I'm trying to explain to Arthur I. Miller why artworks generated by computers don't quite do it for me. The works aren't a portal into another person's mind, where you can wander in a warren of intention, emotion, and perception, feeling life being shaped into form. What's more, it often seems, people just ain't no good, so it's transcendent to be reminded they can be. Art is one of the few human creations that can do that. No matter how engaging the songs or poems that a computer generates may be, they ultimately feel empty. They lack the electricity of the human body, the hum of human consciousness, the connection with another person. Miller, a longtime professor, a gentleman intellect, dressed in casual black, is listening patiently, letting me have my say.

I could stridently insist that natural selection is the only way that complex life can evolve, but that's not strictly true. We can already design computers that can learn and reason and--almost--convince an observer that their behavior might be human. It's not unreasonable that in 100 or 200 years, our computer systems will be effectively sentient: human-like robots, similar to Star Trek's Commander Data. Alien civilizations that are considerably more advanced than us are likely already capable of such creations. The possibility--likelihood, even--of such robotic life has implications for our predictions about life on alien planets.

It's a bit of a bummer that dreams are as fascinating as they are hard and expensive to study. Famed psychologists like Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung may have made big names for themselves mining the meaning and significance of our dreams, but even today, with powerful brain-monitoring technology, it's tough to get a handle on what, exactly, is going on. Researchers, if they wait to wake up their subjects from sleep in the morning, have to contend with "rapid forgetting." A better method is to wake people up while they're dreaming, but this requires running a sleep lab, which doesn't offer that much of an advantage. The dreamers are groggy and still forgetful.

When he was a boy, Mark Solms obsessed over big existential questions. What happens when I die? What makes me who I am? He went on to study neuroscience but soon discovered that neuropsychology had no patience for such open-ended questions about the psyche. So Solms did something unheard of for a budding scientist. He reclaimed Freud as a founding father of neuroscience and launched a new field, neuropsychoanalysis. Solms had one other obstacle in his path. Born in Namibia, where his father worked for a South African diamond mining company, he grew up under apartheid in South Africa. Solms later worked at a hospital in Soweto, where a military occupation tried to clamp down on protesters. "Once you reach the end of your studies, you're required to join the very same army whose victims I was looking after," he told me.