Our Mutual Friend turns on this relation between the self and the other. The mirroring between the two can be sick and confused or more autonomous and healthy, but the novel never lets go of this dialectic. If the relation is cut, the self vanishes. Those who are walled off, isolated, and unrecognized drown. For me, this is a simple human truth, one that Dickens elaborates more fully and with greater subtlety than any writer I know. Although I have never been interested in narrow “readings” of books through the lens of this or that philosophy or system, the geography of the self and the other that Dickens maps in Our Mutual Friend, one that treats mirroring and the role of language, reverberates strongly with ideas in both psychoanalysis and neurobiology that seek answers to fundamental questions about human identity.
Winnicott, who read Lacan’s essay on the mirror stage when it was published in 1949, grounded Lacan’s idea of mirroring in his clinical experience of the relation between mother and child and bore witness to the fact that the child comes to recognize itself in the answering face of its mother. This dialectic bears a close relationship to Allan Shore’s comment in his book Affect Regulation and the Origin of the Self: The Neurobiology of Emotional Development: “The early social environment, mediated by the primary caregiver, directly influences the evolution of structures in the brain responsible for the future socioemotional development of the child.” In other words, the old dualism between nature and nurture is rendered moot. The outside also becomes us. A human being is born an unfinished organism and as the person develops experience with others becomes a physical reality. The I and the you are not as neatly separated as the culture likes to believe.
Language plays an essential part in our development, and brain research has begun to verify physically what linguists like Benveniste had codified long before. G. Rizzolatti’s studies on monkeys led him to discover a class of neurons he calls “mirror neurons,” which are activated in the brains of monkeys not only when they are performing certain actions like grasping or tearing but when they are watching the same activity in another monkey. Although Rizzolatti doesn’t mention it, this seems closely related to the phenomenon in children called transitivism. Simply put: If one toddler falls down and starts crying, the child watching the tumble also begins to howl. In his article “Language Within Our Grasp,” published in 1998, Rizzolatti and his fellow researchers argue that a similar neuronal action takes place in human beings in the left hemisphere of the brain and that this reflecting activity forms the foundation for language: “The development of the capacity of the observer to control his or her mirror system is crucial in order to emit (voluntarily) a signal. When this occurs a primitive dialogue is established. This dialogue forms the core of language.” Mirroring makes speech possible; language relies on the reflective quality of I and vow through which verbal interaction becomes possible.
In Descartes’ Error, Antonio Damasio suggests that what we call the self is a representation of our organism that is continually regenerated in the brain: “The self is a repeatedly reconstructed biological state,” and that what he designates as subjectivity is another image or representation of “an organism in the act of perceiving and responding to an object.” Damasio does not say it explicitly, but this internal representation or brain image, which he delineates as subjectivity, is dialectical—the image of a relation. He doesn’t confine it to the relation between “I” and “you” but includes all external objects as well. Damasio is less interested in the role of language in subjectivity than others and proposes a nonverbal narrative for the self. He does write, however, “Language may not be the source of the self, but it is certainly the source of the ‘I.’“ I don’t think that the self is constituted in language but rather that language plays a vital role in perception and memory and necessarily mingles with an individual human narrative. Elizabeth Bates, who has been studying language and the brain at the University of California, San Diego, states it clearly: “The experience of language helps create the shape and structure of the mature brain.”
“There Was No Such Thing as I”
Wegg’s labile, necrotic I reflects an anxiety he is able to express perfectly: “I should not like — under any circumstances, to be what I may call dispersed, a part of me here and a part of me there, but 1 should wish to collect myself like a genteel person.” Mr. Dolls, a minor character in the novel and a shuddering alcoholic wreck, cannot collect himself at all. His I doesn’t wander like Wegg’s. It has disappeared altogether. “Circumstances over which had no control,” Dolls mutters repeatedly, and, resorting to the third person, “Poor shattered invalid. Trouble nobody long.” Faithful to the book’s logic, the narrator refers to Dolls as it, not he. And, like Headstone, Dolls has a mechanical aspect: “The very breathing of the figure was contemptible as it laboured and rattled in that operation like a blundering clock.” Dolls’s I has gone underground, buried there with his real name — Cleaver, another word among many that suggest cutting and shredding. Mr. Dolls is a nickname given to him by Eugene Wrayburn because the ruin’s daughter is “the dolls’ dressmaker,” Jenny Wren. Mr. Dolls’s first-person pronoun has been drowned in drink, and without it he can’t engage another person directly. Dolls is a grown-up who behaves like a child. His daughter Jenny never calls him “you” or “father.” She prefers the infantile and more accurate “Bad Boy.” Young children often refer to themselves in the third person before they master the mysterious flux of the I, and Dickens’s novel is uncannily perceptive about this pronoun. In its pages the I is never taken for granted.
How does a person lead a coherent life with a stable self, whatever that self may be? Our Mutual Friend proposes a route to a whole or more or less whole self through memory, mirroring recognition, dialogue, and finally telling and fiction. As the connective tissue of time, memory is certainly essential to the internal narrative we create for ourselves. When I was hospitalized for a migraine in 1983, I was in a bed in the neurology ward at Mount Sinai Hospital across from a woman who had suffered a severe stroke. She spoke rarely and only in fragments. Every day her husband came to visit her, but she had lost the ability to recognize him. She was a tough old lady who escaped the fetters the nurses bound her with every night, but she had no self that existed from one moment to another — no story over time. That had vanished. A number of years ago, a woman contacted my husband and told him the story of her husband, a gifted composer and musician, whose memory was destroyed by meningitis. He kept a notebook, and in it he wrote hundreds and hundreds of times the same exclamation, “12:00. Where am I? 12:01. Where am I? 12:02. Where am I?” And on and on. Trapped in the nightmare of eternal repetition, he was unable to connect one minute to another but retained enough self-consciousness in those isolated moments to feel his disorientation. It is hard to think of a worse plight than living in a state of continual agony without any context for it. For this man, time had lost all meaning.