Not sure if you’ve ever heard of Phineas Gage, but he was a railroad man somewhere in Vermont and one day he accidentally blew a ******* iron rod through his ******* think-box and here’s the kicker:
He ******* lived.
Now, this big metal cylinder, on its flight path, carved a cavern in Gage’s cerebrum, more specifically through his frontal lobe and when the bleeding finally stopped and they got his left eye all sewn shut he told the first person he saw, probably a loved one crowded around his filthy hospital bed to kindly ******* and Die.
He got out of that hospital bed, eventually, and when he did, he tried his damndest to go back to work but he just couldn’t.
What’s more his friends said he just wasn’t Gage any more. His personality had changed.
He didn’t give a **** about the sunset anymore. He liked his coffee black and his pancakes dry. Which is strange because beforehand he didn’t drink any coffee and he didn’t like pancakes much neither. He also became quite the drinker, which is funny considering he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in his life before then.
You see I always thought that personality was something you couldn’t touch. That it was some grand unifying evidence of the existence of the human soul. But here’s Gage, who just so happens to take a pole to the dome and suddenly he’s just not Gage.
So maybe it’s true that we’re all just machines and you can pull a man’s favorite color or his taste in music or his eating habits out of his head and set them on a sterile tray right in front of him.