Salience and the Miles That Count

9–13 minutes

Salience, attention, valence and the construction of disposition

Today I live about 90 minutes out of Boston by car on a good day – and 2 hours on a return trip because I live in Cape Cod, a tourist area, so I tend to have to compete with traffic. Today, it took over 2 and a half hours, a Friday afternoon, trapped among boat and beach seekers. I don’t drive, so I require chauffeurs to get me here and there. Today I driving with a bloke for whom traffic possesses unusual psychological gravity. He seems to have traffic and weather on the brain – and don’t get me started on crime, national security, and petrol prices.

Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.

I’ll spare the reader the trip up, which was fairly easy, despite traffic-related side comments whenever inappropriate. On the way back and at the first patch of congestion, he harrumphed and announced that we would certainly be stuck in traffic for the entire journey. I checked the Google Maps. Traffic was intermittent, and I told him so.

Soon afterwards, the road cleared. We travelled freely for miles – no traffic to report – but when we later encountered another queue, however, he declared that his prediction had been vindicated. On arrival, he told others that we had been stuck in traffic ‘the whole way’.

Two people; the same reality; different experiences. I got me thinking – and chatting with ChatGPT because the driver was focused on driving – and of course the misery of traffic.

Here’s the rest of the story: The traffic didn’t occupy the whole journey. To him, it occupied the portions of the journey that counted. The clear road was perceptually available but apparently lacked evidential weight. It was experienced without being recruited into the eventual account.

Noticing the divergence between out perceptions, I tried to reconcile. First, I considered filing this under selective attention and confirmation bias, that great psychological lost-property office into which every untidy inference is now deposited, but this doesn’t feel quite right; it doesn’t seem to capture the essence.

Before a belief can be confirmed by evidence, something must first become evidence, right? So, the more interesting question isn’t merely why this geezer interpreted the journey pessimistically, but why congestion became salient whilst free movement receded into the background. What determines which parts of experience become psychologically substantial?

Here’s how I see it:

I tried to view this through lenses of salience, attention and valence. First, a quick refresher:

Salience concerns what stands out, demands processing or acquires significance.

Attention concerns the allocation and maintenance of cognitive resources.

Valence concerns the positive or negative affective character assigned to something.

Traffic may be salient because it frustrates an aim. Its negative valence may help capture attention. Sustained attention may then produce richer encoding, making the traffic easier to recall. Later recollection may strengthen the prior belief that journeys are usually obstructed, which may increase vigilance for traffic during the next journey. No single element need rule the others.

The relation is recursive:

  • disposition shapes salience
  • salience directs attention
  • attention affects encoding
  • valence influences interpretation
  • memory reconstructs the event
  • reconstruction reinforces disposition

And even this is too linear, but here we are. Attention can alter valence. Bodily arousal can alter salience. Memory can modify present interpretation. Expectations can affect what is noticed before conscious appraisal has properly begun. The arrows run in both directions, and probably sideways as well.

The result isn’t simply a biased opinion about a neutral world. It’s a patterned encounter wherein some features arrive already amplified and others scarcely become legible.

Pessimism: Disposition as an epistemic filter

This got my pondering mental health issue. I’m not a psychologist, and I discount the discipline quite heavily, but I wanted to consider the notion of disposition. How can two people quite literally in the same vehicle on the same journey view the world so differently. Of course, we are all carved by our experiences, but this is a reciprocating function: the more we experience the world positively or negatively, the more the world will reveal itself as such. Confirmation bias drives the nails into the coffin.

Let’s look at the down side: pessimism. I don’t mean some clinical depression, but instead of seeing the world with no glasses, and rose-coloured spectacle, the world is view with dark glasses – I’m envisioning a welder’s visor. One could stare at the sun and proclaim it’s overcast. Eyeore on steroids.

A pessimistic disposition might usually described as a tendency to expect bad outcomes. And whilst this may be true, it’s incomplete. Pessimism may also affect what is noticed, how long attention remains with it, how it is interpreted, and what survives into later recall. This is my thesis – or at least my point. The unpleasant becomes an event. The satisfactory becomes the absence of an event.

Congestion is noticed; free movement is merely used. An insult is retained; an ordinary kindness passes as social administration. A failure requires explanation; success is dismissed as luck, temporary relief or an exception that proves nothing.

This asymmetry can make a disposition appear empirically vindicated. The pessimist remembers abundant evidence for pessimism because pessimistically congruent events were more likely to become salient, receive attention and survive reconstruction. The conclusion is then presented as realism:

  • I don’t expect things to go badly because I am pessimistic.
  • I am pessimistic because experience shows that things go badly.

Yet ‘experience‘ here isn’t an untouched archive. It’s already been selected, weighted and narrated.

Research on depression is compatible with this more interactive account. Depression and vulnerability to depression have been associated not only with increased processing of negative material but also with diminished positive biases across attention, interpretation, memory and self-referential thought. The pattern is therefore not merely an excess of negativity. It may also involve a failure of positive information to acquire or retain ordinary psychological weight.

A negatively valenced event may dominate because it attracts unusually strong attention. But an apparently negative world might also arise because positive events are weakly encoded, rapidly discounted or treated as anomalous. The same remembered landscape could therefore emerge through different cognitive routes.

Before I continue, a disclaimer: I am not trying to claim that my perception is correct and his isn’t. I’m merely asking how we end up with distinct narratives. It reminds me of the beginning of Woody Allen’s Annie Hall, where a couple are speaking to counsellors. A therapist asks about their love life:

Alvy Singer (him) and Annie Hall (her) are seeing their therapists at the same time on a split screen

Alvy’s Therapist: How often do you sleep together?

Annie’s Therapist: Do you have sex often?

Alvy: [lamenting] Hardly ever. Maybe three times a week.

Annie: [annoyed] Constantly. I’d say three times a week.

The interesting think here, is that both are disappointed for the same event one because sex is over-indexed and the other because it is under-indexed.

Moving on…

Anxiety and the world as warning

Anxiety offers a related configuration. Threatening material tends to capture attention more strongly in anxious populations, although effect sizes, experimental measures and the direction of attention over time are not perfectly uniform. Some people may orient rapidly towards threat; others may struggle to disengage; still others may shift from vigilance to avoidance. The bureaucracy of diagnosis naturally prefers a single box, whilst cognition persists in behaving like a process.

Interpretation and memory may then participate in the same system. An ambiguous expression becomes disapproval. A delayed reply becomes rejection. A bodily sensation becomes evidence of illness. Each interpretation increases anxiety; increased anxiety makes threat more salient; heightened salience provides further material for threatening interpretation.

Research on anxiety increasingly examines these as interacting biases rather than sealed mechanisms. Attention, interpretation and memory can be associated with one another, though the evidence does not support a single simple causal sequence in every case.

The important point is not that the danger is imaginary. Sometimes the road really is congested. Sometimes the delayed reply does indicate trouble. Sometimes the body is ill. The question is how individual events acquire representative force and how readily contrary events are permitted to revise the emerging model.

When significance itself becomes unstable

In some accounts of psychosis, salience plays a still more direct role. The aberrant-salience hypothesis proposes that neutral or incidental stimuli may acquire excessive significance, leaving the person to explain why ordinary events feel unusually charged. A glance, coincidence, headline or passing remark may become loaded with personal meaning.

This is not a complete theory of psychosis, nor should it be paraded as one. Predictive-processing accounts differ over whether particular symptoms arise from weakened prior expectations, excessively rigid priors, altered prediction-error signalling, or different disturbances at different levels of processing. Hallucinations and delusions may not share one uniform mechanism merely because diagnostic manuals house them in neighbouring rooms.

Still, the idea illustrates the broader point. Salience does not merely determine which established facts receive attention. It participates in determining what feels fact-like, connected or worthy of explanation.

Once significance has been assigned, interpretation begins its work. Once interpreted, the event may be more readily remembered. Once remembered, it joins the accumulating case for the interpretation that helped produce it.

Not merely ‘in the head’

None of this means that dispositions are autonomous cognitive errors floating above the world, and I reiterate that I am not a medical professional. Hell, I’m barely a professional. Salience is affected by history. Someone who has repeatedly encountered danger may reasonably become more attentive to possible danger. Poverty, discrimination, violence, illness and insecurity do not merely supply ‘negative thoughts’; they alter the statistical environment in which attention and expectation develop. What appears clinically as excessive vigilance may have been learned under conditions in which vigilance was adaptive.

Nor is salience purely conceptual. Sleep, stress, hormones, medication, pain and physiological arousal may all affect what attracts attention and what is retained. Experimental research indicates that arousal and valence can make distinct contributions to emotional memory, another reason not to compress the process into the nursery vocabulary of ‘positive’ and ‘negative thinking’. The world acts upon the disposition, and the disposition acts upon the encountered world. Neither term stands outside the relation.

This also guards against the moral obscenity of telling distressed people that they have simply chosen the wrong interpretation. A recursive process may be self-maintaining without being voluntary. One doesn’t escape it merely by deciding to notice flowers, practise gratitude and purchase a notebook with an inspirational slogan embossed upon it. Sorry, pop psychology and psychological self help industry

From bias to rigidity

Everyone relies upon selective attention. Everyone remembers unevenly. Everyone encounters a world already organised by concern, expectation and affect. Complete neutrality would not be enlightenment; it would be cognitive paralysis.

The relevant distinction may therefore not be between biased and unbiased minds. It may be between systems that remain revisable and systems that become rigidly self-confirming.

A disposition becomes pathological, perhaps, not merely when it selects, but when selection becomes pervasive; not merely when it assigns valence, but when valence governs what can count as evidence; not merely when memory reconstructs, but when reconstruction repeatedly erases whatever might disturb the governing account.

Even then, ‘pathology’ isn’t a property of one mechanism. It may emerge from the interaction of degree, duration, distress, social conditions, bodily states, functional consequences and the available means of correction. The traffic anecdote isn’t a diagnosis. It’s an anecdote, a small model of how a world can be cognitively weighted.

The bloke didn’t invent the congestion. He encountered real traffic. But the congestion became representative, whilst the open road became incidental. Later, memory converted this inequality of weight into an equality of duration: traffic here and there became traffic everywhere.

Perhaps certain dispositions operate similarly. They do not simply add a judgement to experience after the fact. They influence which experiences become prominent, which are sustained by attention, which acquire positive or negative force, and which are later recruited into the story of what the world is like. The question is therefore not merely whether a person sees reality accurately. It is which parts of reality become visible enough to count.

A final word

My ex-wife used to complain how we never did anything – and like the Annie Hall story, I’d say we did too much – so every week or two she’d want to do something, and her refrain was always, ‘Let’s do it. We never do anything.’ One can imagine, that this was not a sustainable model – perhaps as evidenced by the ex prefix. And so not to and this as a therapy session, I’ll leave it here.

Keeping Ourselves in the Dark: Depressive Realism and the Fiction of Agency

Philosopher Muse brought Colin Feltham to my attention, so I read his Keeping Ourselves in the Dark. It’s in limited supply, so I found an online copy.

So much of modern life rests on promises of improvement. Governments promise progress, religions promise redemption, therapists promise healing. Feltham’s Keeping Ourselves in the Dark (2015) takes a blunt axe to this edifice. In a series of sharp, aphoristic fragments, he suggests that most of these promises are self-deceptions. They keep us busy and comforted, but they do not correspond to the reality of our condition. For Feltham, reality is not an upward arc but a fog – a place of incoherence, accident, and suffering, which we disguise with stories of hope.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast summarising this post.

It is a book that situates itself in a lineage of pessimism. Like Schopenhauer, Feltham thinks life is saturated with dissatisfaction. Like Emil Cioran, he delights in puncturing illusions. Like Peter Wessel Zapffe, he worries that consciousness is an overdeveloped faculty, a tragic gift that leaves us exposed to too much meaninglessness.

Depressive Realism – Lucidity or Illusion?

One of Feltham’s recurring themes is the psychological idea of “depressive realism.” Researchers such as Lauren Alloy and Lyn Abramson suggested that depressed individuals may judge reality more accurately than their non-depressed peers, particularly when it comes to their own lack of control. Where the “healthy” mind is buoyed by optimism bias, the depressed mind may be sober.

Feltham uses this as a pivot: if the depressed see things more clearly, then much of what we call mental health is simply a shared delusion, a refusal to see the world’s bleakness. He is not romanticising depression, but he is deliberately destabilising the assumption that cheerfulness equals clarity.

Here I find myself diverging. Depression is not simply lucidity; it is also, inescapably, a condition of suffering. To say “the depressed see the truth” risks sanctifying what is, for those who live it, a heavy and painful distortion. Following Foucault, I would rather say that “mental illness” is itself a category of social control – but that does not mean the suffering it names is any less real.

Video: Depressive Realism by Philosopher Muse, the impetus for this blog article

Agency Under the Same Shadow

Feltham’s suspicion of optimism resonates with other critiques of human self-concepts. Octavia Butler, in her fiction and theory, often frames “agency” as a structural mirage: we think we choose, but our choices are already scripted by language and power. Jean-Paul Sartre, on the other hand, insists on the opposite extremity: that we are “condemned to be free,” responsible even for our refusal to act. Howard Zinn echoes this in his famous warning that “you can’t be neutral on a moving train.”

My own work, the Language Insufficiency Hypothesis, takes a fourth line. Like Feltham, I doubt that our central myths – agency, freedom, progress – correspond to any stable reality. But unlike him, I do not think stripping them away forces us into depressive despair. The feeling of depression is itself another state, another configuration of affect and narrative. To call it “realistic” is to smuggle in a judgment, as though truth must wound.

Agency, Optimism, and Their Kin

Feltham’s bleak realism has interesting affinities with other figures who unpick human self-mythology:

  • Octavia Butler presents “agency” itself as a kind of structural illusion. From the Oankali’s alien vantage in Dawn, humanity looks like a single destructive will, not a set of sovereign choosers.
  • Sartre, by contrast, radicalises agency: even passivity is a choice; we are condemned to be free.
  • Howard Zinn universalises responsibility in a similar register: “You can’t be neutral on a moving train.”
  • Cioran and Zapffe, like Feltham, treat human self-consciousness as a trap, a source of suffering that no optimistic narrative can finally dissolve.

Across these positions, the common thread is suspicion of the Enlightenment story in which rational agency and progress are guarantors of meaning. Some embrace the myth, some invert it, some discard it.

Dis-integration Rather Than Despair

Where pessimists like Feltham (or Cioran, or Zapffe) tend to narrate our condition as tragic, my “dis-integrationist” view is more Zen: the collapse of our stories is not a disaster but a fact. Consciousness spins myths of control and meaning; when those myths fail, we may feel disoriented, but that disorientation is simply another mode of being. There is no imperative to replace one illusion with another – whether it is progress, will, or “depressive clarity.”

From this perspective, life is not rescued by optimism, nor is it condemned by realism. It is simply flux, dissonance, and transient pattern. The task is not to shore up agency but to notice its absence without rushing to fill the void with either hope or despair.

Four Ways to Mistake Agency

I’ve long wrestled with the metaphysical aura that clings to “agency.” I don’t buy it. Philosophers – even those I’d have thought would know better – keep smuggling it back into their systems, as though “will” or “choice” were some indispensable essence rather than a narrative convenience.

Take the famous mid-century split: Sartre insisted we are “condemned to be free,” and so must spend that freedom in political action; Camus shrugged at the same premise and redirected it toward art, creation in the face of absurdity. Different prescriptions, same underlying assumption – that agency is real, universal, and cannot be escaped.

What if that’s the problem? What if “agency” is not a fact of human being but a Modernist fable, a device designed to sustain certain worldviews – freedom, responsibility, retribution – that collapse without it?

Sartre and Zinn: Agency as Compulsion

Sartre insists: “There are no innocent victims. Even inaction is a choice.” Zinn echoes: “You can’t be neutral on a moving train.” Both rhetorics collapse hesitation, fatigue, or constraint into an all-encompassing voluntarism. The train is rolling, and you are guilty for sitting still.

Feltham’s Depressive Realism

Colin Feltham’s Keeping Ourselves in the Dark extends the thesis: our optimism and “progress” are delusions. He leans into “depressive realism,” suggesting that the depressive gaze is clearer, less self-deceived. Here, too, agency is unmasked as myth – but the myth is replaced with another story, one of lucidity through despair.

A Fourth Position: Dis-integration

Where I diverge is here: why smuggle in judgment at all? Butler, Sartre, Zinn, Feltham each turn absence into a moral. They inflate or invert “agency” so it remains indispensable. My sense is more Zen: perhaps agency is not necessary. Not as fact, not as fiction, not even as a tragic lack.

Life continues without it. Stabilisers cling to the cart, Tippers tip, Egoists recline, Sycophants ride the wake, Survivors endure. These are dispositions, not decisions. The train moves whether or not anyone is at the controls. To say “you chose” is to mistake drift for will, inertia for responsibility.

From this angle, nihilism doesn’t require despair. It is simply the atmosphere we breathe. Meaning and will are constructs that serve Modernist institutions – law, nation, punishment. Remove them, and nothing essential is lost, except the illusion that we were ever driving.

Octavia E Butler’s Alien Verdict

Not Judith Buthler. In the opening of Dawn, the Oankali tell Lilith: “You committed mass suicide.” The charge erases distinctions between perpetrators, victims, resisters, and bystanders. From their vantage, humanity is one agent, one will. A neat explanation – but a flattening nonetheless.

👉 Full essay: On Agency, Suicide, and the Moving Train

Why Feltham Matters

Even if one resists his alignment of depression with truth, Feltham’s work is valuable as a counterweight to the cult of positivity. It reminds us that much of what we call “mental health” or “progress” depends on not seeing too clearly the futility, fragility, and cruelty that structure our world.

Where he sees darkness as revelation, I see it as atmosphere: the medium in which we always already move. To keep ourselves in the dark is not just to lie to ourselves, but to continue walking the tracks of a train whose destination we do not control. Feltham’s bleak realism, like Butler’s alien rebuke or Sartre’s burden of freedom, presses us to recognise that what we call “agency” may itself be part of the dream.

Language: Tool for Clarity or Shaper of Reality?

6–8 minutes

Pinker: The Optimist Who Thinks Language Works

Enter Steven Pinker, a cognitive scientist and eternal optimist about language. While we’ve been busy pointing out how language is a jumbled mess of misunderstandings, Pinker comes along with a sunny outlook, waving his banner for the language instinct. According to Pinker, language is an evolved tool – something that our brains are wired to use, and it’s good. Really good. So good, in fact, that it allowed us to build civilisations, exchange complex ideas, and, you know, not get eaten by sabre-toothed tigers.

Sounds like a nice break from all the linguistic doom and gloom, right? Pinker believes that language is a powerful cognitive skill, something we’ve developed to communicate thoughts and abstract ideas with remarkable precision. He points to the fact that we’re able to create entire worlds through language – novels, philosophies, legal systems, and scientific theories. Language is, to him, one of the greatest achievements of the human mind.

But here’s where things get a little sticky. Sure, Pinker’s optimism about language is refreshing, but he’s still not solving our core problem: meaning. Pinker may argue that language works wonderfully for most of our day-to-day communication – and in many cases, he’s right. We can all agree that saying, “Hey, don’t touch the flamey thing” is a pretty effective use of language. But once we start using words like ‘freedom’ or ‘justice’, things start to unravel again.

Take a sentence like ‘freedom is essential’. Great. Pinker might say this is a perfectly formed thought, conveyed using our finely tuned linguistic instincts. But the problem? Ask five people what ‘freedom’ means, and you’ll get five different answers. Sure, the grammar is flawless, and everyone understands the sentence structurally. But what they mean by ‘freedom’? That’s a whole other ball game.

Pinker’s language instinct theory helps explain how we learn language, but it doesn’t really account for how we use language to convey abstract, subjective ideas. He might tell us that language has evolved as an efficient way to communicate, but that doesn’t fix the problem of people using the same words to mean wildly different things. You can be the most eloquent speaker in the world, but if your definition of ‘freedom’ isn’t the same as mine, we’re still lost in translation.

And let’s not forget: while language is indeed a fantastic tool for sharing information and surviving in complex societies, it’s also great at creating conflicts. Wars have been fought over differences in how people interpret words like ‘justice’ or ‘rights’. Pinker might say we’ve evolved language to foster cooperation, but history suggests we’ve also used it to argue endlessly about things we can never quite agree on.

So, yes, Pinker’s right – language is a cognitive marvel, and it’s gotten us pretty far. But his optimism doesn’t quite stretch far enough to cover the fact that language, for all its brilliance, still leaves us stuck in a web of interpretation and miscommunication. It’s like having a state-of-the-art GPS that works perfectly – until you get to that roundabout and suddenly no one knows which exit to take.

In the end, Pinker’s got a point: language is one of the most sophisticated tools we’ve ever developed. It’s just a shame that when it comes to abstract concepts, we still can’t agree on which way’s north.

Sapir-Whorf: Language Shapes Reality – Or Does It?

Now it’s time for the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis to take the stage, where things get really interesting – or, depending on your perspective, slightly ridiculous. According to this theory, the language you speak actually shapes the way you see the world. Think of it as linguistic mind control: your perception of reality is limited by the words you have at your disposal. Speak the wrong language, and you might as well be living on another planet.

Sounds dramatic, right? Here’s the gist: Sapir and Whorf argued that the structure of a language affects how its speakers think and perceive the world. If you don’t have a word for something, you’re going to have a hard time thinking about that thing. Inuit languages, for example, are famous for having multiple words for different kinds of snow. If you’re an Inuit speaker, the hypothesis goes, you’re much more attuned to subtle differences in snow than someone who just calls it all ‘snow’.

Now, on the surface, this sounds kind of plausible. After all, we do think using language, don’t we? And there’s some truth to the idea that language can influence the way we categorise and describe the world. But here’s where Sapir-Whorf starts to go off the deep end. According to the stronger version of this hypothesis, your entire reality is shaped and limited by your language. If you don’t have the word for “freedom” in your language, you can’t experience it. If your language doesn’t have a word for “blue,” well, guess what? You don’t see blue.

Let’s take a step back. This sounds like the kind of thing you’d hear at a dinner party from someone who’s just a little too impressed with their first year of linguistics classes. Sure, language can shape thought to a degree, but it doesn’t have a stranglehold on our perception of reality. We’re not prisoners of our own vocabulary. After all, you can still experience freedom, even if you’ve never heard the word. And you can certainly see blue, whether your language has a word for it or not.

In fact, the idea that you’re trapped by your language is a little insulting, when you think about it. Are we really saying that people who speak different languages are living in different realities? That a person who speaks Mandarin sees the world in a fundamentally different way than someone who speaks Spanish? Sure, there might be some subtle differences in how each language breaks down concepts, but we’re all still human. We’re all still sharing the same world, and no matter what language we speak, we still have the cognitive capacity to understand and experience things beyond the limits of our vocabulary.

Let’s also not forget that language is flexible. If you don’t have a word for something, you make one up. If you’re missing a concept, you borrow it from another language or invent a metaphor. The idea that language is some kind of mental prison ignores the fact that we’re constantly evolving our language to keep up with the way we see the world—not the other way around.

And here’s the real kicker: if Sapir and Whorf were right, and we’re all walking around in little linguistic bubbles, then how on earth have we managed to translate anything? How have entire philosophies, religious texts, and scientific theories made their way across cultures and languages for centuries? If language really was shaping our reality that strongly, translation would be impossible – or at least incredibly limited. But here we are, discussing concepts like ‘freedom’, ‘justice’, and ‘truth’ across languages, cultures, and centuries.

So while it’s fun to entertain the idea that your language shapes your reality, let’s not give it too much credit. Yes, language can influence how we think about certain things. But no, it doesn’t define the boundaries of our existence. We’re not all stuck in a linguistic matrix, waiting for the right word to set us free.


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