NOTE TO SELFPERSONALITY

What style of curiosity do you practise?

A man stands in a modern room looking at a large pink sculpture of tentacles outside the window.

Is there more than one kind of curiosity? I found myself reflecting on this after reading a recent study about different curiosity styles. An analysis of 483,000 Wikipedia users found that people pursue their curiosity in three ways. Some browse articles as ‘hunters’, targeting ‘specific answers in a projectile path’, and their interests are more likely to be in science and technology. Others are nomadic ‘busybodies’, who explore more, building broad, loose networks of knowledge; they gravitate toward arts, culture and the humanities.

A third group are the ‘dancers’ – a little harder to define, they tend to leap ‘in creative breaks with tradition across typically siloed areas of knowledge’, taking an unstructured and inventive approach to information-seeking, across radically different subjects.

This made me wonder what kind of curious I am. When I’m reporting as a science journalist, I tend to adopt the ‘hunter’ style. This helps me meet deadlines, but am I missing out on the serendipity of discovering knowledge like the busybody or the dancer? I’d like to believe I’m curious about the world, but realising that other people’s curiosity might be more nomadic or creative gives me pause.

Another downside to the hunter style is that it’s associated with what’s called ‘deprivation curiosity’. This is the desire to banish the discomforts of uncertainty and lack of knowledge. It can lead people to accept easy answers or false facts. It also correlates with overconfidence in one’s worldview, and lower wellbeing. I hope I’m not motivated by deprivation curiosity when I’m hunting knowledge, but I can’t guarantee that’s always true.

The psychologist William James described curiosity as ‘the impulse towards better cognition’. If I take his words and the Wikipedia study to heart, perhaps I ought to be more curious about my curiosity.

by Richard Fisher

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Dive deeper into the psychology and neuroscience of curiosity in this open-access review paper by Celeste Kidd and Benjamin Hayden. It explores what’s known to scientists about the function, evolution and neural mechanisms of curiosity – and what unanswered questions remain.

Read the Psyche Idea ‘This Is How to Nurture Curiosity in Children (and Yourself)’ (2023) by Shayla Love, to discover how to foster a curious mindset in the young people in your life.


A lesson from the Son of Man’s manhood

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Painting of a crucifixion scene with a large crowd, a detailed medieval cityscape with mountains and a lake in the background.

I recently learned of an unusual interlude in the history of art that reminded me of the tumult of ideas that infuse and inform every work.

For the first 1,300 years or so after his crucifixion, Christ’s lower half as depicted in paintings, mosaics, sculptures and more was usually covered, obscured or otherwise de-emphasised. Similarly, from the 1600s onwards, artists throughout Europe tended to cover up the Lord, in keeping with their immemorial impulses of asceticism and decorum.

But during the intervening Renaissance period, with the emergence of humanism, artists began to pay uncommon attention to the Son of Man’s manhood. This is the subject of a classic text I happened upon by the Russian-born critic Leo Steinberg, The Sexuality of Christ in Renaissance Art and in Modern Oblivion (2nd ed, 1996).

Apparently it was towards the end of the 13th century that Christ’s member made its furtive debut, and by the 16th century it had achieved tumescence (though shrouded). Ludwig Krug’s engraving Man of Sorrows (c1520) is perhaps the best-known example of what Steinberg termed ostentatio genitalium, though there are many others.

Engraving of a crowned figure with two cherubs in a classical setting, draped in a loincloth.

Man of Sorrows (c1520) by Ludwig Krug. Courtesy the Met Museum, New York

Why did this brief flowering of Christ’s manhood occur? For Steinberg, celebrating the phallus was a means of celebrating the humanity of God – his ‘humanation’. As he writes, ‘to profess that God once embodied himself in a human nature is to confess that the eternal, there and then, became mortal and sexual.’ The other component was naturalism: artists in the Renaissance, for the first time, charged themselves with depicting things exactly as they appeared. If Christ appears as a man, then all of that man should be represented.

For me, this short-lived but striking breach in modesty reveals a fundamental insight about art – that behind every work lies, not only an individual artist’s style, but an expression of their place in an unfolding intellectual story.

by Sam Dresser

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The short Aeon Essay ‘The White Man Jesus’ (2013) by Edward J Blum takes up a fascinating and adjacent question: what was Jesus’ skin colour and how has that been depicted through the ages?

One of the greatest and most unusual Renaissance painters was Hieronymus Bosch. Check out this Aeon Video for a deep dive into his grotesque and wonderful work The Garden of Earthly Delights (c1500).


What I found in one of the tiniest languages

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Illustration of a colourful green and red parrot perched on a branch, against a plain beige background.

Imagine trying to describe everything you see, think or feel with only 120-140 words. That’s the challenge posed by Toki Pona, a constructed language developed by Sonja Lang in an effort to simplify her thoughts while struggling with depression.

At first, my appreciation for the language was due to its impossibly cute script:

Image showing a chart of Toki Pona symbols with corresponding words, arranged in a grid.

But once I really thought about its tiny lexicon, I wondered about metaphor. Every word is expected to stretch: lete means ‘cold’, ‘raw’ or ‘to cool down’. Kili is ‘fruit’, ‘vegetable’ or ‘mushroom’. The question is what happens to the literal-figurative distinction with such underspecification?

Consider two metaphors, drawn from the poets Emily Dickinson and W S Merwin:

1. Hope is the thing with feathers.
2. Everything I do is stitched with your absence.

Now rendered in Toki Pona (translated by my spouse):

1. Wile li ijo pi selo waso – literally: ‘Desire is a thing with bird skin.’
Wile covers want, need, desire, longing, and will. Bird skin is more descriptive than metaphorical.
2. Weka sina li kama lon insa pi pali ale mi – literally: ‘Your absence enters into all my actions.’
Spatialisation echoes the joining effect of stitching, but the translation lessens the metaphorical feel.

In English, metaphor stands out against a background of literalness, a departure from a more ‘default’ use of language. In Toki Pona, the literal-figurative distinction forms a spectrum, since words are always stretched to specify meaning. That shifts the burden of sense-making from writer to reader. In English, metaphor is a writer’s flourish. In Toki Pona, resolving tension falls heavily on the reader.

I used to think alongside Ludwig Wittgenstein that the limit of my language is the limit of my thought. But Toki Pona makes me rethink that. Minimalism in language doesn’t reflect a minimalist world. Meaning-making is inevitable, and constraint simply shifts where the complexity lies.

by Hannah H Kim

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Check out the official website of Toki Pona if you would like to explore the language yourself.

In the Aeon Essay ‘Metaphors Make the World’ (2024), Benjamin Santos Genta illuminates the metaphors that form the texture of our thought.


NOTE TO SELFFEAR AND PHOBIA

A memory hack to help you face your fears

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A microphone in focus with a blurred background of people seated at tables in a dimly lit room.

If there’s something you’re especially afraid of, you’ve likely heard that the worst thing you can do is to keep avoiding it. It’s only by confronting your fear and learning that it’s safe that you can overcome it – which is actually the basis of ‘exposure therapy’. The problem is, as I’ve discovered, the benefits of exposure can wear off, or you can have a bad experience that brings all the negative associations rushing back.

That’s why I was excited to come across some preliminary research in the journal Behaviour Research and Therapy that shows a way to address this – by deliberately weakening your negative memories of what you fear. The key to this is a process called ‘retrieval-induced forgetting’. It’s based on the fact that, when you recall certain aspects of a past experience, it doesn’t just strengthen your memory of those details, it actually weakens your memory of the other aspects that you don’t recall.

In the study, socially anxious participants gave a series of one-minute speeches online. Afterwards, they noted several negative memories (for example, someone yawning) and positive memories (such as someone clapping) from the experience. Next, some of them spent time deliberately recalling only the positive memories. This seemed to weaken their negative memories and, even better, the more this forgetting occurred, the less anxiety they felt about public speaking in the future.

If you’re socially anxious or you have a different fear, you could experiment with this strategy. After facing your fear, spend time deliberately recalling positive aspects of the experience, such as what you enjoyed or something that went well. This isn’t just a case of looking on the bright side – it might actually weaken your negative memories of what happened and help you feel more confident the next time you face your fear.

by Christian Jarrett

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If you find this technique useful, you might also like a different memory trick that can help to trigger more spontaneous positive memories – the subject of a previous Note to Self, ‘A Way to Enjoy More Positive Mental Images’ (2025) by Christian Jarrett.

For more in-depth expert advice on overcoming social anxiety, check out this Psyche Guide (2023) by Fallon Goodman.


NOTE TO SELFFEAR AND PHOBIA

How scary is it really?

A silhouette pressing hands on a frosted glass door in an abandoned room with peeling paint on walls and door.

Many situations in life that are supposed to be fun also involve a high degree of uncertainty: dates with strangers, rollercoasters with unpredictable twists and turns, unrehearsed karaoke. For those of us who like to be able to see what’s coming, many of these potentially enjoyable opportunities may as well have warning signs hanging over them. Sometimes it’s tempting not to take the risk. But I recently came across a study that made me wonder if I should challenge myself more often.

The researchers, including members of the Recreational Fear Lab at the University of Aarhus in Denmark, surveyed visitors to Dystopia Haunted House – one of those immersive attractions where you wander past menacing costumed actors, not knowing what will pop out next. Before they went in, the participants completed some questionnaires, including one tapping their intolerance of uncertainty. (They rated how much they agreed with statements like ‘I can’t stand being taken by surprise’ and ‘Uncertainty keeps me from living a full life’.) As you might expect, visitors who were less tolerant of uncertainty had dimmer expectations about how the haunted house would hit them. They anticipated less positive emotion and more anxious and generally negative emotions than the uncertainty-tolerant did. And yet, afterwards, visitors across the board (including the uncertainty-averse ones) reported feeling more positive emotions and less unpleasant emotions in the haunted house than they predicted they would.

In other words: despite the frightening surprises they’d encountered, it wasn’t so bad after all. It seems that for me and other certainty-craving people, the real problem might not be the ghoul hiding around the corner or the possibility of singing off-key at the karaoke bar, but our pessimism about how it’ll make us feel.

by Matt Huston

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If uncertainty causes you discomfort, too, you might benefit from reading the Psyche Guide ‘How to Embrace Uncertainty’ (2023) by Arie Kruglanski.

To learn more about research on haunted attractions and the benefits of horror, check out the Aeon Essay ‘Fear Not’ (2021) by Mathias Clasen.

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