Nick Cook* writes in his 2021 essay entitled "What Is
The Best Available Evidence For The Survival Of Human Consciousness After
Permanent Bodily Death?"
In the 1946 Powell and Pressburger
film ‘A Matter Of Life And Death’1, Squadron Leader Peter
Carter of the Royal Air Force, almost home from a harrowing mission over Nazi
Germany in the final days of the war, is forced to bail out of his burning
bomber without a parachute. Before he jumps, Carter, played by that quintessential
Englishman, David Niven, holds a poignant conversation with June, an American
radio operator at a USAAF base on the English coast below. Although they have
never met, the connection they forge is palpable; and when, finally, he jumps,
we know there is no chance of survival. But this being fiction, the next we see
is Carter washed up on a beach, injured but alive. On his way to hospital, he
meets June, played by Kim Hunter, and their love, kindled in what they both
believe to have been his final moments, becomes powerfully real.
This, however, being the movies,
there’s a catch. Carter is supposed to be dead – an angelic messenger sent to
transport him to the ‘Other World’ at the moment he jumped had been unable to
locate him in the thick English fog. Carter’s reprieve, though, is temporary –
the matter of his survival, we are told, needs to be corrected. He is given
three days to prepare his appeal to a heavenly court that will decide his fate:
whether or not he can remain on Earth with June. The case against him is that
the law of the universe is immutable – that to maintain its order, he has to
die. In his defence, Carter maintains that the Other World’s clerical error has
changed the rules of the game – he and June have fallen in love; his future, he
says, now lies with her.
1 A Matter of Life and Death was released in the USA as Stairway
to Heaven. It was directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger and
starred David Niven, Roger Livesey, Raymond Massey, Kim Hunter and Marius
Goring.
Why choose this fictional story to
open an essay on the best evidence for the survival of human consciousness
after permanent bodily death? The answer, as I hope will become clear, is
manyfold. In the film, Carter’s friend and doctor, Frank Reeves, who has been
helping to treat his increasingly debilitating visions as he approaches his
heavenly trial, becomes his counsel in the Other World – this after Frank’s
death in a motorbike accident on the night of the operation to stem bleeding
from the lesions in Carter’s brain - lesions his surgeons believe to be killing
him. Reeves, unlike the towering figures from history who are offered to Carter
as his defence counsel – all of whom Carter rejects - is untrained in the ways
of the courts. How, then, will Reeves defeat the infallible logic of the Other
World’s petition, which is to see universal order restored?
In the pages to come, we will meet an
extensive dramatis personae of witnesses and expert witnesses who will
present proof beyond a reasonable doubt that our consciousness persists after
bodily death. It is my intention for these witnesses to speak for themselves –
and for the evidence to do likewise. If I have a role in the proceedings, it is
to tap the spirit of Dr Reeves, because the question in the title – the question
of our consciousness’s survival when we die - couldn’t be more timely.
Like Carter, we are, I will argue,
approaching a moment of crisis - a fork in the evolutionary road. One direction
leads toward a ‘transhumanist’ future, in which advances in computing, nanotech
and medicine will permit the fulfilment of a materialist desire to extend our bodily
survival to its absolute limit. In the other, lies what might be termed an
‘exoconscious2 future’ in which we learn to explore – and,
ultimately, to unlock – capabilities within us increasingly ignored in the
hallways of science since the 17th century - that speak to the potential of
humans to be so much more than they – we - currently are. This latter
journey is one that we can make only by travelling inward – a direction
that is presently anathema to science. Yet, throughout this essay, the
subjective experience will be called frequently to the witness stand as being
not just relevant to the case for ‘survival’, but critical to it.
2 A term coined by Rebecca Hardcastle Wright, PhD, to denote the
study of extraterrestrial dimensions of human consciousness.
I am a rationalist by nature – trained
professionally in both the arts and the sciences. As a young journalist working
for a trade publication3 that served a professional readership
interested in technology and technology development, I was fortunate to have
been mentored by other trade journalists who thought and analysed critically –
there was no room in the business I had entered for sentiment or woolly-minded
thinking: we were, I was told, all about the hard facts of science and
engineering.
But there is one facet of journalism
(of whatever stripe) that no mentor can ever teach: to pursue ‘the story’ you
have to have curiosity. Everyone, to some degree, is curious, but in
journalism, especially investigative journalism, you have to have good,
liberal doses of it. I acquired mine, I am certain, from my father, an engineer
and inventor. Long before I understood anything about the workings of the
brain, my neural pathways were likely encoded by our discussions about the
natural world and, as my father saw it, its inherent orderliness.
Which is why one particular story he
used to tell troubled me – because it troubled him: the events he described
surrounding the death of his mother, my grandmother, when my sister and I were
very young.
My grandmother, Pamela, was an
American who survived the Great San Francisco earthquake of 1906. The only
child of divorcees, she journeyed with her mother to England, where she
eventually married my grandfather, an old school Englishman. My father and his
brothers grew up in a large country house in the south-east of England, where
my passionate, hot-blooded, highly literate, and curious grandmother, found
herself encircled by the buttoned-down, stiff upper lip insouciance of the
English class system. This was especially pronounced, post- World War 1, in the
so-called Home Counties that surround London.
3 Jane’s Defence Weekly, for which I was Aerospace Editor
from 1987 to 2005.
When she died, at the (even then)
comparatively young age of 67 during what should have been a routine operation,
my father spent the next several days in the family home with my grandfather,
who had been especially affected by her sudden death.
To begin with, the signs of Pam’s
presence were barely noticeable – during the small hours, clacks of a broom
against pieces of furniture were audible in the attic above my father’s
bedroom. Sweeping the attic was what she had done during persistent bouts of
insomnia, but my father was able to put down what he thought he’d heard to
grief and imagination. Lights turning off and on elicited a similar response.
What neither he nor my grandfather could ignore, however, was the moment when,
as they were discussing a part of her will whose interpretation they differed
upon, a heavy lamp on the table beside them lifted six inches into the air and
rocked from side-to- side, before settling back on to the table with a thump.
This being a household imbued with a
requirement to display indifference to anything out of the ordinary, my father
and grandfather looked at each other, but never said a word – indeed, they
never spoke about it at all (although they did move on from the contentious
clause of the will). But my father did speak to my sister, my brother and me
about it – frequently – and we knew that he was not a man to make things up.
As an engineer, he wanted to know how
energy had been transferred to that lamp apparently from nowhere. The
bigger question – the matter of the energy’s connection to a surviving
consciousness – was placed to one side. For me, too, the story remained little
more than a tale to tell friends on dark nights, until, some years into my
journalistic career, when I found myself researching material for what
eventually turned into a book about anomalous science.
That experience was salutary – what I
saw as a trail of evidence, my colleagues saw as a fool’s errand. This exposed
me to a pleasure/pain principle that has permeated both, I am ashamed to say,
my former profession, and, to an equal, if not even greater extent, the
conservative hallways of science.
*Nick Cook is an author of 20 fiction and non-fiction book titles
in the US and the UK. A former technology journalist, he is well-known for his
ground-breaking, best-selling non-fiction book, The Hunt for Zero Point.
He has also written, produced, and presented two feature-length documentaries
for the History and Discovery channels. In
2021, Cook was amongst 29 prize winners in the BICS institute’s essay
competition on consciousness. His essay is available at https://bigelowinstitute.org/contest_winners3.php.