Name: Homunculus--心理學速成班 #6 (Homunculus - Crash Course Psychology #6)
Uploaded: 2021-01-14T06:08:14.000Z
Duration: 10 min 24 s
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Homunculus! If you've heard that word, it probably wasn't in the context of psychology.

A monster in Dungeons and Dragons, a song by They Might Be Giants, the bad guys in Fullmetal

Alchemist, a novel by James Blaylock. It's Latin for 'little man' and in psychology,

it refers to a kind of sensory map of the human body, a depiction of what we'd look

like if each of our parts grew in proportion to how much we sense with them.

Look at this dude. His ham hands could rip off a car door. I mean, if he could lift them,

Is this what we're supposed to look like on the inside?

This freaky thing illustrates the weighted significance of our sensory receptors. His

disproportional hands are monstrous, for example, because we primarily touch the world with

our hands, not our elbows, so our hands are extremely sensitive. His mouth, meanwhile,

is huge because we also have a ton of sensory receptors in our tongues and lips. It's what

we use for tasting food and for sucking face.

As we continue our exploration of how we both sense and perceive the world, the Homunculus,

while kind of freaky, is actually a pretty attractive model for understanding how our

bodies interact with the environment. How we smell it with our outsized nose, taste

it with our ridiculous Mick Jagger lips, and touch it with our enormous Donkey Kong hands.

So join me, as we get to know the hideous little creature within you.

Last week we talked about the difference between sensation and perception: how sensation is

the process by which our senses and brain receive information from the outer world,

while perception is how we organize and interpret that information and give it meaning.

Like, right now, my sense of hearing is letting me detect sounds, while my brain is processing

and interpreting them, allowing me to identify and perceive the individual sounds and determine

if they're coming from the radio, or outside or right behind me.

Sound moves in waves that vibrate through a medium, like air. And although they function

differently that waves of electromagnetic radiation, including what we think of as light,

sound waves also can vary in shape. Short waves have a high frequency and a high pitch,

like a plucky violin. Long waves have a low frequency and pitch, like a mournful cello.

Wave height, or amplitude, determine a sound's loudness, which we typically measure in decibels.

And just as light waves become electrical impulses that we register with our sight,

so too do our ears turn vibrating air into signals that our brains can decipher.

While the human ear might not be as elegant as the jackrabbit's, or as wild as the long-eared

bat's, it's actually a pretty incredible organ. Or, organs, since we have two of them, which

helps give us directional stereophonic hearing. That's the 3D type of hearing we couldn't

experience if we had just one big, freaky ear in the middle of our foreheads.

Your outer ear, the part that you can see and pierce and tug on, collects sound waves

and funnels through the ear canal and into the middle ear, where they cause your eardrum

to vibrate. From there, sound vibrations are amplified by the so-called 'ossicle bones',

which also happen to be the most awesomely named bones in your body: the stirrup, the

hammer and the anvil. From here, those physical vibrations travel to the inner ear, where

they bump into the snail-shaped cochlea, and its surrounding fluids get jostled around,

causing some of your 16,000 tiny cochlear hair cells to bend. This motion triggers neighbouring

nerve cells that convert that physical energy into electrical impulses zipping up the auditory

nerve into the auditory cortex, where the brain is like 'Oh, songbirds!', or 'Elvis!',

or 'Vengeance!', or whatever. And you know what goes great with a little

bit of rockabilly, or revenge? A nice meal.

One of the greatest joys in life is enjoying flavors; whether you prefer casserole or caviar,

we all get our tasting done in the same way, starting with our taste buds. Each of our

thousands of taste buds contains a sort of pocket-like pore that contains fifty to a

hundred hair-like taste receptor cells that read food molecules and report back to the

brain. "That chip is salty, that lemon is sour." Now, everybody used to think that our

tongues just detected four distinct tastes: sweet, salty, sour and bitter. And you've

probably seen the version of this bogus taste map, which incorrectly assigns certain tastes

to certain parts of your tongue. But we now recognize a fifth flavour: the savoury, meaty,

MSG-y taste, for which there is no English word, it's known as 'umami'.

But taste is nothing without smell. Plug your nose, and a bite of cold bacon is just a mouthful

of salt. This is a prime example of sensory interaction; the principle that one sense

I'll get back to smell in just a bit, but I want to take a moment to talk about what

happens when those sensory interactions get messy.

Let us take a little questionnaire, shall we?

Do certain words trigger a strong, specific taste in your mouth? Like, does the word 'kitten'

Has hearing a sound ever made you see a color? Like does Prince's voice singing Purple Rain

actually cause the colour purple to flash before your eyes?

Do you ever feel like you're being touched when you smell something?

Like does the smell of lilies give you the sensation of touching a cold, metal surface?

Most of you said no to all of those questions, but at least one of you out there answered

yes. And more likely than not, that person has synesthesia, a rare and fascinating neurological

condition where two or more senses get wrapped together.

This kind of sensory mix up is involuntary, and it's experienced without forethought in

a durable and consistent way. Like, the number seven is always going to taste like coffee,

and it's never going to switch to tomato juice.

And we're still not sure what causes this phenomenon. One idea suggests that the rogue

development of new neural connections may override normal boundaries that typically

separate the senses. Another theory suggests that all babies are born with synesthesia

and experience mixed sense until the brain matures and creates separate sense channels,

unless they don't, in which case you grow up to be a synesthete. Yet another theory

links the condition to wonky neurochemistry, in which the neurotransmitters associated

with one function turn up way over in a different part of the brain.

Just another example of how the mind is still extremely mysterious.

So, back to the comparatively boring topic of smells that only smell... unlike our wave

detecting senses of sight and hearing, out taste and smell are chemical senses. We differentiate

the smells of spring lilacs, grilled cheese, and gasoline when airborne molecules travel

up the nose and reach the five to ten million receptor cells at the top of each nasal cavity;

and yes, that means when you smell poop, there's poop particles in your nose.

These receptors send information to the brain's olfactory bulb, then zips it on to the primary

smell cortex and parts of the limbic system responsible for emotion and memory. Unlike

our five different taste receptors or two types of retinal receptors, we don't have

specifically differentiated smell receptors, rather, odour receptors come together in different

So, just like pressing different keys on your keyboard can allow you to form tons of different

words, so too can these distinct combinations of activated smell receptors communicate some

But, how we feel about a smell, and our perception of it, is often tangled up in our experiences

with that scent. If our beloved grandma baked gingerbread every time we visited, those memories

may make you partial to the smell of gingerbread. Even if we can't immediately name the odor,

our brains are amazing at storing and recognizing old scents by their associations. Which is