the ether. It has great authority but we forget it exists. 

No two people have the same collection of Spiritus. It is derived from experiences, which are unique to every life. Humans have a deep desire to share their knowledge, but this, they cannot. Realizing such may induce loneliness, but I would not have it any other way. If we could exchange it, we would lose ourselves. Our identities would become entangled beyond recognition, just as a drop of water ceases to exist upon falling into a puddle. But do not despair! There remains a powerful and joyful practice to utilize it for one another’s benefit.  

This power I speak of is that of stories. Stories are the gifts we make out of Spiritus for those around us. ‘Learn from my mistakes so that you don’t have to.’ ‘Let me inspire you so that you know how to dream’. Stories fascinate us. They bind cultures and create relatability. We guide each other with those late-night talks, when we nurture wonder in children reading by their bedside, and when we leave the cinema with our hearts excited by the film’s hero. 

Stained glass is a particularly favorite method of storytelling. This photo is from the Cathedral of Saint Peter in Trier. It is the oldest cathedral in Germany.

But if  Spiritus is not transferable, what are stories doing? We have ways to organize Cognitio into categories. There are ‘recipes,’ ‘names of friends,’ or ‘mathematical equations.’ In the same way, stories teach us to organize our Spiritus. Plato depicts the soul as able to recollect; to discover realizations not by receiving more Cognitio, but by shifting what already lies within.³ Stories can only operate within the context of the hearer’s experiences. If I told you a story of the happiest man on earth, you could only imagine his happiness insofar as you have felt happy. Just as you can’t imagine a color you have never seen, you cannot gain from a story what you have not experienced yourself. Cognitio will tell you a higher degree of happiness can exist, but you don’t truly understand it. When I endure great difficulties, I appreciate the comfort of someone’s good intentions if they have been fortunate enough to never relate. When it comes from the sufferer who knows a deeper pain than I, I am given an incomparable treasure. 

To tell someone a story is to invite them to explore their Spiritus; to wander their inner archives and piece together new discoveries. This is why it is important to repeat stories and hear them over and over. They will use your latest experiences to nourish your soul in radical ways that can alter your nature.

I believe this is partly why Jesus spoke in parables. We know he intentionally spoke to divide his audience.⁴ “He who has ears, let him hear.” Christ knew the Spiritus of his listeners was varied, and his stories reacted with some in profound ways while others lacked the wisdom. When people are frustrated that the Bible is not a rule book or a simple ‘how-to’ guide to understanding God and ourselves, we know they have forgotten Spiritus. If the Bible were such a thing it would be insulting, undermining our humanity, and acting as if we are mere computers and not deeply sacred.

How quickly we find ourselves like Mary, in a black and white room. We study all there is to know of a subject without knowing to delight in it. Too many of us are gluttons for Cognitio while anorexic with our souls. We must step outside. 

We do this by sitting in the company of ourselves, something we skillfully avoid by sensual stimulation. Let your inner eye adjust to the dark and you will see Spiritus emerge. I do this through art museums. Art is like a story. Once you see past the physical properties, it provokes your Spiritus and helps you recollect. Have meals with others. Sing songs. These are the joys of shaping our souls by shared experiences. They may not ever be whispered, but you know that maybe, just maybe, these times have shown your friends some same elements of Spiritus they showed you. I am grateful you will never truly appreciate the Colorado mountains without being there. If I could have you do so by a simple essay or even with photographs, my experiences would be eroded by insignificance. Thankfully, it can never happen. I will still try, though. I will still be frustrated. I will continue to ask words to toss around the Spiritus of my readers like a snow globe. However, the space between the words is only filled by your experience. Mine is forever my own.

One of the Colorado mountains. Photo courtesy of my father.

1. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (1103a1-10).

2. Epiphenomenal Qualia by Frank Jackson in The Philosophical Quarterly. (April, 1982).

3. See Socrates’ conversation with the slave boy in Plato’s Meno. Similar arguments are also mentioned in his Phaedo.

4. See especially Mark 4:10-12