Phenomenology

The Senior Common Room had entered what Miss Stray, in her private notes, described as a “reflexively self-monitoring phase,” though nobody else had agreed this was a phase or, indeed, that they had entered it.

It began, as many things at St. Bartholomew’s now did, with Blottisham.

He arrived carrying a small notebook labelled:

EMPIRICAL RECORD OF INTERNAL EXPERIENCE (VERSION 3.1)

Professor Quillibrace looked up.

“I am not confident,” he said mildly, “that that is what those words mean.”

Blottisham ignored this and sat down.

“I’ve been doing phenomenology,” he announced.

A pause.

Quillibrace closed his book.

“You have been doing what, exactly?”

“Phenomenology,” Blottisham repeated. “You know — studying experience from the inside.”

Miss Elowen Stray looked up with immediate interest.

“In what sense ‘studying’?” she asked.

Blottisham tapped his notebook.

“I’ve been observing my own consciousness.”

Quillibrace blinked once.

“I see.”

Blottisham leaned forward, energised.

“For example,” he said, “this morning I noticed that I was experiencing anticipation before opening my email. So I recorded it.”

He flipped open the notebook.

08:14 — Anticipation present. Mild uncertainty. Possible curiosity. Observer confirms observation.

Quillibrace slowly removed his glasses.

“My dear Blottisham,” he said carefully, “you appear to have introduced a second observer into your own nervous system without consulting any relevant ethics committee.”

Blottisham frowned.

“It’s just accurate reporting.”

Miss Stray tilted her head slightly.

“Who exactly,” she asked gently, “is doing the reporting?”

Blottisham paused.

“Well… me.”

“And who,” she continued, “is being reported on?”

Another pause.

“Also me.”

Quillibrace nodded slowly.

“I see we have entered a modest epistemic recursion.”

Blottisham brightened.

“Yes! Exactly! That’s what I thought!”

“No,” said Quillibrace.

A silence followed, during which the fire made a sound like it was also unsure of its status as an observed phenomenon.

Blottisham continued:

“Then I noticed that I was noticing my anticipation.”

He looked up proudly.

“So I recorded that too.”

Miss Stray leaned forward slightly.

“Did you record the noticing, or the noticing-of-noticing?”

Blottisham hesitated.

“…both?”

Quillibrace sighed softly.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “you are treating consciousness as though it were a laboratory specimen that happens to include the laboratory.”

Blottisham frowned.

“But isn’t that what phenomenology is?”

Quillibrace considered this.

“Phenomenology,” he said slowly, “is a disciplined attempt to describe experience without prematurely converting it into an object among objects.”

Blottisham nodded.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“No,” said Quillibrace again.

Miss Stray added gently:

“There may be a distinction between describing experience and reifying every moment of awareness into a data point.”

Blottisham looked at his notebook.

“But if I don’t record it, how do I know it happened?”

Quillibrace stared at him.

“Because,” he said, “you are the one having it.”

A pause.

Blottisham blinked.

“That feels subjective.”

“Yes,” said Quillibrace. “It is.”

Blottisham looked momentarily troubled.

“So experience isn’t evidence?”

Miss Stray shook her head slightly.

“Experience is not evidence of itself in the way you are trying to construct,” she said. “It is the condition under which evidence is construed.”

Blottisham looked down at his notebook.

“So I can’t observe my own mind properly?”

Quillibrace softened slightly.

“You can attend to your experience,” he said. “But the moment you begin treating that attending as if it introduces a separate observer, you have split what is structurally unified.”

Blottisham frowned.

“But I feel like I’m observing myself.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“Indeed,” he said. “And you also feel like the sun rises. Neither phenomenology nor astronomy is obliged to respect that feeling as ontology.”

A silence settled.

Blottisham turned a page in his notebook.

08:27 — Confusion observed. Observer notes confusion about observer.

He looked up.

“So what am I supposed to do instead?”

Quillibrace considered this for a moment.

“Live your experience,” he said finally, “without appointing it to administrative oversight.”

Miss Stray added softly:

“And perhaps without multiplying internal agencies beyond necessity.”

Blottisham sat back.

“That sounds less scientific.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“It is,” he said. “You are not conducting an experiment on consciousness.”

A pause.

“You are consciousness.”

The fire crackled gently.

Blottisham stared at his notebook.

“So I should stop recording?”

Quillibrace allowed a faint, tired smile.

“You may record if you wish,” he said. “Just be aware that you are not thereby escaping experience into observation. You are merely extending it into paper.”

Blottisham considered this.

Then carefully wrote:

08:31 — Attempt to stop recording experience. Experience continues.

Miss Stray closed her notebook with a small, satisfied gesture.

Quillibrace looked into the middle distance.

“I fear,” he said quietly, “we are now at risk of producing empirical reports of the fact that empirical reports are being produced.”

Blottisham paused.

“That feels recursive.”

“Yes,” said Quillibrace.

“And mildly exhausting,” added Miss Stray.

Blottisham nodded.

Then added one final entry:

08:33 — Exhaustion observed. Observer uncertain who is exhausted.

Quillibrace closed his eyes.

And for a brief moment, the Senior Common Room became entirely indistinguishable from the thing it was trying not to observe.