The Calm Flashes of the Mind: A Novel

Chapter 1

Anna

It was a drizzly March morning and Zurich was clearly outlined against the gray sky. As I was walking toward the university I found myself in front of the Kunsthaus, noticed there was a Klimt exhibition, and decided to enter.

There were very few people and the beauty of the museum’s elegant rooms calmed my agitated mind. I sat down to indulge in the sensation. The lump in my throat had dissolved; my head and limbs were light. I sensed a waft of youth which I hadn’t felt for a long time. Perhaps it was a sign that the fog weighing me down for the last few years was drifting away. This thought surprised me—actually, it excited me.

The light was sharp and strong, and revealed forms and colors in a new, fresher way. Klimt’s paintings were arranged in three large interconnecting halls. As there weren’t many people that morning, I looked around to find a starting point.

I noticed a large painting that I already knew, two figures close to one another—one representing life and the other death. I felt intrigued and moved closer to look at them up close. As I approached the wall, my eyes met those of a beautiful woman in a white hat. Our eyes locked in a gaze, short and intense, as sometimes happens. She also stopped near that same painting. As she approached, I felt a strange sense of familiarity. I stepped back and observed her from behind. A young and slim body covered by a soft, camel hair cloak. She wore a white hat and her brown hair came out from underneath, delicately curling around her slender neck. I was possessed by an intense desire to embrace her. It was a strange day—beautiful, in fact.

I made every effort to concentrate on the painting—on the warm colors and vibrating faces which depicted life and on the shrunken face and dirty, dark colors that represented death. They were two distinct entities that of life and of death, entirely detached, and something did not feel quite right about it. In my mind I spoke to the stranger in the white hat.

‘You see,’ I was telling her, ‘I have a feeling that there’s an area of contact between life and death: death touches you, at some point, while you stand in the warm colors of life. It touches you with a finger and leaves an indelible scar, piercing: such as the death of a loved woman—Tamara, or when my son Jonathan ran away. Sure, you continue to be alive, but the memory of the wound never heals… from that moment on, death is always with you, it clings to you… do you understand? It isn’t detached from life…’

I recalled the image of Tamara’s smiling face, and tried to remember Jonathan’s, which was somewhat less graspable. I didn’t want my depression to return so I shook away these thoughts, moving my head and clearing my throat. As if by reaction, the woman in the white hat also moved her head, sending a whiff of perfume, discreet and subtle, just like her. I moved closer and decided to talk to her. I felt my heart pounding, and smiled at the thought that these were emotions I used to feel twenty, thirty years ago, when approaching a woman I had never met; a new world, that I invite into my own for the first time.

‘Excuse me, may I ask you something?’, I whispered.

The white hat moved slightly toward me with a brief and irritated nod.

‘I’d like to meet you, talk with you… get to know you. Is that possible?’

She glanced at me and said in a hushed tone:

‘Is this your best pick up line?’

Her reaction startled me. I looked at her and thought I caught a twinkle in her eye. Was she just teasing me? , wasn't it? I wasn't so sure.

I whispered back:

‘Well, if you want, I can talk about what inspires me in Klimt's paintings. I would say that you, with your beauty, are still entirely on the right side of the painting while I’m already a little more towards the middle…’

‘For heaven's sake, don't talk such nonsense! I was going for a coffee, I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

‘May I offer you that coffee?’

She gave me a rapid glance, and nodded; once again I smelled her perfume and smiled at her.

She didn't smile back, but took my arm and pushed me delicately towards the exit. I relished in the unexpected familiarity that lied in her gesture. We descended the steps in silence, and sat at the museum café.

Her name was Anna, and she was a musician, a cellist. The sunlight that poured through the glass windows cast a warm, soft light against her beautiful, serene face and I felt happy just looking at her. I tried to tell her that.

‘You're trying to be romantic’, Anna retorted ‘but in fact, you’re embarrassed to express your feelings, and it’s just awkward. So don't bother… why don't you tell me a little about yourself instead—that would be more interesting.’ Mixed with a feeling of admiration, I felt somewhat irritated with this woman who was so… I tried to find an adjective, and thought of ‘disrespectful’. I just had to laugh.

‘What? Why are you laughing?’

‘No, nothing. I was just thinking that it's hard to explain what I do.’

‘I'm listening.’

I began explaining that I was a neuropsychologist—‘You know what that is, right?’—and that I worked at the University where I held the Chair of Cognitive Science. What is it? A branch of science that studies the various functions of the mind, in particular, the mechanisms of learning: it includes neurobiology, as well as psychiatry, psychology and artificial intelligence, which is the science that uses computers to simulate the functions of the brain. I told her that this was what particularly interested me. That I was American and I had studied at Princeton where I specialized in neural computing and applications. ‘You know what neurons are, right? They're the long, wiry cells in the brain that form an intricate net of communication.’

‘And how did you end up in Zurich?’

It was a long time since I had talked to someone about myself and I felt glad to be with Anna. I looked into her eyes and sighed. We both broke out in laughter.

I told her I had arrived to Zurich ten years ago, to study at the Jung Institute. The little I had learned about Jung in America had attracted me very much, and I wanted to learn more. The mere idea of the Old Continent fascinated me. I remembered my first day in Zurich, near the University, I had come across an alley named Doctor Faust street.

I smiled again as I remembered the strong emotions I felt in meeting Goethe. Those were my days of great discovery.

‘Carl Gustav Jung… synchronicity and archetypes, right? That’s fascinating, isn’t it.’

‘Yes, but for a scientist like me, it’s a little hard to accept. After less than a year, I figured it wasn't for me. My approach to the problems of the mind was too rational, and the Jungian emphasis on symbolism, alchemy, and spirituality just weren't congenial with me: actually, to tell you the truth, I developed such an aversion that I went through a life crisis. If that wasn't enough, as part of the study program at the Jung Institute I had to attend many hours of therapy. Those were fascinating, but at the same time, I hated them. Why? It's hard to explain in few words. They were interesting, but unpleasant: you see, things come out that maybe are better left where they are, buried in the unconscious. But there, I met the Old One, that’s how we call him. He’s a great psychoanalyst and close friend. I visit him at least once a month. No, he's not my therapist anymore, at least not in the sense that I pay him for my visits. We just chat about my life. He's a lonely old man now, who enjoys some company once in a while, even though he'd never admit it.

‘And then, what happened?’

‘Right while I was in the most acute phase of this crisis, I received a proposal from the university to start a new course in cognitive science. So, that's how I started my so-called brilliant university career. After five years, I was already a full professor. In those years, I wrote a lot about computer simulations of neural networks.’

There was a moment of silence, we sipped our coffees, and Anna looked me over a few times. After a while, she said: ‘If I understand correctly, you believe the human mind works like a computer and that the emotions we feel are all in the brain?’

I was used to this type of question, usually accompanied by a suspicious, incredulous expression. I shook my head.

‘I said the brain, not the mind. As far as I'm concerned, the human brain, for the most part, acts like a computer,’ I responded gently ‘As for emotions, it's like this: we can study quite efficiently the electrical impulses emitted by the brain in response to a series of stimulators, such as fear, joy, visual perception, colors, and so on. We can even localize the various centers of the brain for these functions. However, the concept of mind is far more complex. It's a very vague concept: to start with, we'd need to define what exactly we mean by mind.’

‘And what are you studying now?’

‘Yes, I was getting to it, now I'm studying what we call asignificant images.’ I looked at her expression, greatly enjoying her reaction to my words. I looked at her dark eyes, her face illuminated by sunlight. She held my gaze without lowering her eyes.

‘Asignificant images? What does that mean?’

‘I'll give you an example. While walking up the steps to enter the museum, my brain brought out an image of a train conductor in Como. Later, while I was blowing my nose, I saw the central square of Katmandu, in Nepal, which I had visited over seven years ago. The images just appear. It's as if brief flashes of perception cross the mind, just like that, for no apparent reason, and without any particular trigger.’

Anna smiled at this. ‘Calm flashes of the mind… that's how I'd call them!’

‘I like that expression, it's very nice’ I answered ‘Calm flashes of the mind…thanks. I can see you understand perfectly.’

‘But why do you think this phenomenon is strange? Our mind is constantly bringing out associations of all sorts: memories of the past mingled with the present. For example, you're eating an apple, and it makes you think of the leaning tower of Pisa, because, who knows, maybe a few years ago, you were in Pisa eating an apple while gazing at the leaning tower.’

‘That's exactly the point!’ I was delighted to involve her in something I was so passionate about. I paused a second to gather my thoughts. ‘Let's see if I can explain myself better: I'm telling you that our mind creates images without any sort of causal connection with the present physical or psychological instant. That's why I used the term asignificant images. What I'm trying to understand is the mechanism behind this sort of process. Why it happens, how it happens.’

‘I think I understand’, she nodded after a brief pause. ‘But why do you study this sort of thing?’

I burst into surprised laughter. ‘What do you mean by why? It's my job, that's what I do! I'm a neuro-psychologist, I study how the mind functions. It interests me, I like it. Isn’t it the same with your music? I've even started to write a book on the subject, on the asignificant images of the mind.’

‘You mean, on the calm flashes of the mind’, she corrected me.

‘The calm flashes of the mind’, I responded, still laughing. She smiled briefly and lifted the cup to her lips, finishing her coffee. Anna gave me a serious look then sat up straight, lifting her long, slender neck. ‘So, you’re saying that everything we think or feel is a product of the brain, in the sense that everything depends on