Mysteries of the Eye

What amazing things eyes are. Instruments that allow our brains to register when photons are striking them and allow us to differentiate different quantities and frequencies of light. Eyes, of one form or another, go way back in the evolutionary chain. Some flatworms and other lower forms of animals have eye spots. They are not eyes, the way we think of them, but just a few photo receptor cells that allow the organism to detect when a shadow has passes over it.

Eyes are the window of the soul, or at least it feels like that to us. Reams of poetry have been devoted to eyes. How many of us have felt that someone was lying (or telling the truth) by looking at their eyes? Whether we can actually detect a truth or lie is irrelevant. It feels like we can!

Apparently, we are not the only species that recognizes eyes for what they are. Pigmy owls have two large spots on the back of their neck that make it look like the two eyes of a larger creature. What are they there for if not to scare away a predator who might be coming up behind the Pigmy owl? This presupposes that the predator creature knows what eyes are, and knows what they do. It knows that it cannot sneak up on a creature that is looking at it. And these are not the only creatures that have eye-like markings. Even without language, without their parents explaining to them what eyes do, most animals know instinctively what eyes are. Why is that? I suppose you could make the argument that animals that had an innate feat of a predator’s eyes (as opposed to his ears or his butt) would try to avoid them, and if he could pass that trait on to his offspring, that would be an evolutionary advantage. But I don’t know . . .  that seems like a rather weak argument. I mean, why wouldn’t they fear their parents’ eyes? And how exactly would it pass this specific fear to its offspring? Like many things that fall under that word “instinct,” it seems a mystery to me.

But the most amazing fact to me, is that you can tell from across the room that a person is looking at you, rather than the person next to you. They don’t even have to change the position of their head. You can tell where they are looking by seeing the location of their pupils. The difference between looking at you and looking at the person next to you has to be a difference of what . . . a degree or two of arc around the orbit of their eyeball? How can we possibly differentiate those two positions? But we can. You know when someone is looking at you. How we can do this, the actual workings of the brain that allow this to happen, is not well understood. What about that feeling you get that someone is watching you even though you cannot see them? Is it evidence of that long sought after sixth sense, or are there more prosaic explanations?

The day will no doubt come when advances in artificial intelligence and engineering lead to robots of the kind envisioned by Isaac Asimov and other science fiction writers. They will be able to interact with us and do amazing things. But will they be able to tell if we are looking at them? How can that be programmed in when we don’t understand it ourselves. Perhaps they could figure it out. Many science fiction stories have artificial intelligence that advances to a point where it “evolves” on its own. This is truly a scary thought because we have no idea where that would lead (or end). In any event, when android robots are being built today, the designers do try to get the eyes right. The odd thing is, the more human-like they get the eyes, the more creeped out people get when looking at them. Realistic eyes in humans = beautiful. Realistic eyes in robots = disturbing. Yet another mystery.

(My novel Star Liner, is now available in paperback or as an e-book through Amazon and other online sources)

Star Liner