An Introduction To Cognitive Psychology - Nodrm

An Introduction to Cognitive
Psyology
An Introduction to Cognitive Psychology: Processes and Disorders provides a

comprehensive, yet accessible, overview of the field for undergraduate
students. e fourth edition has been thoroughly revised throughout to
provide a comprehensive introduction to the core topics of cognition,
including memory, perception, thinking, and language. Uniquely, alongside
coverage of normal cognitive function, the book also includes apters on
clinical disorders su as agnosia, amnesia, and aphasia, providing a more
balanced insight into the nature of cognition and its related disorders.
Key features:
• Completely revised and updated throughout to provide a

comprehensive overview of current thinking in the field
• Accessibly wrien by experienced textbook authors and academic
experts, including Miael Eysen and Sophie Sco
• A new apter on Problem Solving, wrien by Fernand Gobet, a
leading authority in the field
• Greater coverage of neuropsyological disorders, with additional
coverage of brain imaging resear
• Features a wealth of real-world examples throughout to bring
resear to life
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• Specially designed textbook features, apter summaries, further
reading, and a glossary of key terms
will appeal to all students on an

An Introduction to Cognitive Psychology
undergraduate psyology degree course, as well as to those studying in
related clinical professions.
David Groome was formerly Principal Lecturer and Senior Academic in

Psyology at the University of Westminster, where he worked from 1970 to
2011. He retired from teaing in 2011 but continues to carry out resear
and write books. His resear interests include cognition and memory, and
their relationship with clinical disorders. He has published a number of
resear papers on these topics and is the co-author of ten previous
textbooks.

An Introduction to Cognitive
Psyology
Processes and Disorders
Fourth Edition
DAVID GROOME with

Nicola Brace
Graham Edgar
Helen Edgar
Miael Eysen
Fernand Gobet
Robin Law
Tom Manly
Hayley Ness
Graham Pike
Sophie Sco
Elizabeth Styles

Fourth edition published 2021
by Routledge
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Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2021 David Groome, Nicola Brace, Graham Edgar, Helen Edgar, Miael Eysen, Fernand Gobet,
Robin Law, Tom Manly, Hayley Ness, Graham Pike, Sophie Sco, Elizabeth Styles
e right of David Groome, Nicola Brace, Graham Edgar, Helen Edgar, Miael Eysen, Fernand
Gobet, Robin Law, Tom Manly, Hayley Ness, Graham Pike, Sophie Sco, Elizabeth Styles to be
identified as authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by
any electronic, meanical, or other means, now known or hereaer invented, including photocopying
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the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are
used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
First edition published by Psyology Press 1999

ird edition published by Routledge 2014
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A catalog record for this book has been requested
ISBN: 978-1-138-49667-5 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-138-49669-9 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-351-02086-2 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862
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Contents
Preface
Anowledgements
About the authors
1 Introduction to cognitive psyology
 
1.1 Cognitive processes
1.2 Experimental cognitive psyology
1.3 Computer models of information processing
1.4 Cognitive neuroscience and neuropsyology
1.5 Automatic processing
1.6 Minds, brains, and computers
Summary
2 Perception
 ,  ,   
2.1 Introduction
2.2 Visual perception
2.3 Gibson’s view of perception: perception for action
2.4 e Gestalt approa
2.5 Feature-extraction theories
2.6 Parallel distributed processing (PDP) approaes
2.7 Visual illusions
2.8 e difference between sensation and perception
2.9 Looked but failed to see (LBFS) accidents
2.10 e constructivist approa: perception for recognition

2.11 e structure of the visual system
2.12 Auditory perception
2.13 Haptic perception
2.14 Conclusions
Summary
3 Attention
 ,  ,   
3.1 What is aention and why do we need it?
3.2 Aention to space
3.3 Aention to features
3.4 Aention to objects
3.5 Exogenous influences on aention
3.6 Endogenous influences on aention
3.7 Early or late filtering of information?
3.8 Automatic and controlled processing
3.9 Aention and emotion
Summary
4 Disorders of perception and attention
    
4.1 Introduction
4.2 Synaesthesia
4.3 Blindsight
4.4 Unilateral spatial neglect
4.5 Visual agnosia
4.6 Disorders of face processing
4.7 Conclusion
Summary
5 Short-term memory
    
5.1 Multistore models of memory
5.2 Measuring STM performance

5.3 e working memory model
5.4 Later revisions of the working memory model
5.5 e central executive
5.6 Other working memory theories
5.7 Neuro-imaging studies and working memory
Summary
6 Long-term memory
    
6.1 e nature and function of memory
6.2 e first memory experiments
6.3 Meaning, knowledge, and semas
6.4 Input processing and encoding
6.5 Retrieval and retrieval cues
6.6 Memory systems
6.7 Retrieval practice and retrieval inhibition
6.8 eories of forgeing
6.9 Memory in real-life seings
6.10 Eyewitness testimony
Summary
7 Disorders of memory
 
7.1 Amnesia and its causes
7.2 Anterograde and retrograde amnesia
7.3 Intact and impaired memory systems
7.4 eories of amnesia
7.5 Other types of memory disorder
7.6 Rehabilitation
Summary
8 inking and problem-solving

 
8.1 Introduction

8.2 Problem-solving
8.3 Creativity
8.4 Analogy
8.5 Reasoning
8.6 Decision-making
8.7 Dual-process theories
Summary
9 Disorders of thinking and problem-solving

    
9.1 Introduction
9.2 Anatomy and physiology of the frontal lobes
9.3 e impact of frontal lobe damage on behaviour
9.4 Impairments in the deployment of aention
9.5 Impairments in abstract and conceptual thinking
9.6 Impaired strategy formation
9.7 Deficits in everyday higher-order planning
9.8 Conceptual issues
9.9 A final note
Summary
10 Language
 
10.1 Introduction
10.2 e language system
10.3 Psyology and linguistics
10.4 Recognising spoken and wrien words
10.5 Understanding the meanings of words
10.6 Explaining lexical access
10.7 Regular and irregular verbs
10.8 Language production
10.9 Discourse level
Summary

11 Disorders of language
 
11.1 Introduction
11.2 Models of aphasia
11.3 Detailed symptoms of aphasic profiles
11.4 Psyological and psyolinguistic aspects of aphasia
11.5 Functional imaging of human language processing
11.6 Reading
11.7 Developmental disorders of language
Summary
12 Cognition and emotion
 
12.1 Introduction
12.2 Mood and aention
12.3 Mood and memory
12.4 Judgement and decision-making: mood effects
12.5 Decision-making: moral dilemmas
12.6 Reasoning
Summary
Glossary
References
Author Index
Subject Index

Preface
is is the fourth edition of our book. We wrote the first edition ba in 1998
because we felt that there was an important gap in the cognitive literature.
ere was no other textbook at that time whi covered both cognitive
psyology and the disorders of cognition, and as far as we are aware this is
still the case. But the normal and abnormal aspects of cognition are very
closely related, and resear in ea of these areas has been of great benefit
to the other. Combining normal and abnormal cognition in one book makes
it possible to take an integrated approa to these two related fields. We
ose to keep the normal and abnormal apters separate in order to clarify
the book structure, particularly for departments teaing separate normal
and abnormal cognitive courses. However, the apters are paired so that
ea apter on a normal aspect of cognition (e.g. memory) is followed by a
apter on its associated disorders (e.g. memory disorders).
Another reason for writing this book was that we found that most of the
other cognitive psyology texts were rather difficult to read. Our students
found these books were heavy going, and so did we. So we set about writing
a more accessible and interesting book by deliberately making more
connections with real life and everyday experience. We also cut out mu of
the unnecessary anatomical detail that we found in rival texts, because
psyology students do not need a comprehensive knowledge of brain
anatomy, and it does not help them to understand cognitive processes. We
decided to concentrate on the psyological aspects of cognition rather than
on brain structure. Finally, we decided to put in lots of illustrations, because
we think it makes the book clearer and more fun to read. And we just
happen to like books whi have lots of pictures.

So here then is our textbook of cognitive psyology and cognitive
disorders, made as clear and simple as possible, and with lots of pictures. We
enjoyed writing it, and we hope you will enjoy reading it.
David Groome

Anowledgements
We would like to offer our thanks to the very pleasant and capable people at
Psyology Press who helped us to produce this book, especially Ceri
McLardy, Lucy Kennedy, Abigail Stanley, and Saloni Singhania. anks also
to Neil Dowden for his work on copy editing this fourth edition, and to
Alexander Law for preparing the index. We would also like to thank the
anonymous reviewers who contributed many ideas and suggestions, whi
we have included in this new edition.

About the authors
David Groome was Senior Academic in the Psyology Department at the

University of Westminster until 2011, when he retired. However, he
continues to write cognitive psyology books. He has now authored 11
books, but this still leaves him some way behind his friend Mike who
appears further down this list of authors. David’s hobbies include tennis,
dogs, and music. He is a keen guitarist and he is still waiting for his big
break as a ro star.
Nicola Brace was a Senior Lecturer in Psyology at e Open University.

She has taught and researed cognitive psyology for over 25 years, and
has come to the conclusion that when it comes to solving Sudoku puzzles
understanding the brain is not nearly as useful as a good cup of tea.
Graham Edgar is currently Professor of Psyology and Applied

Neuroscience at the University of Gloucestershire. He has spent most of his
career coming to appreciate that, although psyology can be applied to
prey mu everything, the difficult bit is working out how. He is presently
researing situation awareness in the military, health, fire-fighting and
driving domains and trying to see if neuroscience can explain it. He is an
optimist.
Helen Edgar worked as principal resear scientist at BAE Systems for more
years than she cares to remember. She is now a director of Cognitive
Conspicuity, a human factors consultancy specialising in cognitive aspects of
accident investigation, particularly road traffic collisions. Helen’s spare time

is spent trying to ‘herd cats’, or at least keep her very ‘helpful’ Siamese off
the computer whist she is writing.
Miael Eysen is Emeritus Professor at Roehampton University and

Emeritus Professor and Honorary Fellow at Royal Holloway University of
London. He has produced 62 books and about 160 book apters and journal
articles leading some to accuse him of following the adage, “Never mind the
quality, feel the width”! In pre-Covid times, foreign travel was his favourite
hobby.
Fernand Gobet is Professorial Resear Fellow in the Centre for Philosophy

of Natural & Social Science at the London Sool of Economics. His resear
interests include the psyology of expertise and talent, the acquisition of
language, scientific discovery and computational modelling. In his first
career, he was a ess professional, where he turned play into work. Now, he
is turning work into play.
Robin Law is a Senior Lecturer in Psyology at the University of

Westminster, and his resear interests are cognition and psyophysiology,
in particular the links between stress, biological rhythms and brain function.
In his spare time he enjoys travelling, and generally being as far away from
essay marking as possible.
Tom Manly is a clinical psyologist and programme leader at the Medical

Resear Council Cognition and Brain Sciences Unit in Cambridge. His
insatiable need for aention has led him to perform in one of the UK’s least
successful bands and to aempt stand-up comedy, only one of whi has
been routinely associated with audience laughter.
Hayley Ness is a Senior Lecturer in Psyology at e Open University,

where she aired the largest cognitive psyology course in Europe. She is
particularly passionate about memory and face processing but has a terrible
memory and can’t remember people’s names. erefore confirming the
adage that people study the thing they are least proficient at.

Graham Pike is Professor of Forensic Cognition at e Open University and
researes eyewitness memory. He has many pet peeves, though the greatest
is his hatred of name dropping… whi is a real pity because he has worked
with both William Shatner and Philip Glenister.
Sophie Scott is Professor of Cognitive Neuroscience at the Institute of

Cognitive Neuroscience, whi is part of University College London. Sophie
carries out resear on the neural basis of vocal communication. She is also
interested in laughter, both in the resear lab and in her own time. In 2017
she presented the Royal Institution Christmas Lectures on TV, and she is on
the radio quite a lot, notably in the Infinite Monkey Cage. In 2020 she was
awarded a CBE for services to Science. Long ago in another life she was one
of David Groome’s students at the University of Westminster.
Elizabeth Styles was lecturer in psyology at St. Edmund Hall, University

of Oxford. She has wrien a highly regarded book on aention, whi was
good practice for her contribution to the present book. When not working
she likes to travel and study araeology.

 1
Introduction to cognitive
psyology
David Groome
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-1
Contents
Summary
Further reading

A definition of cognitive psyology

Cognitive psyology has been defined as the psyology of mental
processes, or more specifically the way in whi the brain processes
information. Cognition includes the way we take in information from the
outside world, how we make sense of that information, and what use we
make of it. Cognition thus involves various different kinds of information
processing, whi occur at different stages.
Cognitive psyology e study of the way in whi the brain

processes information. It includes the mental processes involved in
perception, learning and memory storage, thinking, and language.
Stages of cognitive processing

e main stages of cognitive processing are shown in Figure 1.1, arranged in
the sequential order in whi they would typically be applied to a new piece
of incoming sensory input.
Figure 1.1
e main stages of cognitive processing.
Information taken in by the sense organs goes through an initial stage of

perception, whi involves an analysis of its content. Even at this early
stage of processing the brain is already extracting meaning from the input,
in an effort to make sense of the information it contains. e process of

perception will oen lead to the making of some kind of record of the input
received, and this involves learning and memory storage. Once a memory
has been created for some item of information, it can be stored for later use
to assist the individual in some other seing or task. is will normally
require the retrieval of the information. Retrieval is sometimes carried out
for its own sake, merely to access some information stored in the past. On
the other hand, we sometimes retrieve information to help us to perform
further mental activities su as thinking. ought processes oen make use
of memory retrieval, for example when we use previous experience to help
us deal with some new problem or situation. However, thinking usually
involves more than just the retrieval of old memories, as we oen need to
rearrange and manipulate stored information to make it fit in with a new
problem or task.
e cognitive processes shown in Figure 1.1 are, in reality, a good deal
more complex and interactive than this simple diagram implies. e diagram
suggests that the various stages of cognitive processing are clearly distinct
from one another, ea one in its own box. is is a drastic
oversimplification, and it would be more accurate to show the different
stages as merging and overlapping with one another. For example, there is
no exact point at whi perception ceases and memory storage begins,
because the process of perception in itself actually creates the memory trace,
so in a sense these processes are continuous. In fact all of the stages of
cognition shown in the diagram overlap and interact with one another, but a
diagram showing all of these complex interactions would be far too
confusing, and in any case, a lot of the interactions would be speculative.
Figure 1.1 should therefore be regarded as a greatly simplified representation
of the general sequential order of the cognitive processes whi typically
occur, but it would be more realistic to think of cognition as a continuous
flow of information from the input stage through to the output stage,
undergoing different forms of processing along the way.
Approaes to the study of cognition

ere have been four main approaes to the study of cognitive psyology
(see Figure 1.2).
Figure 1.2
e four main approaes to studying cognitive psyology.
In the first place there is the approa known as experimental cognitive

psyology, whi involves carrying out scientific experiments on human
participants to investigate the ways in whi they perceive, learn, remember,
or think. A second approa to cognitive psyology is the use of computer
modelling of cognitive processes. Typically this approa involves the
simulation of certain aspects of human cognitive function by writing
computer programs, in order to test out the feasibility of a possible
meanism of brain function. e third approa is known as cognitive
neuropsyology, whi involves the study of individuals who have
suffered some form of brain injury. We can discover a great deal about the
working of the normal brain by studying the types of cognitive impairment
whi result from lesions (i.e. damage) in certain regions of the brain. Brain
damage can impair information processing by disrupting one or more stages
of cognition, or in some cases by breaking the links between different stages.
e fourth approa to cognition is known as cognitive neuroscience, and
this involves the use of teniques su as brain imaging (i.e. brain scans) to
investigate the neural activities that underlie cognitive processing. e two
most widely used brain-imaging teniques are PET scans (positron
emission tomography) and MRI scans (magnetic resonance imaging). PET
scans involve the detection of positrons emied by radioactive emicals
injected into the bloodstream, whereas MRI scans detect responses to a
powerful magnetic field. Both teniques can provide accurate images of

brain structures, but MRI is beer at detecting anges over a period of time,
as for example in measuring the brain’s response to a stimulus of some kind.
Experimental cognitive psyology e scientific testing of

psyological processes in human and animal subjects.
Computer modelling e simulation of human cognitive processes by

computer. Oen used as a method of testing the feasibility of an
information-processing meanism.
Cognitive neuropsyology e study of the brain activities underlying

cognitive processes, oen by investigating cognitive impairment in brain-
damaged patients.
Lesion Tissue damage, whi in the brain is usually caused by a stroke, a

tumour, an infection, a direct injury, or a progressive disease su as
Alzheimer’s dementia.
Cognitive neuroscience e investigation of human cognition by

relating it to brain structure and function, normally obtained from brain-
imaging teniques.

Figure 1.3
An MRI scanner.
Source: Science Photo Library
ese four approaes to cognition have all proved to be valuable,

especially when it has been possible to combine different approaes to the
same cognitive process. e rest of this apter deals with these approaes
to cognitive psyology, starting with experimental cognitive psyology
(Section 1.2), then computer modelling (Section 1.3), and finally cognitive
neuroscience and neuropsyology (Section 1.4). Subsequent apters of the
book will continue to apply the same four basic approaes in a more
detailed study of ea of the main areas of cognition.

e first cognitive psyologists

e scientific study of psyology began towards the end of the nineteenth
century. Wilhelm Wundt set up the first psyology laboratory at Leipzig in
1879, where he carried out resear on perception, including some of the
earliest studies of visual illusions. In 1885, Hermann Ebbinghaus published
the first experimental resear on memory, and many subsequent
researers were to adopt his methods over the years that followed. Perhaps
the most lasting work of this early period was a remarkable book wrien by
William James in 1890 entitled Principles of Psychology. In that book James
proposed a number of theories of cognition, whi are still broadly accepted
today, including (to give just one example) a theory distinguishing between
short-term and long-term memory.
Figure 1.4
William James.
Source: Science Photo Library

e rise and fall of behaviourism
Cognitive psyology made slow progress in the early years due to the
growing influence of behaviourism, an approa whi constrained
psyologists to the investigation of externally observable behaviour. e
behaviourist position was clearly stated by Watson (1913), who maintained
that psyologists should consider only events that were observable, su as
the stimulus presented and any consequent behavioural response to that
stimulus. Watson argued that psyologists should not concern themselves
with inner mental processes (su as conscious experience and thought)
whi could not be directly observed. e behaviourists were essentially
trying to establish psyology as a true science, using the same approa as
other sciences su as physics or emistry. is was a worthy aim, but like
many worthy aims it was taken too far. e refusal to consider inner mental
processes had the effect of restricting experimental psyology to the
recording of externally observable behaviour, whi was oen a rather
trivial result of complex mental processes. Indeed, some behaviourists were
so keen to eliminate inner mental processes from their studies that they
preferred to work on rats rather than on human participants.
Behaviourism An approa to psyology whi constrains

psyologists to the investigation of externally observable behaviour, and
rejects any consideration of inner mental processes.

Figure 1.5
A rat learning to run through a maze.
Source: Shutterstock.
A human being brings a whole lifetime of personal experience to the

laboratory, whi cannot be fully observed or controlled by the
experimenter. A rat presents rather fewer of these unknown and
uncontrolled variables. A notable example of the behaviourist approa is
the classic work carried out on learning by B.F. Skinner (1938), who trained
rats to press a lever in order to obtain a food pellet as a reward (or
‘reinforcement’). e work of Skinner and other behaviourists certainly
generated a few important findings, but they completely disregarded the
cognitive processes underlying the responses they were studying.
Gestalt and sema theories

Whilst behaviourists were restricting their resear to the study of
observable responses, some psyologists began to realise that a proper
understanding of human cognition could only be aieved by investigating
the mental processes whi the behaviourists were so determined to
eliminate from their studies. Among the first of these pioneers were the
Gestalt psyologists in Germany and the British psyologist Frederi
Bartle. eir approa included the study of inner mental processes, and it
helped to lay the foundations of modern cognitive psyology.

Gestalt psyology An approa to psyology whi emphasised the
way in whi the components of perceptual input became grouped and
integrated into paerns and whole figures.
It is very easy to demonstrate the importance of inner mental processes in

human cognition. For example, a glance at Figure 1.6 will evoke the same
clear response in almost any observer. It is a human face. However, a more
objective analysis of the components of the figure reveals that it actually
consists of a circle and two straight lines. ere is really no ‘face’ as su in
the figure itself. If you see a face in this simple figure, then it is you, the
observer, who has added the face from your own store of knowledge.
e idea that we contribute something to our perceptual input from our
previous knowledge and experience was proposed by the Gestalt group
(Gestalt is German for ‘shape’ or ‘form’). ey suggested that we ‘add
something’ to what we perceive, so that the perception of a whole object
will be something more than just the sum of its component parts
(Wertheimer, 1912; Kohler, 1925). ey argued that the perception of a figure
depended on its ‘pragnanz’ (i.e. its meaningful content), whi favoured the
selection of the simplest and best interpretation available (Koa, 1935).
ese Gestalt theories were perhaps rather vague, but they did at least make
an aempt to explain how we make sense of complex figures su as faces.
e behaviourist approa, whi refused to consider any influence other
than the stimulus itself, could not offer any explanation at all for su
phenomena.

Figure 1.6
A shape recognised by most observers.
e sema theory proposed by Bartle (1932) was another early aempt

to provide an explanation for the way we make sense of our perceptual
input. e sema theory proposes that all new perceptual input is analysed
by comparing it with items whi are already in our memory store, su as
shapes and sounds whi are familiar from past experience. ese stored
items are referred to as ‘semas’, and they include a huge variety of sensory
paerns and concepts. Figure 1.7 illustrates the process of selection of an
appropriate sema to mat the incoming stimulus. (NB: is is purely
diagrammatic. In reality there are probably millions of semas available,
but there was not enough space for me to draw the rest of them.)
Sema A mental paern, usually derived from past experience, whi is

used to assist with the interpretation of subsequent cognitions, for
example by identifying familiar shapes and sounds in a new perceptual
input.
e sema theory has some interesting implications because it suggests

that our perception and memory of an input may sometimes be anged and

distorted to fit our existing semas. Since our semas are partly acquired
from our personal experience, it follows that our perception and memory of
any given stimulus will be unique to ea individual person. Different
people will therefore perceive the same input in different ways, depending
on their own unique store of experience. Both of these phenomena were
demonstrated by Bartle’s experiments (see Chapter 6 for more details), so
the sema theory can be seen to have considerable explanatory value. e
sema approa has mu in common with the old saying that ‘beauty lies
in the eye of the beholder’. Perhaps we could adapt that saying to fit the
more general requirements of sema theory by suggesting that ‘perception
lies in the brain of the perceiver’. As a summary of sema theory this is
possibly an improvement, but I would concede that it possibly las the
poetry of the original version.
Figure 1.7
Semas generated for comparison with new input.
Source: Drawing by David Groome.
Sema and Gestalt theory had a major influence on the development of

cognitive psyology, by emphasising the role played by inner mental
processes and stored knowledge, rather than considering only stimulus and
response. However, many years would pass before this viewpoint would take
over from behaviourism as the mainstream approa to cognition.
Top-down and bottom-up processing

Inspired by the sema theory, Neisser (1967) identified two main types of
input processing, known as top-down and bottom-up processing.
Top-down processing involves the generation of semas by the higher
cortical structures, and these semas are sent down the nervous system for
comparison with the incoming stimulus. Top-down processing is also
sometimes referred to as sema-driven or conceptually driven
processing.
Top-down (or sema-driven) processing Processing whi makes use

of stored knowledge and semas to interpret an incoming stimulus
(contrasts with boom-up processing).
Bottom-up (or stimulus-driven) processing

Processing whi is directed by information contained within the
stimulus (contrasts with top-down processing).
Bottom-up processing is initiated by stimulation at the ‘boom end’ of

the nervous system (i.e. the sense organs), whi then progresses up towards
the higher cortical areas. Boom-up processing is also known as stimulus-
driven or data-driven processing, because it is the incoming stimulus whi
triggers an appropriate form of processing. One obvious difference between
‘top-down’ and ‘boom-up’ processing is that their information flows in
opposite directions, as shown in Figure 1.8.

Figure 1.8
Top-down and boom-up processing.
Boom-up processing theories can help to explain the fact that processing
is oen determined by the nature of the stimulus (Gibson, 1979). However,
boom-up theories have difficulty explaining the perception of complex
stimuli, whi can be more easily explained by top-down theories. Although
there have been disputes in the past about the relative importance of top-
down and boom-up processing, Neisser (1967) argues that both types of
processing play a part in the analysis of perceptual input, and that in most
cases information processing will involve a combination of the two. We can
thus think of input processing in terms of stimulus information coming up
the system, where it meets and interacts with semas travelling down in
the opposite direction. Recent resear has emphasised this interaction
between top-down and boom-up processing (Shelton & Scullin, 2017).

Computer analogies and computer modelling of brain
functions
A major shi towards the cognitive approa began in the 1950s, when the
introduction of the electronic computer provided a new source of inspiration
for cognitive psyologists. Computer systems can be designed whi are
able to carry out ‘cognitive’ processes similar to perception and memory
storage, and these computerised information-processing devices provided
some possible explanations for the processing meanisms within the
human brain. Furthermore, computers could be used as a ‘test bed’ for
trying out possible human cognitive functions, providing a means of
‘modelling’ and testing the feasibility of a particular processing meanism.
By separating out the various component stages of a cognitive process, it is
possible to devise a sequential flow art whi can be wrien as a
computer program and actually put to the test to see whether it can process
information as the brain would. Of course, su experiments cannot prove
that the programs and meanisms operating within the computer are the
same as the meanisms whi occur in the brain, but they can at least
establish whether a particular processing system is workable.
Among the first to use computers to model human cognition in this way
were Newell et al. (1958), who developed computer programs whi were
able to solve simple problems, suggesting a possible comparison with human
problem-solving and thought. More recently programs have been developed
whi can tale far more complex problems, su as the recognition of
complex stimuli su as faces. ese programs usually make use of feature-
detector systems, whi are explained in the next section.
Feature detectors

Selfridge and Neisser (1960) devised a computer system whi could identify
shapes and paerns by means of feature detectors, whi are receptors that
are tuned to distinguish certain specific components of a stimulus su as
vertical or horizontal lines. is was aieved by wiring light sensors
together in su a way that all those lying in a straight line at a particular
angle converged on the same feature detector, as illustrated in Figure 1.9.
Feature detectors Meanisms in an information-processing device

(su as a brain or a computer) whi respond to specific features in a
paern of stimulation, su as lines or corners.
Figure 1.9
Wiring to a simple feature detector.
is system of convergent wiring will ensure that the feature detector will
be automatically activated whenever a line at that particular angle is
encountered. Simple feature detectors of this kind could be further combined
higher up the system to activate complex feature detectors, capable of
detecting more complicated shapes and paerns made up out of these simple
components, as shown in Figure 1.10.

Figure 1.10
Wiring to a complex feature detector.
Selfridge and Neisser (1960) demonstrated that a computer using a

hierary of electronic feature detectors, proceeding through many stages of
increasing complexity, could be made to identify complex shapes and
paerns. e finding that a computer can perform paern recognition by
using systems of feature detectors suggests a possible meanism for the
identification of shapes and paerns by the human brain. Indeed, su
feature detectors have been discovered in the brain. Hubel and Weisel (1959)
found simple feature-detector cells when carrying out microelectrode
recordings in the brain of a cat, and more recently Haynes and Rees (2005)
have used functional imaging teniques to identify similar feature-detector
cells in the human brain.
e discovery of feature detectors in the brain can be regarded as an
example of combining different approaes to cognition, with contributions
from both neuroscience and computer modelling. ese findings have had a
major influence on cognitive psyology, as feature-detector systems are
thought to operate as ‘mini-semas’ whi detect specific shapes and
paerns. is approa paved the way towards more advanced theories of
perception and paern recognition based on computer models, su as those
of Marr (1982) and McClelland and Rumelhart (1986). A more detailed
account of feature-extraction theories can be found in Chapter 2.

e limited-capacity processor model
Broadbent (1958) carried out experiments on divided aention, whi
showed that people have difficulty in aending to two separate inputs at the
same time. Broadbent explained his findings in terms of a sequence of
processing stages whi could be represented as a series of boxes in a flow
art. Certain crucial stages were identified whi seemed to act as a
‘bottlene’ to information flow because of their limited processing capacity
(see Figure 1.11).
Figure 1.11
Broadbent’s model of selective aention.
is was an approa to information processing whi owed its

inspiration to electronic telecommunications and computing tenology.
ere is a clear similarity between the human brain faced with a large array
of incoming information and a telephone exange faced with a large
number of incoming calls, or alternatively a computer whose input has
exceeded its processing capacity. In ea case many inputs are competing
with one another for limited processing resources, and the inputs must be
prioritised and selectively processed if an information overload is to be
avoided. Broadbent referred to this process as ‘selective aention’, and his
theoretical model of the ‘limited capacity processor’ provided cognitive
psyology with an important new concept. is work on selective aention
will be considered in more detail in Chapter 3.

e structure and function of the brain
As explained above, cognitive neuroscience is concerned with the
relationship between brain function and cognition, and normally makes use
of brain-imaging teniques. Cognitive neuropsyology is also concerned
with investigating the brain meanisms underlying cognition, but mainly
by studying individuals who have suffered brain damage. Both of these
related approaes are now accepted as important to cognitive psyology.
Cognitive neuroscience and neuropsyology are both approaes whi
deal with brain function, so it would be useful to consider a basic working
map of the brain at this point. Figure 1.12 gives a side view of the human
brain, showing the position of its main structures.
Figure 1.12
A side view of the human brain, showing the main lobes.

e outer shell of the brain is known as the cerebral cortex, and it is
responsible for most of our higher cognitive processes. e various lobes of
the cortex are extensively interconnected, so that a single cognitive process
may involve many different cortical areas. However, the brain is to some
extent ‘modular’ in that certain brain areas do perform specific functions.
We know this largely from the study of brain lesions, since damage to a
certain part of the brain can oen cause quite specific impairments. In recent
years the introduction of brain-scanning equipment has provided an
additional source of knowledge to supplement the findings of brain lesion
studies.
It has been established that the le and right hemispheres of the brain
have particular specialisations. In right-handed people the le hemisphere is
normally dominant, since the nerves from ea side of the brain cross over
to control the opposite side of the body. e le hemisphere also tends to be
particularly involved with language and spee. e right hemisphere is
more concerned with the processing of non-verbal input, su as the
perception of paerns or faces. ese functions may be reversed in le-
handed people, though most still have le-hemisphere specialisation for
language.
It would appear then (to borrow a football clié) that it is a brain of two
halves. But in addition to these specialisations of the right and le
hemispheres, it has been found that the front and the rear halves of the brain
also have broadly different functions. Luria (1973) pointed out that the
rearmost part of the brain (the parietal, temporal, and occipital lobes) tends
to be mainly concerned with the processing of input, as for example the
analysis of visual and auditory perception. In contrast, the front part of the
brain (in fact the area corresponding to the frontal lobes) is mainly
concerned with the processing of output, su as the control of movement
and spee.
e frontal lobes include the motor region of the cortex, whi controls
movement. Damage to this area is likely to cause problems with the control
of movement, or possibly some degree of paralysis. Also in the frontal lobes
is Broca’s area, whi controls the production of spee, and it is normally

located in the le hemisphere of the brain. It was Broca (1861), who first
noted that damage to this region caused an impairment of spee
production. Other parts of the frontal lobes are involved in the central
executive, whi controls conscious mental processes su as the making of
decisions. Neuro-imaging studies have shown that activation of the
prefrontal cortex (the front-most region of the frontal lobes) occurs during
activities requiring intelligent reasoning (Jung & Haier, 2007), and prefrontal
activation is also linked with the selective retrieval of memory items (Kuhl
et al., 2008).
Broca’s area A region of the brain normally located in the le frontal
region, whi controls motor spee production.
e occipital lobes at the ba of the brain are mainly concerned with
the processing of visual input, and damage to the occipital lobes may impair
visual perception (Weiskrantz et al., 1974; Gazzaniga et al., 2009).
e parietal lobes are also partly concerned with perception. ey
contain the somatic sensory cortex, whi receives tactile input from the
skin as well as feedba from the muscles and internal organs. e parietal
region is also important in the perception of pain, and other parts of the
parietal lobes are involved in some aspects of short-term memory. Brain-
scan studies suggest that the parietal lobes are also activated during the
retrieval of contextual associations of memories (Simons et al., 2008).
e temporal lobes are so called because they lie beneath the temples,
and they are known to be particularly concerned with memory. Temporal
lobe lesions are oen associated with severe amnesia. For example, Milner
(1966) reported that a patient called HM, whose temporal lobes had been
extensively damaged by surgery, was unable to register any new memories.
Aggleton (2008) concludes that there is now extensive evidence linking the
temporal lobes to the encoding and retrieval of memories of past events.
e temporal lobes also include the main auditory region of the cortex and a
language centre, known as Wernie’s area (again usually in the le

hemisphere), whi is particularly concerned with memory for language and
the understanding of spee (Wernie, 1874).
Wernie’s area A region of the brain normally located in the le

temporal region, whi is concerned with the perception and
comprehension of spee.
Over the years, lesion studies have not only established whi areas of the
brain carry out particular cognitive functions, but they have also shed some
light on the nature of those functions. For example, as explained above,
Milner (1966) reported that the temporal lobe amnesic patient HM was
unable to remember any information for long periods, but his ability to
retain information for a few seconds was found to be completely normal.
From these observations it was concluded that HM’s lesions had impaired
his ability to store items in his long-term memory (LTM), but had caused
no apparent impairment of his short-term memory (STM). is finding
suggests a ‘dissociation’ between STM and LTM; in other words they are
separate systems. An interesting observation was made in a later study by
Warrington and Shallice (1969), whose patient KF suffered an impairment of
STM but with an intact LTM. is is an exact reversal of the paern of
impairment found in HM. It has thus been shown that either STM or LTM
can be separately impaired while the other remains intact. is is known as
a ‘double dissociation’, and it provides particularly convincing evidence for
the view that STM and LTM involve separate memory systems. Later in this
book there will be many references to dissociations of various kinds, but
where a double dissociation can be demonstrated, this is regarded as
particularly convincing evidence for the independence of two functions.
Double dissociation A method of establishing that two systems are

separate and independent, by showing that either system can be impaired
whilst the other remains intact.

e study of brain and cognition obviously overlap, and in recent years
cognitive psyologists and neuropsyologists have been able to learn a lot
from one another. A deliberate aempt has been made in this book to bring
normal cognitive psyology and clinical neuropsyology together, to take
full advantage of this relationship.
Information storage in the brain

In order to operate as an information-processing system, the brain must
obviously have some way of representing information, for both processing
and storage purposes. Information must be encoded in some representational
or symbolic form, whi may bear no direct resemblance to the material
being encoded. Consider, for example, how music may be encoded and
stored as digital information on a silicon ip, as laser-readable pits on a CD,
as electromagnetic fields on a tape, as grooves on a vinyl disc (remember
them?), or even as notes wrien on a piece of paper. Any of these forms of
encoding can be used to store music, so long as you have the equipment to
encode and decode the information.
ere have been many theories about the way information might be
represented and stored in the brain, including early suggestions that
information could be stored in magnetic form (Lashley, 1950) or in emical
form (Hyden, 1967). However, neither of these theories was very convincing
because su meanisms would be unable to offer the necessary storage
capacity, accessibility, or durability over time. e most plausible
explanation currently available for the neural basis of information storage is
the proposal by Donald Hebb (1949) that memories are stored by creating
new connections between neurons (see Figure 1.13).

Figure 1.13
Neurons and their connecting synapses. Will neuron A succeed in firing neuron B, or
neuron C? Whiever neuron is fired, this will strengthen the synaptic connection
between the two neurons involved.
e entire nervous system, including the brain, is composed of millions of

neurons, whi can activate one another by transmiing emical
substances called neurotransmitters across the gap separating them, whi
is known as the synapse. All forms of neural activity, including perception,
spee, and even thought, work by transmiing a signal along a series of
neurons in this way. ese cognitive processes are therefore dependent on
the ability of one neuron to activate another. Hebb’s theory postulated that
if two adjacent neurons happen to fire simultaneously, then the connection
between them will be strengthened. us, a synapse whi has been
frequently crossed in the past will be more easily crossed by future signals.
It is as though a path is being worn through the nervous system, mu as
you would wear a path through a field of corn by repeatedly walking
through it. In both cases, a path is le behind whi will be easier to follow
in future.
Neurotransmitter A emical substance whi is secreted across the

synapse between two neurons, enabling one neuron to stimulate another.

Synapse e gap between the axon of one neuron and the dendrite of
another neuron.
Hebb suggested that this meanism of synaptic strengthening would

make it possible to build up a network of interconnected neurons, whi
could represent a particular paern of input. Hebb called this a ‘cell
assembly’.
Cell assembly A group of cells whi have become linked to one another
to form a single functional network. Proposed by Hebb as a possible
biological meanism underlying the representation and storage of a
memory trace.
Figure 1.14 shows a diagrammatic representation of su a cell assembly,

though in practice there would probably be thousands of neurons involved
in ea cell assembly rather than half a dozen as shown here.
Figure 1.14
A cell assembly.

Hebb argued that a cell assembly su as this could come to represent a
particular stimulus, su as an object or a face. If the stimulus had caused
this particular group of neurons to fire simultaneously, then the neurons
would become connected to one another more and more strongly with
repeated exposure to the stimulus. Eventually the cell assembly would
become a permanent structure, representing a memory whi could be
activated by any similar stimulus in the future.
Hebb’s theory has considerable explanatory value. In the first place it can
explain how thoughts and memories may come to be associated with one
another in the brain. If two cell assemblies are activated simultaneously,
then some of the neurons in one assembly are likely to become connected to
neurons in the other assembly, so that in future the activation of either cell
assembly will activate the other. Hebb’s theory can also explain the
difference between short-term and long-term memory. Hebb speculated that
the temporary activation of a cell assembly by active neural firing could be
the meanism underlying short-term memory, whi is known to be fragile
and short-lived. However, aer repeated firing the synaptic connections
between the neurons in a cell assembly undergo permanent anges, whi
are the basis of long-term memory storage.
When Donald Hebb first proposed the cell assembly theory in 1949, it was
still largely speculative. However, since that time a great deal of evidence
has been gathered to confirm that the synapse does indeed ange as a result
of frequent firing of the neuron. Perhaps the most convincing evidence is the
discovery that when electrical stimulation is applied to living tissue taken
from the brain of a rat, the neurons do actually ange in a lasting way, with
their threshold of firing becoming mu lower so they can be more easily
activated by subsequent stimuli (Bliss & Lomo, 1973). is phenomenon is
known as long-term potentiation (LTP).
Long-term potentiation (LTP) A lasting ange in synaptic resistance

following the application of electrical stimulation to living brain tissue.

Possibly one of the biological meanisms underlying the learning
process.
Later resear suggested that short-term storage involves the

strengthening of pre-existing synaptic connections, whereas long-term
storage involves the growth of new synaptic connections between the
neurons (Bailey & Kandel, 2004). Brain-imaging teniques su as PET
scans have also confirmed that memory storage and retrieval do in fact
coincide with the activation of large-scale neural networks, spread diffusely
through the brain (Habib et al., 2003).
ere is now plenty of evidence to confirm that memory storage depends
on the growth and plasticity of neural connections (De Zeeuw, 2007), and it
is widely accepted that the activation-dependent modification of synaptic
strength is probably the meanism of memory storage in the brain (Hart &
Kraut, 2007). It has taken over half a century to collect the evidence, but it
looks as if Donald Hebb probably got it right.

Automatic versus controlled processing
Some of the activities of the brain are under our conscious control, but many
take place automatically and without our conscious awareness or
intervention. Sneider and Shiffrin (1977) made a distinction between
controlled cognitive processes, whi are carried out consciously and
intentionally, and automatic cognitive processes, whi are not under
conscious control. ey suggested that because controlled processes require
conscious aention they are subject to limitations in processing capacity,
whereas automatic processes do not require conscious aention and are not
subject to su processing limits. Automatic processing will therefore take
place far more rapidly than controlled processing, and will be relatively
unaffected by distraction from other tasks whi take up aention. It is
widely assumed that automatic processing mostly involves ‘boom-up’
responses to stimuli, whereas controlled processing mainly involves ‘top-
down’ generation of stored information and thoughts. An important feature
of automatic processing is that it is not under voluntary control, and it will
take place regardless of the wishes and intentions of the individual. For a
simple demonstration of automatic processing in a cognitive task, try
looking at the words in Figure 1.15, taking care not to read them.
Controlled processing Processing that is under conscious control, and

whi is a relatively slow, voluntary process (contrasts with automatic
processing).
Automatic processing Processing that is not under conscious control,

and whi is rapid, inevitable, and not under voluntary control (contrasts
with controlled processing).

Figure 1.15
A demonstration of automatic processing.
You will have found it impossible to obey the instruction not to read the
message in Figure 1.15, because reading is a largely automatic process (at
least for practised readers), so if you aend to the message you cannot
prevent yourself from reading it.
Controlled and automatic processing in everyday life

Sneider and Shiffrin suggested that cognitive processes become automatic
as a result of frequent practice, as for example the skills involved in driving
a car, in playing a piano, or in reading words from a page. However, we have
the ability to override these automatic sequences when we need to, for
example when we come across an unusual traffic situation while driving.
Figure 1.16
Driving a car involves many automatic responses for an experienced driver.

Source: Shutterstock
Another real-life example of automatic processing is face familiarity.

When you meet someone you have met before, you instantly and
automatically recognise their face as familiar, but remembering where and
when you have met them requires conscious effort (Mandler, 1980). ese
findings will be considered in more detail in Chapter 6.
Automatic processing has also been used to explain the occurrence of
everyday ‘action slips’, whi are basically examples of absent-mindedness.
For example, the author recently added instant coffee to a mug whi
already contained a teabag, thus creating a rather unpalatable hybrid
beverage. Action slips of this kind have been extensively documented, and in
most cases can be explained by the activation or perseveration of automatic
processes in circumstances where they are not appropriate (Reason, 1979).
Norman and Shallice (1986) suggest that automatic processes can provide
adequate control of our neural functions in most routine situations without
needing to use up our aention, but they must be overridden by the
conscious supervisory attention system when more complex or novel tasks
require the flexibility of conscious control (see Figure 1.17).
Figure 1.17
e supervisory aention system model.

Source: Adapted from Norman & Shallice (1986).
ere is some evidence that this override system may involve the frontal
lobes of the brain, since patients with frontal lobe lesions are oen found to
exhibit perseveration of automatic behaviour and a la of flexibility of
response (Shallice & Burgess, 1991a). Frontal lobe functions will be
examined further in Chapters 7 and 8. Baddeley (1997) suggests that the
conscious control of the supervisory aention system may reside in the
central executive component of the working memory, whi is explained
more fully in Chapter 5.
Cri and Ko (1990) argue that the flexibility of the conscious control
system stems largely from its capacity for binding together many different
mental activities, su as thoughts and perceptions. However, this can take
time to carry out, whereas automatic processing can provide a very rapid
response as no thought is required. Both types of processing have their
advantages, and when we are trying to solve a problem we may need to
oose between the different benefits of ‘fast’ and ‘slow’ thinking
(Kahneman, 2011; De Neys & Pennycook, 2019). e ‘fast’ automatic
processes are obviously very useful, as they allow us to carry out routine
tasks rapidly and without using up our limited aentional capacity.
However, automatic processes are rigid and inflexible, and when they fail to
provide appropriate behaviour they may need to be overridden by ‘slow’
thinking, whi offers the flexibility of consciously controlled processing.
Conscious awareness
We all have conscious awareness, but we do not really know what it is. I am
quite certain that I am conscious because I experience things consciously,
and you probably feel conscious too. We can all understand what is meant
by the term consciousness as a subjective experience, but no one has yet
been able to provide a satisfactory explanation of what conscious awareness
actually is, or how it might arise from neural activity. Indeed, the very
assumption that conscious awareness must somehow arise from the firing of

neural circuits seems remarkable in itself. Cri (1994) calls it ‘the
astonishing hypothesis’, yet it remains the only truly plausible hypothesis.
Consciousness is oen described as an ‘emergent property’ of the brain
(Searle, 1992; Tyler, 2020), whi means that it is a phenomenon that
emerges as a result of the organisation of a very complex system su as the
cortex. Another example of emergent properties would be your mobile
phone. If you took it apart (don’t do this!) and placed the separate
components on a table, nobody would guess that those pieces of metal,
plastic, and silicon could enable you to speak to a friend on the far side of
the world, provided that they were properly assembled. However, the theory
of emergent properties does not provide us with a complete explanation of
conscious awareness, it merely explains why we cannot explain it.
Consciousness remains the last unexplored frontier of psyology, and it
is one of the greatest mysteries of life itself. But although we do not
understand what consciousness is, we are beginning to learn a bit about
what consciousness does, and the part it plays in our cognitive processes.
e study of patients with certain types of brain lesion has provided
valuable insights into the nature of conscious and unconscious cognitive
processes. For example, some patients with visual agnosia (impaired
perception) can detect visual stimuli at an unconscious level but have no
conscious awareness of seeing them (Weiskrantz, 1986; Persaud et al., 2007).
is phenomenon is known as blindsight, and it will be examined in more
detail in Chapter 4. It has also been found that many amnesic patients make
responses whi reveal evidence of previous learning of whi they have no
conscious recollection. Mandler (1989) has argued that the memory trace
must still be in storage, but the amnesic patient has lost the ability to bring it
into consciousness. ese studies of amnesia will be discussed further in
Chapter 7.
Blindsight e ability of some functionally blind patients to detect visual

stimuli at an unconscious level, despite having no conscious awareness of
seeing them. Usually observed in patients with occipital lobe lesions.

Autism is another disorder whi has shed some light on the nature of
consciousness, because autistic individuals appear to la some of the usual
aracteristics of conscious processing. eir behaviour tends to be highly
inflexible and repetitious, and they oen la the ability to develop a normal
rapport with other people. Baron-Cohen (1992) suggests that autistic people
may la a ‘theory of mind’, meaning that they are unable to understand the
existence of mental processes in others. Baron-Cohen argues that conscious
awareness enables us to understand other people’s thoughts and feelings,
whi is an essential requirement for normal social interaction.
One interesting finding from an electroencephalogram (EEG) study (Libet,
1985) is that when we make a conscious decision to act in some way, the
conscious awareness of the decision appears to follow the actual decision,
rather than preceding it. Further support for this finding comes from fMRI
studies (Soon et al., 2008). In view of this discovery, Wegner (2003) has
suggested that decisions may actually be made at an unconscious level, and
conscious awareness of the decision only follows later when we observe its
outcome. is is an interesting view, as it reverses the usual assumption that
decisions arise from conscious thought. Indeed, it is a view that questions
the very existence of free will, suggesting that our belief that we make
conscious decisions may be illusory.
Neuro-imaging studies have shown that conscious awareness tends to be
mainly associated with activation of the prefrontal cortex and the superior
parietal cortex (Rees, 2007). However, the brain areas activated during
conscious activity do not necessarily indicate the location of conscious
awareness in the brain, as they may just reflect a subsidiary process or some
prerequisite of conscious activity (De Graaf et al., 2012). It has been argued
that conscious awareness is not restricted to one specific region of the brain,
as it possibly depends on the integration of a number of inputs from
different brain areas, especially when they are activated simultaneously
(Dehaene & Naccae, 2001).
e studies discussed above appear to shed some light on the nature of
consciousness. However, whilst su studies may tell us whi processes
involve consciousness or whi parts of the brain are involved, we still do

not have the faintest idea about what consciousness actually is, or how it
arises from brain activity. As philosopher David Chalmers (1995) put it, we
are addressing ‘the easy questions’ about consciousness, but making no
progress at all with ‘the hard question’, whi is the question of how neural
activity can give rise to conscious awareness. McGinn (1999) suggests that
human beings will never fully understand the nature of consciousness,
because it is probably beyond the capability of the human brain to do so.
Blamore (2003) takes a more optimistic view. She believes that
understanding consciousness will one day be possible, but only if we can
find a completely different way of thinking about it. For the moment I tend
to side with the pessimists, if only because the best brains in the known
universe have been working on the problem of consciousness for many
centuries without making any real progress. I hope that one day someone
will prove me wrong.
Figure 1.18
Does your dog have conscious awareness? And is he wondering the same about you?

Integrating the main approaes to cognition
It has been explained in this apter that our present understanding of
cognitive psyology has arisen from the combination of experimental
cognitive psyology, cognitive neuroscience, cognitive neuropsyology,
and computer modelling. ese four approaes provide the subject maer
of the rest of this book, and they will be applied to ea of the main areas of
cognitive processing in turn. ese areas are perception, aention, memory,
thinking, and language, and there are apters on ea of these processes. A
unique feature of this book is that ea apter on a particular cognitive
process is followed by a apter dealing with its associated disorders. is
approa is intended to provide you with a thorough understanding of both
normal and abnormal cognition, and also an understanding of the
relationship between them.

Summary
• Cognitive psyology is the study of how information is processed

by the brain. It includes the study of perception, learning, memory,
thinking, and language.
• Historically there have been four main strands of resear whi
have all contributed to our present understanding of cognitive
psyology. ey are experimental cognitive psyology, cognitive
neuroscience, cognitive neuropsyology, and computer modelling of
cognitive processes.
• Experimental cognitive psyology has provided theories to explain
how the brain interprets incoming information, su as the sema
theory whi postulates that past experience is used to analyse new
perceptual input.
• Computer modelling has provided models of human cognition based
on information-processing principles, and it has introduced
important new concepts su as feature-detector systems and
processors of limited annel capacity.
• Cognitive neuropsyology provides knowledge about brain
function, based on the study of people who have suffered cognitive
impairment as a result of brain injury.
• Cognitive neuroscience makes use of brain-imaging teniques to
investigate the relationship between brain function and cognition.
• Scientific studies of cognitive psyology have generated new
concepts and theories, su as the distinction between top-down and
boom-up processing, and the distinction between automatic and
controlled processing.
• e study of consciousness has yielded some interesting findings, but
at present we have no real understanding of what consciousness is,
or how it arises from neural activity.

Further reading
Eysen, M.W., & Groome, D. (2015). Cognitive Psychology: Revisiting the Classic Studies. London:
Sage. For this book we selected what we considered to be the 14 most important and influential
studies of cognitive psyology ever published, and we then asked leading researers in those
fields to explain the impact those classic studies have had on subsequent resear.
Eysen, M.W., & Keane, M.T. (2020). Cognitive Psychology: A Student’s Handbook (8th edn).
Abingdon: Psyology Press. Eysen and Keane has become something of a classic over the years,
and it is a very thorough and well-wrien book. It covers many of the same topics as our own
book, but with a bit more detail and less emphasis on clinical disorders.
Groome, D., & Eysen, M.W. (2016). Introduction to Applied Cognitive Psychology (2nd edn).
Abingdon: Psyology Press. is is a book about the applications of cognitive psyology in real-
life seings. It includes apters on police work, air-traffic controllers, musicians, and sporting
performance. I have nothing but the highest praise for this book, though this is possibly because I
am one of the authors.

 2
Perception
Graham Edgar, Helen Edgar, and Graham Pike
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-2
Contents
2.1 Introduction
2.14 Conclusions
Summary
Further reading

2.1 Introduction
Perception is the subjective experience we get from the information coming
from our sense organs. We detect sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and tactile
information from the world around us, and we (sometimes) recognise objects
and make decisions about how we are going to interact with them. Our
perception of the world is something we oen tend to take for granted, as it all
seems so simple – until you try to work out how the process of perception
operates. ere are many theories of perception, and they can appear to be
quite different and even sometimes contradictory. It is possible that some
theories are right and other theories are wrong, but it is more likely that the
various theories are just looking at different aspects of a very complicated
process. is apter will provide an overview of a number of theories of
perception, and will aempt to reconcile the different theories to give an
impression of how perception works.
Perception e subjective experience of sensory information aer having

been processed by the cognitive processes (e.g. aention). As compared to
‘sensation’.

e structure of the human eye is illustrated in Figure 2.1. e human eye is a
remarkably simple imaging system with only two optical elements (the cornea
and the lens). Given that your mobile phone may well have five or six optical
elements, this gives you an idea of how optically simple the eye is. If the optical
performance of your phone camera was similar to that of the human eye, you
would probably take the phone ba. What the eye does have, however, is some
truly impressive post-processing.
Light entering the eye is focused (in normal vision) on the retina, the light-
sensitive array at the ba of the eye. Most of the focusing is not done by the
lens (as you might expect) but by the cornea. e cornea is responsible for
about two-thirds of the focusing power of the eye, with the lens doing the fine-
tuning. Because the eye is su a simple optical system the image on the retina
is inverted, something that the post-processing copes with effortlessly.
Although the eye is optically simple, as an imaging system it is remarkably
complex, and this becomes apparent as soon as you consider the light-sensitive
region – the retina. e retina contains not one imaging system but two, with
ea system having distinct receptors. e two broad categories of light
receptor are rods and cones (see Figure 2.2). e rods are the most sensitive
receptors and they handle vision in low light, being overwhelmed in bright
light. e cones are the opposite; they provide daylight vision and are not
sensitive to low light levels. e cones are further subdivided into three types,
maximally sensitive to different wavelengths of light that we label red, green,
and blue. ese receptors then feed into two ‘opponent’ colour annels: one of
whi can signal blue or yellow, and the other red or green. is is why you
can never see a colour you would describe as ‘blue-yellow’ or ‘red-green’, but
you can have ‘blue-red’ (purple) or ‘yellow-green’ (artreuse).

Figure 2.1
e anatomy of the human eye.
Source: Fotosearch_k17796780.

Figure 2.2
e retina (artificially coloured), showing the rods and cones as seen using an electron
microscope.
Source: Fotosearch_u27982110.
At low light levels only the rods are operating, so humans cannot
discriminate colour in low light. is is why, for example, blue flowers appear
more vibrant at dusk. e ange in the overall sensitivity of the eye going
from high to low light levels is a ange from the maximal green/yellow
sensitivity of the cones to the maximal green/blue sensitivity of the rods. e
ange in the overall sensitivity of the eye going from high to low light levels is
referred to as the ‘Purkinje effect’.
So, why do we have two visual systems, one for day and one for night? e
answer is that a fundamental aspect of our visual system has evolved to ‘fit’
our environment. Our planet spins, so sometimes we are on the side facing
towards the sun and it is light, sometimes we are on the side facing away and it
is dark. If the earth did not spin then we could have evolved vision for only
day, night, or twilight – depending on where we were on the planet.
We can go ba a step further with another question: ‘What allows us to
have colour vision? It is the simple fact that light comes in different
wavelengths (some of whi we perceive as colours). If all light had only one
wavelength, then there would be no point to colour vision – it simply would
not work. e fact that we have evolved colour vision (whi takes quite a lot
of physiological and neurological resources) is linked to the fundamental
physics of this universe.
When you consider vision like this, the starting point is not the eye but the
physical environment in whi the visual system has evolved. at
environment constrains and shapes the visual system, and the visual system
has evolved to be sensitive to that physical environment. is conceptualisation
of the visual system underpins the first major theoretical position that we will
consider in this apter – the ecological approa of James J. Gibson.

Gibson, rather than considering how perception operates, was mu more
concerned with what perception is for. Gibson proposed that perception should
be considered in terms of how it allows us to interact with the world we live in
– this is termed an ecological approa (for a review see Lobo et al., 2018).
Given that our visual system has evolved to fit the world we live in, this would
appear to be an entirely sensible approa. Gibson’s approa may be summed
up by the term ‘perception for action’. In the theories of Gibson there is a
strong link between perception and action, with perception being referred to as
‘direct’. e basis of direct perception is that the sensory information available
in the environment is so ri that it provides sufficient information to allow a
person to move around and interact with the environment without the need for
any top-down processing.
Direct perception Perception based on the input, without the need for top-
down processing.
A key insight in Gibson’s theories is the notion that some aspects of the
world are invariant, and we have evolved to exploit those invariants. If light
from a particular direction falls on an object of a particular shape and surface
texture, the shadows and shading around that object will always be the same –
a structural invariant. Likewise, as we move through the world, the image of
the world that we perceive will flow past us (‘optic flow’), as illustrated in
Figure 2.3. e basic nature of that flow and the way that it anges is a
transformational invariant. If we move in a certain way, the optic flow will
move in a way predictable from that movement. Being able to tap into these
invariants allows us to act within the world. For example, perceiving optic flow
allows us to judge how fast we are moving, and helps us to avoid running into
things. When driving, as you approa an obstacle in the road, the closer you
get the bigger it appears. e rate of ange is referred to as τ (tau). It has been

suggested that drivers can use anges in τ to control their braking (Lee, 1976),
although, as we shall see later, it may not always work.
Figure 2.3
An illustration of optic flow. As you move towards something, everything surrounding that
point will expand and ‘flow’ past you as you move.
Source: Fotosearch_k0347026.
Computer-generated imagery (CGI) relies on understanding invariants and

using them to reproduce realistic special effects. If you understand that light
will always reflect off a certain surface in a certain way, or how optic flow
actually flows, then you can give your viewer the experience of how the world
would look if you were flying on a broomsti (for instance). ere are still
aspects of the real-world experience that are difficult to replicate (moving the
viewer for example), but the results are still impressive.
For Gibson, moving within the environment and interacting with the
environment are crucial aspects of perception. As Gibson (1979) put it,
‘perceiving is an act, not a response’. One problem with denying the use of
stored knowledge (as Gibson does) is that it becomes difficult to work out how
we can interact with objects in the world without recognising them. Gibson
(1979) developed his theories by suggesting that we are able to interact with

objects in the world because they afford their use. For instance, consider Figure
2.4. It is a picture of a hammer, and Gibson would suggest that a hammer will
afford hiing things.
Figure 2.4
What do you do with this?
Photograph courtesy of Graham Edgar.
Further evidence for the Gibsonian approa

Although Gibson’s theories may seem to present perception as rather
simplistic, there is evidence that at least some part of the perceptual process
may act in a ‘Gibsonian’ manner. Handy et al. (2003) presented participants
with pictures of two task-irrelevant objects while they were waiting for a target
to be presented. One of the pictures was of a tool and the other a non-tool.
Objects that could be grasped (su as hammers) drew aention, and functional
magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) of brain function indicated activity in
dorsal regions of premotor and prefrontal cortices – areas that would be
associated with grasping a tool.
Also, as suggested by Bruce et al. (1996), direct perception would make sense
in terms of instinctive, visually guided behaviour. For example, if a frog were
trying to snare a fly with its tongue, it is not necessary for the frog to ‘know’
anything about flies, or even to recognise the small buzzing object as a fly. All
it needs to do is to sense the small flying object and use that sensory
information to guide its tongue to allow it to snare it.

ere is far more to the visual system than a purely ‘Gibsonian’ system, but
it is certainly a good framework to explain how you may interact with the
world – especially if you are a frog. ere is, however, a lot that is not covered
in the Gibsonian model. For example, deciding what is a discrete object and
what is something else is, perceptually, rather important. If you cannot tell a fly
from the baground, your days as a frog are numbered.

e issue of how objects are defined was central to the theories developed by
the Gestalt approa (Rubin, 1915; Wertheimer, 1923), whi was introduced in
Chapter 1. A key issue addressed by the Gestalt psyologists was the way that
we might segregate the world into figures and the baground against whi
they appear. is is crucial as, if we are to recognise objects, we need to be able
to tell them apart from everything else. e importance of figure and ground
can be illustrated by one of the well-known ‘reversible figures’ shown in
Figure 2.5.
Reversible figure A figure in whi the object perceived depends on what

is designated as ‘figure’ and what is designated as ‘baground’.
Figure 2.5
A reversible figure. If you concentrate on the white area as the ‘figure’, you will see a vase. If
you concentrate on the bla areas, you will see somebody with poor eyesight admiring
themselves.
Source: Adapted from Rubin (1915).
e sensory input is always the same, the paern of light falling on the
retina of the eye is the same, but it can be segregated into figure and ground in
different ways. Being able to see the same stimulus in more than one way

demonstrates the influence on perception that organising things into figure and
ground can have. For an excellent demonstration of multiple figure–ground
illusions in the Gestalt tradition look at the OK Go video of ‘e Writing’s on
the Wall’.1
1 hps://www.youtube.com/wat?v=oL3qDpubXU8 (17 June 2014)
Before deciding whi part of the scene is the figure and whi are ground it
is necessary to decide whi parts constitute a single object. Gestalt
psyologists proposed a number of laws of perceptual organisation that
could be used to group parts of a visual scene into objects. Two of these laws
are illustrated in Figure 2.6.
Laws of perceptual organisation Principles (su as proximity) by whi

parts of a visual scene can be resolved into different objects.
e Gestalt approa, however, only covers a small part of the process of

visual perception. For instance, using Gestalt laws we could work out whi
parts of the visual scene are objects that we might be interested in, but how do
we identify those bits in the first place?

Figure 2.6
Examples of Gestalt laws of perceptual organisation. A) Demonstrates the law of proximity.
Items that are grouped close together tend to be considered as part of the same object and so
(A) is usually perceived as five slanted lines of dots rather than three horizontal lines. B)
Demonstrates the law of similarity. Although the circles can be ‘grouped’ in many different
ways it appears to be natural to group them on the basis of common colour.

Feature detectors were introduced in Chapter 1 as a possible meanism for
extracting the features contained in an incoming stimulus. e Grimms’ fairy
tale of ‘Lile Red Riding Hood’ (Grimm & Grimm, 1909; first published 1812),
illustrated in Figure 2.7 provides an excellent illustration of a problem that lies
at the very heart of the process of perception. Lile Red Riding Hood is fooled
by a wolf masquerading as her grandmother. So a key issue for perception (and
for Lile Red Riding Hood!) is how do we recognise an object su as a wolf or
our grandmother? Lile Red Riding Hood appears (unsuccessfully) to have
been applying a form of feature extraction in order to recognise her
grandmother (piing out ears, eyes, hands and, finally, teeth). e principle is
sound, if a lile on the slow side in this instance.
Features Elements of a scene that can be extracted and then used to build
up a perception of the scene as a whole.
Figure 2.7
’But, Grandmother, what big teeth you’ve got.’

Another conceptualisation of the feature-extraction approa was Selfridge’s
Pandemonium model (Selfridge, 1959), illustrated in Figure 2.8. e way that
the model works is that there are layers of ‘demons’. Demons at the lowest
level in the system (this is essentially a boom-up approa) look for simple
features (su as lines or angles). Ea demon looks for only one feature. If they
‘see’ it, they shout. Demons at the next level up listen and only respond if
certain combinations of demons at the lower level shout. If this happens, then
they have detected a more complex feature (su as a line-junction), and they
will shout about that. So ea level of demons detects more and more complex
features, until the object is recognised. As many demons are likely to be
shouting at once it will be pandemonium, hence the name.
Pandemonium A conceptual model of a feature extraction process.
Figure 2.8
Pandemonium (Selfridge, 1959). e heavier arrows illustrate whi demons are shouting the

loudest!
Source: Adapted from Lindsay & Norman (1972). Demon artwork by Helen Edgar.
You would probably not believe we have lile demons in our brain, but the
feature-extracting computer model of Selfridge and Neisser (1960) discussed in
Chapter 1 suggests that the general approa is workable. Furthermore, there is
evidence to suggest that, at least at the lower levels of the visual system, there
are cells that effectively do the job of Selfridge’s demons. For instance, Kuffler
(1953) demonstrated that cells in the cat retina (ganglion cells) responded to a
spot of light at a particular position in the visual field. Hubel and Wiesel (1959)
found cells in the cat’s brain (in the visual cortex) that responded to edges and
lines. Complex figures can then be constructed from su edges, spots, and
lines. Brain-imaging teniques also support the existence of ‘feature detectors’
in the human brain (Haynes & Rees, 2005), demonstrating that there is a
physiological basis for feature-extraction theories, at least at the ‘lower’ levels
of the visual system.
Breaking an image down into its component features is a useful way of
coding information within the visual system, but the difficult part is working
out how the different features can be interpreted and used to recognise objects.
Essentially, the features have to be put ba together again in the correct
configuration to form an object.
Marr’s computational theory

Marr (1982) developed an approa that concentrated on the implementation of
some of the processes discussed above, progressing through a number of stages
until an internal representation of the viewed object is aieved. e first stage
is called the raw primal sket, when features su as circles and lines are
extracted from the image. In particular, Marr proposed that the visual system
can use natural constraints to work out whi features form the borders of an
object. For instance, a border that is created by the edge of an object tends to
have a greater and more sharply defined ange in luminance than an edge
caused by, for instance, a shadow. Once the features have been identified, they
can be grouped according to Gestalt principles, and these groups of features

then define the surface of the object. is is referred to as the 2½-D sketch. is
sket is only 2½-D and not 3-D, as it is a representation of an object – but only
from the single viewpoint of the person looking at it. From this 2½-D sket a
3-D sket can be constructed (although Marr was a lile vague about the
details of how this might be done) to give a ‘full’ representation of the object
that is independent of the viewer (that is, there may be a representation of parts
that the viewer cannot see directly).
Primal sket First stage in Marr’s model of vision, whi results in

computation of edges and other details from retinal images.
2½-D sket Second stage in Marr’s model of vision. Aligns details in

primal sket into a viewer-centred representation of the object.
3-D sket ird stage in Marr’s model of vision. is is a viewer-

independent representation of the object whi has aieved perceptual
constancy or classification.
Biederman’s recognition-by-components approa

ere have been many developments of Marr’s general approa, su as the
theories developed by Biederman (1987) whi, again, are based on feature
extraction. In this case, the features are three-dimensional and are referred to as
geons. Biederman devised a system using 36 basic geons su as cones,
cylinders, and blos that could be used to construct a vast range of objects.
e basic principle of Biederman’s theory was that if we can identify the geons
that make up an object, we can recognise that object. One problem with this
(and other feature-extraction theories) is that it is relatively easy to imagine
that very different objects (su as a car and a tree) can be recognised and
discriminated quite easily, but it is more difficult to imagine how the process
might deal with more subtle distinctions (su as discriminating two different
faces). ere is also a real ‘What happens next?’ question for feature-extraction
theories. You have extracted features, you have grouped them together into a
coherent ‘object’. Now what?

Geons Basically features, but conceived explicitly as being 3-D features.
Template mating
Returning to Lile Red Riding Hood, who has successfully recognised features
of her grandmother and grouped them into an object that, for now, we will call
‘Maybe granny’, a key issue for perception is how do we recognise features that
are grouped together to make an object as, for example, a air or our
grandmother? Just as importantly, how do we recognise when an object has
anged and granny has been replaced by a seming and very hungry wolf?
Well, one way to recognise your grandmother would be to have an internal
sema or ‘template’ that could be compared with incoming sensory
information. Figure 2.9 provides an example of physical and inflexible template
mating. One possibility is that vision could use a slightly more complex
version of su template mating; if the incoming sensory information
mates the grandmother template then she is recognised. Marr and Nishihara
(1978), for example, suggest that the final 3-D sket of Marr’s computational
theory can be compared against previously stored representations, and the
object can be recognised. e template theory is essentially a development of
the sema theory introduced in Chapter 1, as it is a system that uses
information from past experience to make sense of a new stimulus.
Templates Stored representations of objects enabling object recognition.
Su a template-mating system needs to have a certain amount of

flexibility built into it. It is plausible that you could recognise your
grandmother by comparing the incoming visual input to an internal
‘grandmother template’, and perhaps there is even one special cell, a
‘grandmother cell’ (for a discussion of the origin of this term see Rose, 1996), in
your brain that fires when (and only when) you see your grandmother. e
problem occurs if there is some ange in your grandmother (su as being
replaced by a wolf). Would the template still work? What happens if she is
facing away from you? Would you need a ‘grandmother facing the other way’

template as well? You may end up with the impossible situation of requiring a
template for every possible view and orientation of your grandmother and all
other objects, not to mention what happens if that particular cell suffers an
unfortunate accident. While there are many neurons in the brain, dedicated
cells are still rather impractical – so a certain ‘fuzziness’ in the process is
crucial.
If we use some sort of template-mating to recognise objects, then we
would expect to find evidence of them in brain activity. Essentially, if we are
using template-mating to recognise objects it seems reasonable that there
should be regions of the brain that respond to particular objects, and this is
exactly what we find (for a review see Kornblith & Tsao, 2017). One of the first
‘specialised’ areas to be confirmed was the fusiform face area (FFA –
Kanwisher et al., 1997) that, as the name suggests, responds particularly to
faces. ere is also evidence of regions that respond to, for example, places
(Epstein & Kanwisher, 1998) and bodies (Downing et al., 2001). What else (if
anything) these regions might also respond to is an area of lively debate and,
for an informative and entertaining read, we would direct you to the review by
Nancy Kanwisher (2017). It appears to be the case that not every class of object
gets its own brain region (whi is not surprising as we would soon be ba to
a version of the ‘grandmother cell’ problem), and that some regions plainly
multi-task (Fedorenko et al., 2013). In fact, even the FFA does not respond only
to faces (Haxby et al., 2001), responding, for example, to items that an
individual has particular expertise in discriminating (e.g. birds or cars; Gauthier
et al., 2000).

Figure 2.9
A simple (and inflexible) template mating seme.
Fotosearch_k3436693.
Where does this leave the feature detectors? Are faces recognised as a whole
(template-mating) or as a sum of a number of features (e.g. eyes, nose,
mouth)? e answer is that face recognition appears to be a mixture of both
(Jagadeesh, 2009). A study by Freiwald et al. (2009) found a group of cells in the
monkey temporal lobe that functioned as facial feature detectors, but only if the
features were presented as part of a whole face.
So, how can brain regions encode features and templates? As already
mentioned, there has to be flexibility in the system. Rigid mating to a fixed
template, as shown in Figure 2.9, is not practicable. For example, having
neurons ‘light up’ in the shape of a face, while aesthetically pleasing, is uerly
pointless. It simply moves the object recognition problem ba a stage from
outside the head to inside.

One way of geing around the problem of needing an almost infinite number
of ‘grandmother cells’ in the brain is provided by parallel distributed
processing (PDP) models (Rumelhart & McClelland, 1986). PDP models are
sometimes referred to as connectionist or neural network models. In some
ways, PDP models are still template approaes but the templates are more
flexible and, as they represent stored knowledge, they are another
conceptualisation of the sema described in Chapter 1. Artificial neural
networks have many of the same features as ‘real’ neural networks in the brain.
Crucially, any object can be represented not by the activation of a single
neuron, but by the activation of many cells forming a network. An object is
represented not by the activity of a single cell, but by a pattern of activity
across many cells. Initially, this may seem to make the problems discussed
above worse. Now you need not just one cell to represent an object, but many.
e key point, however, is that any one cell can form a part of many different
networks). e connections between cells are as important as the cells
themselves. is is why it is perfectly possible for a particular region of the
brain to be involved in several different processes or in recognising different
kinds of objects.
Parallel distributed processing (PDP) Stimuli are represented in the brain,

not by single neurons, but by networks of neurons. An approa sometimes
used to model cognitive processes.
Knowledge Information that is not contained within the sensory stimulus.
Neural networks also have the ability to make the object recognition process
more ‘fuzzy’. If the object doesn’t quite mat the template, not all the cells in
the network may be activated, but many of them may be. us, the system can
make a ‘best guess’ at what the object is most likely to be. Given feedba on
whether the guess is right or wrong (this can be done in the real world by

gathering more information) the system can learn and the networks can ange
and adapt. If your grandmother is replaced by a wolf, some parts of a
grandmother network may be activated (by the clothes and bonnet, etc.) but,
hopefully, so will some parts of a ‘wolf network’. If you are given feedba as
to what the object is, you will learn to recognise the wolf more easily. Support
for neural networks providing an appropriate substrate for object recognition
using feature extraction and template mating is provided by work using
artificial neural networks that use a combination of both (e.g. Zhang et al.,
2018; Goyani & Patel, 2020). Su networks show impressive performance in
not only being able to recognise faces, but even facial expressions.
e notion that the object recognition process is adaptive (i.e. it can learn) is
an important one, as without learning it would be impossible to recognise new
objects. Learning implies stored knowledge and this is something that most of
the theories discussed above do not address in detail. is is not a criticism of
the theories but reflects the fact that the theories discussed so far mostly
concentrate on boom-up processing; how sensory information gets into the
visual system to be processed further. As we have moved through the theories
in this apter, there is an increasing emphasis on top-down processing. is
shi reflects the fact that perception is essentially the interface between the
physical world and our interpretation of it. At different levels of perception
there is a anging balance, moving from simply encoding and transmiing
information from the outside world to interpreting and making sense of it. It is
oen hard to appreciate the difference between these different aspects of
perception until something goes wrong. e study of illusions, when what we
perceive does not truly represent the outside world, provides valuable insights
into how perception operates when something does go wrong at different
levels.
Illusions Cases in whi perception of the world is distorted in some way.

Riard Gregory (1997) aempted a classification of illusions. One of the
dimensions of this classification is the contribution of boom-up and/or top-
down processes to the generation of the illusion. is gives rise to a rather
satisfying continuum running from those illusions that arise from the physical
properties of the world to those that arise largely from the cognitive processes
of the mind. At the ‘lowest’ level are illusions that are really nothing to do with
the sensory processes; these include su things as rainbows and mirages. ey
arise from physics, not perception. At the next level are illusions that arise from
basic properties of the perceptual system but are really not influenced by
cognitive processes; for example, the Hermann grid, shown in Figure 2.10. e
illusory spots at the intersections are supposedly due to the lateral connections
between cells in the retina, with no top-down influences.
Figure 2.10
e Hermann grid. Illusory grey spots should be visible at the intersections of the white
lines. Interestingly, the spot is usually not so obvious at the junction that you are fixating.
Perhaps the most interesting illusions, however, are those that are generated
as a result of top-down influences on perception. ese illusions provide strong

evidence for the notion that what we know affects what we perceive. One of
the best-known illusions of this type is the Müller–Lyer illusion, shown in
Figure 2.11. e two vertical lines are actually the same length, but the one on
the le is perceived as being longer. e theories discussed so far cannot easily
explain su an effect without reference to top-down influences. e le and
right figures are both made up of the same features, suggesting that something
beyond what is present in the image is influencing our perception.
Figure 2.11
e Müller–Lyer illusion. e vertical line on the le appears to be longer than the one on
the right, even though they are actually the same length.
Riard Gregory (1966) suggested that although the figure is just a two-
dimensional arrangement of lines, we interpret them using our knowledge and
experience of a three-dimensional world. Gregory suggests that we see the
illusion as two corners (as shown in Figure 2.12), with one corner going away
from us and the other coming towards us. To explain the illusion, we have to
accept that things that are further away give rise to a smaller image on our
retina (this is a fundamental property of our world) and we scale them up to
make allowances for this (an example of size constancy). is additional (and

false) knowledge of the relative distances of the lines leads to one appearing to
be further away and thus being scaled up more than the other, giving the
impression that it is longer.
Size constancy e perceived size of objects is adjusted to allow for

perceived distance.
Figure 2.12
A possible explanation for the Müller–Lyer illusion. e figures are perceived in three
dimensions as illustrated here and this leads to distortions of perceived size.
Support for the role of knowledge and experience in the interpretation of the
Müller–Lyer illusion also comes from a study of the Bete people (Segall et al.,
1963), who live in a dense jungle environment with relatively few corners. e
Bete people do not perceive the Müller–Lyer illusion as strongly, providing
support for the role of knowledge and experience in the interpretation of the
figure. It is possible to get an idea of the influence of our ‘square world’ on
perception by considering another illusion, the Ames room, whi is shown in
Figure 2.13.

Figure 2.13
e Ames room. Two identical figures appear to be of very different sizes. is is due to the
unusual shape of the room (shown in the right-hand panel).
Source: Photographs by Graham Edgar.
e two identical figures in the room appear to be of vastly different size.

e room is distorted so that from one viewpoint only (shown by the arrow in
the figure) it appears to be a ‘normal’ square room. In reality, one corner is
mu further away than the other. Based on what we ‘know’ about rooms, we
judge both as the same distance away and there is no rescaling to maintain size
constancy, thus the figure that projects the smaller image on the retina appears
to be smaller. e use of a distorted room is designed to create false knowledge
of the relative distances of the two figures. It is even possible to get the Ames
room illusion without the room. All you need to do is to move something, su
as the lighthouse in Figure 2.14, out of its ‘normal’ depth plane within a picture
to reveal how mu size constancy influences the perceived size of objects.
ere is still some debate as to how mu top-down influences are
responsible for illusions. For instance, there are explanations of the Müller–
Lyer illusion that do not rely on top-down processing (e.g. Day, 2010). It is,
however, hard to explain all illusions without at least some reference to the
influence of top-down cognitive processes based on knowledge and experience,
and there is evidence from brain-imaging studies (Hayashi et al., 2007) that
both boom-up and top-down processes are involved in the perception of
perspective illusions. e smaller retinal image for objects that are further
away is a fundamental property of the world we live in and we deal with that
without any conscious awareness. As Gibson (1979) points out, ‘the
information that can be extracted from a flowing optic array, is a concept with

whi we are not at all familiar’. As su, size constancy could be an example
of boom-up processing – it is just the way the world is and the human visual
system has evolved to work with that. Support for this idea comes from
evidence that size constancy is present in newborns (Slater et al., 1990). Infants
as young as four months, however, start to show learning and demonstrate
knowledge of the size of human faces, and by 12 months show knowledge of
the size of non-human objects (su as a ‘sippy cup’; Sensoy et al., 2020).
Figure 2.14
When size constancy breaks down. Moving objects (or people) out of their natural position
in a scene reveals how mu our visual system automatically compensates for anges in
retinal image size with object distance.
Source: Original photograph by Helen Edgar. Photographic manipulation by Graham Edgar.
e illusions discussed here occur when top-down information distorts our

knowledge of how far away the figures are, creating conflict between top-down
and boom-up information. is is done with a distorted room in the Ames
room, and by placing the figures or objects at the ‘wrong’ depth plane within
the lighthouse picture. Size constancy still works perfectly well – but false
knowledge as to how far away those objects or people are creates the illusions.

If knowledge is involved in the perception of illusions then a definition of
knowledge that goes beyond ‘things learned in sool’ is necessary, as the
perception of illusions does not appear to be confined to humans. ere is
evidence that pigeons perceive the Müller–Lyer illusion. Furthermore, there is
evidence that some non-human species not only perceive illusions, they
actively create them. Male bowerbirds build two parallel walls of stis (whi
constrain the female bowerbird’s viewpoint) that lead to a ‘court’ of grey or
whitish objects (pebbles, bones, etc.) on whi the male will stand to display
coloured objects to the female (Figure 2.15). e grey and white objects are
carefully arranged so that the larger objects are placed further away from the
avenue, leading to a distortion of perspective that works from one viewpoint,
rather like that in the Ames room. e arrangement appears to be quite
deliberate. If the size gradient of the objects is reversed by curious humans
(Endler et al., 2010), the male bowerbird will move the objects to re-establish
the original gradient. ere is evidence (Kelley & Endler, 2012) that the more
regular the resulting paern from the point of view of the female, the greater
the mating success of the male.
Returning to humans, the use of knowledge as a part of top-down processing
allows us to interpret incoming sensory information, rather than just encode it.
It also means that our final perception of the sensory information can be
strongly influenced by what we already know. e rest of this section will
consider the role of knowledge in perception, particularly when considering
perception in the ‘real world’ (as opposed to the laboratory). Crucially, the
distinction between sensation and perception, and the role of knowledge (if
any) in perception, will be considered.

Figure 2.15
e avenue and court (strewn with brightly coloured ornaments) carefully constucted by the
male bowerbird to woo the female.
Source: Shuttershock.

Imagine that you are in a car driving along a road that you do not know. e
road disappears around a bend. What do you do? If it were not for your top-
down processing, you would probably have to get out of the car and peer
around the corner to e that the road does, in fact, continue and that there
are no other unexpected occurrences. In ‘real life’, however, you will almost
certainly proceed round the bend, secure in the knowledge that roads tend to
continue and do not simply terminate without warning. Whilst superficially
rather silly, this example emphasises just how mu we rely on what we know
to influence almost everything that we do. Sensation and perception lie at
opposite ends of the visual process in this apter, with sensation considered to
be the ‘raw’ boom-up input from the senses and perception the end result
(modified by the post-processing of sensory material referred to at the start of
this apter). e individual may or may not be consciously aware of the
perception arising from incoming sensory information. It is possible that not all
the information that is sensed will rea perception at all. Some of the sensory
information entering the visual system may be filtered out by aentional
processes and not form a part of our perception. is apter has also
considered that what we already know may influence what we perceive, and so
perception may represent not only a filtered, but also a modified, version of the
original sensation. A simple diagram of the route from sensation to perception
is presented in Figure 2.16. Different parts of the process may also interact;
what we know may influence the way that aentional filtering operates, as
well as our final perception of the sensory information. It should be noted that
the process described above is a very simplified version of what appears to be
happening in the processing of visual input.
Sensation e ‘raw’ sensory input (as compared to ‘perception’).
Numena e world as it really is. Phenomena Numena as we perceive

them.

Sensation e ‘raw’ sensory input (as compared to ‘perception’). Numena
e world as it really is. Phenomena Numena as we perceive them.
Figure 2.16
e components of perception. Raw sensory information is filtered and combined with
knowledge to form the overall percept. Note that information is flowing top-down as well as
boom-up at all stages.
e philosopher Immanuel Kant refers to the objects or events that exist

independently of the senses as ‘numena’ and our experience of those objects
and events as ‘phenomena’. Kant argued that we can never truly access
numena, only phenomena. at is, we can never know the world as it truly is,
only our perception of it aer it has been filtered and modified by our senses
and cognitive processes. ere is a saying that is oen aributed to Kant whi
sums up perception: ‘We see things not as they are, but as we are.’
Numena e world as it really is.
Phenomena Numena as we perceive them.
To illustrate the difference between sensation and perception, and the

complex processes that operate in between, we will look at accidents that may

occur while driving. Generally, those individuals who are most likely to have
an accident while driving lie at the ends of the age range for drivers (Claret et
al., 2003). Young drivers (under 25) and older drivers (75+) tend to have an
increased risk of accidents. is is the case for most types of accident, with one
notable exception, ‘looked but failed to see’ (LBFS) accidents (Sabey &
Staughton, 1975; Brown, 2005).

Looked but failed to see accidents refer to occasions when drivers have crashed
into something and claimed that they simply ‘did not see it’, even though the
object should be easily visible (see Figure 2.17). is is where the distinction
between sensation and perception becomes particularly important.
Undoubtedly, some accidents are due to a failure of sensation. If an object is
not within a driver’s field of view (for example they are not looking where they
are going) they will not detect it visually.
Figure 2.17
High sensory conspicuity does not guarantee accurate perception.
Source: Photograph courtesy of Gloucestershire Constabulary.
Sensing an object, however, involves more than just detecting the light
coming from it. Even if light from the object does rea the eyes of a driver,
this does not guarantee that they will become aware of it. Earlier in the apter
we discussed the Gestalt approa that emphasised the importance of piing
an object out from its baground, and the work of Marr suggested a process by
whi this could be done. But what if it is difficult or impossible to discriminate
an object from its baground? e visual system may sense the light reflected
from that object (so you could argue that the system has ‘detected’ it) but the
light from the object, and the light from the baground, may be too similar to
distinguish one from the other. For example, a pedestrian at night can be

extremely difficult for a driver to pi out from the baground (see Figure 2.18)
because of the la of contrast between the pedestrian and the baground
against whi they are seen. e term used to describe how easily an object can
be detected by the senses is sensory conspicuity, and refers to the intrinsic
properties of an object (su as shape, colour, brightness, amount of noise that
it is making) that are likely to be registered – usually as a result of increasing
contrast with the baground. A pedestrian can oen increase their sensory
conspicuity by carrying a tor or wearing reflective material.
Sensory conspicuity e extent to whi aspects of a stimulus (su as

colour and luminance) influence how easily it can be registered by the
senses.
Figure 2.18
e effect of contrast on detectability. e pedestrian on the le of the picture is silhoueed
against the oncoming headlights, whi increase the contrast between the pedestrian and the
baground; increasing detectability. e pedestrian on the right presents against a lower
contrast baground, and is harder to detect.
Resear by Cole and Hughes (1984) indicates that sensory conspicuity,

although necessary for the detection of objects, may not always be sufficient
for an individual to become aware of that object and take action to avoid it.
Cole and Hughes suggest that in order to be able to consciously perceive (and

react to) an object, it should also have high attention conspicuity. is term
refers to the fact that to perceive something, the individual’s senses need to
detect that it is there and, in addition, the individual has to aend to the
information provided by the senses. As mentioned above, sensory conspicuity
relates mainly to aspects of the object being perceived (brightness, etc.),
whereas aention conspicuity is more likely to be influenced by aspects of the
individual doing the observing (previous experience, expectations, etc.).
Broadly speaking, sensory conspicuity relies primarily on boom-up
processing, whereas aention conspicuity is more heavily influenced by top-
down processes.
Attention conspicuity e interaction of aspects of a stimulus (su as

colour, luminance, form) with aspects of an individual (su as aention,
knowledge, pre-conceptions) that determine how likely a stimulus is to be
consciously perceived.
e discussion above, and in Chapter 3, suggests that mu information that

we sense is not aended to. Langham et al. (2002) looked at LBFS accidents
involving high sensory conspicuity vehicles – police cars. Despite having a full
range of conspicuity enhancers (reflective and retro-reflective materials,
flashing lights, cones) stationary police cars have been hit by drivers who
subsequently claimed that they did not see them. e police car, whilst having
high sensory conspicuity, had low aention conspicuity for those individuals.

Figure 2.19
ehicles that had earlier been carrying members of a BBC TV team, hit by ‘friendly fire’ from
an aircra in the 2003 Iraq war. e pilot apparently believed that he was aaing enemy
forces that were nearby. Note the clear markings on the side of the vehicle (and the top of
the vehicle was also marked).
Source: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/in_depth/photo_gallery/3244305.stm
ere are numerous examples of what we know influencing what we

perceive. e use of prior knowledge to drive perception may underlie serious
incidents referred to as ‘friendly fire’, in whi the military open fire on the
wrong target, believing them to be the enemy, even though (as illustrated in
Figure 2.19) there are plenty of sensory cues to suggest that they are not (Edgar
et al., 2003).
To experience an example of knowledge influencing perception for yourself,
have a look at Figure 2.20. What do you see? It is most interesting if you just
see a paern of light and dark shapes. Does it ange your perception of the
picture if you are told that it is, in fact, a picture of a cat? If you could not see
the cat initially but now can aer being provided with extra information about
the picture, then this is an example of knowledge influencing perception. If you
still cannot see the cat, have a look at the picture at the end of this apter
(Figure 2.32), whi should give you even more information about where the
cat is. e sensory aspects of the original picture have not anged, it is still a

collection of light and dark blobs. What has anged is what you know about
the picture, and this has anged your perception of it.
Figure 2.20
What do you see? Answer at end of apter.
Source: Original figure by Wren Edgar. Original concept: Dallenbach (1951).

From the examples discussed above, and from your own experience, it should
now be clear that what we know has a huge (and sometimes detrimental)
influence on what we perceive, even sometimes overruling apparently clear
sensory information that may be telling us something different. Truly then, ‘We
see things not as they are, but as we are.’ e next issue to consider is just why
we make so mu use of stored knowledge. Given that the consequences of
using what we know can sometimes be detrimental, perhaps it would be beer
not to use it to su an extent? So why does stored knowledge appear to have
su an influence on perception?
One of the theories of perception whi deals explicitly with why we make
so mu use of stored knowledge is the constructivist theory, whi was
initially proposed by Irvin Ro (1977) and Riard Gregory (1980). It is called a
constructivist theory because it is based on the notion that it is necessary for us
to ‘construct’ our perception of what we see from incomplete sensory
information. We use what we already know to fill in gaps and to interpret
sensory information. In order to do this, Gregory suggests that we act as
‘scientists’, generating perceptual hypotheses (predictions) about what we
may be seeing and testing those hypotheses against the sensory information
coming in. e cat picture (Figure 2.20) can be used again to give an idea of
how this works. e picture is not clear and it may be difficult, at first, to
resolve into anything that makes sense. You might generate a range of
hypotheses about what it may be (horse, car, baleship) whi you can then
e against sensory information, ‘It looks as though it has ears, so the
hypothesis that it is a baleship is probably wrong’ – although the process is
not seen as occurring that consciously or that explicitly. Once the hypothesis
fits the sensory information, the image is then recognised, hopefully correctly.
e constructivist theories emphasise a strong interaction between sensory
information moving ‘boom-up’ (see Chapter 1) and knowledge moving ‘top-
down’, the interaction of the two determining what is perceived.

Constructivist approa Building up our perception of the world from
incomplete sensory input.
Perceptual hypotheses An element of the constructivist approa, in whi

hypotheses as to the nature of a stimulus object are tested against incoming
sensory information.
As we have already seen in this apter, the end result of the perceptual
process may be wrong (as with the Müller–Lyer illusion). Gregory, in
particular, has demonstrated that we can perhaps learn as mu about the
perceptual processes when things go wrong as when they go right. When
things go wrong, it seems to be previous knowledge that is to blame. Gregory
(1997) uses a demonstration that illustrates this point. Look at the faces in
Figure 2.21. e figure is a hollow mask of Einstein with the view from the
‘normal’ (convex) side on the le and the view from the (concave) hollow face
reverse-side on the right. Although we can, at times, perceive the concave face
as hollow, we are heavily biased towards seeing it as a ‘normal’ face. Gregory
suggests that this is because we are very familiar with faces as visual stimuli
and we are used to seeing ‘normal’ faces with the nose stiing out towards us.
A hollow face is a very unusual visual stimulus and we appear very resistant to
accept the hypothesis that what we are viewing is a face that is the spatial
‘negative’ of those that we are used to (the bits that normally sti out now go
in). Some evidence for this perception being based on acquired knowledge is
provided by studies (Tsuruhara et al., 2011) that suggest that infants (5–8
months) appear less likely than adults to see a hollow face as ‘solid’.

Figure 2.21
e faces of Einstein. e le-hand view of the mask is from the front showing a ‘normal’
convex face. Even though the right-hand panel shows a ‘hollow’ face (with the nose going
away from you) the percept is of a normal face.
Figure 2.22
Demonstrating what we really see (lower picture) as opposed to what we feel we see (upper
picture).
Source: Original photograph by Graham Edgar. Photographic manipulation by David
Brookes.
If what we know seems to have so mu impact on what we perceive, and

apparently leads to so many errors, then why do we make so mu use of what

we already know in driving our perception of the world? Apart from the
obvious answer that we would never be able to recognise our own
grandmother, there are other reasons for involving knowledge in the process of
perception. We have already toued on a possible answer when we first
considered the constructivist theory. is is the notion that the sensory input is
rather impoverished, and we need to ‘construct’ our perception aided by what
we already know to make best use of the limited information coming in.
Incoming information is limited in two ways. One way (considered in Chapters
1 and 3) is that our cognitive resources can only cope with a certain amount of
incoming information, so a proportion of it is filtered out by our aentional
processes. Another factor limiting the completeness of our sensory information
is that our senses may not provide a full picture in the first place.
is is illustrated by the lower part of Figure 2.22. Our visual acuity is not
constant across our field of view and the scene in the upper picture has been
progressively blurred in the lower picture to represent the effect of the reducing
acuity of the eye with increasing distance from the high acuity centre (the
fovea). What this means is that mu of the visual information coming in is
actually poor quality. e constructivist theory proposes that we need to use
prior knowledge to help us to interpret the rather blurry image that we receive
from our retina.
Evidence for the constructivist approa: masking and re-

entrant processing
Although using stored knowledge to aid in the interpretation of incoming
information is likely to make object recognition beer and faster, the iterative
process of generating hypotheses and testing them is going to take a certain
amount of time. is is not a problem if the incoming sensory information
remains constant (or if the observer is, at least, continuing to look at different
bits of the same object), but what happens if it anges? e hypothesis-testing
constructivist approa would predict that a sudden ange in the visual input
would disrupt processing and make it more difficult to recognise an object, and
this appears to be exactly what happens. Di Lollo et al. (2000) demonstrated
that anging one stimulus rapidly for another disrupted processing of the first

stimulus, a process referred to as ‘masking’. A typical target stimulus and mask
are shown in Figure 2.23. In a masking paradigm, a second stimulus can
prevent recognition of an earlier stimulus if the mask follows very soon aer
presentation of the stimulus. It is not even necessary for the stimulus and mask
to be at the same position in the visual field (i.e. not spatially coincident). A
mask that surrounds the stimulus (as in Figure 2.23) but does not appear in the
same place can be effective in bloing recognition of a target (Enns & Di Lollo,
2000).
Visual masking Experimental procedure of following a briefly presented

stimulus by random visual noise or fragments of other stimuli. Interferes
with or interrupts visual processing.
Enns and Di Lollo (2000) suggest that the mask is effective because it disrupts
re-entrant processing. Re-entrant processing is a term used to describe the
finding in neuroscience resear that communication between different areas of
the brain is never in one direction only. If a signal goes from one area to
another, then there is sure to be one coming ba the other way (Felleman &
Van Essen, 1991). e flow of information diagram in Figure 2.16 could
conceivably be a high-level representation of hypothesis testing using re-
entrant processing. Indeed, masking could be conceptualised as drawing
aention away from the initial target stimulus so that cognitive resources are
no longer allocated to processing it. Masking provides support for the
constructivist approa. Hupe et al. (1998) suggest that re-entrant processing
could be the basis of the hypothesis testing postulated by Gregory. Incoming
sensory information (flowing boom-up) is used to generate an initial
hypothesis. e accuracy of this hypothesis is then eed against the
continuing sensory input using re-entrant pathways (flowing top-down) and
the hypothesis can then be modified and re-eed.
Re-entrant processing Information flow between brain regions (bi-

directional).

Figure 2.23
A target and mask of the type used by Enns and Di Lollo (2000).
Source: Adapted from Enns & Di Lollo (2000).
One criticism of the constructivist approa is that previous knowledge

appears to be so important due to the kinds of methods and stimuli used to test
perception. Many investigations of perception are done in the laboratory using
deliberately simple, and oen static, stimuli. e sensory input is a very
impoverished version of what an individual would normally be exposed to in
the real world. Some of the stimuli used to illustrate the use of knowledge are
even deliberately difficult to recognise, su as the cat picture in Figure 2.20.
us, it could be argued that if you ask people to view a static, two-
dimensional, impoverished image under laboratory conditions, you will force
them to use knowledge to try and make sense of it. If you allow people to move
around in the world, with a ri flow of sensory information, anging as the
individual moves and looks around (and as objects in the world move around
them), then it is possible that far less top-down information will be needed – or
perhaps none at all! e lower picture in Figure 2.22 only looks so poor because
it represents what the world would look like if we were unable to move our
eyes, or ourselves.
ere is an interesting difference of approa here between two of the major
theoretical positions we have covered in this apter. e constructivist theory
uses oen static, impoverished images, essentially forcing the visual system to
‘fill in the gaps’ and construct perception using knowledge and experience. In

contrast, the Gibsonian approa sees perception as a highly dynamic activity,
with the riness and ange in the visual environment providing all the input
that is needed for perception – to the extent that there is no need for further
knowledge in the process. To resolve this possible paradox, it helps to look at
the structure of the higher levels of the visual system.

Even very early in the system there appear to be (at least) two distinct streams
of information flowing ba from the retina (Shapley, 1995). ese streams are
referred to as the parvocellular and magnocellular pathways, the names
deriving from the relative sizes of the cells in the two pathways. Aer the
visual cortex, the visual information is still maintained in two distinct streams
(see Figure 2.24). One stream is termed theventral stream and leads to the
inferotemporal cortex, and the other leads to the parietal cortex and is known
as the dorsal stream.
Ventral stream A pathway in the brain that conveys the visual information
for what an object is (also known as the ‘what?’ pathway).
Dorsal stream A pathway for visual information that conveys information

about the spatial location of an object (also known as the ‘where?’
pathway).

Figure 2.24
Diagram of dorsal and ventral streams.
e dorsal and ventral streams

While heavily interconnected and converging in the prefrontal cortex (Milner,
2017), the dorsal and ventral streams do seem to be specialised for different
functions and to have different aracteristics. For instance:
1 e ventral stream is primarily concerned with recognition and

identification of visual input, whereas the dorsal stream provides
information to drive visually guided behaviour su as pointing,
grasping, etc. (Ungerleider & Mishkin, 1982; Goodale & Milner, 1992,
2006).
2 e ventral system is beer at processing fine detail (Baizer et al., 1991),
whereas the dorsal system is beer at processing motion (Logothesis,
1994), although the differences are only relative as, for example, the
ventral system can still carry motion information.

3 e ventral system appears to be knowledge-based using stored
representations to recognise objects, whilst the dorsal system appears to
have only very short-term storage available (Milner & Goodale, 1995).
4 e dorsal system is faster (Bullier & Nowak, 1995).
5 We appear to be more conscious of ventral stream functioning than
dorsal. For instance, individuals may report awareness of ventral
processing, while manifesting different dorsal processing. A good
example of this is if people actually interact with visual illusions, su
as the hollow-face illusion (Króliczak et al., 2006). e perception is
illusory, but the action (e.g. fliing a fly off the nose of the hollow face)
does not appear to be influenced by the illusion. is difference in
dorsal and ventral processing will be discussed in more detail below.
6 e ventral system aims to recognise and identify objects and is thus
object-centred. e dorsal system is driving action in relation to an
object and uses a viewer-centred frame of reference (Goodale & Milner,
1992; Milner & Goodale, 1995).
ese aracteristics support earlier resear (Sneider, 1967, 1969) whi

suggested that the ventral stream is concerned with the question ‘What is it?’,
whereas the dorsal stream is concerned with the question ‘Where is it?’ us,
the ventral pathway is oen known as a ‘what’ system and the dorsal pathway
a ‘where’ system (Ungerleider & Mishkin, 1982).
Norman (2002), following on from a similar suggestion by Neisser (1994),
suggested a dual-process approa based on the aracteristics of the two
streams outlined above. In this approa, it is suggested (Goodale & Milner,
1992) that the dorsal and ventral streams act synergistically, with the dorsal
stream largely concerned with perception for action and the ventral stream
with perception for recognition.
e function and aracteristics of the two streams seem to fit rather nicely
with the two theories of perception outlined above, with the dorsal stream
appearing rather Gibsonian in the way that it operates, and the ventral stream
rather constructivist. We appear to have a fast system ideally suited for driving
action, but whi makes relatively lile use of stored information (the
Gibsonian dorsal stream), combined with another slower system that uses

stored knowledge to analyse fine detail and recognise objects (the constructivist
ventral stream). A study conducted by Króliczak et al. (2006) demonstrated the
different modes of operation of the two streams. e study used a hollow face
like the one in Figure 2.21. Participants were asked to estimate the position of
targets placed on the hollow (but phenomenologically normal) face and then to
use their finger to make a rapid motion to ‘fli’ the target off. Even though
participants still saw the illusion of the face as solid and coming towards them,
the fliing movements were directed to the ‘real’ position on the face; that is
‘inside’ the hollow face. e authors suggest that the ventral stream maintains
the perception of the face as ‘solid’ (it is fooled by the illusion) whereas the
dorsal stream drives the fliing action and is not fooled. It is rather apt that,
considering Gregory used illusions to illustrate the constructivist approa, that
the ‘constructivist’ ventral stream ‘sees’ the illusion, whereas the Gibsonian
dorsal stream apparently does not – especially as Gibson regarded visual
illusions as mere artefacts of using unrealistic stimuli.
e interaction of the dorsal and ventral streams: perception for

recognition and action
Just because the two streams appear to process the hollow face independently it
does not mean that the streams do not interact. It is interesting to speculate just
how these two types of processing may act together to allow us to perceive our
world. To do this, it is worth considering our experience and consciousness of
what we are perceiving, i.e. our phenomenological experience. e founder of
the phenomenological tradition was a German philosopher-mathematician
called Edmund Husserl (1931) who suggested the concept of intentionality,
whereby the mind reaes out to the stimuli that make up the world and
interprets them in terms of our own personal experience, whi is a theme that
has been developed throughout this apter. As an example of this, consider
once more the pictures in Figure 2.22. At any one moment the sensory
information coming in from the world gives us a view of the world rather like
that in the lower picture. Our phenomenological experience of the world,
however, is more like that of the upper picture. We have the impression that we
have a clear and accurate perception of the world surrounding us at any one

time. An analogy for this is the light in your refrigerator (omas, 1999). It
always appears to be on because whenever you go to the fridge and open the
door, the light is on. e experience of the real world is mu the same.
Whenever you look at any object in the real world it appears clear and sharp
(assuming your eyesight is good) because as soon as you become interested in
some part of the visual world, you tend to move your eyes so that the image of
interest falls on the high acuity central region of the retina. You tend not to be
aware that the rest of the time that part of the world is just a blur (in the same
way that you never see the refrigerator light off).
Phenomenological experience Our conscious experience of the world.
Stored knowledge allows us to maintain this phenomenological percept that

the world is sharp and clear. Having looked at something, we can remember it
as sharp and clear, even when we look away and the sensory information
coming from this stimulus is actually blurred. Essentially, we could build up an
internal ‘model’ of the world around us at any time using our knowledge. is
is not to suggest that we do have a lile ‘model’ of the world inside our heads.
We do not really need it as we can use our environment as an ‘external
memory’ (O’Regan, 1992) that we can access any time just by looking around.
Our stored knowledge, and our ability to use that knowledge to construct our
perception is, however, a crucial component of our phenomenological percept
of the world – to a far greater extent than we ever usually realise. For example,
have a look at Figure 2.25.

Figure 2.25
is is not a cat.
Source: Photograph by Wren Edgar.
is is a homage to the classic painting by René Magrie of a pipe and

labelled ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’ (is is not a pipe), and makes the same point
that a picture is just a representation, not the object itself. Yet our visual system
allows us to interpret pictures as if they are real objects. Magrie makes the
point beautifully with the title of this work whi is ‘e Treaery of Images’.
ite apart from the rather blurry image from our eyes (as in Figure 2.22), we
are constantly constructing our experience of the world from impoverished
representations: pictures, films, literature. If we were unable to do this, the
world would be a very different place (fewer people taking ‘selfies’ for a start).
So, the criticism levelled at the constructivist approa, that if you present the
visual system with impoverished images (compared to the ‘real thing’), then it
will be forced to do some constructing, is valid – but that is how mu of our
world is. (NB: In case you were wondering, the name of the cat represented in
Figure 2.25 is ‘Pandemonium’.)

So, the constructivist ventral stream would seem to be ideal for building up,
and maintaining, our representation of the world, recognising objects as they
appear in central vision, and generating stored representations of those objects
for when we are looking elsewhere. As long as everything remains unanged,
our perception of the world should be fairly accurate. To maintain that
accuracy, however, we need a system that will warn us if some part of the
visual world anges. is is one of the functions the dorsal stream could serve.
Just as the ventral stream appears to be ideally suited for recognising objects,
so the dorsal stream appears to be well suited to detecting ange in the visual
world (e.g. Zeki, 2003). Be et al. (2001) demonstrated this function of the
dorsal stream using a paradigm in whi participants viewed (sequentially) two
images of a face or a scene. Sometimes the two images were the same, and
sometimes the second image had been anged in some way. A blank screen
was presented between the two face/scene images to avoid participants simply
detecting any ‘flier’ caused by the ange. Functional magnetic resonance
imaging (fMRI) was used to examine the brain activity when subjects noticed
the ange (ange detection) as opposed to when they missed the ange
(ange blindness). Be et al. (2001) found enhanced activity in the parietal
lobe (an element of the dorsal stream) when subjects were conscious of a
ange, but not when the ange went unnoticed. Of course, fMRI studies of
the sort conducted by Be et al. only reveal an association between a region of
brain activity and some behaviour on the part of the individual. Be et al.
(2005), however, used repetitive transcranial magnetic stimulation to disrupt
activity in the right parietal cortex and found that the ability to detect anges
in a visual stimulus was disrupted (no effect if the le parietal cortex was
disrupted). Su studies indicate that the dorsal stream could be well suited to a
role of detecting ange in the environment, so that the ventral stream can then
be brought into play to see what has anged, and how.
Given the evidence presented so far, there seems to be a rather elegant
division of function in perception between ‘perception for recognition’ and
‘perception for action’, and this split in perception is supported by two
functionally distinct processing streams in the brain, the dorsal and the ventral.
It seems almost too simple to be true and, unfortunately, that may be the case,
with the suggestion that there may be a dorso-dorsal stream projecting to the

superior parietal lobe, and a ventro-dorsal stream projecting to the inferior
parietal lobe (Rizzolai & Matelli, 2003). Singh-Curry and Husain (2009)
suggest that the inferior parietal lobe (right hemisphere), amongst other
functions, responds to salient new information in the environment. is
response fits in well with one of the suggested roles for the dorsal stream; that
of signalling the appearance of ange. Singh-Curry and Husain, however,
suggest that the inferior parietal lobe is not a part of either the ‘traditional’
dorsal or ventral streams, and suggest that the original dorsal/ventral
diotomy is rather simplistic. For the moment, though, we can accept that, no
maer how many streams there may be, between them they can handle
‘perception for recognition’ and ‘perception for action’. To return to the
question earlier in this apter, ‘What do you do when a road disappears
around a bend?’, it may not be necessary to get out of your car; if there is
something unexpected around the corner, your visual system will probably
detect it, recognise it, and guide your action appropriately – most of the time.

So far we have only considered one of the senses – vision. As we shall see,
there are many others, although perhaps the most researed sense aer vision
is that of hearing. Our sense of hearing serves many functions, not least
allowing us to hear spee. ere is not space to consider the complexities of
spee perception in this apter, but a good introduction to spee perception
is provided in Bani and Compton (2018). is section will consider the role of
hearing in detecting ange in the environment. Any sound occurring in the
environment will, by definition, be the result of some ange. To produce the
transient anges in air pressure that form sound waves, something must have
anged, even if only by a small amount. One of the functions of our auditory
system is to detect sounds resulting from anges in the environment and to
give some indication of where those sounds are occurring. A discussion of
auditory localisation is useful here, in that it emphasises particularly strongly
that the senses do not operate independently, but act synergistically to allow us
to perceive the world around us.
Auditory localisation
Figure 2.26
Sound localisation in the horizontal plane. Sounds to one side of the head will rea the
nearest ear sooner and tend to sound louder in that ear. Individuals can use these cues to
localise a sound and so orient towards it.

Auditory localisation is usually described using the following three
coordinate systems:
1 Azimuth (horizontal), determined primarily by binaural cues,

specifically time and intensity differences between stimuli reaing the
le and right ears (see Figure 2.26). Interaural intensity differences are
largely due to the shadowing effect of the head that keeps high-
frequency sounds from reaing the far ear. Long wavelengths (low-
frequency sounds) are unaffected by the head, but shorter wavelengths
(high-frequency sounds) are reflected ba. is feature has been shown
to be surprisingly useful in the evolutionary ‘arms race’ between
predators and prey across senses (Galloway et al., 2020). For example, as
a general rule, animals with smaller heads are sensitive to higher
frequencies. Pheasant is have evolved a irp that exploits this
feature. e is emit irps at roughly the same wavelength as a
fox’s head width, thus making it very difficult for their main predator to
locate them by sound, whereas the is’ mother (having a smaller
head than a fox) can locate them easily (Naish, 2005).
Binaural cues Cues that rely on comparing the input to both ears, as for
example in judging sound direction.
2 Elevation (vertical), determined mainly by spectral cues whi are

generated by the way in whi the head and outer ears (pinnae) affect
the frequencies in the stimulus. e pinnae play an active role in sound
localisation. Sound reflecting from the pinnae can be used to give an
indication of the elevation of a sound. If you fill in the pinnae with, for
example, modelling clay, sound localisation progressively worsens
(Gardner & Gardner, 1973). Sound can also be reflected ba off the
torso (‘shoulder bounce’), giving rise to additional spectral cues.
Spectral cues Auditory cues to, for example, distance, provided by the
distortion of the incoming stimulus by (e.g.) the pinnae (ear lobes).

3 Distance co-ordinate (how far a sound source is from the listener).
Generally, judgements of distance for sounds within an arm’s length are
good (interaural level difference (ILD) is large), but as sounds get
further away, distance judgement is mu more difficult – and distance
to far-away sounds is generally underestimated. ere are several
meanisms for auditory far-distance judgement, whi are used
together to determine perception of a sound’s distance (mu as with
visual distance cues). ey include:
• Sound level – Just as light sources that are further away appear
dimmer due to scaering and absorption of the light by any
intervening atmosphere, doubling the distance of a sound source
can reduce sound pressure level (SPL) by around 6 dB (outside
in the open with no eoes) – or to about a quarter of its
original level. It is difficult, however, to make a judgement of
distance based on sound pressure intensity without some prior
knowledge of how loud the source should appear at different
distances. e listener needs, therefore, to be familiar with the
sound source (e.g. a voice) or be making a comparative
judgement of the distance of two identical sources.
• Frequency – Short (blue) wavelengths of visible light tend to be
more strongly absorbed and scaered by the atmosphere, and so
the more atmosphere the light has to travel through, the redder
it will appear (this is why sunsets and sunrises tend to appear
reddish). Similarly, high frequencies of sound undergo more
aenuation by the atmosphere than low frequencies. Sounds
that are further away, therefore, become dull and muffled.
• Motion parallax – See Figure 2.27. Nearby sounds appear to
shi location faster than sounds that are further away. is is
analogous to the visual depth cue of motion parallax.
• Reflection – Sound can rea the ears in two ways: direct
sound – an uninterrupted path from source to ear – and
indirect sound – sound that is bounced off (reflected by)
objects, e.g. walls or ground. As distance increases, so does the

ratio of indirect to direct sound, and the ange in sound quality
provides a distance cue.
Figure 2.27
Motion parallax. Moving sound stimuli that are closer will tend to shi location with respect
to the listener faster than those that are further away. e same is true for visual stimuli.
Source: Drawn by Helen Edgar.
Localisation accuracy is generally lower for elevation sources than for

sources that differ in azimuth (Middlebrooks, 1992). Listeners can localise
sounds directly in front of them most accurately (errors average 2–3.5 degrees)
and sounds that are off to the side and behind the head least accurately (errors
up to 20 degrees). e differences in auditory processing result in differences in
the accuracy with whi the human listener can place sounds along these axes.
For further discussion of auditory localisation acuity see Oldfield and Parker
(1984).
One animal renowned for its abilities in auditory localisation is the bat, as
audition is their primary sense. Bats navigate and hunt using very high-
frequency (ultrasound) eolocation. In the dark, audition-dominated world at
night the evolutionary arms race has led to some moths evolving hearing that

is sensitive to these frequencies (helping them dodge their predator), whereas
others have evolved sophisticated ‘stealth coatings’ that absorb ultrasound
waves, making it mu harder for a bat to detect them (Neil et al., 2020).
Given that there appears to be a processing stream (or streams) within the
brain specialised for working out where visual stimuli are, is there a similar
stream for auditory stimuli? e postero-dorsal stream that runs from the
primary auditory cortex to the parietal lobes (and then to the frontal lobes)
appears to be su a stream (for a review of the evidence see Rauseer &
Sco, 2009). It was originally proposed (Kaas & Hae, 1999) that this postero-
dorsal stream was involved in localising sounds, serving a function analogous
to the original conceptualisation of the visual dorsal stream as a ‘where’
stream. ere is also evidence (Hiok & Poeppel, 2007) that the postero-dorsal
auditory stream provides an interface with the motor system and is involved in
spee production, suggesting that the postero-dorsal stream is also a
‘perception for action’ stream.
As you might expect, if there is a ‘perception for action’ stream in audition,
there is also likely to be a ‘perception for recognition’ one too. ere is an
antero-ventral stream running from the primary auditory cortex to the
temporal lobes and again on into the frontal lobes. e role of this pathway
appears to be similar to that of the visual ventral stream, and involves auditory
object identification and spee perception (e.g. Hiok & Poeppel, 2007;
Rauseer & Sco, 2009). Although the visual and auditory dorsal and
ventral streams run through different brain regions they do have some regions
that are common to both. For example, the same region (ventral intraparietal
area – VIP) is involved in both the auditory and visual dorsal streams. e
visual and auditory streams also project to the same regions of the prefrontal
cortex, with the dorsal streams projecting to the ventrolateral prefrontal cortex
(VLPFC) and the ventral streams to the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex (DLPFC)
(Cloutman, 2013).
Mu of the work on auditory processing has concentrated on how a listener
(oen with a fixed head position in a quiet room or an aneoic amber) can
hear sounds, and some interesting problems have been highlighted. For
instance, for auditory stimuli that are equidistant from the two ears, confusion
can occur as to whether the source is in front of or behind the observer. For

most situations in the real world, however, the listener will be able to move
freely and will have visual (and other) cues available that can be used to
resolve any ambiguity. Under real-world conditions the sensory systems work
together and accurate predictions of real-world responses are difficult to
measure or generalise when considering, for example, the auditory system in
isolation.
e auditory and visual systems interact in many ways to influence our final
percept. For example, Vroomen and de Gelder (2000) demonstrated that the
perceptual organisation of sound affects visual scene analysis. Links between
auditory and visual systems can occur at the low-level boom-up stages
(Vroomen et al., 2001) or through the influence of higher cognitive processes
(top-down), su as the prior expectations of a participant (Egeth & Yantis,
1997). For example, Sedda et al. (2011) found that, if participants heard the
sound of a wooden blo being placed on a table, it affected their grip aperture
when they reaed for it – whether or not they were able to see it as well. e
participants appeared to be using auditory cues, and previous knowledge (su
as what sound a particular-sized blo of wood makes when it hits a table) to
assist in their reaing, and these auditory cues were still utilised when visual
cues were also present. When considering the cognitive psyology of auditory
perception, it is therefore advisable to remember that, although a single aspect
may be studied in order to isolate factors for investigation, these factors rarely
act alone in the real world. Interactions can lead to rather different results to
those found in the laboratory, for example improved auditory localisation with
visual cues.
Cross-modal studies have demonstrated that visual cues can improve the
accuracy of auditory localisation both in azimuth and elevation, provided that
the visual cues are congruent with the auditory stimulus (an inconsistent or
mismated visual cue is worse than no cue). An extreme example of
incongruent auditory and visual stimuli is the McGurk effect, where a listener
hears a completely new sound ‘da’ when presented with incongruent stimuli;
for example, lip movements for ‘ga’ and sound ‘ba’ (McGurk & MacDonald,
1976).
e type of visual stimulus will also affect the degree of improvement. If the
visual stimulus strongly mates the auditory stimulus, then participants

perform more accurately. For example, if the visual stimuli are speaker icons,
then performance is beer than if a simple card marks the possible sound
sources. Also, visual facilitation of auditory localisation is beer if the source
locations are marked with objects placed in actual 3-D positions, rather than
represented on a 2-D grid. us, auditory localisation performance is improved
if an auditory stimulus is accompanied with a meaningful (congruent) visual
cue (Saliba, 2001). ese findings demonstrate once again the influence of
knowledge on perception. For instance, we know that there has to be a source
for a sound – su as a loudspeaker.
Auditory attention
Unlike our eyes, our ears cannot be directed to avoid registering material that
we wish to ignore. In a busy seing we are swamped with simultaneous
sounds. Principles of auditory grouping analogous to the Gestalt laws of visual
perception can be utilised to solve this problem and help direct auditory
aention to differentiate ‘signal’ from ‘noise’ and separate superimposed
sounds:
• Location: Sounds created by a particular source usually come from one

position in space or move in a slowly anging and/or continuous way
(e.g. a passing car).
• Similarity of timbre: Sounds that have the same timbre are oen
produced by the same source, i.e. similar sounding stimuli are grouped
together.
• Similarity of frequency: Sounds that have similar frequencies are oen
from the same source.
• Temporal proximity: Sounds that occur in rapid progression tend to be
produced by the same source.
Treisman and Gelade (1980) suggest people must focus aention on a

stimulus before they can synthesise its features into a paern. is applies not
only for visual stimuli, but also for auditory stimuli: you must focus your
aention on complex incoming information in order to synthesise it into a

meaningful paern. us, meaning is also important for deciding where an
auditory stimulus is and whether it will be processed to the level of perception.
Interactions and real-world examples

ere is an important distinction between reductionist laboratory-based
resear and more applied areas su as auditory display resear (Walker &
Kramer, 2004). Psyophysical experiments that isolate particular aspects of a
stimulus provide fundamental baground information (from a carefully
controlled environment) about how sound reaes the ears and how it is
sensed. is approa, however, is just a starting point for the study of auditory
perception. Concentrating upon individual aspects of the (auditory) system and
not the interactions that lead to the final percept can lead to some interesting
(and expensive) problems.
Example: concert theatre design

e optimum reverberation time for a concert hall is considered to be two
seconds. New York’s Philharmonic Hall, whi opened in 1962, was designed to
replicate this single factor of ‘ideal reverberation’. Despite aieving a
reverberation figure very close to the ‘ideal’, the acoustics were not as expected
and the musicians could not hear ea other. e interior of the concert hall
had to be completely rebuilt to solve this problem. Lessons were learnt and
current practice uses multiple measures, su as intimacy, spaciousness, timbre,
and tone colour (Beranek, 1996). e current approa recognises what has
been termed a more ecological approa, whi aempts to consider the effects
of sound as it is heard in the real world (natural sound). is is more akin to
the approa of Gibson, discussed earlier in this apter.
Top-down influences on auditory perception

A listener’s experience and frame of mind can influence how a message is
perceived. Diana Deuts (2003) demonstrated, with ‘phantom word’
illusions, that people oen report ‘hearing words related to what is on their

minds’. e demonstration used simple words, su as ‘Boris’, ‘Go ba’,
‘Harvey’, played repeatedly and continuously. Listeners reported hearing new
words and phrases that were not present in the original recording. As with
vision, there is an interaction of top-down and boom-up processing.
Phantom word illusion What we hear may be influenced by what we

expect to hear.
In order to study how a listener will respond to a particular auditory

stimulus in the real world, be it music in a concert hall or a copit auditory
warning display, it is essential that multiple factors and interactions are
considered. Aer all, humans are not passive listeners in their environment,
hearing has a function and that function is usually linked to action. For
instance, if a person hears a loud bang, they will have some idea from their
auditory system about where that bang has originated and they will probably
orientate towards the bang in order to gather additional visual information to
improve the accuracy with whi they can localise the source. If they have any
previous knowledge of that type of sound, they may move towards the sound
(if the mental model is of their ild falling off a air) or away from the sound
(if the mental model is of a runaway tru approaing).
e example of a runaway vehicle highlights another important aspect of
how auditory stimuli are perceived in the real world; that is the stimuli are by
nature dynamic – the source could be moving, or varying (as in spee or
music), or transient (e.g. a clap). In many cases the listener will also be moving
for example walking, travelling in a car, or simply turning or nodding the head.
us, there are myriad of links between action, vision, hearing, and other
senses, some of whi will be discussed in the next section.

More than five senses?
Since Aristotle it has been common to think of humans as having five senses
(see Baltussen, 2019): vision, hearing, smell, taste, and tou. We can, however,
also sense whether we are standing upright or leaning forward, so whi sense
is this? Similarly, if I close my eyes I can sense quite precisely where my arms
and legs are, at least with respect to my body and to one another; what sense
am I using? When I tou an object I can discern whether it is smooth or
rough, large or small, and also whether it is hot or cold, but are all of these
worked out using my sense of tou? What about pain; is that the same thing
as tou? If it is, am I somehow touing my intestines when I have
indigestion? In addition, I can somehow sense, for example, whether I am
thirsty or hungry and whether my lungs are inflated.
From the above, it should be clear that five senses are not nearly enough to
encompass the entire spectrum of information that we can detect. So, how
many senses do we actually possess? Even excluding su phenomena as a
sense of disappointment, and restricting the definition of a sense to detection of
input by a specific type of sensory cell, Durie (2005) suggests that there are at
least 21 senses, possibly a lot more. It should also be apparent that we have
some senses, su as hearing and smell, that are primarily concerned with
sensing information coming from our environment, and other senses, su as
our sense of pain (‘nociception’) and senses su as thirst and hunger, that
provide information about the state of our own bodies (see Macpherson, 2011).
Importantly, we can combine cues from these two broad categories of senses
(i.e. internal and external senses) to provide more detailed information about
the environment around us. Even without using my eyes I can determine
where objects are and how large they are simply by moving my hands over
their surface. In doing this I’m combining information about the relative
position of my hands (where they are with respect to ea other and my body)
with information from the tou receptors in my fingers (that let me know
when they are in contact with a surface), to determine exactly where my hands

are when they come in contact with the surface. In the rest of this section we
will be exploring in more depth how we can perceive the environment using
senses su as ‘tou’ and looking at how we combine information from more
than one sense.
Proprioception, kinaesthesis, and haptic information

e sense that keeps tra of the position of our body, limbs, fingers, and so on
is known as proprioception, and it operates through a system of nerve cell
receptors (known as proprioceptors) that allow us to ascertain the angle of our
various joints. A related sense, known as kinaesthesis, allows us to discern how
our body and limbs are moving and is a key element in su things as hand–
eye coordination, and is a sense that can be improved through training and
practice. Unfortunately there is considerable variability in exactly what the
terms kinaesthesis and proprioception are taken to mean (Owen, 1990). For
example, Riccio and McDonald (1998) define kinaesthesis as the perception of
the ange in the location of the whole body compared to the environment
(movement of the whole body is necessary to generate kinaesthetic
information) and proprioception to mean the perception of where our body
parts are in relation to ea other and the environment. Proprioception is also
sometimes used as a collective term encompassing all the information
regarding the position of the body, including kinaesthesis and our sense of
balance. We will not concern ourselves with debating a precise definition here,
but instead will sti to the key point, whi is that we are able to sense the
position and movement of our bodies and limbs without resorting to looking to
see where they are.
Proprioception Knowledge of the position of the body and its parts (arms,
fingers, etc.).
If you try reaing out with your eyes closed and feeling an unknown object
in front of you, you will quily realise that to obtain any information that
might be useful in recognising what the object is, you need to be able to sense
when your fingers tou the object (through the tou receptors in your skin)

and also where your fingers are when they tou it. As you move your fingers
to explore the object, you need to sense whether or not they are still in contact
with the object and also how far they are moving. us, in exploring the
environment we need to combine our sense of tou with proprioception and
kinaesthesis, and in so doing we produce what is referred to as haptic
information. Our ability to judge the position and movement of our hands
seems to be quite accurate and compares well with the acuity of our visual
system (Henriques & Soeting, 2003). ere are, however, some elementary
judgements that are more accurately performed using visual rather than haptic
information; we tend to mistake an inwardly spiralling movement as describing
a circle for instance, but, on the whole, we can judge the geometry of any
surface we tou very accurately without recourse to vision (Henriques &
Soeting, 2003). Indeed, there is some evidence that the brain uses the same
cognitive processes to categorise natural objects (e.g. seashells) regardless of
whether the object was identified visually or haptically (Gaissert & Wallraven,
2012).
Haptic perception Tactile (tou) and kinaesthetic (awareness of position

and movement of joints and muscles) perception.
Unlike the visual system, whi combines the sensory input from both eyes,
there is some evidence that the brain does not work in a similar fashion with
regards to the two hands. Squeri et al. (2012) used a robotic manipulation to
move the hands of participants along curved contours and asked them to
indicate whi contour was the more curved. eir results showed that
sensitivity was not increased when both hands were moved compared to when
just one hand was moved. Instead, the results suggested that the brain uses a
process of sensory selection, whereby information from the hand that is
‘motorically dominant’ (usually the right hand) is given preference over the
other hand, even though this is oen the hand that is more sensitive (usually
the le).
ere appears to be great similarity in how people explore the environment
in order to generate haptic information. Klatzky et al. (1987) reported that

participants tended to employ a consistent series of procedures when asked to
explore an object using their hands. Lederman and Klatzky (1990) found that
ea particular exploratory procedure seemed to be used in order to determine
a specific aspect of the object, so that unsupported holding was used to
ascertain the object’s weight, whilst enclosing the object with one or both
hands was used to tell what the overall shape of the object might be.
e use of the term ‘exploratory procedure’ suggests that the way we obtain
haptic information has a lot in common with ‘active perception’ and the ideas
of Gibson that were discussed previously; in fact it was Gibson who first coined
the phrase ‘haptic information’ (Gibson, 1966). If we just sat still and did not
aempt to explore our environment using our hands, we would not gain mu
new information at all. Instead, on most occasions we have to interact with the
environment actively to generate haptic information that will be of use. It is
also the case that we can think about our sense of tou (and kinaesthesis) in
terms of ‘boom-up’ and ‘top-down’ processing. A lot of haptic information is
likely to be processed in a very boom-up manner; for example, information
about the texture and resistance of my keyboard keys and the relative position
of my fingers can be said to flow from my senses upward through the
perceptual system. However, haptic information can also have a top-down
element, and one excellent example of this is the parlour game where
blindfolded people are asked to guess what object has been placed in their
hand. Although this task involves considerable boom-up processing, it is
likely that the person would use their prior knowledge regarding the size,
shape, weight, and texture of objects to form and test hypotheses as to what the
object might be.
Active perception Perception as a function of interaction with the world.
Using illusions to explore haptic information

One of the key approaes to distinguishing between top-down and boom-up
processing is based on illusions. You may remember that the Müller–Lyer
illusion has been interpreted as providing evidence of top-down processing, as

we use existing knowledge to interpret the lines and mistakenly decide that one
is longer than the other. Interestingly, there is evidence that the Müller–Lyer
illusion works for haptic as well as visual information. Heller et al. (2002)
produced a version of the illusion in whi the lines were ‘raised’ (in a similar
fashion to Braille) to allow them to be felt. Participants estimated the size of the
key lines using a sliding ruler. Blindfolded-sighted, late-blind, congenitally
blind, and low-vision participants completed the task and all were influenced
by the illusion; i.e. they estimated the ‘wings-in’ line to be shorter than the
‘wings-out’ line. Not only does this experiment demonstrate that the Müller–
Lyer illusion is not reliant on either visual imagery or experience, it also
suggests that there is an element of top-down processing with haptic
information, just as there is with visual information.
As we rea to feel or pi up an object we also need to take account of the
information pied up by other senses, most notably vision. at both vision
and haptic information are used to explore or pi up an object with our hands
is obvious, otherwise it would be just as easy to pi something up with our
eyes closed as it would with them open. As well as demonstrating visual top-
down processing, illusion studies can also show the extent to whi visual and
haptic information is integrated.
Figure 2.28
A (CGI) recreation of the task from the Gallace and Spence (2005) study in whi a
participant feels the length of two unseen stis placed behind the Müller–Lyer illusion.
Source: Adapted from Gallace & Spence (2005).

Gallace and Spence (2005) constructed a task that involved participants
looking at the Müller–Lyer illusion whilst at the same time aempting to tell
whi of two stis hidden from view was the longer. e stis were placed
directly behind the Müller–Lyer illusion (see Figure 2.28), whi was presented
in a horizontal ‘< > <’ configuration with just the ‘wings’ and not the lines
themselves drawn (this is known as the Brentano version of the illusion). e
Müller–Lyer illusion was being presented visually, and at the same time as they
were viewing it, participants were performing a task utilising haptic
information. e results of this experiment revealed that the visual illusion
interfered with the participant’s ability to ‘feel’ the correct length of the line, so
that the length of the stis were either overestimated or underestimated as a
result of the participant seeing the illusion. us, visual information was
affecting the processing of haptic information.
Another distinction that is particularly relevant to the processing of haptic
information is that of perception for recognition and perception for action. If
you remember (from the earlier discussion of visual perception), the idea is that
the information from our retinas is processed through two separate, but
interconnected, visual pathways in the brain: the ventral pathway appears to be
used for processing information that is used to recognise objects, whilst the
dorsal pathway is used for processing information used to guide the visual
control of action (Milner & Goodale, 1995). We tend to make use of haptic
information to interact with the environment around us in precise ways, i.e.
haptic information is probably most useful in terms of guiding action than in
recognising objects (unless there is no light available or the person concerned
has impaired vision).
A key question, therefore, is whether there is a divide between perception for
recognition and perception for action in the processing of haptic information.
In aempting to answer this question, it is possible to make further use of
evidence from studies that have utilised illusions. e Ebbinghaus illusion is an
example of a size-contrast illusion (see Figure 2.29) in whi two circles of
equal size appear to be of different sizes due to the presence of surrounding
circles. If you look at Figure 2.29 and compare the two circles in the centre of
the others (we call these the ‘target’ objects), the one on the right will appear to
be larger than the one on the le even though both are exactly the same size. In

judging the size of the two target circles your perceptual system is taking into
account the contrast between their size and the size of the circles surrounding
them (we call these ‘flanker’ objects). us, a target object will appear smaller
when placed next to flanker objects that are larger than it and will appear
larger when placed next to flanker objects that are smaller than it.
Aglioti et al. (1995) found evidence to support the dissociation between
ventral and dorsal processing by conducting an experiment in whi
participants were asked either to estimate the size (ventral processing) of the
central circle in the size-contrast illusion described above or to rea out and
pi it up (dorsal processing). When estimating the size of the circle the
participants’ judgements were affected by the illusion, but analysis of the size
of their grip revealed that the action of piing up the circle did not appear to
be affected, a result similar to that in the Króliczak et al. (2006) study described
earlier (the one that involved fliing the mark off the hollow face).
Figure 2.29
e Ebbinghaus illusion.
Hu and Goodale (2000) conducted a series of studies utilising a different

version of the size-contrast illusion (utilising ‘virtual’ objects that were
presented by reflecting a video image onto a mirror placed in front of the
participant). Participants were presented with two objects and were asked

either to pi up the target object or to indicate its size using a manual estimate
(i.e. by separating their finger and thumb). ese two tasks were both
performed either immediately or aer a five-second delay. e results showed
that when performed immediately, the manual estimates were influenced by
the size of the flanker object. However, analysis of the recording of the
participants’ hand movement in the ‘pi-up’ condition revealed that the size of
their grip was not influenced (statistically significantly) by the size of the
flanker. When providing the manual estimate, the participants must have been
utilising ‘perception for recognition’ processing, as they would have had to
generate a mental description of the object in order to estimate its size. When
piing the target object up, the processing required would have been
‘perception for action’. Further evidence that this task demonstrates
dissociation between perception for action and recognition was provided by
asking participants to perform both the manual estimate and pi-up tasks from
memory. Here, both tasks necessitate the use of perception for recognition, as
the participant has to create a mental description of the object in their memory.
Analysis of this experiment did indeed show that both tasks were influenced by
the size-contrast illusion; i.e. the size of the flanker influenced the perceived
size of the target.
e Hu and Goodale (2000) study involved the processing of haptic
information, as proprioception and kinaesthesis were used in moving the
participants’ arm and fingers, and their tou receptors were used for detecting
when the fingers came in contact with the target object. However, the actual
illusion employed (the size-contrast illusion) was presented visually and
therefore it was visual information and not haptic information that was
responsible for the participants misjudging the size of the target object. So,
whilst the study provides evidence that visual information is processed in a
dissociated manner, through either perception for recognition or action, it does
not tell us whether haptic information is also processed in this way.

Figure 2.30
A (CGI) recreation of the task from the Westwood and Goodale (2003) study in whi a
participant feels unseen flanker and target objects with their le hand and indicates the size
of the target with their right.
Source: Adapted from Westwood & Goodale (2003).
To explore this issue further, Westwood and Goodale (2003) conducted a

similar study to that of Hu and Goodale (2000), but they replaced the visual
size-contrast illusion with a haptic version. Participants were asked first to feel
an unseen flanker object and then to feel an unseen target object using their le
hand. en, with their eyes closed, they were asked to use their right-hand
either to provide a manual estimate of the size of the target object (again using
finger and thumb) or to rea out and pi up an unseen object (mated in size
to the target) placed in front of them (see Figure 2.30). e results of this
experiment showed that the manual estimate task was affected by the illusion –
participants tended to overestimate the size of the target when it was paired
with a smaller flanker object and to underestimate the size of the target when it
was paired with a larger flanker object. e size of the participants’ grip as they
reaed for the object did not appear to have been affected by the illusion; i.e.
their grip was the same regardless of the size of the flanker object. is is
evidence suggesting that haptic information is processed in a dissociated
manner similar to that of visual information, or indeed (as the authors
themselves suggest) that all sensory processing might be organised according to
a general principle.

In summary, the common notion that there are five human senses is
something of an underestimate and we usually confuse several different senses
(particularly kinaesthesis and proprioception) when we talk about tou. Our
ability to explore the environment with our hands is very well developed, and
by combining haptic and visual information we can interact with objects very
accurately. In addition, the way in whi we process haptic information seems
very similar to visual information, in that both boom-up and top-down
processing are employed and there appears to be a dissociation between
perception for recognition and perception for action.
Applications of haptic information

Developments in tenology have meant that it is increasingly possible to use
haptic information in a wide variety of scenarios, either to accompany visual
and auditory information or to replace it. Here we will explore just a few
possible uses in what is becoming a rapidly evolving field.
Paying aention to visual signs and warnings can be problematic when
driving due to the need to pay aention to other visual stimuli, su as the road
ahead. Tenology makes it possible to build safety features into vehicles to
warn drivers if their vehicle is driing into a different lane, whether they are
falling asleep or entering a bend or approaing an intersection too quily.
Presenting these various warnings using visual and audible signals is
potentially dangerous if it goes unheeded because of competing stimuli or
draws the driver’s aention away from the road. is has led to researers
exploring whether haptic information offers a solution to warning drivers
effectively without distracting them.
A variety of different devices that make use of haptic information in a
vehicle have been studied. Janssen and Nilsson (1993) reported that reactions to
potential collisions were improved by using an accelerator that pushed ba on
the driver’s foot to warn them, and a study conducted by Di Campli San Vito et
al. (2019) found promising results with a thermal navigation steering wheel, in
whi alternate sides can be heated or cooled to indicate turning direction. In
addition, Kozak et al. (2006) compared warnings aimed at preventing drowsy
driving, whi were provided through either a visual head-up display, auditory

signals, or through a vibrating, turning steering wheel, and found the haptic
signal to be the most effective.
e U.S. Federal Highway Administration (McGee, 2018) estimates that 51
per cent of motor vehicle deaths are caused by lane departure, making this an
important situation for tenology to address. Navarro et al. (2007) found that
using a steering wheel that vibrated whenever a driver began to deviate from
their current lane improved steering performance. Lane departure warnings
have since been built into a large number of production cars, including systems
whi use vibrations in the steering wheel to warn the driver (for a review see
Narote et al., 2018). ere are even systems that automatically steer the vehicle
ba into lane or keep it centred, though to be effective su systems still
require the driver to adapt their driving behaviour (Sullivan & Flannagan,
2019).
A number of tenologies have been developed to provide a haptic version of
visual information (for an overview see Giudice et al., 2020). Touscreens can
be of great benefit to the blind and visually impaired (BVI), enabling a tactile
representation of visual information. For example, tactile maps have been
found to be useful to BVI individuals in conveying environmental information
(Perkins, 2002) and appear to offer a significant enhancement over learning a
route through direct experience only (Espinosa et al., 1998). An example of a
map with both tactile and visual guidance is shown in Figure 2.31.
Using the vibration function of touscreens to provide vibrotactile feedba
when the user moves their finger over a particular visual element can be
combined with the spoken names of roads, places, etc. to create a vibro-audio
map (VAM). e use of a VAM has been found to produce similar
environmental and wayfinding learning for BVI participants as a tactile map,
but with the convenience of a smartphone solution (Giudice et al., 2020).
However, the mode of human–computer interaction can have some
unexpected effects. For example, the use of touscreens enhances a consumer’s
evaluation of an object perceived previously as positive but lowers their
evaluation of an object perceived more negatively, when compared to indirect
interaction through a mouse cli (Wang et al., 2020).
Haptic sensation can also be used therapeutically. Vibroacoustic therapy
involves vibrations, produced by highly controlled sequences of low-frequency

sound and music, that can be felt by a client and whi have been found to
produce a sense of wellbeing in ildren and adults with learning difficulties,
and has also been used to support the wellbeing of an adult cancer patient
(Anderson, 2019). In addition, vibroacoustic therapy has been used to support
people living with dementia and Alzheimer’s disease (Clements-Cortés, 2019)
and with cerebral palsy, where some studies have reported an improvement in
motor function (for a review see Kantor et al., 2019).
Figure 2.31
A map of Warsaw ‘Old Town’ providing guidance to sighted and BVI individuals.
Instructions in Braille are also provided (seen at the top of the image). e ‘You are here’
point is provided by a ‘buon’, boom right (near the A-shaped building).
Source: Photograph by Graham Edgar.

2.14 Conclusions
One of the major themes running through this apter is the distinction
between ‘perception for recognition’ and ‘perception for action’, and how these
two systems interact (or not). e section on vision concluded with the
supposition that the two perceptual systems operate synergistically to allow us
to perceive the world. e sections on visual and haptic perception both end
with the proposition that there can be a dissociation between perception for
action and perception for recognition. e idea that there are pathways in the
brain for supporting recognition and action, and that these pathways are
functionally independent, is supported by studies su as the one that involving
‘fliing the mark off the hollow face’ (Króliczak et al., 2006). Westwood and
Goodale (2011) have drawn together a body of evidence to suggest that a clear
recognition/action distinction is reasonable in perception. Others, however (e.g.
Senk et al., 2011), argue that the two processes are not independent. Indeed,
De Haan and Cowey (2011) argue that, given there is evidence for at least five
‘subsections’ of the dorsal stream, it is perhaps beer to think in terms of a
patwork, or network, of interconnecting and interacting brain areas rather
than a clear stream. is is consistent with the PDP approaes discussed
earlier, and suggests a greater level of interaction between the different
processing streams and a sharing of function.
ese apparently contradictory conclusions can perhaps be reconciled by
appealing to the argument that is made particularly clearly in the section on
auditory perception. It is possible to use sophisticated experimental teniques
to study, for instance, the perception for action and perception for recognition
systems in isolation. is approa is invaluable in that it gives an indication of
how these systems operate. It does not, however, give a complete picture of
how these systems operate in ‘real life’. If this issue is considered, then there is
evidence that the two systems are heavily interconnected and that perception
results from an interaction of these two primary systems (and their many sub-
systems). So, perception for recognition and perception for action can work
together, but whether they do or not will depend upon the circumstances. It
may be time to move on from the analogy of clearly defined streams, as this

seems to downplay the wider context in whi these ‘streams’ operate, and the
interactions between them. Perhaps ‘perception for action’ and ‘perception for
recognition’ are more ‘currents in a lake’ than streams.
One theme that runs through the discussion of all the senses considered in
this apter, and that is encapsulated in the notion of the functions of the dorsal
and ventral streams, is the notion that perception consists of far more than the
simple collecting of sensory information. Perception involves building up a
model of the world around us and the objects and people in it. We certainly use
sensory information to do this, and to work out where and what things are at
any particular time (and to interact with them), but we also use our knowledge,
experience, and expectations to build up our percept. is apter could best be
summed up by re-wording a phrase that we have already used: ‘We perceive
things not as they are, but as we are.’

Summary
• ere are a number of theories that aempt to explain how we encode

incoming sensory information.
• Perception is not the same as sensation. We may detect something but
not perceive it.
• Knowledge is unnecessary in our perception of the world – according to
direct perception theories.
• Knowledge is crucial in our influencing our perception of the world –
according to constructivist theories.
• Both approaes may operate in vision, with the ventral stream
operating primarily for perception for recognition and the dorsal stream
operating primarily for perception for action.
• Knowledge is also crucial in auditory perception.
• ere are strong interactions between auditory and visual perception.
• ere may be at least 21 senses (not just five!).
• Knowledge also influences haptic perception.
• We perceive things not as they are, but as we are.
Figure 2.32
Answer to Figure 2.20: Now can you see the cat?
Source: Original illustration, Wren Edgar.

Further reading
Eysen, M.W., & Groome, D. (2015). Cognitive Psychology: Revisiting the Classic Studies. London: Sage.
is book includes apters on Gibson’s direct perception theory, Marr’s computational theory, and
Goodale and Milner’s visual pathways.
Eysen, M.W., & Keane, M.T. (2020). Cognitive Psychology. Abingdon: Routledge. Covers all aspects of
perception, including face perception and the perception of movement.

 3
Attention
Graham Edgar, Helen Edgar, and Elizabeth Styles
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-3
Contents
3.1 What is aention and why do we need it?
3.2 Aention to space
3.3 Aention to features
3.4 Aention to objects
3.5 Exogenous influences on aention
3.6 Endogenous influences on aention
3.9 Aention and emotion
Summary
Further reading

3.1 What is attention and why do we need it?
We will begin this apter with a simple demonstration of aention in
action – in the form of a card tri. Please have a look at the cards in Figure
3.1 and, well, ‘Pi a card, any card, and remember it’. Now, using our
powers of prediction honed over many years of studying psyology, we
will aempt to divine the card that you have osen and we will remove it
from the set. So, if you turn to the end of the apter you will see the set of
cards with one missing (Figure 3.8). Is it your card that is missing? If it is,
wonder at the power of psyology and then perhaps try the tri again, and
maybe pi a different card.
Figure 3.1
Pi a card, any card.
Source: Shutterstock ID 1719036595.
If you have not already seen this particular demonstration you should be
able to work out how it is done (although it may take a few goes). e tri
is that, although the cards at the end of the apter are similar to the ones
here (7, 8, or 9), none of them are the same. So, what we have done is to take
away one card – and ange all the others. e reason that the tri works
(and it does work very well if you have not seen it before) is that, when you
are asked to pi a card, you aend to that one card. Although you may
have an idea of what the other cards are (i.e. 7, 8, or 9) you are not aending
to the details. When you look at the cards at the end of the apter, you are
fully aware that the card you have osen has gone, but you have not

processed enough detail of the other cards (e.g. the value and suit of ea
card) to know that they have also anged.
is effect is called ange blindness (Rensink et al., 1997; Simons &
Levin, 1997) and there are numerous very powerful demonstrations of this
effect available. Essentially, major anges can be made to an image without
a viewer realising it because we are only consciously aware of a subset of
the potentially available information in the image at any one time. All that
is necessary for ange blindness to occur is that there is some interruption
to viewing the image (in the example here, turning to the end of the apter)
so that the viewer is not able to pi up cues (for example motion cues) as
the image anges. We are very used to maintaining a stable perception of
the world across interruptions – for example, every time we blink. Change
blindness demonstrations exploit our ability to perceive a stable world
across interruptions by making a ange during the interruption, something
that doesn’t usually happen in the ‘real world’.
Not only is our vision interrupted when we blink, but it is also interrupted
every time we move our eyes to bring the fovea (the high-acuity region of
the eye) to bear on objects or areas of interest. In normal viewing our eyes
make several short, rapid eye movements between fixation-points ea
second. ese eye movements are referred to as ‘saccades’ and can be reflex
(e.g. to sudden appearance of a visual stimulus) or voluntary. e duration of
a saccade is determined by the speed and distance covered by that saccade,
but is usually not more than about 100ms (Leigh & Kennard, 2004). Once a
saccade has been completed, the visual input can be quite different to pre-
saccade. During the saccade, vision is suppressed and we are functionally
blind (Bridgeman et al., 1975) – this is why you can never see your own eye
movements in a mirror. Su visual suppression helps to maintain visual
continuity. Your visual experience is one of ‘seamless comprehension’ of the
visual world (Grimes, 1996), rather than an image luring like a really bad
phone video. ere is also evidence that there is a similar effect to visual
saccadic suppression in haptic perception. Changes to a Braille paern made
while the reader is moving fingers across it may not be noticed (Ziat et al.,
2010).

Saccade e movement of the eyes during whi information uptake is
suppressed. Between saccades the eye makes fixations during whi there
is information uptake at the fixated area.
One of the earliest studies demonstrating ange blindness (McConkie et

al. 1978; McConkie & Zola, 1979) used a reading task in whi, as the reader
made a saccade from one word to the next, the case of every leer in the
target word was anged (a to A, b to B, etc.). Su a ange in the physical
aracteristics of the word was not generally noticed by readers, although a
ange in meaning (anging one word for another) was generally detected
(Rayner, 1975).
is early resear provided the impetus for a substantial, and fascinating,
body of work examining just what it is possible to ange in a (usually)
visual scene without the viewer noticing. Grimes (1996) describes a series of
studies examining the extent to whi viewers were able to spot anges to a
photograph made during a saccade. To start with, the anges to the
photograph were minor (removing cutlery from an image, or anging the
colour of a book in a scene), but the experimenters worked up to swapping
the hats of the two principal subjects in a picture and, finally, their heads.
None of their participants noticed that subjects had anged hats, and only
50 per cent that they had anged heads.
Change blindness resear was taken to its (so far) ultimate conclusion by
Simons and Levin (1998) who developed a paradigm for anging the person
that somebody was talking to in real life. To produce the perceptual break
introduced by, for example, a saccade (or turning to the end of the apter in
the card tri), Simons and Levin used a rather contrived but highly
ingenious procedure. One of the experimenters, carrying a map (the
‘enquirer’) would approa a ‘participant’ and ask for directions. While the
participant was giving directions, two people carrying a door would rather
rudely pass between the participant and the enquirer. All the participant
could see for a short period would be the door, everybody else would be the
other side of that door. As the door passed, the enquirer would grab the door

and move off with it, while one of the door-carriers would stay behind,
produce their own copy of the map and continue asking for directions. Less
than 50 per cent (7 out of 15) participants noticed that the person they were
talking with had anged. e studies were conducted on a university
campus, and if the enquirer was dressed as a construction worker (so not
obviously part of the student group) the noticing rate dropped to 33 per cent
(4 out of 12). You may find these results surprising and feel that you would
definitely notice, but Levin et al. (2000) found that people consistently
overestimated their ability to detect anges. Interestingly, in the anged-
person scenario, even some of the people who noticed the ange still
carried on giving directions!
Change blindness helps to maintain a stable and coherent world view. It
also means we are less likely to spot ‘continuity errors’ in films where, for
example, a coffee cup visible in one scene has disappeared in the next – or
vice versa. So, why does ange blindness occur? Why do we not process
everything? e short answer to the second question is ‘Because we can’t’.
e human brain is truly impressive in what it can do, but it does not have
unlimited processing capacity. Kahneman (1973) proposed the idea of human
cognition incorporating a central processor allocating limited resources to
different aspects of the world. ere are insufficient resources available to
process everything and so some things (su as playing cards that you have
not selected or precise details of the person you are talking to) will not be
processed – at least not fully. at is, we do not aend to everything.
Kahneman (2011) makes the point that the phrase ‘paying aention’ is very
apt. We have limited cognitive resources, just as most of us have limited
money. We cannot ‘pay aention’ to everything.
So, if aention is only allocated to certain things, how is that allocation
determined? Why do you aend to certain things and not others? How do
you decide what is the most important thing to aend to? Do you decide, or
does allocation of aention happen automatically? Or do you just allocate
aention randomly and hope for the best? e answer to the last question is
easiest and it is ‘No’. To answer the other questions, it is necessary to
consider just how aention may be allocated – and to what.

3.2 Attention to space
So how do we allocate aention if we cannot process all the information
potentially available to us? One of the simplest ways of reducing the
processing load is to direct aention to a restricted region of space. In the
card tri, for example, we might oose to focus on only a portion of the
display, whi would explain why we are not aware of anges to the other
cards. Being able to allocate aention to a region of space is useful if there
are no objects or features visible – for example, it may be dark. Considering
aention as an evolved system (as we did with perception in the last
apter) then it is worth considering the potential survival benefits of being
able to allocate aention to a region of space (the dark mouth of your cave
for example), either to sear for objects or to be ready for when something
does appear in that region.
A metaphor for this focusing of our aention onto a particular region of
space is to liken it to a spotlight (Eriksen & Eriksen, 1974; Posner, 1980). Just
as a spotlight illuminates only the area where it falls, all stimuli that fall
within our aentional ‘beam’ are processed to some extent. Stimuli that fall
outside our aentional spotlight receive less, or no, processing. An
elaboration of the spotlight metaphor is to consider that the aentional
spotlight has a zoom-lens – it can be made larger or smaller (LaBerge, 1983;
Eriksen & St. James, 1986). e implication, of course, is that the more
widely you spread your spotlight of aention, the more thinly spread your
processing resources are.
Since the introduction of the spotlight metaphor for the allocation of
spatial aention, it has become clear that su spatial allocation of aention
is rather more sophisticated than a simple spotlight (Chen & Zelinsky, 2019;
Yeshurun, 2019; Lawrence et al., 2020). For example, Hüermann et al. (2014)
have demonstrated that experts in sports that benefit from a horizontal
distribution of aention (e.g. football) show a differently shaped spotlight to
those experts in ‘vertical sports’ (e.g. volleyball). is finding demonstrates
that the spotlight of aention is not fixed but can be modified by experience.

ere is also the issue of the link between the aentional spotlight and
eye movements. An important finding was that of Duhamel et al. (1992)
whi suggested that shis in aention may anticipate eye movements – the
spotlight moves before the eyes do. Golomb (2019) reviews evidence
suggesting that, as the eyes move, the aentional spotlight may actually split
into two, with one ‘beam’ moving to the new location and one staying
behind at the old location and cating up later.
e spotlight metaphor is most easily conceptualised as relating to visual
aention, but the early work on the allocation of aention focused on the
auditory modality, so we will start there.
Modality e processing system specific to one of the senses, su as

vision, hearing, or tou.

3.3 Attention to features
Donald Broadbent (1958) pioneered an elegant method of studying how
people select what they aend to when their limited-capacity systems are
overloaded. He used the simple fact that humans generally have two ears,
and played different stimuli simultaneously to ea ear. is task is referred
to as ‘diotic listening’ and is illustrated in Figure 3.2.
e participant’s task is to report ba according to certain instructions;
for example, to report all the digits spoken in a particular tone of voice, or all
the digits of a particular loudness. Su a task automatically overloads the
aentional capacity of the individual and provides a simple way of studying
how an individual may direct aention. For example, can they aend to a
particular pit of voice, or to loudness? Broadbent found that su selection
was entirely possible and this led him to propose that the amount of
incoming information can be reduced to a manageable level by early
selection on the basis of simple physical features (e.g. pit, loudness).
Early selection Selective aention that operates on the physical

information available from early perceptual analysis.
A striking example of su allocation of aention to a feature, in the

visual domain, is provided by the phenomenon of aentional ‘pop-out’
(Treisman, 1985; Wolfe, 1994) – an example of whi is given in Figure 3.3. If
a particular stimulus has a unique feature (su as colour or shape) whi is
not shared by the stimuli around it, then it will automatically draw aention
and ‘pop out’.
Pop-out An object will pop-out from a display if it is detected in parallel

and is different from all other items in the display.

Figure 3.2
A diotic listening task. Different stimuli (leers, digits, words, etc.) could be played
simultaneously to both ears. In this case, the participant would hear 1 and 7, 5 and 4, 2
and 9 presented together.
Source: © Fotosearch.com: Fotosearch_k6313996.
Figure 3.3
An example of colour pop-out. e panel on the le has a single amber disc in a field of

green and is instantly detectable. In the panel on the right there is also a single amber
disc, but it is surrounded by a variety of different coloured discs and so has to be
seared for.
Source: Image by the authors.

3.4 Attention to objects
Aention is more than just a process of directing processing resources to
particular features. In ‘feature integration theory’ (FIT; Treisman & Gelade,
1980) aention is conceptualised as a ‘cognitive glue’ that binds the features
that make up a single object together. Different sensory features (colour,
line-orientation, etc.) are coded by specialised independent sub-systems or
‘modules’, and ea module forms a ‘feature map’ for the dimensions of the
feature it encodes (ploing the locations of that feature). Colours are
represented on the feature map for colour, while lines of different
orientations are represented on the orientation map. Detection of individual
features (colour, orientation, etc.) that are represented on the different maps
takes place without the need for aention and in parallel. When a
conjunction (or binding) of features is required then the separate features
must be combined (for example, a red line of a certain orientation), and this
combining of features requires focused aention.
Conjunction A term from feature integration theory of aention that

describes a target defined by at least two separable features, su as a red
O amongst green Os and red Ts.
A conjunction of features to form an object can be aieved in three

ways. Firstly, features that have been encoded on the feature maps may fit
into predicted object ‘frames’ according to stored knowledge (top-down
influences). For example, we know that fire engines are red and the sky is
blue, so if the colours red and blue are active at the same time we are
unlikely to combine red with sky and blue with fire engine.
Secondly, aention may select within a ‘master-map of locations’ that
allows all the features at a particular location to be gathered together,
corresponding to the Gestalt principle of proximity as a way of grouping
features into an object. When aention is focused on one location in the

master map, it allows for retrieval of all the features present at that location,
and creates a temporary representation of the combination of those features
in an ‘object file’. e contents of the object file are then used to recognise
the object by mating it to stored knowledge in memory. Treisman (1988)
assumed that conscious perception depends on mating the contents of the
object file with stored descriptions in long-term memory, allowing
recognition.
irdly, features may combine on their own without aention, but
sometimes this conjunction may be inaccurate and give rise to an ‘illusory
conjunction’. For example, if searing a display of different coloured leers
that contains a ‘red X’ and a ‘green Y’, an individual may erroneously report
a ‘red Y’.
Objects do, however, have aention-geing properties above and beyond
simply occupying a region of space and being a collection of features. Chen
(2012) points out that objects can overlap and share a region of space, and
yet we are still able to aend to ea particular object. Once an object is
identified, then any constituent parts of that object are more easily
processed than parts of a different, but overlapping, object (Duncan, 1984)
and it is generally faster to shi aention within, as compared to between,
objects (Chen, 1998). For example, Chen (1998) used an ingenious paradigm
to demonstrate the operation of object-based aention, using stimuli like the
one shown in Figure 3.4.
Figure 3.4
An X or two Vs?
Source: Adapted from Chen (1998). Image by the authors.

If participants were told that they were looking at two ‘V’s, then
switing aention within one of the Vs was faster than switing between
the two Vs. If, however, participants were told that they were looking at an
‘X’, this difference disappeared – they could swit aention just as quily
between what had previously been different objects (the two Vs, now
considered to be part of an X). Note that the stimulus never anges – only
the instructions.

3.5 Exogenous influences on attention
It appears that aention can be directed to a region of space, a feature, or an
object. e obvious question in that case is: since there are so many things
aention could potentially be allocated to, how is one thing selected? One
suggestion is that aention is allocated according to a ‘biased competition’
(Duncan, 1996).
Considering first the ‘competition’ element of the model, the idea is that
all aspects of a situation compete for aention, and brighter, larger, or
moving objects are most likely to win that competition. Aention will
therefore be allocated to the loudest noise, or the brightest light. Proulx and
Egeth (2008) demonstrated that brighter, larger objects do indeed tend to
capture aention at the expense of dimmer, smaller objects. e elements of
a situation that aract aention are those that are inherently more
conspicuous. e capturing of aention by perceptually salient stimuli is
essentially an exogenous process (i.e. external to the individual). It is the
properties of elements of the situation that capture aention, with the most
salient winning the competition for aention at the expense of other less
salient stimuli. For example, if a stimulus in the visual field (su as a bright
light) is being aended to, there is evidence that the activity of cells in the
visual cortex representing other elements of the visual scene is suppressed
(Duncan & Humphreys, 1989; Desimone & Duncan, 1995; Reynolds et al.,
1999). is competition provides an efficient way to allocate aention. From
an evolutionary point of view, more aentionally salient stimuli are likely to
be generated by things (su as sabre-tooth tigers) that are closer or bigger –
and are more likely to pose an imminent threat or require immediate action.
Capture e ability of one source of information to take processing

priority from another. For example, the sudden onset of novel
information within a modality su as an apple falling may interrupt
ongoing aentional processing.

Using a simple competition as the basis for allocating aention seems
quite efficient, but it has some obvious drawbas. One drawba is that
once aention has been allocated to something, it could be difficult to swit
aention to something else less salient, unless the original stimulus
disappears. A second drawba is that if you do manage to allocate aention
to a second (less salient) stimulus, the original stimulus is likely to win the
competition again and grab aention ba. So what is to stop humans acting
like a moth around a flame, constantly fixated on the brightest light or the
loudest noise in any situation?
Well, there is evidence that humans can, under some circumstances,
exhibit what has become known as a moth-to-the-flame effect, when there
are very strong visual cues to grab aention. Studies (for a review see Green,
2006) have suggested that drivers tend to steer in the direction of where they
fixate. Although it is not necessary for aention to always be directed to the
point of fixation (or vice versa), if there is a strong visual stimulus su as
that shown in Figure 3.5., it is quite likely that drivers would look, and
aend to, the bright flashing lights.
Readinger et al. (2002) have demonstrated that the moth-to-the-flame
effect in drivers is likely to be a cognitive effect and not due to, for example,
the turn of the head leading to the driver turning their arms on the wheel.
Readinger et al. found that the moth-to-the-flame effect persisted even when
the steering of the vehicle was reversed (this was a simulator study). at is,
to steer le, the drivers would have to turn the wheel to the right, and vice
versa.

Figure 3.5
Emergency vehicles display bright (and oen flashing) lights that are designed to aract
aention. e problems occur when the lights have done their job. What next?
Given that it is unusual to see drivers circling bright light sources su as
street lights, this suggest that humans must be rather more cognitively
sophisticated than moths. ere must be some way of breaking the
aentional ‘pull’ of a stimulus – and there is. Corbea and Shulman (2002)
identified a ventral frontoparietal brain network that acts as a ‘circuit
breaker’, to break aentional focus on one stimulus in favour of another
behaviourally relevant stimulus.
Another feature of the human aentional system that acts to prevent
individuals geing stu on one stimulus is a feature that has been labelled
as ‘inhibition of return’ (Posner & Cohen, 1984; Posner et al., 1985; Klein,
2000). As already discussed, when aention is allocated to a stimulus, that
stimulus is preferentially processed at the expense of ‘distractors’. But once
aention has disengaged from su a stimulus there is inhibition of return,
and there is a delay in responding to subsequent stimuli at that location. A
similar phenomenon is that, if two stimuli are presented in rapid succession,

the second one may be ‘missed’ – this is termed an ‘aentional blink’
(Broadbent & Broadbent, 1987).

3.6 Endogenous influences on attention
So far, aention has been considered as a boom-up, stimulus-driven
process. ere are, however, clear top-down influences resulting from, for
example, knowledge, expectancies, and intentions. If we are searing for a
particular feature, su as the colour of somebody’s coat, then prioritising
that particular feature (colour) is a top-down process. e competition for
aention has been biased by top-down influences (whi colour we decide
to look for). It has been suggested (eeuwes, 2010), for example, that top-
down influences moderate the spread of the aentional spotlight.
Evidence for top-down influences on aention has been provided by
cueing studies. Posner’s original experiments (e.g. Posner et al., 1978; Posner,
1980) measured the effects of providing participants with a visual cue whi
indicated the probability of a location where a visual target could appear.
Two types of cue were used: a central cue, presented at the central fixation
point, whi was an arrow pointing le or right; or a peripheral cue, whi
was a brief illumination of a box presented to the le or right, in peripheral
vision away from the fixation point. e task was simple. Participants
fixated the centre of the visual display and responded as quily as possible
when they detected a target whi would be presented either to the le or
right side of the fixation point. No eye movements were allowed, so it was
the aentional focus that moved to peripheral stimuli. Results showed that
valid cues produced a faster response than neutral cues and invalid cues
produced slower responses than neutral cues. is showed, firstly, that
aention could be directed in the absence of eye movements and, secondly,
that prior knowledge (provided by the cue) could influence the subsequent
allocation of aention.
Posner (1980) manipulated the likelihood that the cue was a valid
indicator of target location. Participants were told that there was a 20 per
cent, 50 per cent, or 80 per cent ance that the cue was a valid indicator of
whi side the target would be presented. So when participants knew the
cued location was only valid on 20 per cent of trials, they should have been

able to voluntarily direct aention to the opposite side. Performance on
trials with a central cue showed that participants could ignore cues likely to
be invalid and direct aention to the other side of visual space. Participants
were unable to ignore the effect of peripheral cues, however. If the cue
appeared in the peripheral location, aention was drawn to it, even though
it was not likely be a valid predictor of the subsequently appearing stimulus.
Posner (1980) interpreted these results as evidence for two aention
systems. Firstly, an endogenous system whi can be controlled
intentionally by, for example, the subjects’ task goals and is used to direct
aention in the central cueing condition. Secondly, an exogenous system
whi is not under intentional control and that automatically draws
aention to the location of a ange in the visual environment – whether a
cue is valid or not (as in the peripheral cueing condition). e slowing of
response due to an invalid peripheral cue suggests that because aention is
automatically drawn to the position indicated by the cue it then has to be
intentionally shied to the actual target location, whi takes time. In terms
of the biased competition model of the allocation of aention, exogenous
stimuli compete for aention, and that competition is biased to some extent
by endogenous influences, su as the intentions of the individual. Note that
the biased competition model also allows for endogenous influences that are
not necessarily under conscious control.
Endogenous attention Aention that is controlled by the intention of a

participant.
Exogenous attention Aention that is drawn automatically to a

stimulus without the intention of the participant. Processing by
exogenous aention cannot be ignored.
Inevitably, it has been suggested (Awh et al., 2012; eeuwes, 2019) that
there is a third aentional system driven by selection history. at is, if you
have aended to something previously, you are more likely to aend to it

again. Whether this constitutes a separate system, or could be integrated
ba into the endogenous system by considering knowledge (that the item
has been aended to previously) to be an endogenous influence is an
interesting question. As discussed below, it is clear that there are a wide
range of influences that could be considered to be endogenous (su as
emotion) that can bias the allocation of aention.
e influence of top-down factors on aention is evident in a
modification of the diotic listening task (see Figure 3.2) whi introduced
meaningful material into the task (Treisman, 1960). Treisman required
participants to aend to a story (story 1) presented to one ear, and to ignore
a different story (story 2) presented to the other ear. Treisman found that if
story 1 was replaced by a new story (story 3) in the aended ear, and the
aended story (story 1) was swited over to the unaended ear,
participants swited their aention to continue shadowing story 1. Despite
the fact that story 1 had been swited to the ‘unaended’ ear the
participants spontaneously followed the meaning of the story when the
presentation anged from one ear to the other. In order to make the swit
between ears, participants must have known something about the meaning
of the story, even though it had been swited to the ‘unaended’ ear.
Shadowing Used in a diotic listening task in whi participants must

repeat aloud the to-be-aended message and ignore the other message.
A more real-world example of the phenomenon investigated by Treisman

is the ‘own-name effect’ (Moray, 1959; Wood & Cowan, 1995) whereby
humans will oen pi up on their own name in a message whi they are
not aending to (and dogs too apparently; Mallikarjun et al., 2019). Our own
name has particular meaning for us, and so it can bias the allocation of
aention if our name is spoken within earshot – even in a conversation to
whi we are not currently aending.
e influence of top-down processing on aention is also evident in the
well-known ‘cotail party phenomenon’ (Cherry, 1953), whereby an

individual is able to follow the spee of a single speaker in the midst of a
number of other concurrent conversations. is does not only occur at
cotail parties (whi are possibly not as common as they used to be) but
demonstrates that humans are able to use both low-level exogenous cues
(tone of voice, position of speaker, etc.) and higher-level endogenous cues to
follow a single speaker. Focusing on particular stimuli is a skill that could be
useful at a cotail party for other reasons, as it allows for the identification
of pertinent odour cues (in wine, or cotails, for example) against a
baground of other odours (Tempere et al., 2019).
Endogenous influences on attention – a real-world example

A real-world example of how different individuals may extract very
different information from the same stimulus provides a good example of
the action of endogenous processes. e following summary is adapted from
a report in the Confidential Human Factors Incident Reporting (CHIRP)
aviation bulletin of 2005.
Public announcement (PA) overload – a personal perspective?
• An early aernoon flight was slightly delayed due to maintenance.

• During boarding the cabin crew twice announced a welcome,
apologised for a short maintenance delay, and offered the
opportunity to purase scrat cards.
• ose on board tended to ignore the PA and continued to at or
read.
• When all were on board, the captain made a PA (at a low volume)
apologising for the delay. He gave a few details about the trip and
asked passengers to pay aention to the safety brief.
• e safety brief was preceded by an announcement about the in-
flight magazine, gi items, and scrat cards.
• e aircra pushed ba and the safety brief commenced.

• Most people continued to at or read and some revellers in the rear
(of the cabin) continued to make a noise.
• e aircra commenced take-off. At the point of rotation (aircra
still on the ground but starting to pit up) the aircra lured quite
markedly.
• e aircra became airborne and all seemed normal again.
• During the climb the cabin crew broadcast a PA about the imminent
scrat-card sale.
• Aer the scrat-card sale was over, another PA informed passengers
that snas, drinks, and gi items featured in the magazine would be
offered for sale.
• e next PA was from the captain, again at low volume. He
announced details of the weather at the destination, the expected
arrival time, and a couple of features of interest visible from the le-
hand side of the aircra.
• Again most people were reading, aing, or being noisy. Most were
not listening to the captain’s PA, whi had by this stage been on air
for a minute or so.
• e captain then proceeded to quietly inform the passengers: ‘Oh by
the way, some of you may have noticed a roll on take-off, we may
have a problem with the aircra so just as a precaution we are going
to prepare the cabin for an emergency landing.’
• e emergency brief was delivered by the cabin crew very quily,
but included a demonstration of the brace position (the position that
passengers are advised to sit in for an emergency landing).
• ere were still a significant number of passengers who were
unaware that anything out of the ordinary was going on.
• e cabin crew hurriedly secured the cabin.
• e aircra descended and there were no further PAs.
• e writer of the report was unsure whether or not to adopt brace
position.
• e aircra toued down normally and taxied onto the stand,
followed by emergency vehicles.

• e next PA (low volume) came from the captain, apologising for the
emergency preparation and saying, ‘Beer safe than sorry’.
• Almost immediately a cabin crew PA thanked passengers for
oosing their airline. Aer a brief pause the PA continued with
information about car hire, bus tiets, and hotel offers.
• In the baggage hall, some people were excitedly talking about the
incident, one woman was openly crying, but some passengers still
appeared unaware that anything untoward had happened.
e writer concluded that the constant bombardment of PAs caused

people to ‘swit off’ and not listen (or, rather, aend), concluding that, ‘If
there had been a problem on landing and we did thump and skid across the
airfield, there would have been a significant number of passengers who were
not prepared for it.’
What is clear from this incident report is that different people came away
from the same flight with widely different ideas about what was going on.
Some passengers were so upset by the emergency landing, and what they
considered to be a narrow escape, that they were reduced to tears, whereas
others were totally unaware that there had been an emergency landing. So,
how could this happen since they were all ‘listening’ to more or less the
same auditory stimuli (messages) in the same environment (the aircra
cabin)? To answer this question, it is necessary to consider the aspects of
both the stimulus (exogenous aspects) and the listener (endogenous aspects)
that might lead to different percepts in different individuals:
• Ea individual will not have received exactly the same auditory
stimuli. ere will have been variations in the level of sound due to
the cabin environment. It is likely, however, that the PAs would have
been audible, to some extent, to all.
• Endogenous factors could, for ea individual, influence what they
aended to. Some passengers may have been aending to stimuli
other than the PAs. If you have ever flown you may well have noted

that, when safety briefings are delivered, a substantial proportion of
the passengers appear to not be listening (or, rather, not aending).
• Perceptual overload: A listener can be ‘overloaded’ with auditory
messages or warnings (Meredith & Edworthy, 1994; Edworthy et al.,
2013). In this example there were 11 public announcements (PAs) and
two safety briefings containing information on at least 20 different
topics. is aspect of aention is considered in more detail in the
next section.
• Confusion: Critical information embedded in messages with lots of
trivial/irrelevant information can be missed (Edworthy et al., 2003).
is example highlights the fact that, just because a stimulus is above
threshold and is capable of being heard does not mean that the listener will
aend to the stimulus, or that the information content can be extracted and
assimilated into a meaningful percept ready for action. In effect, this is the
auditory equivalent of the ‘looked but failed to see’ problem (listened but
failed to hear) discussed in the last apter.

At the start of this apter we considered what aention is for, with the
simple explanation being that it reduces the volume of incoming
information to a manageable level. e next question, in that case, is ‘How
mu information is that?’ Do our aentional processes always pass the
same amount of information through for processing, or does the amount
vary? Resear suggests that the amount of information that gets through
depends on what resources are free to analyse it. e key concept is whether
filtering of incoming information is carried out early or late in the system. If
the filtering is early, then the amount of incoming information that is
processed is relatively low. If filtering is late, then more information gets
through to receive further processing.
Treisman (1993) argued that selection could be early or late depending on
the concurrent load on perception; when perceptual load is low, late
selection can occur, but if perceptual load is high, selection will be early.
Lavie (1995) proposed that the ability to focus narrowly and exclusively on a
target in visual sear depends on the perceptual load, or overall demand
on aention of the whole task. She suggested that ‘a physical distinction is a
necessary but not sufficient condition for selective processing’ (Lavie, 1995,
p. 452.) Although a clear physical distinction, su as colour or a particular
voice, can allow relevant stimuli to be selected from amongst irrelevant
stimuli, this differentiation does not necessarily prevent processing of
irrelevant stimuli. If sufficient resources are available, stimuli other than the
target can be processed. So, depending on the demand, or perceptual load, of
the overall task, more or less of the available information can be processed.
Once processing resources are exhausted, selection will be required. It is
worth emphasising that the relationship between workload and early or late
filtering explains the finding that irrelevant distractors are more likely to
have an effect when workload is low.
In the flight example in the previous section, it is clear that some people
processed most of the information contained in the public announcements

(PAs), but some did not. Some people may have been busy doing other
things (reading the in-flight magazine, looking out of the window, etc.), but
what is clear is that, although all the passengers had access to broadly the
same amount of information, not everybody processed the same amount of
that information. Some passengers aended to a greater proportion of the
PAs than others.

e discussion of aention so far in this apter has developed the idea that
we are fundamentally limited in how mu we can process, and that
aention acts to reduce the amount of incoming information to manageable
levels. ere is, however, a large body of evidence suggesting that not all
processes are subject to the capacity limitations discussed so far, as some
processes do not require higher-level control. Su processes are referred to
as automatic processes to distinguish them from controlled processes that do
draw on central resources. A two-process theory, distinguishing between
automatic and controlled processing, was proposed by Shiffrin and
Sneider (1977). e exogenous and endogenous systems proposed by
Posner (1980) could map onto the automatic and controlled processes
respectively.
Moors and De Houwer (2006) proposed that automatic processes have
four features; they are goal unrelated, unconscious, fast, and efficient. ey
therefore place lile or no demand on aentional resources or capacity.
Moors and De Houwer suggest that rather than there being a clear-cut
distinction between automatic and controlled processes, the difference is
graded. e ability to move from a controlled process to an automatic one
(as a result of practice) would make a lot of sense – otherwise how would
individuals ever acquire any new automatic processes? is is supported by
a review of neuro-imaging studies. Saling and Phillips (2007) found that the
development of automaticity involved a shi in brain activity from cortical
areas towards sub-cortical areas. In particular, Jansma et al. (2001) showed,
using fMRI, that during the development of automaticity there is a reduction
in activity in frontal areas associated with executive control.
e utility of automatic processing is that it allows us to ‘sidestep’ the
limitation of our processing resources by running some tasks ‘in the
baground’ without having to expend resources to control them. ere is,
however, a disadvantage to having processes running automatically, and this
is the same as the advantage – they are not under conscious control. While

not needing conscious control makes automatic processes highly efficient, it
also means that they cannot be easily stopped or modified. A classic
demonstration of this issue with automatic processing is provided by the
well-known Stroop effect.
A description of what has now become known as the Stroop effect was
first published in America (Stroop, 1935), although a description of the same
effect was published in Germany some years earlier (Jaens & Neuhaus,
1929; Jensen & Rohwer Jr, 1966). A version of the Stroop effect is shown in
Figure 3.6. One task used by Stroop was to ask participants to name the ink
colour associated with a word that, in one condition, was also a colour
name. Stroop found that if the ink colour and word colour name were not
congruent, then performance was impaired (naming the ink colour was
slower, and participants made more mistakes).
Figure 3.6
An example of the Stroop effect. Try reading the ink colour of ea word. You should
find the first two rows relatively easy, but you should find things a lot more difficult
when you start the third row – as this is where the colour names and ink colours ange
from congruent to non-congruent.
e most parsimonious explanation for the Stroop effect is that it

demonstrates a conflict between a controlled process (naming the ink colour)
and an automatic process (reading). When aempting to name the ink
colour the automatically generated word response from reading the word is
already active, and different to the response required for the ink colour –
creating a conflict and impairing performance.
Automatic processes underpin skilled performance. Skills can be
cognitive, su as problem-solving, or perceptuo-motor, su as typing, or a
combination of both cognitive and perceptuo-motor, su as driving. In all
cases it is found that ‘practice makes perfect’. Newell and Rosenbloom (1981)

showed that the learning curve for skill can be described by a power law;
although we never stop improving with practice the initial rapid
improvement gradually becomes less and less as we become more skilled.
As with the Stroop effect, the la of control of automatic processes can
lead to mistakes in the ‘real world’ or ‘slips of action’ (Norman & Shallice,
1986), whereby an automatic process continues when it should not. One su
slip is illustrated in Figure 3.7. Su a routine behaviour as making coffee
requires lile monitoring; we do it almost without thinking about it, the
completion of ea step in the sequence automatically triggering the next
step. Unfortunately, if something is not quite as it should be (the glass is
missing from the cafetiere), the automatic process continues regardless.

Figure 3.7
A slip of action.
Source: Photo by Helen Edgar.

3.9 Attention and emotion
To say that the Stroop effect has been widely used in psyology (and
beyond) would be an understatement. At the time of writing, the original
Stroop paper has been cited over 20,000 times. One of the most useful facets
of the Stroop effect is that it can be used to reveal implicit processes that are
not available to conscious report, and as su forms the basis of the Implicit
Association Test (IAT; Greenwald et al., 1998), a widely used measure of
implicit aitudes to, for example, race.
e ability of a Stroop task to reveal implicit processes has been exploited
in the widely used ‘emotional Stroop’. In the emotional Stroop the
participant is still asked to name the ink colour, but of two classes of words;
one neutral and the other with possible emotional connotations. It has been
demonstrated that the more the emotional words slow performance, the
greater the emotional response of the participant to those words (for a
review see Williams et al., 1996), although there are different effects
depending on whether positive or negative emotional words are used (an
et al., 2020). e emotional Stroop can also reveal interesting effects when
there are no differences in response to the type of words. For example,
Lundh and Radon (1998) examined three groups with different beliefs in the
aerlife (religious believers, atheists, and agnostics). Although the religious
believers reported less death anxiety than the other two groups, they did not
differ on their response to the emotional Stroop using death-related words
(su as void, lethal, and coffin).
ere has been a substantial body of resear demonstrating that
affectively salient (likely to generate an emotional response) stimuli tend to
aract aention (for a review see Pourtois et al., 2013). Su a response blurs
the exogenous/endogenous diotomy, whi was discussed earlier in the
apter. e stimulus is exogenous, and yet the emotional response to it is
likely both endogenous (some people may show an extreme emotional
reaction to spiders and some none at all) and unconscious. In essence, the
allocation of aention is not driven by exogenous or endogenous processes,

but by an interaction between the two. Extending the work of Posner and
colleagues with the analysis of many other studies (including evidence from
brain-scanning studies and neuropsyological patients), Corbea and
Shulman (2002) proposed two interacting aentional systems. One a boom-
up, stimulus-driven pathway involved in exogenous aention is specialised
for detecting unexpected behaviourally relevant stimuli. is pathway can
interrupt the second pathway whi is involved in the top-down, goal-
directed, preparation and control involved in endogenous aention.
ese interacting pathways are now embedded in the notion of what are
currently referred to as System 1 and System 2 processes (Stanovi & West,
2000). System 1 processes are ‘fast, automatic, or unconscious’, and System 2
processes ‘require access to a single, capacity-limited central working
memory resource’ (Evans, 2008, p. 270). System 2 processes represent the
traditional ‘information-processing’ mode, where a mental model is built
explicitly and consciously using information from a particular situation. e
process and the output are largely accessible to the individual. System 1
processes are very different, as are the System 1 outputs. System 1 may
process large amounts of information at a subliminal level, with a
suggestion that the processing of emotionally valenced stimuli is favoured
(Öhman et al., 2001). e output may then be an emotional (somatic) marker
that moderates the information processing of System 2, as demonstrated by
the effect of emotional state on cognitive processing. Su a model, and the
implications thereof, have been explored in some depth by Kahneman
(2011).
Subliminal Below the threshold for conscious awareness or confident

report.

Summary
e discussion in this apter parallels that in the previous apter, first
considering exogenous (boom-up or stimulus-driven) influences on
aention, then endogenous (top-down or goal-driven) influences, and then
the interaction between them. Su interacting processes can provide a
framework to explain how biased competition can determine the allocation
of aention. Aention may be drawn to salient external stimuli, but that
allocation can be biased not only by internal (goal-directed) processes, but
by the interaction between the response to external stimuli and (for
example) internal emotional reactions to those stimuli.
e rather grandly titled ‘unified model of vision and aention’ (Lambert
et al., 2018; Lambert et al., 2020) suggests that the two-process
(exogenous/endogenous) view of aentional shiing can be aligned with
dual-stream (dorsal/ventral) models of vision. According to the model, the
dorsal stream is the input pathway for rapid exogenous orienting to
perceptually salient stimuli, and the ventral stream is the input pathway for
symbolically (meaning) driven, endogenous orienting. It makes a lot of sense
for aention and perception to use the same pathways, as in the human
brain, both resources and space are limited.
Figure 3.8
Is it your card that is missing?

Further reading
Eysen, M.W., & Groome, D. (2015). Cognitive Psychology: Revisiting the Classic Studies. London:
Sage. is book includes apters on diotic listening and the Stroop effect.

 4
Disorders of perception and attention

Tom Manly and Hayley Ness
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-4
Contents
4.1 Introduction
4.2 Synaesthesia
4.3 Blindsight
4.5 Visual agnosia
4.7 Conclusion
Summary
Further reading

4.1 Introduction
In previous apters we described the processes involved in perception and
aention, and how we construct an internal representation of the world around
us. Damage to the brain can impair these processes with sometimes devastating
consequences for people’s lives. Understanding the different ways in whi these
systems can be compromised may be useful for patients and, in some cases, help
to develop strategies that may offset some of the difficulty in aieving everyday
tasks. is can also provide clues into how these processes may normally
operate. If, for example, a person can identify pictures of inanimate objects but
struggles to identify pictures of living things, it may suggest that the internal
representations of these two categories are separate (i.e. one can be damaged by
a particular brain injury whilst the other is le intact). In this apter we will
describe elegant case studies that apply a range of methods that allow us to make
scientific inferences about processes in aention and perception that go beyond
our subjective sense. We shall meet people who know the colour of Monday and
others who know the difference between a bird and a fish but cannot tell you
whi they are looking at. We shall come across people who report being blind
but who can apparently see, and people with ostensibly intact vision who do not
notice objects in ‘plain sight’. We will encounter people who could not give you
an indication of the size of an object and yet, when they rea for it, their grip is
the perfect width, and people who could tell you the age, sex, and facial
expression of a person in a picture, and yet not recognise that it is a picture of
themselves.
Before we proceed, we would like you to try a demonstration that your visual
world may not be as complete as it appears. Close your le eye and hold the
book or screen about 5 cm from your face and look straight at the dot in Box 4.1.
en, without moving your eyes to track the dot, move the page/screen slowly to
the right (or to the le if using your le eye).

Box 4.1
At some point, the dot will magically disappear. You have found your blind
spot where your retina meets the optic nerve and is insensitive to light. Now, still
with one eye, look ba at the complex world around you. Where is the blind
spot? How does the world look so complete? One of the most startling
perspective shis we undergo in studying the brain is knowing that all that is
‘out there’ (from a visual perspective) is light of different intensities and
wavelengths bombarding the retina at 670,616,629 miles per hour. e world of
objects and people and faces and colours and textures that we see are actually
reconstructions or, perhaps more accurately, predictions by the brain of objects
that the light has bounced off on its journey to the retina, based on its knowledge
of the world. e section on visual illusions in Chapter 2 provides other good
examples.
Most of the disorders discussed in this apter result from brain injury, whi
leaves the affected individual with a noticeable loss of ability (‘impairment’ or
‘deficit’). However, the first ‘condition’ we will consider is a lile different. is
is the extraordinary case of synaesthesia. Whilst it can begin following an
injury to the brain (Fornazzari et al., 2011), many people with synaesthesia have
had it for as long as they can remember and, indeed, regard it as a gi rather
than a disability.
Synaesthesia A condition in whi individuals presented with sensory input

of one modality consistently and automatically experience a sensory event in
a different modality (for example seeing colour on hearing musical notes).

4.2 Synaesthesia
What colour is Monday? How about the number 7? What does blue taste like?
For most of us these are senseless questions but for some of you the answers
may be clear. ese are people who show synaesthesia, whi literally means ‘to
perceive together’. When presented with a particular stimulus, a person with
synaesthesia (a ‘synaesthete’) will consistently and automatically experience
another sensory event, sometimes in the same modality (e.g. both in vision),
sometimes in another sense. e most common form is to experience a colour on
seeing or hearing a leer, number, or word. e triggers of synaesthetic
experience are called inducers and the experience is sometimes referred to as the
‘concurrent’. Hence, Monday might induce the concurrent yellow, and 7 might
induce red. Other examples include colours being induced by familiar faces or
days of the week, but also feeling sounds, seeing musical notes, seeing tastes,
and tasting colours (Baron-Cohen et al., 1996; Ward, 2013). Many synaesthetes
also report that stimuli that follow a reliable sequence (e.g. leers of the
alphabet, days of the week, months of the year) are experienced in a particular
spatial arrangement, for example as segments in an arc projected around the
body (see Figure 4.1).
Synaesthete A person who has the condition synaesthesia.
e first known report of synaesthesia was in the 1812 dissertation of an

Austrian doctor, George Sas, who described his own colour sensations when
he encountered leers and numbers (Jewanski et al., 2009). Although brought to
greater prominence by Galton in the laer years of that century (Galton, 1883),
with the rise of behaviourism and its scepticism about subjective reports, it
largely fell from scientific favour. In the 1980s, a landmark paper by Baron-
Cohen et al. (1987) brought the topic ba into mainstream cognitive psyology.
Baron-Cohen responded to an advertisement placed in a psyology journal by a
synaesthete called EP who described herself as ‘an artist who has experienced
the life-long condition of hearing words and sounds in colour’. First, Baron-
Cohen and colleagues tested the reliability of EP’s synaesthetic experiences. She

was asked to describe her response to 100 heard words, leers, names, and
numbers, and a selection of non-words. Ten weeks later, without warning, she
was retested on the same list. In every case her description mated that on the
first test. is 100 per cent replication contrasted with just 17 per cent in a non-
synaesthete who had been asked to produce random responses and who was
tested for her memory aer just two weeks. EP’s remarkable consistency was
aieved despite her descriptions of her induced experiences being mu more
elaborate than those offered by the control participant (see Figure 4.1). For
example, for many synaesthetes the colour induced by a word is determined by
the first leer (A is red, so Apple is red). For EP, however, when she heard a
made-up word like ‘Bralbic’, her experience was a mix of the colours induced by
ea component leer.

Figure 4.1
Baron-Cohen’s investigation of EP’s synaesthesia.
Source: After Baron-Cohen et al. (1987).
is high level of consistency over time is not unique to EP. In fact,
Maingley et al. (2001) reported accuracy levels of 80–100 per cent in a group of
15 synaesthetes, compared with 30–50 per cent in 15 non-synaesthete controls.
e synaesthetes’ reports were significantly more consistent over a three-month
interval than were the controls aer a delay of just a month. For some classes of
items, su as Arabic numerals, the synaesthetes aieved a mean consistency of
more than 90 per cent, compared to less than 30 per cent in the control
participants.

Synaesthesia is usually a unidirectional process; the leer A may give rise to
the perception of red, but seeing red does not induce A. For most synaesthetes,
simply imagining the inducer can be enough to produce the response.
Synaesthetic experiences are limited to fairly low-level percepts su as colour or
spatial location rather than the appearance of a face or an object (Grossenbaer
& Lovelace, 2001). Almost all synaesthetes report that they have had the
condition for as long as they can remember (Baron-Cohen et al., 1993), and
many have strong memories of the moment at whi they discovered that they
were different to other people (see Box 4.2).

Box 4.2 Discovering one is a synaesthete: a case history
Synaesthete Patricia Duffy provides a vivid account of the moment she first
realised that her experience of leers was unusual. Duffy recounts a
conversation she had at age 16 in whi she reminisced with her father about
learning to write the leers of the alphabet (Duffy, 2002):
I said to my father, ‘I realized that to make an “R”, all I had to do was first
write a “P” and then draw a line down from its loop. And I was so
surprised that I could turn a yellow leer into an orange leer just by
adding a line.’
‘Yellow leer? Orange leer?’ my father said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you know,’ I said. ‘ “P” is a yellow leer, but “R” is an orange
leer. You know – the colors of the leers.’
‘e colors of the leers?’ my father said.
It had never come up in any conversation before. I had never thought to
mention it to anyone. For as long as I could remember, ea leer of the
alphabet had a different color. Ea word had a different color too
(generally, the same color as the first leer) and so did ea number. e
colors of leers, words and numbers were as intrinsic a part of them as
their shapes, and like the shapes, the colors never anged. ey appeared
automatically whenever I saw or thought about leers or words, and I
couldn’t alter them.
I had taken it for granted that the whole world shared these perceptions
with me, so my father’s perplexed reaction was totally unexpected. From
my point of view, I felt as if I’d made a statement as ordinary as ‘apples
are red’ and ‘leaves are green’ and had elicited a thoroughly bewildered
response.
Synaesthesia – incidence and familiarity

Based on response rates to newspaper adverts, Baron-Cohen et al. (1996)
estimated the incidence of synaesthesia at about 1 in 2,000, with approximately

80 per cent being female. With all studies it is important to look at how
participants are recruited and what effect this could have on the results. Do
women and men really differ so markedly in rates of synaesthesia or, perhaps,
were synaesthetic women more likely to see and respond to this particular
advert? More representative methods include screening with es on the test–
retest consistency of the subjective reports. Reviewing these studies, Ward (2013)
suggests that an approximately equal number of men and women have
synaesthetic experiences. Prevalence rates in these studies ranged from 1.4 per
cent of the general population showing leer/number–colour synaesthesia, 0.2
per cent showing taste–shape synaesthesia, and up to 20 per cent seeing
particular sequences as spatial arrays.
In Baron-Cohen’s newspaper advert survey, about one third of synaesthete
respondents reported having a relative who also had synaesthesia. is is higher
than you would expect based on the general frequency in the population, and
subsequent studies suggest a genetic component, though it is always important
to keep in mind the possible influence of shared environment. Any genetic
component is now thought to involve multiple genes (rather than the sex-linked
X romosome component first suggested by Baron-Cohen (Smilek et al., 2005;
Asher et al., 2009; Tomson et al., 2011). What appears to be shared in families is
not the precise manifestation in terms of particular inducer-modality pairings
but rather a more general predisposition (Ward et al., 2007). Even when family
members do share, say, leer–colour synaesthesia, they are no more likely to
agree on the colour of any particular leer than unrelated synaesthetes (Barne
et al., 2008). A general predisposition account would also help explain why the
majority of synaesthetes report more than one type of synaesthetic experience
(Baron-Cohen et al., 1996).
Dixon et al. (2004) distinguish two forms of synaesthetic experience:
‘projectors’, who experience the colour as if it were ‘out there’ in the physical
world, superimposed on the inducer, and ‘associators’, who see the colour in
their ‘mind’s eye’. Associators are typically not confused about the actual colour
of a leer, for example, despite also experiencing the concurrent colour. Dixon et
al. report that about 90 per cent of synaesthetes in their sample were associators.
Perhaps remarkably, not being able to see does not necessarily prevent a person
from having visual synaesthetic experiences. Steven and Blakemore (2004)
reported the details of six people who had been blind for many years who

nevertheless experienced colours on hearing or thinking about leers or
numbers. All had experienced leer–colour synaesthesia for as long as they
could remember. One had been blind for 35 years. Another experienced colour
when he toued the raised dots of Braille aracters even though he had been
without colour vision for ten years. As Steven and Blakemore comment, this
suggests that synaesthesia ‘persists for very long periods with lile or no natural
experience in the referred modality’ (2004, p. 855).
Among the most frequent inducers of synaesthetic experiences are things that
we learned as ildren, su as leers, numbers, and days of the week (although
these are also, of course, things that we encounter a lot in adult life). In an
interesting study, Wiho and Winawer (2013) linked consistent colour–leer
associations in 11 synaesthetes to a specific Fisher-Price educational coloured
leer set that had been manufactured between 1972 and 1990 (whi all but one
of the participants then reported being able to recall from their ildhood). is
result does not mean that all synaesthesia is based on su developmental
experiences, but it suggests that learning can play a role in determining the
particular experience associated with an inducer.
Most synaesthetes regard their condition as a good thing (Carpenter, 2001).
However, Baron-Cohen et al. (1996) describe one individual, JR, who experienced
particularly strong colour and sound associations that, unusually, operated in
both directions (sounds induced synaesthetic colour, colours induced
synaesthetic sound). JR found this rather overwhelming and restricted her
lifestyle to avoid excessive stimulation.
Synaesthesia – experimental investigations

JR’s experience suggests that, whilst some synaesthetes may view it as a good
thing, it is not something that you can oose to experience or not. As a clever
test of this, several researers (e.g. Mills et al., 1999; Maingley et al., 2001) have
used versions of the Stroop test (Stroop, 1935). In the standard Stroop test, a
participant is asked to name the colour of ink in whi a colour word is wrien
(e.g. to report ‘blue’ if the word RED is wrien in blue ink). When the colour and
word are different (incongruent), it generally takes people longer to name the
colour than if simply naming a colour pat, interpreted as interference from the
word’s meaning (see Chapter 3). e idea in the synaesthesia Stroop studies was

that if (for example) synaesthetes cannot help but experience red when they see
the leer A, and the A is presented in blue ink, they may suffer from interference
from their own synaesthetic response in naming the ink colour. For stimuli that
are not inducers, there should be no su interference. is is exactly what was
observed, suggesting that, even when it is interfering with a task, synaesthesia
indeed cannot be ‘swited off’ (i.e. the responses are ‘mandatory’ or
‘automatic’). Maingley et al. (2001) modified the Stroop tenique to investigate
whether conscious processing of an inducer is necessary for a synaesthetic
response. Inducers were presented very briefly followed by a visual mask (visual
masks are a scramble of lines, etc. that disrupt the representation preserved aer
a picture has disappeared, reducing the time available to ‘see’ the image). We
know that su brief, masked presentations are registered in the brain at some
level because they can influence (‘prime’) responses to subsequent related
material. However, the brevity oen prevents conscious awareness. In the study,
inducers were presented in this way just before the fully conscious stimuli about
whi participants were asked to make a colour report. Neither the synaesthetes
nor the control participants were able to report these brief presentations. Under
these conditions, no synaesthetic Stroop interference was found. is suggests
that conscious awareness was indeed necessary for synaesthetic responses to
occur. is idea is supported by studies that used visual sear paradigms. If you
are asked to look out for the red leer F amongst lots of other red leers, the
more other leers there are, the longer you will take to find it. If, however, you
are asked to look for the red F amongst blue leers, the number of these extra
distractors makes lile difference; the distinctive red leer ‘pops out’ and can be
detected at a glance (see Chapter 3). So if synaesthetes cannot help but
experience, say, a blue F as red, do they have a built-in advantage in separating it
out from blue distractors? No su advantage has been found (Edquist et al.,
2006).
Conscious aention to the inducer may be necessary but does the inducer
actually need to be present? Dixon et al. (2000) worked with a number–colour
synaesthete called C who completed a Stroop task. Ea trial had the sequence:
number, arithmetic operator (+, – etc.), number, colour pat (e.g. 2 … + … 5 …
[green]). C was asked to name the colour as quily as possible. It turned out
that when the colour pat was congruent with the colour induced in C by the
answer to the sum (7), she was significantly faster than when it was incongruent,

despite it never being presented. A similar conclusion follows from Myles et al.
(2003). An ambiguous grapheme like 2 can appear as a number or leer
depending on context (e.g. 1234 2ebra). is enabled the researers to use the
same stimulus in both congruent and incongruent trials in a Stroop task. e
results demonstrated that it is was the synaesthete’s interpretation, rather than
its physical properties of the stimulus, that induced the synaesthesia.
Taken together, these careful experiments show that synaesthetic experiences
are reliable over time, appear mandatory or automatic, and occur whether the
inducer is physically present or in the mind, but require conscious aention to
the inducer.
Synaesthesia – brain-imaging studies

Functional brain-imaging teniques, su as functional magnetic resonance
imaging (fMRI), allow researers to examine anges in various measures of
brain function as volunteers perform different sorts of tasks, think different
thoughts, remember different things, and so on. It is important to remember that
different teniques have different limitations. fMRI, for example, takes
advantage of detecting anges in the oxygen level of blood in different parts of
the brain (the blood oxygen level dependent (BOLD) signal). Areas that are
working harder during a given task require more oxygen and this arrives via the
blood a few seconds aer the work is done and takes a few more seconds to
dissipate. When we are looking at fMRI paerns, therefore, we are not looking
directly at brain function but a map that is somewhat blurred, both spatially and
in time, in a brain where blood is flowing in many directions for different
reasons, creating a noisy signal. Electroencephalography (EEG) is another
functional brain-imaging tenique that records minute anges in voltage
detectable from electrodes harmlessly resting on the scalp. ese measures are
very sensitive to millisecond-by-millisecond anges but give us only a crude
idea about from whi parts of the brain (or combinations of parts) the signals
are coming. Very occasionally it is possible to directly record electrical activity
from a small group of brain cells; for example, when a volunteer is being
prepared for essential brain surgery. is gives you a very precise picture of the
response to a given stimulus, etc. in that area but no way of knowing how this
links to what is happening in the rest of the brain. e methods described so far

are observational-correlational, as an area may respond under certain conditions
but we do not know exactly what it is doing or how it contributes to a
behavioural response.
Functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) A medical imaging

tenology that uses very strong magnetic fields to measure anges in the
oxygenation of the blood in the brain and thus map levels of activity in the
brain.
Electroencephalography (EEG) Recording the brain’s electrical activity via

electrodes placed against the scalp. Can be used to continuously record
rhythmic paerns in brain function or particular responses to events (event-
related potentials (ERPs)).
Event-related potentials (ERP) Systematic anges in the brain’s electrical

responses linked to the presentation of a stimulus. Typically the stimulus is
presented numerous times with the electroencephalographic (EEG) signals
time-loed to its occurrence then being averaged to separate the signal from
noise.
Transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) is a method that allows stronger

inference about the functional involvement of a brain area in a process. In TMS
an electromagnetic coil near the scalp is used to induce an electrical pulse in the
underlying cortical region. is can cause excitation or, with repeated
stimulation, inhibition or under-excitability, a lile bit like a temporary brain
lesion in that area. If inhibition worsens performance on a task, it suggests that
brain area was normally contributing to good performance. A limitation of this
tenique is that it is only really effective near to the cortical surface.
Transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) is tenique uses an electrical

coil placed near the surface of the head to induce a rapid ange in the
magnetic field, whi in turn produces a weak electrical current in
underlying brain tissue.

Understanding the limitations of these teniques is important, because the
last few decades have seen many examples, particularly in the press, of the
logical fallacy (‘neurorealism’) that something that has a detectable ‘brain signal’
is more real than something that does not. In the case of synaesthesia, it would
be wrong to conclude that the synaesthesia is real because it was associated with
activity in regions that are also sensitive to colour – perhaps simply imagining
colour could have the same effect, or perhaps these regions are involved in some
other way su as anticipating colour judgements? Similarly, it would be very
dangerous to conclude that a synaesthetic experience was not real just because
your method could not detect a reliable signal in a particular brain region. ere
are many ways of failing to discriminate real activity!
Functional imaging generally requires multiple participants to make
generalised claims and most studies of synaesthesia have accordingly focused on
the most frequently seen word–colour form. Nunn et al. (2002), using fMRI,
reported that synaesthetes showed increased activity in brain area V4 when
listening to inducer, compared with non-inducer, words. Non-synaesthetes, who
had been asked to associate colours with words, showed no su activity.
Consistent findings were reported by Hubbard and Ramaandran (2005).
Because V4 is a region of the brain linked with colour perception, the results
suggested that synaesthetic colour representations may be generated by regions
that process ‘real’ colour. However, whilst this account is neat and plausible,
other studies have not detected su activity (Rouw et al., 2011; Hupe et al.,
2012), and there are suggestions that different forms of synaesthesia may be
associated with different paerns (Van Leeuwen et al., 2011). Currently the brain
regions most commonly activated during synaesthetic responses lie in the frontal
and parietal lobes, particularly in a fold in the brain in this region called the
intra-parietal sulcus (IPS). is region is implicated in integrating across multi-
modal sensory information (e.g. vision and audition) and hence is also a
plausible candidate for explaining why activity in one sensory modality may
become linked to an experience in another. ere is developing convergence for
the relevance of IPS to synaesthesia; not only is it more active in fMRI
comparisons but synaesthete vs non-synaesthete differences in brain structure in
this region (grey-maer volume) have been reported, and TMS to the area
influences behavioural measures of synaesthesia effects (Weiss et al., 2005; Weiss
& Fink, 2009).

Synaesthesia – possible meanisms
In some ways, synaesthesia is less surprising than it first appears. We know from
many sources that the brain integrates information from across modalities to
develop a working, useful model of the world around us. We know that what we
can see can influence what we hear and vice versa (Driver & Spence, 1998). We
know that sensory feedba from muscles or from the vestibular (balance)
system can influence how the world appears to us (Boini et al., 2001; Smid et
al., 2005), and that priming and memory cues activate representations across
modalities (think of an apple and you may well activate representations of shape,
colour, a smell, taste, cruning sound, etc.) Perhaps the curious thing is that the
associations are so strong for some people that the presence (or thought) of an
inducer is enough to trigger a full perceptual experience in the same or different
sensory modality, whilst for most of us it may activate related mental content,
but not sufficiently to produce a percept.
From the brain’s point of view, the colour red is a level of activity in and
across particular neurons and, if this occurs, the brain cannot tell if this is due to
an external or internal event (without other clues, at least). Most neural accounts
of synaesthesia are based on the idea that regions related to the perception of the
inducer (e.g. leer reading) become linked to regions related to the experience
(e.g. colour perception) su that the occurrence of the former automatically
activates the laer. Variants of this argument are that these connections exist for
everyone but they are functionally more active in synaesthetes, or inhibited in
the majority non-synaesthetic population.
An interesting theory is that we were all synaesthetes once but that the neural
connections that support this are usually pruned out in early ildhood (an
infant’s brain has massively more connections than an adult’s). By this account,
a small group maintain enough of these connections to become adult
synaesthetes (Maurer & Mondlo, 2006). Ramaandran and Hubbard (2002)
note that brain areas involved in colour perception (V4 in the fusiform gyrus) are
immediately adjacent to the areas active during leer reading. ‘Can it be a
coincidence’, they comment, ‘that the most common form of synaesthesia
involves graphemes and colours and the brain areas corresponding to these are
right next to ea other?’ It certainly could be coincidental and others have
argued that there is no necessary argument for either local or long-range extra

neural connections in synaesthesia. Grossenbaer and Lovelace (2001), for
example, put forward a ‘disinhibited-feedba’ theory. is suggests that
connections between different sensory pathways exist in ‘normal’ brains, but
that the activity of these pathways is usually inhibited to prevent maladaptive
cross-talk between sensory modalities. ey point out that certain hallucinogenic
drugs, su as LSD, can induce temporary synaesthetic experiences in non-
synaesthetes. is suggests that the relevant pathways are present in normal
brains, with their usual inhibition potentially being lied by the drug. Interesting
functional imaging evidence supporting this idea has been reported. Neufeld et
al. (2012) found no difference between 14 auditory-visual synaesthetes and non-
synaesthete fMRI participants in terms of the functional connectivity (both being
active) between auditory and visual areas. However, they found greater
connectivity between sensory areas and the IPS in the synaesthetic group,
suggesting that it may be links via this integration area that are supressed in
non-synaesthetes. Another test of whether the meanisms that could support
synaesthesia may be present in non-synaesthetes is whether people can be
trained to be synaesthetes. For example, if adults are shown a leer repeatedly
paired with a colour, can they come to automatically experience that colour
(rather than simply remembering the association) when exposed to the leer in
isolation? Reviewing this evidence, Swartzman et al. (2019) indicate that,
whilst it is inherently difficult to assess subjective experience and findings are
mixed, there is some evidence in support of this hypothesis (e.g. Bor et al., 2014).
Synaesthesia – advantage or disadvantage?

We have seen that unbidden synaesthetic experiences were so overwhelming for
JR that they had a detrimental effect on quality of life (Baron-Cohen et al., 1996).
Survival will oen depend on making qui, accurate decisions on what is ‘out
there’ (can I eat it or will it eat me?). Interference with accurate perception from
synaesthetic content, as we saw with the Stroop tasks, can impede speeded
judgements. However, we have also seen how, in surveys, most synaesthetes do
not view their condition as an impediment and there are suggestions that
synaesthesia may result, in or stem, from enhanced general perceptual skills in
the relevant domain (Yaro & Ward, 2007). ere is evidence too that some
synaesthetes can use their elaborated representation of inducers to enhance

memory and mathematical manipulations, and that a disproportionate number
may be drawn towards creative arts (Ward, 2013). Synaesthesia may therefore
form a useful example of the idea of ‘neurodiversity’ – individual differences in
brain function that may have advantages in some seings, disadvantages in
others.
Synaesthesia – conclusions
Synaesthesia is an interesting example of the historical progress of cognitive
psyology. As an inherently subjective state it received relatively lile scientific
interest. e application of appropriate scientific method to this area over the last
30 years has shown it to be both a real phenomenon and one that offers a
number of insights into normal cognition and perception, and human diversity.
From the fraction of studies reviewed here we know that it takes many forms;
runs in families; reflects an underlying propensity, with many synaesthetes
showing a number of manifestations; that it is automatic but requires conscious
awareness of the inducer; that it may confer advantages in some circumstances;
and that it may be reflected in relative paerns of neural feedba on
connections between inducer and synaesthetic response brain areas.

4.3 Blindsight
As we have seen, the striate cortex, or area V1 as it is now known, is central to
visual perception. Damage to the le striate cortex will result in blindness in the
right visual field of both eyes and damage to the right striate cortex will result in
blindness in the le visual field of both eyes. ese areas of blindness are called
scotomata (plural of scotoma). To imagine this effect, as you look straight ahead,
your visual world would be restricted to the right (or le) side of your current
view with the extent of the missing area varying in proportion to the degree of
brain damage.
Scotoma A blind area within the visual field, resulting from damage to the
visual system.
Now imagine that you were asked to point to a flash of light that had occurred
somewhere to your ‘blind’ side. If persuaded to take part in this puzzling
experiment you would expect to perform at ance levels, sometimes guessing
the correct location but more oen being wrong. Poppel et al. (1973) studied a
group of ex-servicemen who suffered visual field deficits as a result of gunshot
wounds to the striate cortex, and asked his participants to make just su
judgements. Because the servicemen could not see the flashes, the light was
paired with the sound of a buzzer. On hearing the buzzer, the servicemen were
asked to move their eyes in the direction of the light source. ey found this a
difficult task, but to their surprise, all were able to direct their gaze towards the
light that they could not see.
In the following year, Weiskrantz et al. (1974) described a patient – DB – who
seemed to demonstrate the same remarkable ability. DB was blind in his lower-
le visual field following surgery to remove part of his right striate cortex to
relieve very severe migraine headaes. What was remarkable about DB was the
extent to whi he could report details of objects appearing in the blind areas of
his visual field, despite reporting no conscious experience of seeing them.
Weiskrantz coined the term ‘blindsight’ to describe this phenomenon. If DB and
others were not seeing with their damaged striate cortex, how were they doing

it? Is there a second, apparently rather crude visual system that does not
generally produce a conscious experience but whi is sufficient to guide patients
to perform above ance in these tasks?
In a series of experiments covering many years (see Weiskrantz, 1986),
Weiskrantz and colleagues were able to systematically investigate the perceptual
abilities preserved in the ‘blind’ areas of DB’s visual field. DB was able to detect
the presence of an object, and indicate its location in space by pointing. He could
discriminate between moving and stationary objects, and between horizontal
and vertical lines, and he could distinguish the leer X from the leer O.
However, he was unable to distinguish between X and a triangle, suggesting that
the ability to distinguish X and O was dependent on some low-level
aracteristic of these stimuli rather than any residual ability to discriminate
form. DB’s inability to discriminate form is further demonstrated by his failure
to distinguish between rectangles of various sizes, or between straight- and
curved-sided triangles.
Blindsight – a sceptical perspective

Some scientists have questioned the idea that blindsight phenomena arise from a
second, unconscious visual system. Cowey (2004) summarised the arguments put
forward by sceptics su as Campion et al. (1983). ree of these arguments are
summarised below.
e stray light hypothesis

Campion et al. (1983) suggested that blindsight patients were responding to light
that was being reflected from an object in their blind field onto the functioning
areas of their intact fields (remember that patients su as DB are only blind in a
part of the visual field). Campion et al. described one patient who claimed that
he could see a faint glow in the preserved areas of his visual field and had used
this information to complete the task of distinguishing between vertical and
horizontal bars presented to his blind side. Campion et al. also demonstrated that
participants with normal vision could also use this strategy to localise a light
presented in an area in whi their vision had been masked. However, it is
difficult to see how this stray light hypothesis could explain all blindsight

phenomena, su as DB’s ability to distinguish leers su as X and O or two
different spatial frequency gratings with the same average brightness. A grating
refers to a visual stimulus typically made up of parallel light and dark lines.
ese are widely used in visual studies because you can systematically vary
brightness, light/dark contrast, line spacing and angle. In addition, DB could
locate objects even against a bright baground, whereas Campion et al.’s
normally sighted participants could only locate a light source against a low level
of baground illumination.
Paradoxically, the best evidence against the stray light explanation as a
complete account came from DB’s inability to respond accurately to objects
whose image fell onto his blind spot. As discussed, where the optic nerve passes
through the retina there are no receptor cells and hence we are all blind to light
at this spot. If DB’s blindsight was explained by stray light, then we would
expect him to perform equally well, whether the image of the object fell on the
blind spot or in the scotoma, and yet there was no su evidence (see Figure 4.2).
Another form of the ‘stray light’ hypothesis might help to account for some
reports of unexpected abilities in blindsight patients. Cowey (2004) noted that
most resear with blindsight patients uses ‘raster displays’ (television screens or
computer monitors) to present the visual stimuli. Cowey demonstrated that a
paern displayed on one side of su a screen will oen give rise to a faint
‘ghost’ image on the other side of the screen; an accidental side-effect or artefact
of the equipment. Cowey and Azzopardi (2001) showed that, using a display
with this artefact, a participant with normal vision could determine whether a
stimulus presented in the masked area of the visual field was driing up or
down. Once the display was modified to remove the artefact, this ability
disappeared. Similarly, three blindsight patients could detect both the presence of
a moving paern and the direction of movement with the artefact present but
not when it was removed. us, it seems that some, but not all, of the apparent
abilities of blindsight patients might be aributed to the presence of these
artefacts.

Figure 4.2
Weiskrantz’s investigation of DB’s blindsight.
Note: The dark area indicates the ‘blind’ area of DB’s visual field. The hashed area indicates
that region in which DB had some partial awareness of the presence of the light. When the
light occurred at his blindspot (marked DISC) DB performed at chance level, correctly reporting
the presence of the light on less than 50 per cent of occasions. However, performance at all
other locations was well above chance. The stray light hypothesis would predict that
performance at the blindspot should be well above chance.Source: Weiskrantz (1986),
reproduced by permission of Oxford University Press.
Spared islands of residual vision

Wessinger et al. (1997) suggested that blindsight was aributable to small areas
or ‘islands’ in the scotoma within whi vision was spared, and that blindsight
may be mediated by what is le of the primary visual pathway rather than a
secondary pathway. is suggestion was tested by Kentridge et al. (1997) who

looked for scaered regions of spared vision in one patient using a procedure
that ensured that eye movements, whi could potentially allow flashes of the
stimulus to rea intact visual areas, were controlled. Under these stringent
testing conditions, Kentridge et al. noted that there were indeed spots within the
blind field that were sensitive to light but that these could not fully account for
all of the blindsight phenomena shown by the patient. Furthermore, Cowey
(2004) notes that the results of MRI scanning of several blindsight patients has
shown ‘not a shred of evidence’ of any sparing of the striate cortex in the area of
the scotoma.
A ange in criterion to report the presence of the stimulus?

Another explanation offered by sceptics is that blindsight represents a ange in
response criterion rather than sensitivity. Response criterion refers to how likely
you are to respond that a stimulus is present. If you keep a stimulus constant but
reduce the criterion (e.g. because a participant expects to see a signal) you will
increase the number of ‘accurate’ detections but also the likely number of false
positives (saying it is present when actually it is not). Signal detection tasks are a
way of separately estimating criterion and sensitivity. Cowey and Azzopardi
(2001) employed this approa to find out whether blindsight performance in a
two-alternative-forced-oice task was determined by a ange in sensitivity or
a ange in criterion. e results suggest that the performance was aracterised
not only by a ange in response criterion, but also by a different mode of
processing. at is, blindsight is qualitatively and not just quantitatively
different from normal vision. However, Cowey (2004) notes that we should not
ignore the possibility that anges in response criteria might partially account
for some aspects of the performance of blindsight patients. is is an area of
continuing resear interest.
e sensation of blindsight
It is very difficult to imagine what a patient su as DB experiences when a
stimulus is presented within the ‘blind’ regions of his visual field. It seems clear
that the experience is very different from that of normal vision. Weiskrantz
records DB as saying that he ‘felt’ movement rather than saw it. As far as we

can tell, blindsight patients are learning to respond to very subtle experiences
whi have lile in common with our normal visual experience. As Cowey
(2004) observes, it is important not to think of blindsight as ‘normal vision
stripped of conscious visual experience’ (p. 588). Blindsight is a very poor
substitute for normal vision with very significantly reduced sensitivity to
fundamental aspects of the scene.
So how can we imagine the experience of blindsight? Suppose you are siing
reading this book when suddenly, in your peripheral vision (‘out of the corner of
your eye’), a spider scules across the floor. Before you are conscious of the
motion, you move your head and eyes towards the spider. You did not ‘see’ the
spider but your visual system was able to guide you towards it. Perhaps this is a
reasonable analogy to the experience of blindsight. Patients su as DB do not
have any conscious experience of perception, yet, at some level below that
accessible to introspection, the visual system appears to access information about
the outside world.
e implications of blindsight: one visual system or two?

e most widely accepted explanation for blindsight is that we have two
separate visual systems, one primitive non-striate system and the more advanced
striate system. e primitive non-striate system might be sensitive to movement,
speed, and other potentially important aracteristics of a stimulus without
giving rise to conscious perception. Su a system might be extremely useful; for
example, allowing a frog reflexively to dart out its tongue in a very fast and
accurate movement to cat a fly. Perhaps blindsight represents the working of
this primitive visual system, whose functioning is normally masked by the
conscious perception whi results from the action of the striate visual system.
A slightly different explanation would be to see the striate and non-striate
systems as having evolved to fulfil different roles; the striate system to allow
object identification and the non-striate system to allow action to a location in
space (Goodale & Milner, 1992, 2004). ere is some evidence from non-human
animal studies to support this view (Sneider, 1969). An additional requirement,
if this is to help explain blindsight, is that the action route has less access to, or is
less likely to give rise to, conscious awareness.

Blindsight and spatial neglect (see below) are not the only areas in whi
apparently non-consciously perceived visual information can nevertheless
influence behaviour. We have already discussed how very brief, masked stimuli,
whi participants cannot reliably identify or of whi they may be completely
unaware, can influence subsequent behaviour in an experiment (priming; e.g.
Van den Busse et al., 2009). In a series of studies, Farooqui and Manly (2015)
asked healthy participants to perform allenging set-switing tasks. In set-
switing tasks, participants must apply one of two rules to a stimulus. For
example, the stimulus may be a single digit. One rule could be to indicate as
quily as possible whether the digit was greater or less than 5. e other rule
could be to quily report whether the digit was odd or even. Typically
participants cannot anticipate whi rule will apply until the relevant instruction
appears alongside the digit. Even though the rules may be simple and well
learned, there is almost invariably a time-cost of switing to a different rule,
compared with repeating the same rule as the previous trial. Farooqui and Manly
investigated what would happen if, approximately 2 seconds before the stimulus
and rule appeared, participants were ‘shown’ a very brief, masked leer cue. For
example, M might always precede a swit-to-different-rule trial, T might
always precede a repeat-previous-rule trial, and O would appear equally before
both types of trial (i.e. be uninformative). Despite these cues occurring outside of
awareness, participants were nevertheless able to ‘use’ them to significantly
reduce swit costs (i.e. less cost aer an M than an O cue on a swit trial).
Intriguingly, when these cues were slowed down to make them conscious, the
participants could no longer ‘use’ them to improve performance and could not
discern how they were relevant to the task. Even without brain injury there is
interesting evidence about rather sophisticated processing that can occur
subconsciously and with whi, in this case, conscious awareness may actually
interfere.

As we saw in the previous section, patients with blindsight are able to respond to
a stimulus they cannot see. In unilateral spatial neglect the opposite seems to
be true – patients fail to respond to stimuli that they can ‘see’. A patient may
have normal vision yet fail to react to objects or events to one side of space –
hence the terms unilateral (one-sided) and neglect (ignoring rather than being
blind to). e condition has a number of other names including hemi-
inattention, contralateral neglect, and simply spatial neglect. ese generally
represent terminological preferences rather than different conditions.
Unilateral spatial neglect (also called hemispatial neglect or hemispatial

inaention) A difficulty in noticing or acting on information from one side of
space, typically caused by a brain lesion to the opposite hemisphere.
e main cause of unilateral spatial neglect (USN) is stroke, an interruption to

the brain’s blood supply. Because of its organisation, this interruption will
primarily affect one or other hemisphere. Although USN may seem like an exotic
neuropsyological phenomenon it is extremely common. Up to 84 per cent of
patients with damage to the right hemisphere (RH) of the brain from stroke will
show evidence of ignoring information on their le (the side opposite the lesion,
oen called contralateral or contralesional). Similarly, up to 64 per cent of
patients with le-hemisphere damage can show the opposite paern, ignoring
information on their right (Stone et al., 1993). One of the most robust and
mysterious findings in neuropsyology is, however, that this fairly balanced
picture is seen only very early on aer the stroke. For some reason, le neglect
following right-hemisphere lesion is markedly more severe and persistent than
its right-neglect/le-hemisphere equivalent (Bowen et al., 1999). For that reason
we will generally be talking about le-sided neglect in this apter.
Patients with USN may fail to notice objects in clear view on the le, ignore
people approaing from the le, or eat food only from the right side of the
plate. However, neglect can affect other modalities su as awareness of one side
of one’s own body and even imagined or remembered scenes. A classic

demonstration of this is to ask a patient to draw a clo face from memory. USN
patients will oen omit the numbers between 7 and 11, or will try to squeeze
these numbers onto the right side of the clo. is suggests distortions or
omissions in their once intact mental representation of a very familiar object in
addition to their current perceptions of the world (see Figure 4.3).
Figure 4.3
Examples of drawings of clo faces produced by patients with unilateral visual neglect.
Source: Halligan & Marshall (1993), by permission of Psychology Press Limited, Hove, UK.
USN impacts upon many activities of daily living and is associated with
longer hospital stays and higher dependence on others. It is a serious clinical
problem for patients and families. For science it also offers fascinating insights
into the nature of awareness, consciousness, vision–action links, and aention. A
hope, as with other disorders, is that these insights will feed ba into beer
targeted rehabilitation for the disorder.
A disorder of attention?
A definition of USN is that it is a failure of or difficulty in responding to
information on one side of space that we cannot explain by basic sensory loss.
As we have seen, damage to primary visual areas can produce blindness for one
half or portion of space. How does this differ from USN? is is an important
question both because many patients with USN also have some loss of vision on

the affected side (hemianopia) and because the rehabilitation implications of the
two disorders may differ (Zihl, 1994).
e most obvious difference between USN and visual field loss is that the
former can exert an influence across modalities whilst the laer is restricted to
vision. USN has been reported in audition (De Renzi et al., 1989), tactile
exploration, tou and body sensation (haptic and somatosensory perception)
(Vallar et al., 1993; McIntosh et al., 2002), imagery (Bisia & Luzzai, 1978; see
below), and even smell! (Bellas et al., 1988). However, many dissociations
between modalities have been reported (meaning that a patient may show
spatial bias in one modality but not the other). Assessment in non-visual
modalities can be complex, and it is difficult to rule out non-visual sensory loss
from stroke. Even in the visual domain, however, there are fundamental
differences between visual field loss and USN, to whi we now turn.
Visual field losses are strictly retinotopic – the blind area will move with the
eyes. USN, in contrast, varies in different spatial frameworks, it may occur for
objects to the le side of the body (egocentric space) or for objects on the le
side of something (like a page or room) regardless of where this is in relation to
the person (allocentric space). USN may occur for the le side of ea object
within a scene (Driver & Halligan, 1991). Marshall and Halligan (1993b), for
example, asked patients to copy pictures of plants. Bizarrely, a patient may miss
leaves and petals on the le side of one plant and then go on to draw the right
side of the next plant, whi lies further into their neglected side. Perhaps the
best way to think about this difference between visual field disorders and USN is
to imagine looking around your room through a cardboard tube. At any given
moment your view is greatly restricted and you will miss things happening
outside of this narrow window. By scanning the tube around the room, however,
you can see everything. With the important exception that you are consciously
aware of the restricting tube, this is like visual field loss. Now imagine instead
limiting your scans only to the le side of the room or the le side of ea object
in the room. is is more like neglect.
Another astonishing example of neglect was reported by Driver and Halligan
(1991). To imagine this effect, hold this book upright and look at the words at the
top-le side of the page. Driver and Halligan found, unsurprisingly, that USN led
to insensitivity to differences between two stimuli in details at this location. Now
rotate the book, but not your head, 45 degrees to the right (sorry if this makes it

difficult to read). Now the top-le words are on the ‘right’ side of the stimulus.
Would this spare them from being neglected? No, remarkably, the neglect
appeared to rotate with the page! It is as if the le side of something is first
identified and then ignored.
So USN is different from basic visual loss, but is it a disorder of attention? is
depends on quite what you mean by this notoriously difficult-to-define term. A
key idea in lay uses of ‘aention’ is that you could have noticed something had
you remembered to, or if it was pointed out to you. Both appear to be true in
neglect. Patients can aend to the le if cued to do so or if particularly salient
events draw aention there, although this oen dris quily ba to the right
(Riddo & Humphreys, 1983). In cognitive neuroscience the idea of competition
is central to the study of aention; we have limited capacity resources and
objects, events, etc. compete for mental representation. If an object gains access,
another is inevitably ignored, at least partially (Desimone & Duncan, 1995). is
too seems to fit USN. A stimulus that appears in isolation in the neglected field
will oen be detected. When the same stimulus appears in competition with a
rival on the good side, however, it is more likely to be missed (this is called
extinction and is commonly assessed at the bedside by confrontation testing in
whi the examiner wiggles one, another, or both of her fingers in the patient’s
line of sight and asks what was seen). Another aracteristic of aention,
illustrated already in the cueing and extinction examples, is variability. It is
tempting to think of USN as reflecting a clear border between le and right.
Instead there is mu more of a gradient streting from the le to the right
affecting the probability that a stimulus will be detected (Karnath, 1997). A
patient’s performance on spatial tasks can show a very high level of trial to trial
variability (Anderson et al., 2000). We have seen a patient show severe USN on a
clinical test and then perform the same test without obvious impairment
moments later. Su volatility in a symptom, as we shall discuss, can be very
useful in suggesting the potential for rehabilitation.
Aention can be to external stimuli or internal content (e.g. daydreaming). A
fascinating example of USN was reported by Bisia and Luzzai (1978). ey
asked two USN patients to describe a famous square in their native Milan (the
Piazza del Duomo) from memory. When the patients imagined themselves at one
end, looking into the square, they showed a marked tendency to report
landmarks that would be to their right. When asked to now imagine themselves

at the other end looking ba, the previously neglected le landmarks, now on
their imagined right, re-entered consciousness. We have observed similar
striking effects in asking a man with USN to describe his house to us from the
front- and ba-garden perspectives. Again his access to memories of entire
rooms was peculiarly determined by where he imagined himself to be with
respect to them.
With due caution regarding blindsight and the heterogeneity of USN, a further
fascinating difference with a purely visual field loss concerns the level to whi
neglected stimuli may be processed. Marshall and Halligan (1993a) showed a
USN patient pairs of drawings of a house. e patient failed to notice when the
house on the le was on fire, but was above ance in oosing the non-burning
building when asked whi would be preferable to live in. Berti and Rizzolai
(1992) showed that presenting a brief stimulus in USN’s patients’ ‘bad’ le field
primed subsequent responses to related information in the good field, despite
patients reporting no conscious awareness of the prime. Manly et al. (2002) asked
USN patients to perform a common clinical test in whi they had to find and
cross out small stars scaered over a page amid distractors (a cancellation test).
Under normal conditions, in addition to missing many targets on the le, the
patients showed a strong tendency to cross out the same targets on the right of
the sheet over and over again (this tendency to repeat actions without obvious
cause is called perseveration and is a noted feature of neglect (Na et al., 1999;
Manly et al., 2009) and some other neurological conditions (Joseph, 1999). When,
however, the ignored targets on the le of the sheet were replaced by non-
targets, this re-marking of targets on the right dramatically declined. is
suggests that on the standard version of the task the patients were aware, at
some level, of the missing targets and this drove them to repeatedly cancel those
on the right. Taken together the results suggest that neglected stimuli may be
processed to quite a high level and yet fail to rea conscious awareness.
Do we all show neglect?

A common clinical observation is that patients with persistent (ronic) le
neglect tend to be drowsy and appear to have difficulty remaining focused on all
sorts of tasks. is impression has been supported by resear showing that su
patients indeed tend to perform very poorly on non-spatial sustained aention

measures (Robertson et al., 1997; Samuelsson et al., 1998). By itself this could
reflect two independent consequences of overall stroke severity. However,
Robertson et al. (1998b) showed that alerting patients with a loud tone
temporarily but dramatically reduced or reversed their neglect, even when the
tone was to their right. Subsequent studies have shown that stimulating
medication (Malhotra et al., 2006) or thoughts (George et al., 2008) can cause
similar gains.
If levels of alertness influence spatial biases in patients with USN, might this
relationship also occur in other groups? A number of studies have now shown
that some ildren with a diagnosis of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
(ADHD), who struggle to sustain their aention, can show a marked paern of
omissions reliably from one side of space. So far, this has always been the le
(Voeller & Heilman, 1988; Manly et al., 1997; Sheppard et al., 1999; Dobler et al.,
2003; George et al., 2005). Healthy volunteers show significant rightward shis in
spatial aention aer sleep deprivation (Manly et al., 2005), when awake but
sleepy in the early hours of the morning (Fimm et al., 2006), and aer long
periods of repetitive task performance (Dobler et al., 2005; Manly et al., 2005;
Dodds et al., 2008). Bareham et al. (2014) asked healthy young participants to
relax with their eyes closed in a comfortable de air and to indicate whether
ea of a series of tones played through headphones had come from their le or
right side. When alert, they were relatively accurate at the task but, as they
became drowsy, they began to report approximately a quarter of the le-sided
tones as having come from the right. ey showed no su ange on right
tones, if anything becoming more certain that they were from the right,
consistent with a shi in aention in this direction. Whilst these biases are not
generally as marked as in USN, they provide potential insights into why le
neglect in particular may be so persistent.
Rehabilitation for unilateral spatial neglect

USN is an area in whi the results of studies primarily aimed at improving the
outcome of patients have had direct relevance for our understanding of the
disorder. is is perhaps because the most obvious form of rehabilitation,
encouraging and training patients to look towards and be aware of the le, oen
produces rather disappointing results at practicable durations (Lawson, 1962;

Weinberg et al., 1977). An interesting example of a more positive effect came
from Robertson et al.’s work (Robertson et al., 1998a; Robertson & Hawkins, 1999;
Robertson et al., 2002). is showed that movements of the patients’ le
arm/hand could generally enhance visual awareness of the le, even if those
movements occurred out of sight.
As we saw in the discussion of synaesthesia, parts of the brain integrate
information from across the senses to form a coherent model of the world.
Because this system is intolerant of discrepancy (you cannot be facing one way
and another!) you can use input to one modality to bias perception in another. In
caloric vestibular stimulation, for example, pouring cold water into one ear (and
sometimes hot water into the other) disturbs the vestibular balance system and
can produce involuntary eye-movements to the le and temporarily reduce
neglect (Rubens, 1985). Similarly, triing the proprioceptive (body sense)
system into believing that the trunk of one’s body is rotated by meanical
vibration of the muscles can produce reflexive re-orienting to the le that
reduces spatial neglect in patients (Karnath et al., 1993). ese are not just
interesting experimental effects. Fieen sessions of 80 Hz ne-muscle
stimulation was linked with lasting improvements across a range of spatial tasks
in USN patients (compared with a similar period of just practising tasks;
Sindler et al., 2002). Training in adapting to rightward deviating prism lenses
(that causes a rebound effect to the le) has also produced positive results in
some cases (Rossei et al., 1998; Frassinei et al., 2002). Do these effects help us
explain USN?
Explaining unilateral spatial neglect

As we have seen, USN occurs at a remarkably high frequency following stroke. It
has also been reported following damage to a wide variety of brain areas
including the parietal, temporal, and frontal lobes, and a good number of
subcortical areas (Mort et al., 2003). is has led to the idea that normal spatial
aention may reflect a dynamic – and easily disrupted – competitive balance
between widely distributed networks in the brain’s two hemispheres (Mesulam,
1999). In this view, the le hemisphere is pushing aention into right space and
the right hemisphere pushing ba to the le. In USN we are not seeing simply
the effect of the lesioned hemisphere (whi may have mu residual function)

but its exaggeration due to the supressing effects of its undamaged rival
(Sprague, 1966; Kinsbourne, 1977).
We discussed how the idea of information ‘competing’ to gain access to
limited capacity processing was useful in thinking about aention. is
competition may occur at all sorts of cognitive/perceptual levels and in different
modalities. However, it has been argued that, for coherent goal-directed action,
this competition is integrated so that, for example, rather than being aware
primarily of one event in the visual modality, another in audition, and thinking
about a memory of the third – in general the levels will try to converge at any
one time on a single target. An important factor influencing whether a given
stimulus will win the competition for conscious awareness is therefore the state
of activity relevant to that stimulus across all levels of the system (Desimone &
Duncan, 1995; Driver & Spence, 1998; Duncan, 2006). Within this framework it is
easier to see how unilateral brain damage could have cascading effects reducing
the likely awareness of different sorts of information in contralesional space (be
this based in egocentric, allocentric, object-based, or imagery-based space). It
also makes more sense of why a rather diverse set of rehabilitation interventions
and experimental manipulations (in as mu as these potentiate the
representation of the le) appear to work.

4.5 Visual agnosia
Agnosia is an ancient Greek term meaning ‘non-knowledge’. Visual agnosia
therefore roughly translates as ‘not knowing what you are seeing’. Patients with
visual agnosia following a brain injury can see. ey can move around without
bumping into things and they can accurately rea for and pi up objects. ey
may be able to recognise an object through tou or hearing a aracteristic
sound that it makes, or from someone else’s description of the object and/or its
uses. Where they now struggle, to a greater or lesser degree, is in identifying an
object by looking at it.
Agnosia e failure to recognise or interpret stimuli despite adequate

sensory function. It is usually classified by sensory modality, so visual
agnosia is the failure to recognise objects that are seen.
Apperceptive and associative agnosia

Visual agnosia was first described by Lissauer in 1890. From his observations he
suggested that there were two broad paerns of impairment. In the first, called
apperceptive agnosia, a person has, by definition, problems in identifying objects
via vision. In addition, he or she will find it hard to draw a copy of an object (see
Figure 4.4), struggle to describe its component parts, and have difficulty in
determining whether two similar objects are identical. In contrast, whilst a
person with associative agnosia will also have, by definition, problems in
identifying objects via vision, the ability to draw a copy of an object, to
accurately mat/discriminate two similar objects, and to describe an object’s
component parts, will be beer preserved.

Figure 4.4
e aempts of a patient with apperceptive agnosia to copy six simple figures.
Source: Farah (1990), reproduced by permission of MIT Press.
Lissauer proposed that the existence of these two types of visual agnosia
revealed underlying processes in normal (unimpaired) visual identification that
were serial and hierarical (i.e. they happen one aer the other, and one has to
happen before the next is possible). Within this view, to recognise an object you
first need to be able to do the ‘perceptual’ stage (seeing the components, noticing
the differences between two objects, etc.) and then the second ‘associative’ stage
(puing together the components into a whole object that can be linked with
your stored memories of objects). Only with the completion of these two stages
can you know, or at least have a good guess about, what an object is. According
to this two-stage model, people with a ‘pure’ apperceptive agnosia could have
perfectly good knowledge of what objects are but, because they cannot
distinguish shapes clearly, cannot connect what they see to this stored
knowledge. Patients with ‘pure’ associative agnosia, in contrast, would be able to
see the shapes and components clearly and yet cannot take the final step to
identify them. eir common problems in knowing what it is that they are
seeing would have a different cause. As we shall see, analysing quite what
people can actually see and discriminate is allenging and patients oen do not
fall neatly into one or other category. Accordingly, subsequent resear
developed finer categories to try and capture what may be going on in individual

cases (see Humphreys & Riddo, 2006, for a review). As with other areas of
study, terminology in the study of visual agnosia has evolved over time (as new
theoretical frameworks are developed), but earlier terms also remain in use. is
can sometimes make it quite baffling to know just how one thing relates to
another (Is it just a new name for the same thing? Is it a different thing?). It is
important to keep in mind, as we move into the next section, that the basic
symptom is a problem in identifying visual objects and that the allenge with
ea individual patient is to try and understand why that may be occurring and
what this breakdown in performance may reveal about normal processes of
object recognition.
Form and integrative agnosia

Form agnosia (Farah, 2004) is now the generally accepted term for patients who
are unable to discriminate between objects and cannot copy line drawings of
objects (i.e. broadly that whi was described as apperceptive agnosia above).
Similarly, integrative agnosia is the now generally accepted term for associative
agnosia because it more accurately reflects the processing difficulties that
patients experience. It refers to patients who can perceive the individual shapes
and elements of objects but are unable to integrate these into a representation of
the whole object. Carbon monoxide poisoning seems to be a particularly
common cause of form agnosia (for example patient ‘Dee’ described by Goodale
and Milner, 2004), although in rare cases it can arise following brain damage
from assault or cardiac events. In contrast, integrative agnosia has been reported
aer stroke, brain trauma, and Alzheimer’s disease. In addition, patients with
integrative agnosia appear to have more medial ventral lesions than patients
with form agnosia (Riddo et al., 2008a).
Form agnosia Is now the generally accepted term for patients who are
unable to discriminate between objects and are unable to copy line drawings
of objects (this was previously termed apperceptive agnosia).
Integrative agnosia Is the generally accepted term for associative agnosia. It

refers to patients who can perceive the individual shapes and elements of

objects but are unable to integrate these into a representation of the whole
object.
Living with visual agnosia

It is very difficult to imagine just what it is like to suffer from a visual agnosia,
and the experience must vary greatly with the type of agnosia. In order to gain a
small insight into the difficulties that these two types of visual agnosia have on
everyday functioning, it is helpful to draw on case studies. One su case study
is patient HJA, who had integrative agnosia and was studied extensively by
Humphreys and Riddo. In a captivating account, Humphreys and Riddo
(1987) provide a valuable insight into HJA’s life with visual agnosia (see Box 4.3).

Box 4.3 Living with visual integrative agnosia (HJA)
Aer an operation, HJA suffered a stroke whi caused damage to both of his
occipital lobes and affected his posterior cerebral artery. When HJA first woke
up in hospital, he was unable to recognise his surroundings and he assumed
that this must have been caused by a ‘bang on the head’ or a ‘hangover’.
While some improvement was observed over the followings weeks, HJA was
still unable to recognise many familiar objects. Aer a formal assessment, it
was found that HJA was blind in the top half of both visual fields. However,
this couldn’t explain his inability to identify objects because the lower half of
ea visual field was undamaged; by simply moving his head or eyes to bring
information into his intact visual areas, he should be able to identify the
objects. He could walk around without bumping into objects and he could also
rea for objects and pi them up. However, he had considerable difficulty in
naming objects on the basis of their appearance alone. While he could
recognise some objects, many were a mystery to him and he had particular
difficulty in making within-category judgements (e.g. distinguishing between
two types of animal or plant). is problem is illustrated by the fact that HJA
could trim the garden hedge with shears, but he couldn’t differentiate between
the hedge and roses, leading to inadvertent beheading of the flowers!
HJA’s difficulties were not caused by la of knowledge of objects. When he
was given object names, he could eloquently describe their appearance and
functions. However, when shown the exact same objects that he had just
described, he could not identify them (see Figure 4.5). is paern of spared
and impaired processing suggests that, while HJA could form a representation
of the major elements of an object and extract shape and textural information
from drawings, he was unable to integrate this information into a
representation of the whole object that could connect to his knowledge.
Importantly, when HJA was blindfolded and asked to identify objects by
tou, he was able to name many objects that he could not identify by sight;
eoing the point that his object knowledge could be intact.

Figure 4.5
HJA’s definition of the word ‘carrot’ and his aempt to recognise a line drawing of a carrot
(as recorded by Humphreys and Riddo, 1987).
HJA spoke eloquently and insightfully about his processing difficulties. For
example, while he could describe a favourite eting of London whi had
hung on his living-room wall for many years, and he was still able to pi out
some distinctive aspects (su as the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral), he
commented:
But now it does not ‘fit’ my memory of the picture nor of the reality.
Knowing that I should be able to identify the general design of the dome-
headed, high circular central tower covering a particularly cruciform
building, I can point out the expected detail but cannot recognise the
whole structure. On the other hand, I am sure I could draw a reasonable
copy of the picture.
(Humphreys & Riddo, 1987, p. 33)
HJA also described a visit to an aircra museum. During the war he had
served in the RAF and at the museum he was able to describe the shape of his
bomber to his friends, and was able to recount various stories and describe
tenical aspects of the aircra. It is clear that he had a detailed memory for
the aircra and its appearance; however, HJA stated that ‘in all honesty, I did
not recognise the “whole” ’.

Figure 4.6
HJA’s copy of his favourite eting showing St Paul’s Cathedral, London whi took six
hours to complete by a laborious process of line-by-line reproduction.
Source: Humphreys & Riddoch (1987), reproduced by permission of Psychology Press, Hove,
UK.
When asked to copy a picture, su as the eting of London described

above, HJA could produce a reasonable likeness (see Figure 4.6), but this image
took six hours to complete by a laborious process of line-by-line reproduction
whi did not seem to be guided by any knowledge of the form of the object.
It was as if he was being set the task of copying a complex paern of random
lines. However, when drawing from memory rather than aempting to copy,
HJA produced very recognisable and detailed drawings (see Figure 4.7),
indicating that he retained a good visual memory for the objects whi he
could no longer recognise. He stated:
I don’t find [drawing from memory] too difficult, bearing in mind that I
never had mu drawing ability … My mind knows very clearly what I
should like to draw and I can comprehend enough of my own handiwork
to know if it is a reasonable representation of what I had in mind.’

Figure 4.7
An example of one of HJA’s drawings from memory.
Source: Humphreys & Riddoch (1987), reproduced by permission of Psychology Press, Hove,
UK.
Patients with visual form agnosia experience a very confused and distorted
visual world in whi almost nothing seems familiar and even basic forms are
indistinguishable from ea other. Perhaps the best analogy would be to imagine
looking at the world through a very powerful microscope. To look at an object
you would have to scan the microscope around the object, trying to remember
what ea view of the object has revealed. To form a representation of the whole
object you would need to assemble a mental picture of the overall structure of
the object by piecing together the independent microscopic views. In this way,
despite being able to see the component details of the object accurately you
would find it very difficult to recognise the whole, and the more complex the
local detail the harder the recognition task would become. ese difficulties are
evident with patient Dee (see Goodale and Milner, 2004, for a powerful
description of the problems faced by Dee). She had severe visual form agnosia
that resulted from carbon monoxide poisoning that had caused bilateral damage

to her occipitotemporal visual system. Despite being unable to recognise objects
or their shape, she could perceive the surface aracteristics (texture and colour)
and use these as cues to help her to recognise the object. She could also identify
familiar objects through tou. However, Dee could not copy line drawings of
objects or simple shapes. Interestingly, she was unable to accurately indicate
with her hands the width of an object but, when she was asked to pi it up, her
hand opened exactly the right amount to perform the grasp. Similarly, when
walking, Dee was able to negotiate her environment and accurately step over
objects, even though she could not say what the objects were (Goodale, 2008). As
a result of these spared functions, Dee could move around her own home freely
and undertake tasks su as making a cup of tea without help.
Perception and action

From Dee’s paern of spared and impaired processing we can see that she
retained her ‘action’ abilities (e.g. reaing, grasping, and stepping over objects)
but her recognition ability was impaired. Goodale and Milner (1992, 2004)
suggested that these two unconscious processes might be facilitated by different
brain networks. e parietal cortex could provide information about the
orientation and structure of objects in order to help guide movement, and the
temporal lobe provide information about object identity, giving rise to
dissociable representations (i.e. one could be intact and the other impaired, or
vice versa). is led Goodale and Milner (1992) to develop their two streams of
visual processing account as explained in Chapter 2 (see also Milner & Goodale,
1995, 2006). ey suggested that visual information follows two main streams or
routes: the ventral stream (sometimes informally called the ‘what’ pathway)
travels to the temporal lobe and is thought critical for identifying objects and
aaing meaning and significance to them (along with other cognitive
structures); the dorsal stream (sometimes called the ‘where’ pathway) travels to
the parietal lobe and processes spatial information to help guide skilled
movements (Goodale, 2008). is provides a clear account of Dee’s paern of
spared and impaired processing: her dorsal stream was intact (allowing reaing,
piing up, and navigation) but her ventral stream, required for visual object
identification, was damaged. While the two-streams account is highly influential
and widely accepted, some researers have questioned the nature of the

dissociation between the two streams (e.g. Franz et al., 2000). ese issues and
more are considered fully in an excellent review by Milner and Goodale (2008).
Comparing form and integrative agnosia

Different researers have oen used different methods and materials to assess
problems that can make direct comparisons of cases problematic. In an
exception, Riddo et al. (2008a) directly compared patient HJA (who had
integrative agnosia) with SA (who had form agnosia) using the same tests. Both
patients had bilateral occipital lesions that, in the case of SA, primarily involved
the dorsal (action) route and, in the case of HJA, the ventral (recognition) route.
e results provide support for qualitatively different types of processing in the
two types of agnosia. In keeping with the saying that a person who is too caught
up in detail ‘cannot see the wood for the trees’, patient SA tended to process at a
‘local level’ (fine details, the ‘trees’). In contrast, HJA processed at a more global
level (the ‘wood’). is led Riddo et al. (2008a) to propose that successful
object recognition depends on the ability to simultaneously code the global and
fine, local detail. Accordingly, with his superior global processing, HJA could
mat shapes well whilst SA was impaired at this task. Similarly, HJA could
copy drawings whilst SA’s copies oen contained errors.
Recognising living and non-living objects

SA was mu beer at identifying animate objects (animals and plants) than
inanimate objects (e.g. tools, furniture). HJA showed the opposite paern. is
dissociation between identifying animate and inanimate objects has been
reported by others. For example, JBR could name drawings of many non-living
objects (su as a spade or hairbrush), but he could not name drawings of living
things (su as dog or fly; Warrington and Shallice, 1984). Researers have also
reported that other patients have difficulty in identifying living things (for
example, Farah et al., 1989, patient LH; Farah et al., 1991, patient MB; Stewart et
al., 1992, patient HO).
One of the difficulties in interpreting results su as these is that the
distinction between living and non-living things is not perfect. For example, JBR
and HO, who had relative difficulty naming animate compared with inanimate

objects, both also had difficulty naming musical instruments; items that you
might think of as inanimate, tool-like objects. One possibility is that objects like
musical instruments inherit animate aracteristics (e.g. they ‘blend’ to become
part of the player or appear to communicate with us). Another possibility is that
the living and non-living examples used to demonstrate this apparent
dissociation may also have differed in other important aracteristics. Stewart et
al. (1992), for example, pointed out that, although the living and non-living
stimuli were mated for the familiarity of the object names, they were not
mated for the familiarity of the pictures themselves. Furthermore, line
drawings of living things tend to be more complex than drawings of non-living
things. When Stewart et al. (1992) retested their patient HO with a new set of
materials whi were mated for familiarity of both name and picture as well
as image complexity, they found that he no longer demonstrated a category-
specific agnosia. When Funnell and Sheridan (1992) retested JBR (who had been
previously described by Warrington and Shallice) using materials that controlled
for item familiarity, there was now no evidence of the category-specific naming
deficit. ese results show the importance of carefully controlling as mu as
possible in your test materials to isolate the real cause of differences. Mu of the
visual agnosia literature has also placed emphasis on naming line drawings. How
representative are problems with these types of pictures of more general
difficulty in real objects or pictures that contain colour, texture, and 3D shape
information? Hiraoka et al. (2009), for example, have argued that superior
performance with real objects is common in studies of visual agnosia. Peru and
Avesani (2008) reported that patient FB could name coloured drawings of objects
that she had been unable to name from bla-and-white images.
Farah and McClelland (1991), following on from Warrington & McCarthy
(1983) argued that the proposed dissociation between identifying living and non-
living things may be an artefact (i.e. something that arises from aracteristics of
objects that may be correlated with the animate/inanimate distinction but whi
does not stem directly from that distinction). For example, for a human observer
the difference between two somewhat similar animals maybe largely visual; a
tiger has stripes, a leopard spots. e difference between a desk and a table, in
contrast, may be more functional; tables and desks come in all shapes and sizes
but the difference lies in what you use them for. Could the living/non-living
distinction arise from a difference between perceptual and functional

discriminations? A strength of Farah and McClelland’s (1991) approa was to
examine whether a computer simulation that made distinctions between
perceptual and functional knowledge, but whi did not itself contain the
animate/inanimate distinction, could re-create animate/inanimate dissociation.
e results showed that disproportionately impairing perceptual knowledge
within the model indeed led to greater interference in identifying animate
objects whilst compromising functional knowledge affected inanimate objects. It
is important to note that Farah and McClelland did not aempt to make a
realistic model of how human knowledge is stored and mapped on to visual
input, but rather used the computer model as a thought experiment to see
whether paerns of impairments seen in patients could be explained by an
alternative hypothesis. Similarly, the fact that impairments along a perceptual-
functional dimension could explain animate–inanimate dissociations does not
mean that they do. Subsequent neuropsyological investigations have suggested
that, when relevant controls and materials are used, dissociations between
animate and inanimate objects can still be found (e.g. Riddo and Humphreys,
1987; Peru and Avesani, 2008).

As you read in the previous section, agnosia is an ancient Greek word meaning
‘non-knowledge’. ‘Prosopon’ is the ancient Greek word for face or mask. Hence
prosopagnosia was a word coined by Bodamer in 1947 to describe patients who
had marked difficulties in recognising familiar faces but who could identify
other objects. People with severe prosopagnosia can struggle to recognise the
faces of family members, friends, and even themselves in a photo. is does not
mean that they do not know who the people are; for example, they may be able
to recognise others though their voice or their walk, and tell you a great deal of
information about that person. Somehow, however, the connection between that
knowledge and the visual representation of the face has been compromised.

Figure 4.8
Bruce and Young’s model of face processing showing independent pathways for face
recognition, expression analysis, and spee analysis.
Source: Bruce & Young (1986), reproduced by permission of the British Psychological Society.
Given that face recognition is one of the most demanding and sophisticated
tasks that our visual system undertakes, it is not surprising that an impairment
in this ability can be acquired through brain damage. Faces are remarkably
similar in appearance. ey have the same first-order global configuration (eyes
above nose above mouth, etc.), and facial features are remarkably similar.
Despite this, we are generally able to recognise thousands of faces with apparent

ease. It is important to note that brain damage rarely leads to the complete
destruction of this ability. Instead, resear has demonstrated that there is
considerable variation in the severity of the impairment, the associated deficits
and types of face processing skills, as well as in the location of and type of
lesions that result in acquired prosopagnosia (Barton, 2008). Furthermore,
prosopagnosia may present alongside other associated deficits and disorders su
as autism or Alzheimer’s disease. Prosopagnosia can result from a brain injury in
adulthood or ildhood or be present apparently from birth without obvious
brain damage (Duaine & Nakayama, 2006). Because damage to the ability to
recognise faces aer many years of normal recognition may have rather different
implications to a lifetime with the difficulty, we will first examine acquired
prosopagnosia in adulthood and then turn to the developmental literature.
Living with prosopagnosia

What is it like to live with prosopagnosia? e material in Box 4.4 has been
kindly provided by Jeff Hunt. Chapter author Haley Ness met Jeff when he was a
cognitive psyology student with the Open University. Despite having
prosopagnosia, Jeff was able to hold down jobs as both a lecturer and an IT
manager for a large college. Here he provides just a few examples of the impact
of prosopagnosia on his everyday life.

Box 4.4 Jeff: living with prosopagnosia
Example 1:
One day I was at home and the front door opened unexpectedly and a
strange lady walked straight into my hall. I stared at her wondering what
to do and what to say, especially as I was just dressed in a pair of boxer
shorts. She said, ‘Oh you don’t like it; I can tell by the way you are
staring!’ It was only when she spoke that I realised that it was my wife.
She had been to the hairdressers and had her hair cut and dyed. I simply
had not recognised her. e only reason I was staring was because I was
trying to work out why this woman was in my hallway!
Example 2:
e only lecturing incident that I clearly got wrong was when my lecture
was moved from one lecture room to another. I was not told but the
students were. So I went into my lecture and started talking about
artificial intelligence and John Searle and his Chinese Room problem.
Aer about 20 minutes another lecturer came in and asked me if I had his
students – he was a geography lecturer. e students had decided not to
say anything as they found my lecture interesting, whi I guess is a
compliment but I felt rather cross with myself that I had thought that I
had recognised some of them.
Example 3:
My youngest daughter was shopping with me and we have a lifelong habit

of playing jokes on ea other. She wanted to go and look at the ocolates
so I let her wander while I found a few bits I needed. I went to find her
and saw her looking at the sweets. She looked at me wating up the aisle
and then pretended to ignore me and look away. So I crept around the
other end of the aisle and ran up behind her and tiled her in the ribs. At
that moment she turned round and to my horror it was not my daughter!
To nicely compound my humiliation, her mum came up and tried to find

out what was going on. ankfully, as I was trying to explain, my
daughter came along and I politely pointed out that her hair was similar to
the ild I’d tiled in the ribs. e mum very reluctantly accepted it.
Prosopagnosia also affects Jeff’s life in other, not so obvious, ways. One is
that it is very difficult for him to wat television and films. is is because
actors oen ange clothing and hairstyles during a film. e consequence of
this is that Jeff can get the actors confused with ea other, or it seems that a
new aracter has been introduced when it is just an existing aracter with a
new hairstyle. Jeff writes that ‘the film Fifth Element is great for me as all of
the aracters look completely different’. With television though, ‘I do struggle
to believe that the aracter Brian Poer in Phoenix Nights is Peter Kay, the
comedian’.
What kind of brain damage causes acquired prosopagnosia?

ere is considerable variation in the type and location of lesions that cause
prosopagnosia. Early autopsy studies (e.g. Damasio et al., 1982) reported that
prosopagnosia was caused by bilateral lesions in the occipito-temporal cortex, a
finding supported in a number of other studies (e.g. Boutsen & Humphreys, 2002;
Sorger et al., 2007). However, in rarer cases it can follow unilateral damage in the
right hemisphere (De Renzi et al., 1994; Barton, 2008) and, even rarer still, by le-
hemisphere lesions (Mason et al., 2000).
Data from imaging studies has also demonstrated that most cases of
prosopagnosia have damage in the fusiform and lingual gyri, although there are
also cases of damage in more anterior temporal areas (e.g. Gainoi et al., 2003).
e fusiform area has been shown to be a key structure in face and object
processing and numerous studies have shown that the fusiform gyrus contains
an area dedicated to face processing – hence called the fusiform face area, oen
shortened to FFA (e.g. Haxby et al., 1994; Kanwisher et al., 1997; McCarthy et al.,
1997). ere is variability in the location of the FFA across individuals and this
may help to explain why prosopagnosia sometimes seems to occur with damage
in only one hemisphere (Bruce & Young, 2012). Given this individual variability,
many imaging studies have adopted what has been termed a ‘functional
localiser’ approa (Kanwisher et al., 1997). In essence, you first show

participants stimuli that are known to activate a particular, variably located,
brain structure. Once the structure has been reliably located in an individual,
you then focus subsequent analyses on that region, combining results from
multiple participants based on this functional, rather than geographical, location.
Fusiform face area (FFA) e fusiform area has been shown to be a key
structure in face and object processing and numerous studies have shown
that the fusiform gyrus contains an area dedicated to face processing.
While the FFA plays a key role in face processing, there is still variability in
the type of brain damage that can result in prosopagnosia. is variation is
consistent with current thinking regarding face processing – there is no single
area in the brain that is responsible for processing faces. Instead, this highly
developed and demanding process is underpinned by a distributed neural
network that is made up of many bilateral regions (Haxby et al., 2000). So how
does this variability impact on the type of face-processing impairments that are
observed in prosopagnosia? Barton (2008) examined this by reviewing data from
ten patients. e most severe impairments were found in patients who had
bilateral occipito-temporal lesions, involving the fusiform gyri. In particular,
bilateral lesions in this area resulted in severe impairments in the ability to form
an image of a face, to perceive and integrate configural information, and also
resulted in the lowest levels of familiarity with famous faces. is led Barton to
conclude that the right fusiform gyrus was involved in configurational
processing and that memory for faces was more severely disrupted when these
bilateral lesions also included right anterior temporal lobe damage.
Prosopagnosia – a face-specific disorder?

Riddo et al. (2008b) studied a patient – FB – who was poor at recognising the
faces of famous people with whom she was previously familiar. She was also
poor at saying whether two faces were the same or different when the pictures
were taken from different perspectives. In other ways, however, FB could gain a
lot of information from faces su as accurately judging the age, sex, and
emotional expression. For non-face objects and even for parts of faces, FB

performed within the normal range. Given these preserved skills, it appeared
that FB had a very ‘pure’ form of prosopagnosia.
Whilst other studies provide evidence of apparently highly face-specific
deficits (e.g. De Renzi & di Pellegrino, 1998; Wada & Yakamoto, 2001; Riddo et
al., 2008b), some patients categorised as prosopagnosic show difficulty with a
wider range of objects (e.g. Farah et al., 1995). One of the major allenges in this
area lies in finding the most appropriate comparisons to establish whether a
difficulty in face processing is really specific. Recognising a particular person is
not like being able to tell the difference between an apple and a table, but rather
like being able to identify a particular apple in a box of very similar apples; it is a
within-category rather than between-category judgement. Some researers have
therefore compared face identification with the ability to discriminate very
similar manufactured items, su as different eyeglasses or cars (De Renzi et al.,
1991; Sergent and Signoret, 1992; Farah et al., 1995; Tippe et al., 2000). On the
whole, these studies find that prosopagnosic patients are significantly more
impaired with faces than these other non-face items. Others have used within-
category judgements about natural objects, su as different cows or sheep,
whi may show more similar variation to faces than manufactured goods. An
additional strength of this approa is that there are people who, before their
brain injury, are likely to have had expertise in recognising one cow or sheep
from another, su as farmers.

Figure 4.9
Would you recognise this cow if you saw her again?
Bruyer et al. (1983) reported that Mr W., a farmer who became prosopagnosic,
was still able to recognise his cows. In contrast, Bornstein et al. (1969) described
a prosopagnosic farmer who could not recognise either humans or his cows.
Assal et al. (1984) described a farmer who was initially unable to recognise either
humans or cows but who, aer six months, had recovered the ability to
recognise human faces but not to differentiate cows. McNeil and Warrington
(1993) describe the case of WJ, who took up farming aer becoming
prosopagnosic and, remarkably, showed evidence of being able to recognise his
sheep, despite remaining profoundly prosopagnosic for human faces. is is an
important case because it demonstrates the possibility of learning to distinguish
between very similar biological forms (sheep) whilst appearing to show no su
post-injury learning for even highly familiar faces. is is in contrast to the
patient described by Tippe et al. (2000) who could recognise the faces and non-
faces with whi he was familiar from before his brain injury, and could learn
new non-face objects aer his injury, but could not learn to identify new faces.
Covert recognition in prosopagnosia

Some, but not all, prosopagnosic patients show evidence of covert recognition;
that is, their brain may show a differential response to different faces even
though the person does not seem to be consciously aware of it. Some
demonstrate covert familiarity; different neural responses to familiar compared
with unfamiliar faces (Renault et al., 1989). In other cases it has been possible to
demonstrate some implicit (unconscious) knowledge about the person shown in
a photograph, su as occupation or name. For example, Bruyer et al. (1983)
reported that a patient was very poor at recognising famous and familiar people
but, when asked to learn names for these people, he performed more poorly
when given the wrong name; in other words, something he knew about the
individual but of whi he was unconscious was helping his learning. De Haan
et al. (1987) showed this was true even for people their patient (PH) had met
after he had become prosopagnosic, suggesting that he continued at some level

to learn the names and faces of people he was meeting despite having no
conscious awareness of recognition.
Simon et al. (2011) examined covert processing of faces with patient PS. EEG
and fMRI data were collected while PS was shown familiar and unfamiliar faces.
e results from both the EEG and fMRI data revealed different paerns of
activity for faces that were previously known to PS compared to unfamiliar and
famous faces, even though PS could not identify any of the faces and had no
conscious feeling of familiarity. In particular, there was increased activation in
the fusiform face area (FFA) for previously familiar, compared with unfamiliar,
faces.
ere are different explanations for why covert recognition may occur. Bauer
(1984) linked face processing to the two streams of processing proposed by
Goodale and Milner (1992), suggesting that conscious, overt face recognition is
facilitated by the ventral pathway, whilst covert recognition is mediated by the
dorsal pathway. Others, however, have suggested that the difference arises from
a disconnection between an intact face-processing system and a higher system
required for conscious awareness (De Haan et al., 1992). Making a similar point,
Burton and colleagues (Burton et al., 1991) sought to explain covert recognition
using the interactive activation and competition (IAC) connectionist computer
model of face recognition, based on an earlier and highly influential model of
face processing proposed by Bruce and Young (1986). Connectionist computer
models seek to emulate neural networks by having a series of interconnected
nodes that can, for example, represent the perceptual input to a system (e.g. face)
mapping on to a stored representation (e.g. knowledge of the person). In the IAC,
different units (e.g. face-recognition units (FRUs); person identity nodes (PINS))
were linked together with bi-directional weighted connection links (the
weighting would represent how influential a given node was in anging the
behaviour of the next level of nodes). Burton et al. (1991) reported that a
relatively simple ange (halving the influence of the nodes) could simulate face-
specific activation of the system (covert identification) without leading all the
way through to overt recognition (Bruce et al., 1991; Young & Burton, 1999). A
value of su models can be in making predictions about real world behaviour
that have the potential to support or highlight limitations in the model. In this
case a prediction was that covert recognition would not be an ‘all or none’

phenomenon, but rather the effect would be graded according to the functional
locus and severity of damage (Bruce & Young, 2012, p. 343).
Developmental and congenital prosopagnosia

Developmental prosopagnosia has been rather variably defined and, in
particular, whether ‘congenital prosopagnosia’ should be the preferred term
when there is no indication of a specific trauma to the brain (e.g. Avidan and
Behrman, 2008) or whether ‘developmental prosopagnosia’ should cover su
accounts (e.g. Jones and Tranel, 2001). Whilst an individual’s medical history
may report a specific traumatic incident, oen differentiating between early
trauma vs abnormal development of a brain region can be complicated
(Duaine et al., 2006). Subsequent MRI brain imaging may not clarify issues,
with some studies reporting no structural brain abnormalities (e.g. Patient GA in
Barton et al., 2003), whilst others have shown a range of apparent abnormalities
(Behrmann et al., 2007). It is important to keep in mind, in this respect, that there
are quite considerable variations in normal brain function and structure. When
dealing with relatively low numbers of cases from a rare condition, one must be
cautious about interpreting apparent differences with respect to control
participants as being necessarily significant and causal (see Bowles et al., 2009,
for a discussion).
Developmental prosopagnosia Is thought to be a result of early neurological

trauma that might be caused by accident or injury.
Congenital prosopagnosia Is thought to be present from birth and is

thought to occur without any apparent brain injury.
Types of impairment in developmental and congenital

prosopagnosia
As will now be familiar from our discussions in this apter, the ‘holy grail’ for
many neuropsyological studies aimed at illuminating normal function is to
find the pure case. For prosopagnosia, this would be an individual who cannot

recognise other people from their face but whose knowledge and interest in
other people is intact, who can recognise others from their voice or walk or
known facts about them, who is quite confident in reporting others ages, sex,
and emotional expressions, and who can learn how to recognise fine differences
between non-face objects. is is for quite understandable reasons; the existence
of su a case indicates that there is a specific face-recognition system that is
sufficiently ‘encapsulated’ (a stand-alone module) that it can be damaged
without impairment to any other system. When put like this, you can appreciate
that it is quite a big ask of nature to provide su well-targeted brain lesions, and
a big ask of the neuropsyologist and participant to take a sufficiently huge
range of tests to really rule out other impairments. e situation is yet more
complex in developmental or congenital conditions; if a person has always
struggled to recognise faces, in a world where most people do it with ease and
expect you to have similar abilities, what kno-on effects might this have on
social and other functions? It is perhaps not therefore surprising that individuals
within the developmental prosopagnosia literature have been shown to also have
difficulty in processing facial emotions (e.g. Duaine, 2000) and the ability to
make gender judgements (e.g. De Haan & Campbell, 1991). Bentin et al. (2007)
reported that developmental prosopagnosic KW had a bias towards visual local
feature processing (zooming in on details rather than the whole) that led to
problems that were not limited to faces. Furthermore, many cases of
developmental prosopagnosia seem to have impairments that are consistent with
autism spectrum disorder (ASD; Wilson et al., 2010). A allenge here is that the
ASD diagnosis in part relates to observed abnormalities in social interaction and
ruling out a potential kno-on effect of prosopagnosia may be difficult.
However, Wilson et al. (2010) reported that four-sixths of prosopagnosic ildren
that they studied did not show any sign of ASD, suggesting that, whilst it may
be a risk factor for ASD, ASD is not an invariable consequence.
An interesting final point about developmental prosopagnosia concerns covert
recognition. As we saw above, adults who acquire prosopagnosia from a brain
injury may show covert recognition for the faces of people with whom they
were familiar before the injury. If one has always had difficulties recognising
people from their faces, how could you have su covert recognition (Barton et
al., 2001)? And yet, studies have reported precisely that (Avidan & Behrmann,
2008; Bate et al., 2008). Su findings are fascinating in suggesting dissociations

between conscious and unconscious face identification or threshold models
(when activity towards a familiar face must rea a certain point to become
conscious) that warrant further investigation.

4.7 Conclusion
is apter provides a glimpse into the ways that careful experimental work
with people who have suffered brain injuries (and healthy volunteers) can shed
light on the very complicated processes underpinning perception. is work is
also invaluable in helping patients and their families to understand what can be
rather baffling effects of brain injuries and, in some cases at least, to help develop
rehabilitation and other strategies to reduce the negative impact of these
impairments on everyday life. It shows how a convergence of methods, from
experimental studies in the healthy population, varieties of brain scanning,
neuropsyology, and the generation of computer and other models to simulate
function and impairment can contribute to our understanding.

Summary
• Damage to different brain regions can result in a variety of perceptual

and aention disorders that can display a surprising degree of specificity.
• e paern of disorders observed suggests a highly modular system in
whi a series of independent processes ea contribute towards the goal
of perception.
• Synaesthesia tells us that information in one modality, su as the sound

of a leer, can reliably induce activity in another modality (su as
colour vision) in some people.
• Blindsight provides an example of a dissociation between conscious
experience (whi may be absent) and the ability to respond quite
accurately to the location and some other features of visual objects.
• Prosopagnosia also provides evidence of this dissociation, as does
unilateral neglect, where some patients show evidence of knowledge
about familar faces, or of neglected objects, of whi they are not
conscious.
• ere is some evidence that the nature of the representation formed
might be dependent on the task to be performed and, in particular, an
important distinction between the perceptual processes that support
action and those that result in object recognition.
• Two broad paerns of impairment in visual agnosia have been identified
and these were originally termed apperceptive agnosia (now generally
known as form agnosia) and associative agnosia (now known as
integrative agnosia).
• In form agnosia patients are unable to discriminate between objects and
cannot copy line drawings. Integrative agnosia is aracterised by an
ability to perceive the individual shapes and elements of objects with an
inability to integrate these elements into a representation of the whole
object.
• Prosopagnosia involves an impairment of face processing. It can be
acquired or it can emerge early in development. In all forms of

prosopagnosia there is considerable variation in the severity of
impairment, associated deficits, and types of face-processing skills.
• In acquired prosopagnosia there is variability in the location and type of
lesion, although impairment in areas su as the fusiform face area seems
to be particularly important.
Modular system A system in whi different types of processing are carried

out by separate and relatively independent sub-systems.

Further reading
Bruce, V., & Young, A. (2012). Face Perception. Hove: Psyology Press. A comprehensive and extremely
accessible text covering all aspects of face perception.
Farah, M.J. (2004). Visual Agnosia (2nd edn). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. A very readable account of
disorders in object recognition wrien by one of the leading researers in the field.
Hole, G., & Bourne, V. (2010). Face Processing: Psychological, Neuropsychological and Applied Perspectives.
Oxford: Oxford University Press. An extremely accessible text that contains several easy-to-read
apters on the neuropsyology of face processing.

 5
Short-term memory
David Groome and Robin Law
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-5
Contents
Summary
Summary
Further reading

e dual-store theory of memory

Information whi has been perceived will sometimes be put into the
memory store. Early cognitive psyologists assumed that there was just one
memory store, but William James (1890) suggested that there were two
separate stores, one for items being held briefly in conscious awareness and
the other for items held for longer periods in unconscious storage. He called
these two stores ‘primary memory’ and ‘secondary memory’ respectively,
though they subsequently became known as short-term memory (STM)
and long-term memory (LTM). James made the distinction between the
STM and LTM stores essentially on the basis of subjective experience. He
felt that conscious memories seemed different to the memories in storage,
and seemed to have different aracteristics. James was a psyologist of
great intuitive genius, and like many of his theories the distinction between
STM and LTM remains plausible to this day.
Short-term memory (STM) Memory held in conscious awareness, and

whi is currently receiving aention (contrasts with long-term
memory).
Long-term memory (LTM) Memory held in permanent storage, available

for retrieval at some time in the future (contrasts with short-term
memory).
STM refers to the memories whi are currently receiving our conscious
aention, and it is a temporary store of very brief duration and limited
capacity. LTM refers to the memories whi are not presently in conscious
awareness, but whi are held in storage ready to be recalled. e LTM store
has a very large capacity and can hold information for a lifetime. Atkinson

and Shiffrin (1968) used these ideas to develop a theoretical model of
memory, whi is shown in Figure 5.1.
Figure 5.1
e dual-store model of memory.
Source: Atkinson & Shiffrin (1968).
According to the Atkinson and Shiffrin model, information is held in STM

by continually rehearsing it, and without rehearsal it will be almost
immediately forgoen. e LTM is seen as a more passive store of
information whi is available for retrieval but not kept in an activated
form. Earlier models of memory storage had seen the STM as lile more
than a ‘port of entry’ into the LTM, but in the Atkinson and Shiffrin model
the STM store is also used for retrieval of memories from storage. is
notion of STM as a focus of both input and output of memories is of central
importance to the more recent working memory (WM) model (Baddeley &
Hit, 1974), whi has developed the concept of the STM as a conscious
workspace.
e distinction between STM and LTM is sometimes referred to as the
‘dual-store’ theory of memory, because it proposes two distinct forms of
memory storage. It therefore constitutes one of the first ‘multistore’ theories
of memory, describing memory as a number of related structures rather than
as a single entity. In fact the Atkinson and Shiffrin model included a third

store, whi was seen as a very brief preliminary store for unprocessed
sensory information, essentially an aer-image occurring in the sense organ
itself. ere is some evidence for su a brief sensory store (Sperling, 1960),
but the STM and LTM are of far greater importance to memory function.
Clinical evidence for the STM/LTM distinction

Over the years evidence has gradually accumulated in support of the dual-
store theory, the most convincing evidence coming from the study of
amnesic patients. ose suffering from organic amnesia (a memory
impairment caused by physical damage to the brain) have difficulty forming
any new long-term memories, but their immediate short-term memory is
usually unimpaired (Milner, 1966; Baddeley & Warrington, 1970). Su
patients are able to remember what has happened during the previous few
seconds, but not from earlier time periods. e finding that STM can remain
intact despite severe impairment of LTM suggests that they are separate and
independent memory stores.
is view receives further support from the finding that a few patients
have been studied who show the exact reverse of this dissociation, with an
intact LTM but a severely impaired STM. For example, Warrington and
Shallice (1969) described a patient known as KF who had suffered damage to
the le parietal region of his brain in a motorcycle accident. KF had no LTM
impairment but his STM was quite severely impaired. In fact he could only
hold one or two digits in conscious STM at a particular moment in time,
whereas most normal people can hold at least seven digits (this measure of
STM is known as digit span, and it is further discussed in Section 5.2).
Although this type of impairment is very rare, a few other patients have
since been studied who show a similar paern of impaired STM with an
intact LTM.
Digit span A measure of the capacity of the phonological component of

the working memory, based on the largest number of digits whi an
individual can recall when tested immediately aer their presentation.

Taking the two types of evidence together, it is apparent that either the
STM or the LTM can be separately impaired whilst the other store remains
intact. A ‘double dissociation’ of this kind is regarded as being particularly
convincing, and it is the main reason why most cognitive psyologists
today accept that STM and LTM are separate memory stores.
e recency effect
Ebbinghaus (1885) demonstrated that memory for a list of items is affected
by the serial position of an item in a list. Items at the end of the list are
particularly well remembered (the recency effect), and to a lesser extent
items at the start of the list also tend to be remembered (the primacy effect).
However, items in the middle of the list are more likely to be forgoen. is
serial position curve is illustrated in Figure 5.2.
Recency and primacy effects e tendency for participants to show

particularly good recall for items presented towards the end (recency) or
the start (primacy) of a list.

Figure 5.2
e serial position curve.
Ebbinghaus suggested that items in the middle of the list might suffer
more interference from other adjacent items than would items at the start
and end of the list, whi could explain why the items in the middle are less
easily remembered. However, a more likely explanation was subsequently
put forward for the recency effect, whi is that the last few items on the list
are probably remembered because they are still in the STM at the time of
recall. is theory received convincing support from the finding that the
recency effect disappears when a delay is introduced between learning a
word list and recalling it (Glanzer & Cunitz, 1966). A delay of 30 seconds,
filled with a simple task (counting bawards) to prevent participants from
rehearsing the word list, was found to be sufficient to completely eliminate
the recency effect. e results of this experiment are summarised in Figure
5.3.
Figure 5.3
e effect of delayed recall on the recency effect.
Source: Glanzer & Cunitz (1966).

Glanzer and Cunitz concluded that the recency effect could be explained
by the fact that the last few items on the list were still being held in the
STM. eir findings add further support for the STM/LTM distinction, and
they also suggest that information requires conscious rehearsal in order to
maintain it in the STM store.
A number of different explanations have been suggested for the primacy
effect. ere is some evidence (Oberauer, 2003) that items at the beginning of
the list benefit from greater aention than those later in the sequence. It has
also been shown that the retrieval of the first items on the list may inhibit
the retrieval of subsequent items (Cowan, 2005), a phenomenon known as
output interference.

e duration of STM storage

We can get a good indication of the duration of STM storage by studying
amnesic individuals who are unable to transfer information to the LTM. is
means that they can only store information in STM. For example, the
severely amnesic patient CW has virtually no LTM, and consequently he can
only retain new information for about seven seconds (Wilson & Wearing,
1995). Similar STM retention periods have been reported for other amnesics
(Spiers et al., 2001), so it would appear that the STM can only hold on to
information for a few seconds.
e Brown–Peterson task (Brown, 1958; Peterson & Peterson, 1959) is a
tenique for measuring the duration of STM storage in normal individuals.
e task requires them to retain a few test items whilst being prevented
from repeating or rehearsing them, thus stopping them from transferring the
items to LTM. e participant is presented with test items whi are well
below maximum span (su as three leers), whi they are required to
repeat ba aer a short retention interval. However, during this retention
interval the participant is required to perform a distraction task (su as
counting bawards in threes) to prevent rehearsal of the test items. e
results obtained by Brown and the Petersons showed that when rehearsal is
prevented in this way the test items are forgoen very rapidly. In fact most
items had been forgoen within 5–10 seconds of being presented (see Figure
5.4).

Figure 5.4
STM forgeing when rehearsal is prevented.
Peterson & Peterson (1959).
ese results suggest that STM storage requires rehearsal to keep an item
in consciousness, and if rehearsal is prevented the item is lost from the STM
very rapidly. In fact Muter (1980) showed that most items are forgoen
within 3 or 4 seconds if the subject is not expecting to be tested. Muter
argues that this is probably a more accurate estimation of STM duration
since the use of an unexpected test may help to eliminate the contribution of
LTM.
ese studies have shown that STM lasts for only a few seconds without
rehearsal, and a number of different explanations have been put forward for
this rapid memory loss. ere is some evidence that STM may just decay
with time, but interference from other items seems to be a stronger effect
(Berman et al., 2009). At the present time it is still not clear whether decay
or interference is the main cause of STM loss (Baddeley et al., 2019), mainly
because of the difficulty in devising STM tasks whi are totally free from
any LTM input.

STM capacity for spoken words or numbers
Most traditional tests of memory, su as the recall of word lists or stories,
provide what is predominantly a measure of LTM. Tests of STM are harder
to devise, but one of the most popular tests of STM capacity is the
immediate memory span. e participant is read a series of items (su as
digits) and is then required to repeat them ba immediately, in the correct
order. Since there is only a few seconds delay between hearing the test items
and repeating them ba, it was originally assumed that immediate memory
span must depend on the STM.
If you wish to test your own digit span, you will find an example of the
procedure in Figure 5.5. Read the five digits in the top row of the list out
loud, then cover up the list and try to write them down. If you get them all
right, test yourself on to the next row, in whi the number of digits is
increased to six. Keep on going until you start geing some of the digits
wrong. Your digit span is the largest number of digits you can remember
correctly in one trial.
Figure 5.5
e digit span test. e first row of leers is read to the participant, who must repeat
them immediately. If they get this row correct, move on to the next row, and so on until
they make an error.
Tests of this kind suggest that the average normal person has a maximum
digit span of about seven digits, and in fact their maximum span for leers
or words tends to be fairly similar (Miller, 1956). ere is some variation
among the general population, with scores varying typically from five to
about nine items.

However, immediate memory span is no longer thought to be a pure
measure of STM, since there is evidence that the LTM may make some
contribution to span performance (Hulme et al., 1991). In particular,
information stored in LTM may facilitate the ‘unking’ of several items
into one meaningful item (Wolters & Raffone, 2008). For example, if you
were asked to repeat the leers ‘introductiontocognitivepsyology’
immediately, you could probably do this with lile difficulty (assuming that
you have noticed that it is the title of this book) even though there are 33
leers in this sequence. You are able to retain this very long list of leers
because you can use information from LTM to convert the list into
meaningful unks of information. e use of LTM may explain why digit
span tends to yield a higher estimate of STM capacity than other measures.
is view receives further support from the finding that STM span is
significantly reduced when the items are unfamiliar, as for example if they
are in a foreign language (Jones & Maen, 2015).
e recency effect (see Section 5.1) offers another possible means of
measuring STM capacity. Based on the number of items in the ‘recency’
section of the serial position curve, Craik (1970) estimated the capacity of
STM to be about three or four items. is is rather less than the estimate
obtained with the digit span method. Cowan (2005) arrived at a similar
estimate of STM capacity by using the running memory task. is involves
listening to a sequence of digits whi is suddenly ended, at whi point the
participant must try to remember as many of the digits as possible. Cowan
argues that this task minimises the possibility of rehearsal or grouping of
items, and he found that only about four digits would typically be recalled
using this test. is is again fewer than would typically be aieved in a
standard memory span test.
Based on these findings it is currently considered that the STM has a
capacity of about four items (Cowan, 2010), and the rather higher scores
aieved with simple digit span tests are assumed to reflect an additional
input from the LTM store. However, the capacity of WM is not completely
fixed and permanent throughout life for any given individual, and Cowan

(2016) has found that WM capacity actually increases significantly during
ildhood and the sool years.
STM capacity for visually presented items

e capacity of the STM can also be measured for visually presented items,
by testing the number of visually presented objects you can hold consciously
at one moment. Try glancing briefly at the array of objects in Figure 5.6,
then cover them up and try to remember the objects and their position on
the page.
Figure 5.6
Measuring the capacity of visual STM.

Your ability to remember ea of the items in the array is probably not a
pure test of STM capacity, as this task will also involve some input from the
LTM. Indeed, the identity and names of the items will be obtained from
LTM storage, so if we require a test of STM alone then we need a test
procedure whi does not involve recall of the test items themselves. One of
the most widely used visual STM measures is the Corsi Blos test (Corsi,
1972), in whi the experimenter toues several wooden blos in a certain
sequential order, whi must then be copied by the participant.

Working memory
Early versions of the dual-store model tended to regard STM and LTM as
two stores differing mainly in their duration. However, the working memory
model (Baddeley & Hit, 1974) emphasises the different functions of these
stores. Baddeley and Hit asked themselves the question: what is STM for?
ey concluded that it must perform some function beyond mere storage,
most probably involving the processing of information that it holds.
Baddeley and Hit argued that the STM was more than just a temporary
storage space, and that it functioned as an active working memory (WM), a
kind of mental workspace in whi a variety of processing operations were
carried out on both new and old memories. In contrast, the LTM was seen as
a storage memory (SM), maintaining information in a fairly passive state
for possible future retrieval. Baddeley and Hit use the terms WM and SM
because they emphasise the function of these systems rather than storage
duration.
Working memory (WM) A hypothetical short-term memory system

whi serves as a mental workspace in whi a variety of processing
operations are carried out on both new input and retrieved memories.

Figure 5.7
Alan Baddeley.
A possible analogy is to think of the working memory as resembling the

screen of a computer, a space in whi various tasks are performed on
current data, whilst the storage memory serves a similar purpose to the
computer’s memory disks, holding large amounts of information in long-
term storage (see Figure 5.8).
Figure 5.8
e computer as an analogy for WM/SM.
Source: Groome (1999).
Baddeley and Hit (1974) regarded the working memory as a workspace

where analysis and processing of information would take place. ey

reasoned that su processing would require some means of holding
information while it was being processed, but their resear suggested that
there was more than one short-term store, as the evidence showed that there
were separate WM stores for visual and auditory material. is resear
made use of the dual-task paradigm, in whi the subject has to carry out
two WM tasks at the same time. ey found that two simultaneous WM
tasks will disrupt one another severely if both tasks involve auditory input,
or if both tasks involve visual input. However, a visual WM task and an
auditory WM task can be carried out simultaneously without greatly
disrupting one another, suggesting that they probably make use of two
different stores. e disruption caused when both tasks involve the same
sensory modality is assumed to result from competition for the same storage
space.
Baddeley and Hit concluded that the working memory must have
separate stores for visual and auditory information. ey proposed a model
of working memory (see Figure 5.9) comprising a phonological loop, whi
holds auditory and spee-based information, and a visuo-spatial
sketpad, whi holds visual information. e central executive controls
WM processes and is served by the two short-term stores.
Phonological loop A hypothetical component of working memory,

whi is assumed to provide brief storage for verbally-presented items.
Visuo-spatial sketpad A hypothetical component of working memory,

whi is assumed to provide brief storage for visually-presented items.
Central executive A hypothetical meanism whi is believed to be in

overall control of the working memory. It is assumed to control a variety
of tasks, su as decision-making, problem-solving, and selective
aention.

Figure 5.9
e working memory model.
Source: Baddeley & Hitch (1974).
Evidence for the phonological loop

e phonological loop provides brief storage for auditory input su as
spoken words, and it is assumed to be the meanism underlying measures
su as digit span. e main evidence for the existence of the phonological
loop arises from the dual-task paradigm described above. For example,
Baddeley and Lewis (1981) found that the immediate recall of a list of
spoken words is severely disrupted by the simultaneous performance of a
second verbal task, even one whi requires no significant thought or
processing. e second task in their experiment involved simply repeating
‘the, the, the’ over and over again, a procedure known as articulatory
suppression because, despite its simplicity, it uses up the participant’s
capacity for repetition of spee input. However, a task involving visual
imagery does not disrupt the recall of spoken words. Baddeley and Lewis
concluded that performing a second verbal task disrupts the first one
because they are both competing for the limited storage space in the
phonological loop.
Articulatory suppression A task used to occupy the articulatory control

process of the working memory, normally involving the repetition of a
sound (su as ‘the’) whi requires articulation but lile processing.

Figure 5.10
If you must do two things at once, make sure they don’t use the same WM loop.
Further evidence for the existence of two separate WM loops comes from
the study of clinical patients with impaired STM. For example, Warrington
and Shallice (1972) reported that their patient KF (referred to earlier, in
Section 5.1) showed a severe impairment in the immediate recall of spoken
items (e.g. digits, leers, or words), but performed quite well when items
were presented visually.
Evidence for the visuo-spatial sketpad

As with the phonological loop, evidence for the existence of the visuo-
spatial sketpad comes mainly from the dual-task paradigm. Alan Baddeley
(1995) describes an interesting real-life example of how difficult it can be to
perform two visual WM tasks at the same time. Whilst driving his car down
an American freeway, Baddeley noticed that his steering became hopelessly
erratic when he aempted to visualise the details of an American football
game he was listening to on the radio. Since his car was weaving from side
to side he decided that it would be safer to swit over to a music
programme.

Figure 5.11
If you are going for a drive, listen to the music station not the football.
Subsequent experiments have confirmed that short-term visual recall is

severely disrupted by performing a second visual task at the same time, but
is not disrupted by performing a non-visual task. For example Logie (1986)
found that the ability to learn words by using visual imagery was greatly
disrupted by a second visual task, but not by a spee task. Logie et al. (1989)
reported that performance on a visual computer game was disrupted by a
second visuo-spatial task. Robbins et al. (1996) found that the ability to recall
positions on a ess board was disrupted by a secondary spatial task
(manipulation of a keypad) but not by a task involving the repetition of
words.
ere is also some clinical evidence for the existence of the visuo-spatial
sketpad. ere is a disorder called Williams syndrome in whi the main
symptom appears to be an impairment of visuo-spatial processing and the
visuo-spatial loop, but with normal verbal processing (Bellugi et al., 1994).
An interesting finding is that although Williams syndrome individuals
perform normally on tests of grammar comprehension, they do in fact
exhibit an impairment for grammatical structures whi denote spatial
position, su as ‘above’, ‘below’, or ‘shorter’ (Phillips et al., 2004).

e word-length effect
e phonological loop is assumed to be the meanism underlying tasks
su as digit span or word span, whi was previously believed to have a
limit of about seven items (Miller, 1956). However, Baddeley et al. (1975)
found that the word-span limit is greater for short words than it is for long
words, a phenomenon known as the word-length effect. is finding led
them to suggest that the phonological loop is limited not by the number of
items it can hold, but by the length of time it takes to speak them. In fact the
word span was found to be limited to the number of words that could be
spoken in about 2 seconds. e phonological loop thus seems to work in a
rather similar way to a short loop of recording tape, whi explains how it
got its name. Hulme et al. (2004) suggest that the word-length effect may
depend more on the nature of the test items rather than merely their length,
since the word-length effect disappears when very complex and distinctive
test items are used. Taylor et al. (2017) argue that WM does not actually
have a fixed capacity limit, since the number of items whi can be retained
depends on their complexity.
Word-length effect e finding that word span in immediate recall is

greater for short words than for long words.
Non-spee sounds and irrelevant spee

Whilst the phonological loop is assumed to hold verbal items, there is some
uncertainty about whether it also deals with non-spee sounds, su as the
sound of a dog barking or a telephone ringing. Shallice and Warrington
(1974) reported that their patient KF had a WM impairment whi was
restricted to verbal items, whereas his WM recall for non-spee sounds was
fairly normal, whi suggests that verbal and non-verbal material appear to
use different systems. Salame and Baddeley (1982) reported that baground
spee caused disruption of verbal memory, but non-spee sounds did not
cause su disruption. is phenomenon is known as the ‘irrelevant spee

effect’. ey concluded from this that verbal material enters the
phonological loop, but non-spee sounds do not. However, this view is
disputed by Maen and Jones (1995), who found that unaended non-
spee sounds did cause disruption in some circumstances. However, the
exact meanism involved in storage and retrieval of non-spee sounds
remains uncertain.
e phonological loop and language acquisition

Mu resear has been directed towards investigating the function
performed by the phonological loop in real life, and studies have suggested
that its main function may involve the use and development of language.
Baddeley and Lewis (1981) found that articulatory suppression interfered
with a subject’s ability to detect errors of logic or word order in a sentence,
suggesting that the main function of the phonological loop may be to hold
on to a sentence for long enough to analyse it for logic, word order, and
overall meaning. is view is supported by clinical studies, whi show that
patients with severe impairment of the phonological loop (indicated by a
very small memory span) oen have difficulty in understanding long and
complex sentences, but have no trouble with short and simple sentences
(Vallar & Baddeley, 1984). It therefore seems that their problem is not one of
comprehension, but an inability to retain and examine a long sentence.
Other studies have found evidence of reduced phonological memory
performance in ildren with language problems (Raine et al., 1992), and in
normal ildren with poor linguistic ability (Gathercole & Baddeley, 1990).
Whilst these findings appear to suggest that the function of the
phonological loop is concerned with language comprehension, in some cases
patients with a severely impaired memory span have been found to exhibit
normal language comprehension (Martin, 1993). is finding suggests that
the phonological loop may be more important for the acquisition of
language rather than for the subsequent use of that language (Baddeley et
al., 1998). Several studies offer support for this view. For example, ildren
with specific language learning impairments have been found to have

impaired phonological loop performance (Gathercole & Baddeley, 1989). It
has also been found that a person’s aptitude for learning a second language
correlates with immediate memory span (Gathercole et al., 1999), and that
vocabulary size depends on the capacity of the phonological loop (Majerus
et al., 2006).

Sub-components of the phonological loop
Baddeley (1986) suggested that the latest evidence indicated that the
phonological loop actually contains two separate components. ese are the
phonological store, whi stores auditory information, and the
articulatory control process, whi allows sub-vocal rehearsal of the
information. e articulatory control process is seen as a kind of ‘inner
spee’ meanism, linked to actual spee production, and it also helps to
maintain verbal information in the phonological store.
ese two sub-components were postulated because they offered an
explanation for a number of unexpected findings. In the first place, it had
been found that during articulatory suppression participants were still able
to make phonological judgements (Besner et al., 1981), suggesting that there
were separate systems to perform articulation and storage of auditory
information.
Baddeley et al. (1984) also discovered that, rather oddly, articulatory
suppression eliminates the word-length effect for visually presented words
but not for spoken words (Baddeley et al., 1984). In order to explain this
finding Baddeley et al. suggested that the articulatory control process is
required for registering visually presented words and transferring them into
the phonological store, whereas auditorily presented words gain direct
access to the phonological store since they are already in the appropriate
format (see Figure 5.12). us visually presented words use the articulatory
control process, but auditorily presented words do not. is would explain
why articulatory suppression will affect the input of visually presented
words but not spoken ones. e word-length effect is seen as being a
function of the limited space available in the articulatory rehearsal process,
so this will also be eliminated by articulatory suppression.

Figure 5.12
Access to the phonological loop.
Source: Baddeley (1986).
e phonological loop also offers a possible explanation for the ‘irrelevant

spee effect’. As explained earlier, this is the finding that the retrieval of a
sequence of visually presented items is disrupted by the simultaneous
presentation of irrelevant spoken material (Salame & Baddeley, 1982). Again
this can be explained by hypothesising that all spoken material
automatically enters the phonological store, even baground spee whi
is not being aended to.
e hypothesis that the phonological store has two components receives
some additional support from clinical findings, as certain brain-injured
patients appear to show impairment of either the phonological store or the
articulatory control process in isolation, whilst the other sub-component
remains intact (Vallar et al., 1997).
Sub-components of the visuo-spatial sketpad

Logie (1995) suggests that, like the phonological loop, the visuo-spatial
sketpad also contains two sub-components. ese are the visual cae,
whi stores visual information about shapes and colours, and the inner

scribe, whi holds spatial information and assists with the control of
physical actions.
Some evidence for this distinction comes from clinical studies whi
suggest that some brain-injured patients show impairment of the visual
cae but not the inner scribe. For example, Farah et al. (1988) described a
patient who showed very poor judgements based on visual imagery of
objects, despite showing a fairly normal performance on spatial tasks. It has
also been demonstrated that normal participants carrying out two
simultaneous WM tasks suffer considerable task disruption when both tasks
are visual, or when both tasks are spatial, but show less disruption when
simultaneously performing one visual task and one spatial task (Klauer &
Zhao, 2004).
e episodic buffer
One problem for the original version of the WM model was that, by
fractionating the WM into a number of separate memory loops dedicated to
specific sense modalities, it offered no clear explanation of how information
from the visual and phonological loops can be combined and linked to
multi-modular information in the LTM. Baddeley (2000) therefore postulated
an additional loop called the episodic buffer, whi is assumed to integrate
information from a variety of sense modalities, and whi also provides a
link between the WM and the LTM.
Episodic buffer A hypothetical component of working memory whi

integrates information from different sense modalities, and provides a
link with the LTM.
e episodic buffer also helps to explain the finding that some amnesic
patients are able to retain lengthy prose passages for a brief period of time,
despite having very poor retention of prose over longer periods (Baddeley &
Wilson, 2002). It is well known that normal individuals can remember

lengthy prose passages over long or short retention periods, but it is assumed
that they use LTM to aieve this performance. However, this is clearly not
possible for amnesic subjects, whose LTM is severely impaired. Baddeley
and Wilson suggest that both normal and amnesic subjects can use the
episodic buffer to store su passages over a short period. Baddeley and
Wilson (2002) note that this capacity for immediate prose recall is not found
in Alzheimer patients, suggesting that these patients may have an
impairment of the episodic buffer itself. It has also been found that
Alzheimer patients have a specific impairment of feature binding, as they
can retain information about individual features (e.g. colour and shape) but
they cannot integrate and combine them (Parra et al., 2009). is is
consistent with the assumed function of the episodic buffer as a meanism
for binding together the different features of the input.
Baddeley (2003) also suggests that the episodic buffer may be involved in
conscious awareness, previously thought to reside primarily in the central
executive. His revised version of the WM model, incorporating the episodic
buffer, is illustrated in Figure 5.13.
Figure 5.13
Revised version of the working memory model.
Source: Adapted from Baddeley (2000).

Investigating the central executive
e central executive (CE) is thought to have overall control of cognitive
processing, and it is probably the main focus of conscious awareness. It also
controls the phonological and visuo-spatial loops, and uses them to help
with processing. e CE was originally regarded as being essentially a single
control system, but more recent resear (Baddeley, 2007) has shown that it
actually performs several fairly distinct functions. Miyake et al. (2000)
identified three main CE functions, by submiing scores on a large number
of different executive tasks to a form of factor analysis involving the
extraction of latent variables. ese latent variables emerge from the
analysis when several tests are found to correlate strongly with one another,
suggesting that they all depend on the same underlying factor. e three
factors identified by Miyake et al. were inhibition (suppression of a
dominant response), shiing (switing aention between different tasks),
and updating (monitoring stored information and new input). Miyake and
Friedman (2012) found that people show individual differences in these three
factors, whi remain fairly consistent throughout life, and whi predict
many aspects of behaviour in real-life seings. ese findings are considered
in Section 5.6 (‘Individual differences in WM’).
Impairment of central executive function

Certain brain lesions appear to cause an impairment of central executive
function, so that patients have difficulty in producing controlled and flexible
responses and instead rely on automatic processing and stereotyped
responses. is type of impairment is known as dysexecutive syndrome
(Baddeley & Wilson, 1988), and it is mainly associated with frontal lobe
lesions. Impaired executive function has been described in a wide variety of
different conditions, including Alzheimer’s disease (Baddeley, 1996), Touree

syndrome (Ozonoff et al., 1994), autism (Hill, 2004), and aention deficit
hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) (Sulz et al., 2004). Most of these conditions
are known to involve frontal lobe dysfunction (see Chapter 9 for further
details of executive dysfunction relating to thinking disorders).
Dysexecutive syndrome A collection of deficits observed in frontal lobe

patients whi may include impaired concentration, impaired concept
formation, disinhibition, inflexibility, perseveration, impaired cognitive
estimation, and impaired strategy formation.
Stuss and Alexander (2007) showed that the paern of impairment in

dysexecutive syndrome varies from one case to another, depending on whi
of the different CE functions was most affected. In view of this variability,
they argued that dysexecutive syndrome should not be regarded as a single
impairment but as a range of different CE impairments.
e WM model today
e WM model has generated a vast amount of resear over the last 50
years, and continues to do so. It has also produced some findings whi are
of practical use in real-life seings. For example, Wen et al. (2015) note that
the WM model has been used widely to improve language learning in
educational seings, and Kasel et al. (2009) report that a test of WM dual-
task performance provides a useful means of detecting the early onset of
Alzheimer’s disease. Baddeley et al. (2019) confirm that their WM model is
still plausible in the light of more recent evidence, and it continues to be
cited frequently by other researers. It remains to be seen whether it can
survive in the face of future resear, but if so it seems likely that it will be a
rather different WM model whi eventually emerges. A number of other
theories of WM have in fact been proposed, and these will now be
considered.

e feature model of memory
Neath and Nairne (1995) argue that the dual-store model is not justified, as
the resear findings can be equally well explained by a single memory
store. ey also consider that there is no need to postulate multiple storage
loops as assumed by the Baddeley and Hit WM model, as most findings
are compatible with a single-store model without su additional WM
stores. Neath and Nairne’s ‘feature model’ postulates that WM retrieval
depends on mating the features of a WM trace with those of an LTM
(storage memory) trace, the main limitation being that the LTM trace is
degraded by interference.
Nairne (2002) points out that whenever a new finding is reported whi
cannot be explained by the existing version of the Baddeley and Hit WM
model, the authors add some new component to their model (su as a new
WM loop) whi enables it to cope with the new findings. But Nairne argues
that this process of continuous modification and pating makes the WM
model impossible to falsify. Suprenant and Neath (2009) argue that in most
respects WM and LTM operate on the same basic principles and processes,
whi questions the justification for making a distinction between these two
stores.
e embedded-processes theory
Cowan (2005) has proposed that WM is simply that part of the LTM whi
happens to be activated at a particular moment, rather than being a totally
separate memory system. WM therefore depends on whi part of the LTM
we are directing our aention to at that point in time, before we shi our
aention to some other part. is is known as the ‘embedded-processes’ (EP)
theory, as the activated memory and aentional control meanisms are
seen as embedded within various other storage systems and meanisms. It

is also sometimes described as the ‘controlled attention’ theory, as it views
WM as being essentially that part of the LTM whi is currently receiving
aention.
Cowan’s theory is consistent with most of the previously established
evidence, though it does have difficulty explaining why WM is normally
preserved in organic amnesia. If WM is simply the activated part of LTM,
then it might be expected that an impairment of LTM would lead to an
impairment of WM too. However, Cowan (1988) suggests that organic
amnesics have an impairment of their WM control processes su as
articulation, whi prevents them from storing new information in LTM
despite having an intact WM. However, there is no clear evidence at present
to support this hypothesis.
One finding whi is consistent with Cowan’s model is the discovery that
WM and LTM tasks do appear to activate the same areas of the cortex
(Oztekin et al., 2010; Nee & Jonides, 2013). For example, Oztekin et al. (2010)
carried out functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) on participants
while they were retrieving items from a recently presented list. Similar
levels of temporal lobe activation were found for the most recently
presented items (assumed to be held in WM) and earlier items (assumed to
be held in LTM). In response, Baddeley et al. (2019) point out that all so-
called ‘WM’ and ‘LTM’ tasks probably involve some input from both WM
and LTM, so it is not surprising that the same brain areas are activated and
this finding does not therefore offer support exclusively to the EP theory.
Further support for the EP theory comes from the observation that WM
and LTM appear to involve similar representations in memory, as WM and
LTM traces contain a similar level of precision and detail (Xie et al., 2020).
Again, this would seem to be consistent with the EP theory, as it suggests
that WM and LTM probably make use of the same storage and processing
systems.
Baddeley et al. (2019) point out that Cowan’s EP theory is compatible
with the Baddeley and Hit working memory model in most respects.
However, Cowan has osen to focus on aention and control meanisms,
whereas the WM model focusses on the storage systems whi support

them. Baddeley et al. suggest that Cowan’s ‘controlled aention’ meanism
is largely equivalent to the activities of the central executive and the
episodic buffer as proposed in the Baddeley and Hit WM model. Baddeley
et al. therefore conclude that the two theories differ mainly in focussing on
different aspects of WM. Whereas EP theory emphasises limits on
aentional capacity, the WM model focuses on the type of processing
carried out and the temporary stores whi support them. ese can be seen
as different but complementary approaes to what is essentially the same
WM meanism, rather than as conflicting theories.
Individual differences in WM
Turner and Engle (1989) demonstrated that there are consistent individual
differences in the WM performance of different people, and that these
differences prove to be a surprisingly good predictor of other types of
cognitive performance. ey found even stronger correlations with other
measures of cognitive performance when they employed ‘operational span’
WM tasks (i.e. span tasks whi require additional processing su as
reading or calculating), instead of simple span measures.
Operational span tasks have been found to correlate highly with cognitive
abilities su as language comprehension, fluid intelligence, and academic
performance (Kane & Engle, 2002). For example, measures of visual WM
account for more than 40 per cent of the variance in fluid intelligence
(Fukuda et al., 2010). Kane and Engle (2002) suggest that the main feature of
WM performance whi predicts su cognitive skills is the ability to control
the contents of consciousness. A low span indicates poor control of aention
and an inability to suppress unwanted items, and will thus impair
performance on a wide range of cognitive tasks. In keeping with this view,
Rosen and Engle (1998) found that complex WM measures predict whether
an individual will be successful in suppressing intrusive thoughts.
Miyake and Friedman (2012) have shown that several measures of central
executive performance correlate with behaviour in real-life seings,
especially the ability of an individual to control their cognitive processes and

the level of self-control and willpower that they will show in everyday life.
For example, central executive scores predict successful control of diet,
exercise, and weight, and they even predict the likelihood of expressing
racial prejudice or commiing an act of infidelity to a spouse or partner
(Miyake & Friedman, 2012). It has also been reported that the tendency to
worry is related to weak executive performance (Gustavson et al., 2020).
Figure 5.14
Measures of executive function can predict whether you are able to control your weight.
As explained in Section 5.6, Miyake et al. (2000) identified three main CE

factors, whi are inhibition, shiing, and updating. ese three factors
show reliable individual differences, whi remain fairly consistent through
life for a given individual and are partly determined by heredity (Miyake &
Friedman, 2012). Twin studies have also revealed that impulsivity and
response inhibition are two CE factors whi are influenced by heredity and
relatively independent of one another, and they ea provide distinct
predictions of psyopathology (Friedman et al., 2020).
Working memory training

In recent years there have been aempts to develop teniques for
improving WM performance, mainly by practising various tasks involving
the WM. It has been claimed that working memory training can help to
preserve cognitive function as we age, while some have made the bolder
claim that it could enhance intelligence even in people without working
memory deficits (e.g. Jaeggi et al., 2008). So we need to ask the question:
does it really work?
WM training tasks are typically computer-based, and they require the
individual to hold or manipulate an increasing number of items in WM.
While there is some variation in the types of training available, they are all
based on the same concept – repeatedly pushing an individual to rea their
maximum WM capacity, and combining this with regular reinforcement and
feedba to improve performance.
Two large reviews of WM training studies have been conducted, and both
have concluded that there is no convincing evidence that it improves WM
performance (Shipstead et al., 2012; Melby-Lervåg & Hulme, 2013). Whilst
some studies found that there were improvements in performing the specific
WM tasks practised during the training, there was no evidence that this
improvement transferred to other WM tasks, so there was no improvement
in WM performance as a whole. ere were also a number of other problems
with these WM training studies, including failure to replicate findings or a
la of an appropriate control group (Shipstead et al., 2012).
ere have been some tentative findings from studies of older adults that
WM training might transfer to other WM tasks, but this transfer depended
on prior cognitive ability and training gains, and did not appear to last for
any substantial amount of time aer training (Karba & Verhaeghen, 2014;
Zinke et al., 2014). Resear continues on this topic and may yet reveal some
benefit for WM training, but the evidence to date has not been very
promising.

e development of brain-imaging tenology (brain scans) has made it
possible to investigate whi parts of the brain are involved in the activities
of the working memory and its various components. Figure 5.15 summarises
the brain areas that are mainly associated with the various different types of
WM task.
Figure 5.15
e main areas of the brain involved in working memory.
Smith et al. (1996) used PETSCAN imaging to show that verbal WM tasks
mainly produce activation in the le hemisphere, whereas visuo-spatial
WM tasks activate regions in the right hemisphere.
Brain-imaging studies of verbal WM tasks have shown that use of the
articulatory control process produces activation of a part of Broca’s area in
the le frontal cortex, whereas use of the phonological loop leads to
activation of a region at the edge of the le parietal lobe called the
supramarginal gyrus (Smith and Jonides, 1999; Majerus, 2019). Broca’s area

is of course known to be involved in spee production, and the
supramarginal gyrus is known to be associated with language
comprehension.
Brain scans carried out during the performance of visuo-spatial tasks
show activation of quite different brain areas. WM tasks involving object
recognition and the visual cae produce activation of the le parietal and
inferior temporal cortex, whereas spatial WM tasks involving the visual
buffer cause activation of the right dorsal prefrontal, parietal, and occipital
lobes (Smith & Jonides, 1999; Wager & Smith, 2003). ese findings are
consistent with the known functions of the dorsal and ventral perceptual
streams (Goodale & Milner, 1992), since the regions activated during object
recognition are involved in the ventral stream (the ‘what?’ pathway), whilst
the regions activated during spatial WM tasks are associated with the dorsal
stream (the ‘where?’ pathway). e functions of the dorsal and ventral
stream were explained in Chapter 2.
e central executive involves many different functions, so it is not
surprising that a number of different brain areas are involved, depending on
the task in question. However, brain scans suggest that most central
executive tasks tend to involve activation of the prefrontal cortex, together
with the parietal lobes in certain specific CE tasks (Owen et al., 2005;
Niendam et al., 2012). Niendam et al. found several different areas of the
prefrontal cortex whi were activated during any type of executive
function, but there were some areas whi responded specifically to tests of
shiing or tests of inhibition, whi are two of the main CE functions
identified by Friedman and Miyake (2004).
Brain-imaging studies have revealed that the frontal lobes are the brain
areas whi are mainly activated during tasks involving the episodic buffer
and feature binding (Parra et al., 2014).
ese brain scan findings would appear to lend support to the WM model,
in so far as they show that different areas of the brain are activated during
the use of different components of WM.
e main WM models have assumed that WM traces are maintained by
active neural firing, but there is some recent evidence that WM traces can

sometimes be held in ‘silent’ form, without any measurable neural activity
(Lewis-Peaco et al., 2012). ese latent WM traces can be reactivated by
the use of transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS), suggesting that WM can
involve some form of temporary synaptic ange rather than actual firing of
neurons (Rose, 2020). is finding adds to the evidence for a close interaction
between WM and LTM, and may be an indication of where WM resear
will take us in the future.

Summary
• Evidence suggests that there are two separate memory stores, known
as ‘short-term memory’ (or ‘working memory’) and ‘long-term
memory’ (or ‘storage memory’).
• Evidence for the distinction between these two stores arises mainly
from clinical studies showing that amnesics may suffer damage to
one store whilst the other remains intact.
• e short-term working memory is assumed to function as an active
mental workspace in whi a variety of processing operations are
carried out. In contrast, the long-term storage memory is seen as a
passive storage space.
• Baddeley and Hit (1974) have proposed a widely accepted model of
working memory whi comprises a central executive served by two
short-term stores, the ‘phonological loop’ and the ‘visuo-spatial
sketpad’.
• Evidence for the existence of these memory systems has come from
experiments showing that two tasks will interfere with one another
if they make use of the same WM component. ere is also
supporting evidence from the study of amnesics.
• e phonological loop is assumed to provide brief storage for
auditory input, and it is thought to play a major role in the use and
development of language.
• e visuo-spatial sketpad holds visual images, and it is also
thought to be involved in visual paern recognition, and in the
perception and control of movement.
• e central executive is assumed to be the main focus of conscious
awareness, and it appears to be involved in mental abilities su as
decision-making, planning, and problem-solving.
• More recently an additional loop has been postulated called the
‘episodic buffer’, whi integrates information from a variety of

sense modalities, providing a link between the WM and the LTM.
• Impairment of the central executive is known as ‘dysexecutive
syndrome’, and it has been found to be associated with frontal lobe
lesions. It is considered to play a part in certain clinical disorders
su as Alzheimer’s disease, autism, and sizophrenia.
• e working memory model has been very influential, but in recent
years it has received some criticism and alternative models have
been proposed.
• Cowan (1988, 2005) has proposed a model of working memory in
whi WM is assumed to consist of that part of the LTM whi is
activated at a particular moment in time.
• e development of neuro-imaging tenology has made it possible
to investigate whi parts of the brain are involved in the activities
of the working memory and its various components.

Further reading
Baddeley, A.D. (2020). Short-term memory. In A.D. Baddeley, M.W. Eysen, & M.C. Anderson (eds),
Memory. Hove: Psyology Press. A detailed review of resear on working memory wrien by
Alan Baddeley, who is one of the original creators of the working memory model.
Heathcote D. (2016). Working memory and performance limitations. In D. Groome & M.W. Eysen
(eds), An Introduction to Applied Cognitive Psychology. Hove: Psyology Press. A apter whi
deals with applied aspects of working memory and its performance limitations in real-life seings,
su as language learning, industrial tasks, and air-traffic control.
Logie, R.H. (2015). Working memory: Beyond Baddeley and Hit’s (1974) working memory. In M.W.
Eysen & D. Groome (eds), Cognitive Psychology: Revisiting the Classic Studies. London: Sage.
is apter provides a critical review of the working memory model and its influence on
subsequent resear.

 6
Long-term memory
David Groome and Robin Law
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-6
Contents
6.6 Memory systems
6.8 eories of forgeing
6.9 Memory in real-life seings
Summary
Further reading

Memory and its importance in everyday life

Long-term memory is the meanism whi enables us to store information
and experiences in a lasting fashion, for possible retrieval at some point in
the future. is ability to create and retrieve memories is fundamental to all
aspects of cognition, and it is crucial to our ability to function properly as
human beings. Our memories allow us to store information about the world
so that we can understand and deal with future situations on the basis of
past experience. e processes of thinking and problem-solving also rely
heavily on the use of previous experience, and memory also makes it
possible for us to acquire language and to communicate with others.
Memory also plays a very basic part in the process of perception, since we
can only make sense of our perceptual input by making reference to our
store of previous experiences. Even our social interactions with others are
dependent upon what we remember. In a sense it can be said that our very
identity relies on an intact memory, and the ability to remember who we are
and the things that we have done. Almost everything we ever do depends on
our ability to remember the past.
Encoding, storage, and retrieval of memory

e memory process can be divided into three main stages (see Figure 6.1).
First of all there is the input stage, where newly perceived information is
being learned or encoded into memory. Next comes the storage stage, where
the information is held in preparation for some future occasion. Finally there
is the output stage, where the information is retrieved from storage.
Encoding e process of transforming a sensory stimulus into a memory

trace.

Figure 6.1
e encoding, storage, and retrieval stages of memory.
ere are clear parallels between these three stages of human memory
and the input/storage/output processes involved in storing a computer file
onto disk. For both humans and computers, a memory trace will only be
retrievable if all three of these stages are successfully completed. is means
that when we find we are unable to recall some item, the cause could be
either a failure at the input stage (i.e. learning failure), a failure at the output
stage (i.e. retrieval failure), or a failure of the storage meanism. In practice,
storage failures probably do not occur unless there is damage to the brain, so
it is probable that most forgeing is caused by either learning failure or
retrieval failure.

Ebbinghaus and the forgetting curve

e scientific study of memory began with the work of Hermann
Ebbinghaus (1885), whose methods were to have a huge influence on
memory resear for many years. Using himself as the experimental subject,
Ebbinghaus carried out a number of classic experiments in whi he
aempted to measure memory performance in a scientific and quantified
manner, making an effort to eliminate all unwanted variables from his
experimental design. For example, Ebbinghaus realised that the use of verbal
items in a memory test would add an uncontrolled variable to the design,
since words vary in their meaningfulness and familiarity. He therefore
decided to eliminate this variable by using nonsense material instead of
meaningful words as his test items. Ebbinghaus compiled lists of test items
known as ‘nonsense syllables’, so called because they are pronounceable
syllables but have no meaning, su as VOP or TUV. As they were
meaningless items, Ebbinghaus considered that all nonsense syllables were
roughly equivalent in their memorability.
Having devised lists of nonsense syllables, Ebbinghaus used them to
investigate how forgeing occurs with the passage of time. A list of syllables
would be learned and then re-tested aer a certain retention interval. e
scores were ploed as a ‘forgeing curve’, as shown in Figure 6.2.
As the graph shows, forgeing was extremely rapid at first, but at longer
retention intervals the rate of forgeing gradually levelled off. is same
basic forgeing curve has been confirmed in many subsequent experimental
studies. In fact Rubin and Wenzel (1996) reviewed no fewer than 210 studies
of forgeing carried out over the years, all of whi reported forgeing
curves whi were generally similar to that found by Ebbinghaus. More
recently, Meeter et al. (2005) used an internet study to test the memories of
14,000 people for news items and other public events, and the results showed

that their forgeing over time was essentially similar to the Ebbinghaus
forgeing curve. However, autobiographical events of personal significance
are remembered for longer periods and far more accurately than the items
tested in laboratory studies of memory (Bahri et al., 2008). See Section 6.9
for further details of these autobiographical memory studies.
Figure 6.2
e forgeing curve.
Source: Ebbinghaus (1885).
Interference and decay

e forgeing curve demonstrates that memories tend to dissipate over a
period of time, and Ebbinghaus suggested two main theories to explain why
this might occur:
Decay – memories fade away with the passage of time, regardless of

other input.
Interference – memories are actively disrupted by the influence of some
other input.
Ebbinghaus was able to demonstrate experimentally that interference did

indeed have a significant effect on memory. He showed that memory scores

for the learning of one list were considerably reduced by the subsequent
learning of a second list, a phenomenon known as retro-active interference.
Another experiment showed that the memory for a list was also subject to
interference from a previously learned list, a phenomenon known as pro-
active interference. So interference could be caused by any additional input
occurring either before or aer the target list. Many subsequent studies have
confirmed the effects of interference, whi have been shown to depend
largely on the degree of similarity between the target item and the items
interfering with it (Underwood & Postman, 1960). Interference is still
regarded as an important cause of forgeing.
Producing evidence for the occurrence of spontaneous decay has proved
to be rather more problematic, because it is difficult to separate its effects
from those of other forms of forgeing (including interference) whi also
take place with the passage of time. However, a review of previous resear
(Altmann & Sunn, 2012) concluded that both decay and interference do
appear to play a part in the forgeing process. orndyke (1914) suggested
that decay only affects memory traces whi remain unretrieved for a long
period, an idea known as the ‘Decay with Disuse’ theory. is theory was
later updated by Bjork and Bjork (1992), who suggested that access to a
memory trace is strengthened by frequent retrieval, whereas unretrieved
memories become more inaccessible as time passes. eir theory, whi they
called the ‘New eory of Disuse’, will be considered in more detail in
Section 6.7.
e experiments carried out by Ebbinghaus had a big influence on
subsequent memory resear, and his basic findings (su as the forgeing
curve) are still generally accepted. However, his use of nonsense syllables as
test material has not been widely adopted, because it has become clear that
meaning is a central factor in memory processing. is will be considered in
the next section.

Bartlett’s story recall experiments and the sema theory

e early memory experiments of Ebbinghaus influenced memory resear
for many years, but cognitive psyologists eventually came to question his
use of nonsense syllables as test items. By controlling out the effects of
meaning and knowledge, Ebbinghaus had eliminated one of the most
important features of memory function.
e first experimental demonstration of the importance of meaning and
knowledge on memory was provided by Bartle (1932), who investigated
the way that individuals remembered a short story. He deliberately ose
stories whi were unusual, starting with a Native American folk tale called
‘e War of the Ghosts’. is story is rather strange to the average person
from a Western cultural baground, because it involves ghosts and magical
spells. Bartle found that his participants usually recalled a anged and
distorted version of the story. However, the anges were not random, as
they were systematically directed towards the creation of a more rational
and straightforward story. Bartle concluded that participants tended to
rationalise the story to make it fit in with their expectations, based on their
own past experience and knowledge of the world. Typically the story
recalled by Bartle’s (British) subjects would be a far more conventional
account of an expedition whi was relatively free from ghostly or magical
interventions. Some of the more strange and unfamiliar parts of the story
tended to be le out altogether, whilst others would be distorted and
anged to fit in with a more conventional and British view of the world.
Bartle explained these findings in terms of his sema theory (see
Chapter 1), whi proposes that we perceive and encode information into
our memories in terms of our past experience. Semas are the mental
representations that we have built up from all that we have experienced in
the past, and Bartle argued that we compare any new perceptual input
with our past semas in an effort to find something meaningful and

familiar. Any input whi does not mat up with existing semas will
either be distorted to make it mat the semas, or else it will not be
retained at all.
ese findings have quite important implications for a variety of real-life
situations, as they raise questions about whether we can rely on the
accuracy of eyewitness testimony. We should expect, for example, that
witnesses presenting evidence in a court of law will be likely to produce a
distorted and rationalised version of events they have witnessed. We should
also question the accuracy of eyewitness accounts su as news reports and
accounts of historical events. Indeed we should even question the accuracy
of our own memories of past events, since mu of what we think has
happened to us has probably been subjected to distortion of whi we are
completely unaware.
Distortion of eyewitness testimony by pre-existing semas has been
confirmed by many subsequent studies. For example, Tuey and Brewer
(2003) showed that eyewitnesses to a crime were able to provide far more
accurate information about events that were consistent with their existing
semas, su as a robbery involving masked criminals carrying guns and
escaping in a getaway car. However, they produced distorted and inaccurate
memories for aspects of the crime whi were inconsistent with their
previous experience. Many other studies have confirmed that eyewitness
testimony for a crime or incident can be distorted not only by previous
knowledge, but also by subsequent events. ese findings will be considered
in Section 6.10. Although sema theory is no longer a topic at the centre of
memory resear, it is still regarded as a useful concept.
e effect of meaning and knowledge on memory

Bartle’s theories were not widely accepted at first, partly because they
concerned inner mental processes (su as semas), whi were
unacceptable to the behaviourists who dominated mainstream psyology at
that time. Moreover, Bartle’s experiments were not very scientifically
designed. For example, the main variable in his story recall experiments was

the meaningfulness of the story content, but this was determined purely by
the subjective opinion of the experimenter.
A number of subsequent studies have provided a more scientific and
objective way of determining the meaningfulness of the input. Bransford
and Johnson (1972) tested their participants’ ability to recall a short passage
whi made relatively lile sense unless the participant was provided with
some kind of explanatory context, whi in this case was provided by a
picture (see Figure 6.3). e passage is reproduced below, and you may wish
to try out the experiment on yourself.
e balloons passage
If the balloons popped the sound wouldn’t be able to carry since then
everything would be too far away from the correct floor. A closed
window would also prevent the sound from carrying, since most
buildings tend to be well insulated. Since the whole operation depends
on the steady flow of electricity, a break in the middle of the wire would
also cause problems. Of course, the fellow could shout, but the human
voice is not loud enough to carry that far. An additional problem is that
the string could break on the instrument. en there would be no
accompaniment to the message. It is clear that the best situation would
involve less distance. en there would be fewer potential problems.
With face-to-face contact, the least number of things could go wrong.
Two groups of participants were used in this experiment. One group was
shown the helpful picture, but the other group was not. e group who had
seen the picture were subsequently able to recall far more of the passage
than the other group, because the picture helped to make the passage more
meaningful. In this experiment the participant’s ability to find meaning in
the passage was scientifically controlled by providing helpful information
(i.e. the picture) to one group but not to the other. e variable of
meaningfulness was thus controlled in an objective way, rather than relying
on the opinion of the experimenter as it did in Bartle’s experiments.

Figure 6.3
Picture used to make the balloons passage meaningful.
Source: Bransford & Johnson (1972).
ese experiments on story recall suggest that a passage is more

memorable if we can make use of our knowledge and experience to increase
its meaningfulness. Other studies have shown that individuals who possess a
great deal of expert knowledge about a subject are particularly good at
remembering material whi relates to their field of expertise. Chase and
Simon (1973) found that expert ess players were able to remember the
positions of the pieces in an uncompleted ess game with great accuracy,
whereas ess novices produced far less accurate recall. However, the ess

experts only aieved superior recall when the test material consisted of real
or plausible ess games, but not when the ess pieces were placed in
random positions. is suggests that the real games were probably more
memorable to the ess experts because they held more meaning and
significance for the expert player, full of implications for the subsequent
development of the game. Similar benefits of expert knowledge have been
reported for the memories of experts on football (Morris et al., 1981) and
experts on TV soap operas (Reeve & Aggleton, 1998).
Meaning and mnemonics

As Bartle showed, people are not very good at learning things whi they
find meaningless. e human brain does not appear to be well suited to rote
learning, or ‘parrot learning’ as it is sometimes called. However, this point
was understood long before Bartle’s studies. For centuries people have
made use of mnemonic teniques whi depend on adding meaning to an
item in order to make it more memorable. For example, if you read the
number 1984747365 just once, there is very lile ance that you will still
remember it in ten minutes time. In fact you have probably forgoen it
already. However, try looking at the number again and this time try to
imagine George Orwell (1984) siing on a jumbo jet (747) for one year (365).
By adding these meaningful associations to the numbers they become more
memorable. is mnemonic also benefits from the principle of ‘unking’
(Miller, 1956), since the original ten items have in effect been reduced to just
three unks of meaningful information. Consequently you are not only
likely to remember these numbers in ten minutes’ time, but it is entirely
possible that you will still remember them in ten years’ time. I offer my
apologies if this turns out to be the case.
Mnemonic A tenique or strategy used for improving the memorability

of items, for example by adding meaningful associations.

Essentially what we have done here is to make use of knowledge that is
(probably) already in your LTM store, to add meaning to a list of otherwise
meaningless digits. Many other teniques have been devised over the years
to enable us to add some meaning to an otherwise meaningless list of
numbers or words. ese teniques are known as mnemonics, and you
probably already know and use several. One good example is the use of
mnemonics to help recall the sequential order of the colours of the spectrum,
by turning it into a sentence su as ‘Riard Of York Gave Bale In Vain’.
e first leers of these seven words help to cue the colours of the spectrum
in their correct order (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet). In
this example the colours themselves are not devoid of meaning, but their
sequential order is. ere are other popular mnemonics for remembering the
notes on the musical scale, the number of days in ea calendar month, the
12 cranial nerves, and many other items whi are either meaningless or else
occur in a meaningless order.
Mnemonics usually work by adding meaning to material whi is
otherwise fairly meaningless, and their effectiveness provides further
evidence that people are mu beer at memorising meaningful information
whi they are able to relate to their previous knowledge. For a more
detailed account of the wide range of mnemonic teniques available, see
Groome and Law (2016).

Levels of processing theory

Craik and Lohart (1972) proposed a theory to explain the role of
knowledge and meaning in memory, whi resembles sema theory in that
it stresses the importance of extracting meaning from the perceptual input.
However, their levels of processing (LOP) theory suggests that the
processing of new perceptual input involves the extraction of information at
a series of levels of increasing depth of analysis, with more information
being extracted at ea new level (see Figure 6.4).
us initial processing will be shallow, extracting only the more
superficial features of the input su as the shape of an object (structural
processing) or the sound of a word (acoustic processing). However, the input
may subsequently be processed at a deeper level where more complex
features are analysed, su as the meaningful content of a word (semantic
processing).
One crucial aspect of the LOP theory is that it emphasises the need to
carry out extensive processing of incoming information in order to store it
in the long-term memory. Previously it had been widely assumed that
information could gain entry into the long-term storage memory by merely
being repeated or held in consciousness for a period of time. Craik and
Lohart argued that this is not enough, and that long-term storage can only
be aieved by active processing of the input. In fact Craik and Lohart
suggested that the memory trace is essentially a by-product of perceptual
processing.
e main prediction of the LOP theory is that the retention of a memory
trace will depend on the depth to whi it has been processed during the
encoding stage. e LOP theory is thus able to explain the well-established
finding that meaningful material is more memorable than non-meaningful
material, by postulating that meaningful material can be more deeply

processed. However, unlike sema theory, the levels of processing theory is
readily testable, as it specifies a number of distinct stages in the processing
sequence, and then makes a firm prediction that memory performance will
depend on the level to whi processing has progressed. Evidence
supporting the LOP theory has mostly been obtained from the use of
orienting tasks.
Orienting task A set of instructions used to influence the type of

cognitive processing employed.
Figure 6.4
e levels of processing model.
Source: Craik & Lockhart (1972).
Orienting tasks
An orienting task is essentially a set of instructions or questions whi are
intended to direct the subject towards a certain type of processing. For
example, Craik and Tulving (1975) presented the same list of 60 words to
three different groups of subjects, but gave ea group a different orienting
task to carry out. e orienting tasks were as follows:
1 Structural orienting task (e.g. is word in blo capitals?)

2 Acoustic orienting task (e.g. does word rhyme with ‘bat’?)
3 Semantic orienting task (e.g. does word fit the sentence ‘the cat sat
on the —-’?)
Craik and Tulving’s results are shown in Figure 6.5. ey show that tasks
whi require deep processing produce beer retrieval than do tasks whi

involve shallower processing.
e participants in Craik and Tulving’s experiment carried out the
orienting tasks without realising that their memory for the words would
later be tested. In other words it was a test of incidental learning rather
than intentional learning. is design was osen because participants who
were trying to learn the word list might disregard the orienting task
instructions and simply try to learn the words. e results of this experiment
confirmed that deeper processing creates a stronger memory trace, even if
we are not deliberately trying to learn the test items. is finding is entirely
consistent with our experience of learning in real life. You can probably
remember many of the things you did earlier today, despite the fact that you
did not at any point say to yourself ‘I must try to remember this’. However,
you are likely to remember the events whi you thought about and
subjected to extensive processing.
Figure 6.5
e effect of orienting task on retrieval.
Source: Craik & Tulving (1975).

Levels theory revised
In its original form the LOP theory proposed a strict sequential order of
processing, beginning with structural processing and then proceeding to
acoustic and finally semantic processing. However, many found this
processing sequence implausible, since the three types of processing are
qualitatively different. It is difficult to see how structural, acoustic, and
semantic processing might somehow blend into one another as a sequence.
Furthermore there is some evidence (e.g. the Stroop effect – see Chapter 3)
that semantic processing can sometimes take place before the ‘shallower’
structural and acoustic stages have been completed. It was partly in answer
to these criticisms that the original sequential model of processing depth
was replaced by a revised version (Lohart & Craik, 1990), in whi
structural, acoustic, and semantic forms of processing are assumed to take
place simultaneously and in parallel rather than in sequence (see Figure 6.6).
is revised version of the theory assumes that any new input will be
subjected to several different types of processing at the same time, though
semantic processing still tends to create a more effective and lasting memory
trace than the non-semantic forms of processing.
e LOP theory has been subjected to plenty of criticism over the years,
but resear has generally supported the basic underlying principle that
semantic processing is usually more effective than non-semantic processing
(Rose & Craik, 2012). However, Baddeley and Hit (2017) found that deep
processing mainly affects the retrieval of words, and has lile effect on the
retrieval of visual stimuli. ey concluded that the LOP effect applies mainly
to verbal material. Baddeley and Hit interpreted their findings in terms of
Gibson’s concept of ‘affordance’ (see Chapter 3), suggesting that verbal and
visual items differ mainly in the number and riness of the features whi
they afford for a particular type of encoding.

Figure 6.6
e revised levels of processing model.
Source: Lockhart & Craik (1990).
Whilst the LOP theory remains plausible, it is now considered that the
effectiveness of deep processing probably reflects the fact that it facilitates
elaborative encoding, whi is discussed in the next section.
Elaborative encoding
Elaborative encoding refers to the formation of associative connections
with other memory traces, and this occurs most effectively where
meaningful associations can be made. Craik and Tulving (1975) confirmed
that semantic elaboration does indeed create a stronger and more lasting
trace, and more recent versions of LOP theory have emphasised elaborative
encoding and the strengthening of inter-item associations as the main
feature of deep processing (Craik, 2007).
Elaborative encoding creates a large number of associative links with
other items in the memory store, so that the new trace becomes incorporated
into an extensive network of interconnected memory traces, as illustrated in
Figure 6.7. Since ea of these associative links can serve as a potential
retrieval route, the trace will be easier to retrieve if there are many possible
links leading ba to it.

It has also been suggested that elaborative processing helps to create a
more distinctive and unique memory trace, whi can be easily
distinguished from other stored items (Eysen, 1979; Hunt, 2013). At the
present time both the ‘elaboration’ and ‘distinctiveness’ accounts of
processing depth remain plausible, and it is probable that both meanisms
play a part in making memories more retrievable.
Mandler (1972) showed that retrieval was greatly improved when test
items were organised into categories by the participant. He suggested that
memory is organised into a semantic network of related items, and accessing
one item activates the whole network. Mandler (2011) notes that his
organisation theory is consistent with the findings of LOP theory, and it
offers a possible explanation for the benefits of extensive semantic input
processing.
Figure 6.7
Elaborative connections between memory traces.

Recall and recognition

ere are two main ways of testing retrieval, whi are recall and
recognition. In a recognition test, the original test material is presented
again at the retrieval stage, whereas in a recall test it is not. However, there
are two different types of recall test. In a test of cued recall the participant is
provided with retrieval cues whi help to remind them of the target items.
In a test of spontaneous recall no cues are presented, so the participant is
required to generate the target items without any assistance. So retrieval
tests usually involve one of the following three procedures:
1 Spontaneous recall: requires the generation of items from memory

without any help.
2 Cued recall: retrieval cues are provided as a reminder of the items to
be recalled.
3 Recognition: the original test items are presented again at the
retrieval stage.
It is generally found that people can recognise far more items than they
can recall. For example, Mandler et al. (1969) presented their subjects with a
list of 100 words, whi were repeated five times. e average spontaneous
recall score obtained was only 38 per cent, whereas the average recognition
score was 96 per cent. Cued recall scores usually tend to fall somewhere in
between recall and recognition performance (Tulving, 1976), though the
actual score will depend on the quality of the retrieval cues. e apparent
superiority of recognition performance over recall performance is so striking
that any theory of retrieval needs to provide an explanation for it.
Generate and recognise theory

e generate and recognise (GR) theory (Kints, 1968) explains the
superiority of recognition over recall performance by assuming that recall
and recognition are fundamentally different processes, and that recall is
more difficult because it involves an extra stage. According to GR theory, in
a recall test the participant must first generate possible target items, aer
whi the items thus generated are subjected to a recognition test in order to
discriminate between correct and incorrect items. In a recognition test,
however, there is no need to generate possible test items since the items are
already in front of them. us recall is seen as having two stages (generate
and recognise), whilst recognition has only one (recognise). is could
explain why recall is more difficult than recognition.
An important feature of the GR theory is that it makes the assumption
that recognition is actually one of the sub-processes of recall. is means
that, in theory, any item that can be recalled should also be recognisable.
However, it has been shown that in certain situations people are unable to
recognise items whi they can recall (Tulving & omson, 1973). is
phenomenon is known as ‘recognition failure of recallable items’ (or just
‘recognition failure’ for short). Recognition failure is most easily
demonstrated with a design in whi strong retrieval cues are provided for
recall but not for recognition.
e GR theory in its original form cannot easily explain the recognition
failure of recallable items. However, a modified version of GR theory
addresses this problem by assuming that the decision criteria for recall and
recognition are not the same, and that the requirements for recognition are
more demanding. is version of the GR theory remains tenable and is
consistent with most resear findings (Nairne, 2015).
Cue-dependent forgetting and the encoding specificity

principle
Tulving (1972) argued that memory retrieval is largely cue-dependent. In
other words, whether we can retrieve a memory or not will depend on the
presence of suitable retrieval cues, whi act as reminders and help to

reactivate the original memory trace. ere is a considerable body of
evidence confirming that retrieval success is closely related to the number
and quality of the retrieval cues available. For example, Mantyla (1986)
asked people to read a list of 600 words, and to think of three things they
knew about ea word. When these three self-generated cues were
employed in a subsequent recall test, the average retrieval score obtained for
the target words was over 90 per cent. To recall about 550 words from a list
of 600 is actually quite an impressive performance, and this finding
demonstrates how good the human memory can be when given the right
retrieval cues.
Tulving (1972) argued that the retrieval of an item from memory depends
on the presence of retrieval cues that mat up with specific aspects of the
stored memory trace. Tulving called this the encoding specificity principle
(ESP), and it states that retrieval cues will only be successful if they contain
some of the same specific information whi was encoded with the original
input. Tulving suggested that the ance of retrieving a memory trace
depends on the amount of feature overlap between input and retrieval
information, whi is the extent to whi features of the trace stored at
input mat those available at retrieval. e principle of feature overlap is
illustrated in Figure 6.8.
Encoding specificity principle (ESP) e theory that retrieval cues will

only be successful in accessing a memory trace if they contain some of
the same items of information whi were stored with the original trace.
Feature overlap e extent to whi features of the memory trace stored

at input mat those available in the retrieval cues. According to the
encoding specificity theory (qv) successful retrieval requires extensive
feature overlap.

Figure 6.8
e overlap between features encoded at input and features available in the retrieval cue
at output.
An important aspect of Tulving’s ESP theory is the assumption that

successful retrieval depends on the match between encoding and retrieval
information, rather than depending on either one alone. A useful analogy is
the way in whi a key fits a lo. Opening a loed door does not depend
on either the key or the lo alone, but on whether they fit one another.
A number of studies have provided support for the ESP theory, by
showing that the retrieval of target items is far beer when retrieval cues
coincide with information encoded with the original trace (Tulving &
omson, 1971; Klein & Murphy, 2001). For example, Tulving and omson
(1971) showed that retrieval scores were dramatically increased when the
retrieval cue was an item whi had been present at the encoding stage.
eir participants were required to learn paired associates su as ‘fast-
river’, word pairs that were deliberately osen for their relatively weak
association strength. When retrieval was tested later for the second word in
ea pair (e.g. river), cueing with the word presented at encoding (fast)
proved to be far more effective than cues whi had not been present at
encoding, even if they were stronger associates (e.g. lake).
In addition to these experimental studies, ESP theory also gains credibility
from the fact that it can provide a convincing explanation for many of the
observed phenomena of memory function. e ESP theory explains the
superiority of recognition over recall by the fact that recognition tests

provide more retrieval information, thus increasing the likelihood of feature
overlap between input and output (Tulving, 1976). ESP theory can also
provide an explanation for the effects of processing depth and elaboration on
retrieval (see Section 6.4), since they add associative connections to the trace
whi increase the ances of a mat with the retrieval cues. For example,
if we are trying to remember the name Winston Churill, it would help if
we have stored plenty of associations with that memory trace (see Figure
6.9). us the use of elaborative processing aaes the trace to an extensive
network of other traces, whi increases the ance of feature overlap
between input and output information.
Figure 6.9
Retrieval cues leading to a memory trace (Churill).
Although ESP theory has become widely accepted by memory theorists, it

does not provide an exact prediction of the probability of retrieval. For
example, Goh and Lu (2012) found that retrieval was not improved by the
addition of extra retrieval cues if those cues were also associated with other
possible responses. Nairne (2015) points out that most retrieval cues will
mat up with a number of different items, so successful retrieval will only
occur if the target item can be clearly distinguished from other possible
associations. Successful retrieval therefore requires distinctiveness of the cue

and the trace, and feature overlap alone will not guarantee successful
retrieval. However, despite these considerations, ESP still offers a plausible
explanation for many of the retrieval phenomena described above. ESP also
receives support from two other important memory phenomena, transfer-
appropriate processing and context-dependent memory, whi will be
considered in the following sections.
Transfer-appropriate processing
Transfer-appropriate processing (TAP) refers to the finding that the most
effective type of input processing will be whatever offers the closest mat
with the available retrieval cues (i.e. the type of processing transfers from
input to output stage). TAP has been demonstrated in a number of studies
(e.g. Fisher & Craik, 1977; Mulligan & Pilesimer, 2012), whi show that
acoustic retrieval cues are most effective when input processing was also
acoustic, and semantic retrieval cues work best when input processing was
also semantic. However, when input and output processing are different in
nature, then retrieval is less likely to occur (see Figure 6.10).

Figure 6.10
Transfer-appropriate processing.
Source: Fisher & Craik (1977).
e most effective type of input processing is thus found to be that whi

best mates up with the processing at the retrieval stage, whi is
consistent with ESP and feature overlap theory. Brain-imaging studies have
confirmed that the same sensory areas of the brain whi are activated
during encoding are once again activated during retrieval (Nyberg, 2002).
TAP was originally thought to allenge the levels of processing theory,
since it shows that semantic processing does not always turn out to be
superior to non-semantic forms of processing. However, Craik (2002) points
out that, in addition to showing the TAP effect, these experiments confirm
that semantic processing still produces beer overall retrieval than non-

semantic processing. us the TAP data are reasonably consistent with both
the ESP theory and the LOP theory.
Context-dependent memory
You may have noticed that when you revisit a place where you spent part of
your earlier life, old memories from that period tend to come flooding ba,
cued by the sight of a street or a building that you have not seen for many
years. Sometimes a particular piece of music may bring ba old memories.
Even a smell or a taste can help to revive memories from the past. ese are
all examples of context-dependent memory, and they rely on revisiting or
reinstating an earlier context whi then serves as a retrieval cue.
In one of the first experimental studies of the effect of context on retrieval,
Greenspoon and Ranyard (1957) tested the recall of two groups of ildren
who had both learned the same test material in the same room. However, for
the retrieval test one group were tested in a different room, whereas the
other group returned to the room where they had carried out the learning. It
was found that the group whose learning and retrieval took place in the
same room showed beer retrieval than those who were tested in a different
room.
One experiment whi demonstrated the phenomenon of context-
dependent memory in a particularly clear manner was that of Godden and
Baddeley (1975), who carried out their resear on divers. e divers were
required to learn a list of 40 words, either in a ‘wet’ context (i.e. under the
sea) or in a ‘dry’ context (i.e. on the seashore). Similarly, recall of the list of
words could be tested in either the ‘wet’ or ‘dry’ seings (see Figure 6.11).

Figure 6.11
e ‘wet’ and ‘dry’ contexts.
Source: Godden & Baddeley (1975).
In comparison with previous studies, the two contexts used by Godden

and Baddeley are very distinct and contrasting. One of the possible reasons
why previous studies had produced a fairly modest context-dependent
learning effect was that the contexts employed were actually rather similar,
for example moving from one room to another similar room. However, there
are very big differences between siing under the sea in full diving
equipment and siing on the seashore without it.
e recall scores obtained by Godden and Baddeley are shown in Figure
6.12. It is clear from these findings that divers who learned the word list
underwater recalled it best when they were also tested underwater, and
those who learned on dry land also produced the best recall when they were
tested on dry land. e main conclusion of this experiment was that recall of
the word list was maximised when the context of learning (i.e. wet or dry)
was reinstated for the recall test. However, a subsequent experiment
suggested that context reinstatement tended to assist recall but not
recognition (Godden & Baddeley, 1980), possibly because contextual features
act as retrieval cues, whi are particularly scarce in a recall test.
e context reinstated in the above experiments was predominantly
visual in nature, though clearly other sense modalities might also have made

a contribution. Chu and Downes (2000) found that odours could also act as
strong cues to the retrieval of events from early life, a finding whi has
been referred to as the ‘Proust phenomenon’ as it parallels the observations
of Marcel Proust about the ildhood memories brought ba by the smell of
a madeleine cake. However, a more recent study has shown that although
odours can certainly evoke memories from the past, they are no more
effective than visual stimuli (Toffalo et al., 2012). Perhaps the most valuable
concept contributed by Proust was the observation that memory retrieval
can oen be involuntary, requiring no effort or intention to retrieve the
memories (Troscianko, 2013).
Figure 6.12
e recall of words by divers under ‘wet’ and ‘dry’ learning and retrieval conditions.
Source: Godden & Baddeley (1975).
It has been shown that merely imagining the original room and its
contents can assist the recall of what was learned in that room (Jerabek &
Standing, 1992). But whilst context reinstatement is usually a big help when

we are trying to remember something, it can also increase the likelihood of
false recognition. For example, Doss et al. (2018) showed their participants a
number of objects, ea set against a particular baground. At the test
stage, reinstatement of the appropriate baground helped participants to
recognise the objects, but it also caused an increase in the incorrect
recognition of items whi had not been presented earlier.
Figure 6.13
Does that biscuit bring ba memories?
e occurrence of context-dependent memory clearly fits in very well

with ESP theory, whi predicts that retrieval depends on the amount of
feature overlap, including feature overlap for contextual information. e
effect of context reinstatement has proved to be of great practical value in
helping eyewitnesses to improve their retrieval of events su as crimes they
have witnessed. is finding has led to the development of the cognitive
interview, whi is considered in more detail in Section 6.10.
State-dependent and mood-dependent memory

A phenomenon related to context-dependent memory is the finding that
retrieval can be assisted by the reinstatement of a particular mental state at
retrieval whi was also present at the learning stage. For example, several

studies have shown that subjects who were in a state of alcoholic
intoxication at the learning stage of the experiment would recall the test
items more readily if they were drunk again during the recall test (e.g.
Goodwin et al., 1969). Apparently the experience of being drunk constitutes
a form of inner context whi can help to cue memories. is phenomenon
is known as ‘state-dependent memory’, and it has also been reported with
other kinds of mental state, su as depression. Bower et al. (1978) found
that the retrieval of a word list was slightly beer if the participant was
again in the same depressed mood at retrieval as they had been in at the
learning stage. It has also been shown that when asked to recall
autobiographical events from earlier in their lives, people in a sad or
depressed mood tended to recall a disproportionate number of sad events,
whereas people in a happy mood recalled more of their happy experiences
(Miranda & Kihlstrom, 2005). is phenomenon is more accurately referred
to as mood-congruent memory rather than mood-dependent memory,
since the participant recalls items whi are consistent with their present
depressed mood but whi are not actually known to have been present
during a previous depressed phase.
e finding that memory can be mood-dependent has importance not
only for theories of memory, but also for theories of depression. It has been
suggested that some people are prone to depression because they have a
cognitive bias to perceive the more negative and depressing aspects of their
experience and not to notice the more positive aspects (Be et al., 1979;
Be & Bredemeier, 2016). Mood-dependent retrieval might perpetuate this
selective cognition, by making a depressed person more likely to recall
experiences from previous periods of depression, thus trapping them in a
cycle of selective cognition leading to further depression. Mood-dependent
memory is discussed further in Chapter 12.

6.6 Memory systems
Episodic and semantic memory

e LTM contains a number of different memory systems. For example,
Tulving (1972) has made a distinction between episodic memory, whi is
our memory for the events and episodes in our own lives, and semantic
memory, whi is essentially our general knowledge store. e most
obvious difference between these two memory systems is that episodic
memory involves the retrieval of a personal experience associated with a
particular context (i.e. the place and time when it occurred), whereas
semantic memory involves the retrieval of facts and information (su as the
meanings of words), whi are not aaed to any particular context.
Episodic memory Memory for specific episodes and events from

personal experience, occurring in a particular context of time and place
(contrasts with semantic memory).
Semantic memory Memory for general knowledge, su as the meanings

associated with particular words and shapes, without reference to any
specific contextual episode (contrasts with episodic memory).
Tulving pointed out that most memory retrieval in everyday life, and in
psyology experiments, tends to involve episodic memory. For example, in
a typical experiment on the retrieval of a list of words, you might be asked if
the word ‘dog’ was on the list. But in fact you are not being asked to recall
what the word ‘dog’ means, you are being asked whether the word ‘dog’
was on that particular word list, presented in a particular place and time. In
other words, you are being asked to recall the context in whi you heard
the word ‘dog’. In contrast, there are occasions where we are required to
retrieve general knowledge about some item, without reference to any

specific context or event, as for example if you were asked to explain what a
‘dog’ is, or whether it has four legs and a tail. is type of retrieval involves
semantic memory, and it is essentially context free.
Tulving points out that a semantic memory represents an item whi has
been experienced many times (e.g. eating dinner), so its retrieval may
depend on repetition making the memory stronger. However, an episodic
memory involves a specific event whi has occurred only once (e.g. eating
dinner last night), so its retrieval is more likely to depend on feature overlap,
since a single event offers no opportunity to strengthen the trace.
e distinction between semantic and episodic memory receives strong
support from the finding that most organic amnesic patients are severely
impaired in their ability to recall specific episodes and events, whilst
showing lile impairment in their ability to recall semantic knowledge
(Tulving, 2001; Greenberg & Verfaillie, 2010). ere are also patients, less
commonly, who have a severely impaired semantic memory but with a
relatively intact episodic memory (Adlam et al., 2009). Amnesic disorders
will be considered in more detail in Chapter 7.
e exact relationship between semantic and episodic memory remains
uncertain. Tulving (1972) originally regarded them as two quite separate
memory stores, but more recently he has suggested (Tulving, 2002) that
semantic and episodic memories probably involve different processes within
the same memory storage system, with ea semantic memory being
derived from the combination of a series of memories for related episodic
events. Tulving (2002) also argues that episodic memory involves a higher
level of consciousness than semantic memory, one whi makes it possible
to perform ‘mental time travel’, consciously re-experiencing events from the
past and imagining events in the future. Tulving argues that this remarkable
ability probably represents a more recently evolved memory process, one
that may be unique to humans. He speculates that non-human mammals,
su as cats and dogs, may be restricted to recalling the kind of general
knowledge available from semantic memory, and that they are probably
unable to consciously recollect specific events from their past experience.

However, this hypothesis is entirely speculative, since dogs and cats are
unable to describe their experiences to us.
Figure 6.14
Is this dog reminiscing about events from the past?
Source: Photo by Jennifer Law, with permission.
Brain-imaging studies have provided tentative evidence that episodic and

semantic memories make use of some different brain areas but also share
some areas of brain activation. e retrieval of semantic knowledge
produces activation in the le pre-frontal cortex. e retrieval of episodic
memories also produces activation of the le pre-frontal cortex, but there is
also activation of the medial temporal lobe, including the hippocampus
(Shimamura, 2014). e brain systems underlying episodic and semantic
memory retrieval do seem to overlap considerably, so they may possibly
share a common underlying storage system, with the hippocampus being
used for contextual associations. Addis and Sacter (2012) found that the
paern of activation of the hippocampus during episodic retrieval was
repeated when participants were asked to imagine future events. is
suggests that the hippocampus may be involved in all forms of episodic
memory whi involve ‘mental time travel’, including representations of
both past and future events.

Familiarity and recollection
Another theory distinguishing between two memory systems is that of
Mandler (1980), who pointed out that recognition involves two different
retrieval processes. e first is a judgement of familiarity, whi simply
involves deciding whether or not an item has ever been encountered before.
e second is the recollection of when and where the item was
encountered, in other words the retrieval of context.
Familiarity e recognition of an item as one that has been encountered

on some previous occasion.
Recollection Remembering a specific event or occasion on whi an item

was previously encountered.
Mandler’s main evidence for making this distinction was the observation
that we can find someone’s face familiar and yet be unable to recall the
context in whi we have met them. is is actually a common experience
in everyday life, and all of us will have experienced it at some time when we
meet an acquaintance outside their usual context. For example, if you
happen to meet your local buter on the bus, you may find that although
his face is familiar you cannot remember who he is or where you have met
him. is may come to you later, but recollecting actual occasions when we
have previously met the person usually requires some effort. is type of
experience has actually come to be known as the ‘buter on the bus’
phenomenon (Cleary et al., 2007), and it shows that it is possible to
experience a feeling of familiarity even when we cannot aieve context
recollection. is suggests that familiarity judgements and context
recollection must involve separate retrieval processes (see Figure 6.15 for a
demonstration).

Figure 6.15
Familiar faces – but who are they?1
1 e familiar faces in Figure 6.15 are: 1 Don Cheadle; 2 Angela Merkel; 3 Bradley Wiggins; 4 Freida
Pinto.
Mandler suggests that familiarity and recollection probably operate as
two independent retrieval routes, whi may either be used separately or in
combination. e main distinction between familiarity and recollection is
that recollection requires the effortful retrieval of context, whereas
familiarity does not. is suggests some similarity with the
episodic/semantic distinction.
Mandler (1980) pointed out that a familiarity judgement is an automatic
process, whi occurs without any conscious effort or intention (see Chapter
1 for the differences between automatic and controlled processes). When you
spot a familiar face in a crowd, their familiarity seems to jump out at you
automatically. No effort is required, and you cannot prevent yourself from
making this familiarity judgement. Recollection, on the other hand, is a
controlled process, whi requires conscious aention, effort, and volition.
Parkin et al. (1995) found that performing an additional cognitive task
during presentation of the faces has no effect on the accuracy of face
familiarity judgements, whereas recollection scores are significantly
reduced. is confirms the view that familiarity judgements are made
automatically and do not need conscious aention. Familiarity judgements
are assumed to depend mainly on automatic ‘stimulus-driven’ (i.e. ‘boom-
up’) processing, whereas recollection mainly involves effortful ‘concept-
driven’ (i.e. ‘top-down’) processing.

e distinction between familiarity and recollection receives further
support from the finding that most amnesic patients show relatively
unimpaired familiarity judgements but severely impaired context
recollection (Huppert & Piercy, 1976; King et al., 2004). ese studies of
amnesic patients will be discussed further in Chapter 7. Brain-imaging
studies suggest that recollection involves activation of the medial temporal
lobes and hippocampus, whereas familiarity judgements are associated with
activation of the perirhinal cortex (Eienbaum et al., 2007). e finding that
familiarity and recollection appear to activate different brain areas adds
support to the view that they involve separate retrieval processes.
Eienbaum (2015) suggests that familiarity information travels along the
ventral stream (the ‘what’ pathway) to the perirhinal cortex, whilst
contextual information follows the dorsal stream (the ‘where’ pathway) to
the para-hippocampal cortex. ese two neural streams (see Chapter 2) then
converge and meet at the medial temporal lobes, where their inputs become
bound together.
Whilst resear on familiarity judgement has mostly involved visual
recognition, a few studies have also compared familiarity and recollection
performance using verbal test items. Wang et al. (2018) used fMRI imaging
to show that participants who were recalling facts that were well known to
them showed increased activation in the cortex regions involved in
familiarity judgements, whereas the retrieval of new and previously
unknown facts led to activation of the cortical areas involved in recollection.
e remember and know (R & K) procedure

One method whi has been used to measure the relative contributions of
familiarity and recollection is the remember and know (R & K) procedure
introduced by Tulving (1985). e R & K procedure involves asking
participants to indicate whether their recognition responses are based on
consciously remembering the presentation of a test item (an ‘R’ response), or
on simply knowing that the item is familiar without any specific memory of
when they saw it (a ‘K’ response).

Using the R & K procedure, Gardiner and Parkin (1990) found that
‘remember’ (R) scores for verbal items were significantly reduced when the
participant was distracted by a second task during the learning of the list,
but divided aention had no effect on the ‘know’ (K) scores. ese findings
suggest that ‘remember’ scores depend on giving full conscious aention at
the learning stage, whereas ‘know’ scores depend on automatic processing
and do not require full aention.
Gardiner (2002) suggests that R and K scores reflect two different
underlying memory processes, relating to recollection and familiarity
respectively. However, they may not be pure measures of these two
processes, as there is some evidence that both the R and the K score may
actually involve some contribution from both familiarity and recollection
(Mandler, 2008).
Implicit and explicit memory

Most tests of memory involve the direct testing of what the participant is
able to consciously remember and report, whi is known as explicit
memory. Tests of recall and recognition are both examples of explicit
memory, and for many years this was the only type of memory to be
studied. However, more recently there has been an increasing interest in the
use of indirect memory tests whi detect implicit memory, whi means
memories for whi the individual has no conscious awareness. Although
su memories cannot be deliberately and consciously retrieved, their
existence is implied by the behaviour of the individual (hence the term
‘implicit memory’) because it affects their performance on certain tasks.
Explicit memory Memory whi can be reported consciously and

deliberately (contrasts with implicit memory).
Implicit memory Memory whose influence can be detected by some

indirect test of task performance, but whi the individual is unable to
report deliberately and consciously (contrasts with explicit memory).

Jacoby and Dallas (1981) demonstrated the existence of implicit memory
by showing that participants who had been shown a list of words
subsequently found those words easier to identify than unstudied words,
even when they had lost any conscious memory of the words on the list. In
another key experiment, Tulving et al. (1982) presented their participants
with a list of words, then aer a lengthy delay (by whi time the word list
had been mostly forgoen) they asked their participants to simply produce
the first word they could think of to fit a three-leer word stem. For
example, if the original target word was ‘telephone’ then the word stem
would be ‘tel … ’. Half of the words in the test list had been studied earlier,
but the other half had not. e participants were able to complete far more
of the stems of words whi had been previously shown, even though they
were unable to identify those words in a recognition test. Indeed,
participants were found to be equally likely to complete a word stem with
the previously primed target word regardless of whether that word could be
recognised or not.
e initial presentation of the word list in these experiments was carried
out in a way that involved presenting the words as part of some other task,
so that the participant was unaware that they would be tested later and
therefore not trying to remember the words. is kind of presentation is
known as ‘priming’, and it is a useful tenique in an implicit memory
experiment because the participant is not asked to learn the words and
therefore should not retain them as explicit memories.
e significance of these experiments is that they demonstrate that
priming a word can influence subsequent performance on a test of implicit
memory, even when the word cannot be retrieved explicitly. Similar effects
have been obtained with a variety of implicit memory tests, including
fragmented word completion (e.g. complete the word ‘t-l-p-o-n-’) and
anagram solution (e.g. solve the anagram ‘leopetneh’). Su tasks are used to
guide recall towards the primed items, but participants are not actually
asked to recall the primed words but to simply produce the first suitable
word that comes into their head.

e distinction between implicit and explicit memory receives further
support from the finding that organic amnesic patients show impaired
explicit memory but relatively intact implicit memory (Graf et al., 1984;
Conroy et al., 2005). ese findings will be examined in more detail in
Chapter 7. Gopie et al. (2011) found that elderly people also have worse
explicit memory than younger people, but rather surprisingly the elderly
actually scored higher than the young on tests of implicit memory. Gopie et
al. suggested that older adults may have difficulty processing information
conceptually, so that they will tend to process information at a perceptual
level instead.
Graf et al. (1984) found that implicit memory is unaffected by the level of
processing carried out at the input stage, whereas explicit memory benefits
from semantic processing rather than non-semantic processing. ese
findings are consistent with the suggestion (Hayman & Tulving, 1989) that
implicit memory draws mainly on stimulus-driven processing (su as the
identification of the perceptual features of the target item), whilst explicit
memory depends more on sema-driven processing (involving a
meaningful representation of the whole target item). Baddeley (2009)
suggests that implicit memories consist of separate memory traces for
various perceptual features whi remain largely unconnected, whereas
conscious explicit memory ‘glues together’ those features whi were
experienced together, thus creating a more complex memory for an event in
one’s life.
Parkin et al. (1990) investigated the effect of divided aention on implicit
and explicit memory, by priming participants with the list of target words
whilst distracting them with a second task. ey found that divided
aention during priming caused a marked deterioration in a subsequent test
of explicit memory (word recognition), but it had no effect on the
performance of an implicit task (fragment completion). Lin et al. (2019)
confirmed that implicit memory performance was not affected by a
distracting secondary task during priming, but a secondary task during
retrieval did in fact impair performance. It would therefore appear that

implicit memory is processed automatically at the input stage, but its
retrieval requires conscious aention.
Further evidence for the distinction between implicit and explicit memory
arises from the finding that implicit memories seem to be more durable and
lasting than explicit memories. Tulving et al. (1982) showed that implicit
memory tends to survive for very long periods of time, oen continuing to
influence responses long aer the subject has lost any ability to retrieve the
target items explicitly. eir results are shown in Figure 6.16.
Figure 6.16
Scores for recognition (explicit) and fragment completion (implicit) aer retention
intervals of one hour and one week.
Source: Tulving et al. (1982).
Mitell et al. (2018) found that individuals who had participated in an

implicit memory experiment still retained a significant level of implicit
memory for the test items 14 years later, despite having no explicit memory
for these items. is very long duration was confirmed both for pictures and
for word fragments, but not for word-stem completion. It seems that

memories can remain in store at an unconscious level long aer people have
lost the ability to recall them consciously.
So et al. (2005) used an fMRI study to compare the effects of implicit
and explicit memory retrieval. ey found that the retrieval of explicit
memories caused increased activation of the le and right parietal and
temporal lobes, whereas the retrieval of implicit memories caused reduced
activation in the frontal and occipital lobes and in the le fusiform gyrus.
ey aributed this reduction in brain activation to the fact that implicit
memory is probably far easier to retrieve than explicit memory and thus
requires less cortical activation.
Kim (2019) carried out a meta-analysis of fMRI studies, whi confirmed
that implicit and explicit retrieval ea activated different regions of the
cortex. However, they found that the encoding of implicit and explicit
memory involved activity in the same cortical areas, suggesting that these
two systems probably depend on the same memory system for their
encoding but not for their retrieval.
Implicit memory in everyday life

e discovery of implicit memory has led to speculation about its possible
influence in everyday life. For example, implicit memory is thought to be the
meanism underlying the phenomenon of ‘conversational plagiarism’
(Brown & Murphy, 1989), where someone unwiingly repeats a word they
have just heard without being aware of having heard it. You may have
noticed this yourself at some time, as it occurs quite oen in everyday
conversation. One person happens to use an unusual word, su as
‘exquisite’ or ‘fortuitous’, and soon aerwards a different person will use
that same word without realising they have copied it. Hearing the word has
presumably heightened its level of activation in the memory of the listener,
whi makes them more likely to use the word themselves despite having no
conscious recollection of hearing it spoken.
Claxton (1998) suggests that implicit memory may also be the meanism
underlying intuition, or ‘hunes’. Sometimes we may not be sure of the

answer to a question, but we have a hun that a certain answer is probably
correct, possibly reflecting the presence of an implicit memory. Brown (2004)
suggests that implicit memory may also explain the occurrence of ‘déjà vu’,
whi is the feeling that you have experienced something before when in
fact you have not. is is basically a mistaken familiarity judgement, and
most people will probably have experienced it a few times. Brown suggests
that the déjà vu feeling occurs when some new situation triggers an implicit
memory for a similar event in the past, whi can no longer be recalled in a
conscious manner.
In recent years social psyologists have developed theories whi explain
some social behaviour in terms of underlying cognitive processes. In
particular it has been argued that our social interactions, including our
aitudes to particular people and situations, are strongly influenced by
implicit memory (Greenwald & Banaji, 2017). Indeed, the possible
involvement of implicit memory in social behaviour may help to explain
why people sometimes behave in ways that conflict with their expressed
views and aitudes (Amodio & Ratner, 2011).
In the clinical field it has been suggested that implicit memory may help
to explain the occurrence of distressing intrusive memories in patients
suffering from PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). Traumatic memories in
PTSD tend to be retrieved automatically, as an involuntary response to
certain cues. ey also tend to be very persistent and long-lasting. ese
aracteristics also apply to implicit memories. Amir et al. (2010) found that
individuals suffering intrusive memories and PTSD symptoms showed an
increased level of implicit memory for negative and trauma-related pictures,
suggesting that heightened implicit memory could play a part in
maintaining PTSD. ere is a more detailed discussion of PTSD in Section
6.9 of this book.
An overview and classification of memory systems

e memory systems described above resemble one another in some ways.
For example, implicit memory and familiarity judgements both seem to

share a dependence on unconscious automatic retrieval processes, involving
the activation of perceptual features of the trace. In contrast, explicit
memory and recollection share a dependence on conscious effortful retrieval
processes, and they involve contextual links. Furthermore, implicit memory
and familiarity judgements both tend to be spared in cases of organic
amnesia.
Some theorists have suggested that the episodic/semantic distinction also
resembles these two systems, since episodic memories are context-bound
whereas semantic memories are not. Sacter et al. (2000) argue that
semantic memory is essentially a form of implicit memory whilst episodic
memory is explicit. eir classification of these memory systems is
Figure 6.17
Automatic and effortful memory systems.
However, Squire et al. (1992) point out that the majority of amnesic
patients suffer impairments of both episodic and semantic memory. Squire et
al. therefore argue that episodic and semantic memory probably reflect the
same underlying memory system, and that they should both be classified as
related forms of explicit memory, as shown in Figure 7.8 (Chapter 7). is
view will be considered in more detail in Chapter 7.

Retrieval practice and the testing effect

It has been established that learning is far more effective if it involves testing
and retrieval of the material you are trying to learn. is is known as the
testing effect, and it has been demonstrated with a wide range of materials
and conditions. e testing effect has been confirmed with the learning of
word lists (Allen et al., 1969), general knowledge (McDaniel & Fisher, 1991),
and foreign-language vocabulary (Carpenter et al., 2008). Figure 6.18
presents the results of a typical experiment on the testing effect.
Testing effect e finding that actively testing a memory improves its

subsequent retrievability.

Figure 6.18
e effect of testing on subsequent retrieval of Swahili–English word pairs, aer
retrieval intervals of one day and seven days.
Source: Carpenter et al. (2008).
ese findings have important implications for anyone who is revising for
an exam, or indeed anyone who is trying to learn information for any
purpose. Learning will be far more effective if it involves testing and
retrieval of the material, rather than merely re-reading it. Indeed McDaniel
et al. (2007) found that students aieved higher exam marks if their revision
focused on retrieval testing rather than mere re-reading of the material. Koh
et al. (2018) found that the retrievability of information was greatly
improved by teaing it to other people, and self-explanation has also been
shown to be effective (Bisra et al., 2018). Both of these findings probably
reflect the benefits of retrieval practice.

Decay with disuse
e discovery of the testing effect has led some researers to reconsider the
reasons why memories tend to fade away with the passage of time. As
mentioned in Section 6.2, the new theory of disuse (Bjork & Bjork, 1992)
suggests that a memory trace will be strengthened by frequent retrieval,
whereas an unretrieved memory trace will eventually become inaccessible.
e new theory of disuse (NTD) receives strong support from the testing
effect.
Bjork and Bjork make a distinction between the storage strength and the
retrieval strength of a memory. Storage strength depends on how well the
item has been learned and is fairly unanging, whereas retrieval strength
reflects the accessibility of the trace, whi varies from moment to moment.
For example, the retrieval strength of an item is increased by retrieval, and it
is weakened by disuse. Bjork and Bjork argue that the act of retrieval is in
itself a learning event, whi makes the retrieved item easier to retrieve in
the future. ere is also evidence that the retrieval of a target item may
cause the inhibition of rival items, a phenomenon known as retrieval-
induced forgeing (RIF).
Retrieval-induced forgetting (RIF)

It has been discovered that retrieving a memory trace not only strengthens
that trace, it also apparently inhibits the retrieval of rival memory traces
(Anderson et al., 1994). is phenomenon is known as retrieval-induced
forgetting (RIF). Anderson et al. demonstrated the RIF effect by presenting
their participants with a series of word pairs, ea consisting of a category
name and an example of an item from that category (e.g. fruit–banana).
Some of these items were then subjected to repeated retrieval. As you would
expect, the practised items were easier to recall later. But more surprisingly,
the unpractised items from the same category as these practised items
actually became more difficult to recall. So, for example, retrieving ‘banana’
made it more difficult to recall ‘apple’ (whi also belongs to the ‘fruit’

category) but did not affect the retrieval of ‘shirt’ (whi does not).
Anderson et al. concluded that the retrieval of an item somehow inhibits the
retrieval of similar items (see Figure 6.19).
Retrieval-induced forgetting (RIF) e phenomenon whereby the

successful retrieval of a memory trace inhibits the retrieval of rival
memory traces.
Figure 6.19
Retrieval-induced forgeing.
e RIF phenomenon has now been confirmed by a large number of

studies using a variety of test materials (Bäuml et al., 2020). It has been
shown that RIF occurs only when there is retrieval, and not with passive
study su as re-reading the test items (Anderson et al., 2000). A study by
Tandoh and Naka (2007) showed that RIF effects can still be detected one
week aer retrieval practice, and it is possible that RIF could lead to more
lasting memory inhibition if an item is subjected to frequent RIF suppression

over a long period. is raises the intriguing hypothesis (Anderson, 2003)
that RIF could be the meanism whi causes the forgeing of disused
memories over time.
RIF in real-life settings

e discovery of retrieval-induced forgeing raises an obvious question –
what is this meanism for? Anderson (2003) suggests that the purpose of
RIF is to facilitate selective memory by suppressing unwanted rival
memories, making it easier for us to retrieve the item we require. For
example, remembering where you le your car in a large car park would be
extremely difficult if you had equally strong memories for every previous
occasion on whi you had ever parked your car (see Figure 6.20). It would
be very helpful to have a memory meanism whi activated the most
recent memory of parking your car whilst inhibiting the memories of all
previous occasions (Anderson & Neely, 1996).
Figure 6.20
Where did you leave your car?
Source: Photo by Glenys Law.
If the RIF meanism really has evolved in order to facilitate selective

retrieval, then we might expect RIF to produce benefits in real-life seings.

Groome and Grant (2005) found that individuals showing a very strong RIF
effect do appear to have beer memories in everyday life, as measured by
the cognitive failures questionnaire (CFQ). ere is also evidence that
retrieval-induced forgeing assists exam revision. Students show good recall
of practiced items, but poor recall of related items whi were unpractised
(Macrae & MacLeod, 1999; Carroll et al., 2007). ese findings suggest that
exam revision should include testing and retrieval, though last-minute
cramming before an exam may not always be helpful as it will assist recall
of a few practised items whilst inhibiting the unpractised ones.
Shaw et al. (1995) demonstrated the RIF effect in an experiment on
eyewitness testimony. eir participants wated a slideshow about a crime,
aer whi they were tested for their recall of some of the things they had
just seen. It was found that the successful retrieval of some details of the
crime inhibited the retrieval of other items. Shaw et al. concluded that in
real crime investigations there was a risk that police questioning of a
witness could lead to the subsequent inhibition of any information not
retrieved during the initial interview.
e meanism underlying RIF

Anderson (2003) argues that RIF is caused by an inhibitory meanism in
the brain, whose function is to suppress unwanted memories. Other
researers question this inhibitory account. Camp et al. (2007) consider that
RIF might merely reflect the bloing of an unpractised response, since
retrieval practice strengthens the connection between the practised item and
its cue, thus bloing that cue from generating alternative items. However,
the bloing account predicts that retrieval practice should create RIF only
for the original cue, whereas several studies suggest that RIF still occurs
when the final test makes use of a new or ‘independent’ cue (Anderson,
2003), whi is different to the cue used in retrieval practice. A meta-analysis
by Murayama et al. (2014) confirmed that the inhibitory account receives
good support from most previous studies, though not all RIF findings can be
fully explained by inhibition.

A third account of RIF has been proposed more recently, whi suggests
that RIF can be explained by context-dependent memory (Jonker et al.,
2013). Jonker et al. argue that the unpractised items from a practiced
category are poorly retrieved because their category becomes associated
with the retrieval practice context. But reinstating this context will not assist
the retrieval of those items as they were not actually presented at that stage.
At the present time, all three accounts of RIF – inhibition, bloing, and
context – have received some support. It therefore remains possible that any
or indeed all three of these meanisms could contribute to the RIF effect
(Bäuml et al., 2020).
Retrieval inhibition, disuse, and psyiatric disorders

Retrieval-induced forgeing and the new theory of disuse may have
implications for the understanding and treatment of psyiatric disorders.
For example, victims of severe traumatic events who suffer from PTSD
experience distressing intrusive memories whi can persist for many years.
Anderson (2001) suggests that these distressing memories may be
strengthened by repeated retrieval, whilst other more pleasant memories are
inhibited by RIF. Studies of PTSD will be considered in more detail in
Section 6.9.
Some neuroses involve unwanted memories whi may trigger a phobic
response or an anxiety aa. Lang et al. (1999) argue, in accordance with
RIF resear and the new theory of disuse, that phobic responses may be
strengthened by repeated retrieval while other less distressing memory
responses to the same stimulus are inhibited. Lang et al. suggest that phobic
patients might benefit from practising the retrieval of alternative (non-
fearful) responses to the stimulus, in order to inhibit the phobic response.
Several studies have shown that RIF scores are impaired in those suffering
from depression and anxiety. Highly anxious individuals have been found to
have reduced RIF scores (Law et al., 2012), and patients with generalised
anxiety disorder show impaired RIF for threat-related information
(Kircanski et al., 2015). ese findings are consistent with the predictions of

the aentional control theory (Eysen et al., 2007), whi suggests that
anxiety impairs the operation of inhibitory cognitive meanisms (see
Chapter 12).
Groome and Sterkaj (2010) found that individuals suffering from clinical
depression showed greatly reduced RIF, though the direction of causality
between depression and RIF was not established in this study. However,
Bäuml and Kuhbandner (2007) found that inducing a sad mood state in
normal participants led to a reduction in their RIF scores, whi suggests
that RIF is affected by depression rather than the other way around. Low RIF
scores have also been found to be associated with a bias towards more
negative autobiographical memory recall (Storm and Jobe, 2012; Marsh et
al., 2018).
e finding that RIF varies with anxiety and depression levels may help to
explain why RIF scores are not completely fixed and reliable for any given
individual (Pos et al., 2011), since the strength of the RIF effect varies
according to mood state.
Directed forgetting
Retrieval-induced forgeing is thought to involve automatic processing,
whi takes place at an unconscious level. However, there is evidence that
people are able to deliberately suppress a memory if instructed to do so, and
this is assumed to involve effortful and conscious processing. e procedure
is known as directed forgeing (DF), and there are two different methods of
demonstrating DF, the item method and the list method.
e item method involves reading out a list of items with an instruction
aer ea item to either ‘remember’ or ‘forget’ that item. Testing recall of
the entire list aerwards showed that R (remember) items were beer
retrieved than F (forget) items (Bjork, 1972). e list method involves
reading out a list of items, followed by a surprise instruction to forget the
entire list. A second list is then read out, this time followed by an instruction
to remember this list. ere is normally a control group who hear the same
two lists, but without the ‘forget’ instruction aer the first list. Once again, a

final recall test showed that in the group receiving the ‘forget’ instruction
the R items were beer recalled than the F items (Geiselman et al., 1983).
A crucial difference between the two DF procedures is that with the item
method participants are given the R or F instruction directly aer ea item,
whereas with the list method the R/F instruction is not given until the entire
list has been heard. is means that with the item method participants are
able to devote more input processing to the R items, and there is evidence
that this is the main cause of DF in item method experiments (Taylor et al.,
2018). However, with the list method the R/F instruction is not provided
until aer the entire list has been read, whi is too late to affect the input
processing of ea individual item. It is therefore assumed that suppression
of the F items in the list procedure must occur at the retrieval stage, and
there is some evidence that this may involve an inhibitory meanism
(Anderson, 2009).
It seems probable, then, that suppression occurs at the input stage with
the item method, but at the output stage with the list method. One study
whi provided support for this view was that of Basden and Basden (1996),
who found that with the list method the suppression of F items occurs with
recall tests but not with recognition tests, suggesting that the F items are
encoded and available for recognition but their recall is suppressed.
However, they found that with the item method the DF effect is equally
strong for recall and recognition tests, confirming that item suppression
probably occurs at the encoding stage.
e DF effect also occurs with more complex and realistic test material,
and not just with word lists. Delaney et al. (2009) demonstrated the
occurrence of DF with lists of meaningful sentences. Ea sentence provided
a piece of information about one of two people, named Tom and Alex. Aer
seeing all of the sentences, participants were instructed to forget all of the
sentences about Tom, but to remember the sentences about Alex. A
subsequent recall test confirmed that participants did indeed remember
more of the sentences about Alex, but the effect only worked when the
sentences were separate and unrelated. When the sentences formed part of a

continuous story the DF effect disappeared, probably because the sentences
tended to cue one another.
Individuals suffering from depression do not show the usual DF
suppression effect when the F items are emotionally negative or distressing
(Power et al., 2000; Xie et al., 2018), and depressed people do not forget
negative items despite being instructed to do so. Xie et al. suggest that
depressed individuals may direct more aention to the negative items. ese
findings may help to explain the tendency of depressed people to ruminate
on things whi they find upseing.
Reconsolidation
In recent years researers have made some interesting discoveries about the
possibility of anging stored memories. Several studies have suggested that
when an old memory is reactivated it becomes vulnerable to ange. is
means that the retrieval of a stored memory presents an opportunity to
make that memory stronger or weaker before it is put ba into storage. is
phenomenon is known as reconsolidation, as it implies that a retrieved
memory will be stored again, possibly in modified form.
In fact the first hint of the reconsolidation phenomenon was reported over
40 years ago. Misanin et al. (1968) were trying to find out whether ECT
(electro-convulsive therapy) could harm stored memories. Using rats, they
showed that an electric sho administered to the head had no significant
effect on subsequent retrieval of a learned response. However, if the sho
was administered aer the rat had been given a reminder of their earlier
training, the trained response was largely obliterated by the sho. e
researers concluded that by reactivating the memory they had made it
more vulnerable to ange. However, this rather intriguing result was
largely ignored for the next 30 years.
More recently, Nader et al. (2000) demonstrated that reactivated memories
were also impaired by the effects of certain drugs (called protein-synthesis
inhibitors), whi prevent the formation of new memory traces. Once again
this resear was carried out on rats, and it confirmed the earlier finding

that a memory could be weakened by an intervention while the memory
was in an active state. ese findings raised the possibility that su
methods could be used to remove unwanted memories in humans, su as
the intrusive memories whi plague PTSD sufferers. Unfortunately protein-
synthesis inhibitors are not suitable for su use because of their toxic
effects, but researers have had some success in treating PTSD sufferers by
using interference from new learning to suppress an intrusive memory aer
first cueing its retrieval into an activated state (Hupba et al., 2007). Most
importantly, they found that su intrusive memories were only suppressed
if the interference was applied directly aer retrieval, but interference
applied later had no inhibitory effect. Recently Brunet et al. (2018) showed
that traumatic memories could be made less distressing by administering
propranolol (a beta-bloing drug) shortly before reactivating the memory.
Most reconsolidation studies involve memory suppression, but sometimes
reactivating a memory can help to strengthen it. Blaiss and Janak (2006)
reported that administering a stimulant drug to rats directly aer retrieval of
a memory increased the strength of that memory. Finn and Roediger (2011)
found that the presentation of an emotionally arousing picture to human
participants directly aer reactivating a memory increased the strength of
that memory, whereas presenting an emotionally neutral picture had no
su effect.
ese findings are still somewhat tentative, and they require further
resear and replication. However, reconsolidation may provide some useful
applications in the future, su as removing unwanted memories in clinical
conditions su as PTSD and depression.
Reconsolidation may also help to explain some of the established findings
about memory, su as the testing effect and the misinformation effect.
Reconsolidation e finding that the reactivation of a memory makes it

temporarily vulnerable to ange.

6.8 eories of forgetting
Several theories have been put forward to explain why we forget, and most
of them have already been discussed in this apter. However, it might help
to clarify things at this stage if we summarise the main theories of
forgeing, and you will find them listed below:
Spontaneous decay: Ebbinghaus (1885) suggested that memories simply

fade away with the passage of time, whi would explain the time-
dependent forgeing seen in the classic Ebbinghaus forgeing curve.
However, several other theories can also explain time-dependent
forgeing, and there is no clear evidence as yet for the occurrence of
spontaneous decay, at least in long-term memory (Brown &
Lewandowsky, 2010).
Decay with disuse: orndyke (1914) proposed a different version of
decay theory, whereby memories only decay if they remain unused
for a long period of time. A new version of the disuse theory (Bjork &
Bjork, 1992) argues that access to a memory is strengthened by the
act of retrieval, whereas unretrieved memories become inaccessible.
is theory receives strong support from the testing effect. Decay
may be caused by an inhibitory meanism whi shuts off access to
unused memories.
Interference: Ebbinghaus (1885) presented evidence that retrieval of a
memory trace can be impeded by interference from some other input.
Interference between rival traces has in fact been demonstrated many
times, and it is still regarded as an important cause of forgeing
(Wixted, 2010). One possible cause of interference is response
competition, where a number of different memories are competing
for retrieval.
Cue overload: Earhard (1967) suggested that retrieval failure can occur
when a particular retrieval cue has become associated with a number
of different memory traces, making it more difficult to select the

required trace. Cue overload theory is essentially a type of
interference theory, since memory failure arises from the presence of
competing memory traces.
Ineffective retrieval cues: Tulving and omson (1973) showed that a
retrieval cue will only be effective if its features mat up with those
in the stored memory trace. Successful retrieval will therefore depend
on the amount of ‘feature overlap’ between the cue and the stored
memory trace, in accordance with the ‘encoding specificity principle’.
is theory is consistent with many resear findings, su as the
occurrence of transfer-appropriate processing and context-dependent
memory.
Repression: Freud (1914) famously suggested that we tend to repress
memories that we find distressing, pushing them into the
unconscious where they can no longer be consciously recalled.
However, Freud argued that repressed memories could still cause
anxiety and neurosis, unless they could be brought ba into
conscious awareness by means of psyoanalysis. e existence of
repression as a cause of forgeing remains controversial, and there
is no convincing evidence that it actually occurs (Kihlstrom, 2006).
Consolidation failure: Milner (1966) reported that organic amnesics were
unable to convert temporary STM memories into more solid and
lasting LTM traces. is process is known as consolidation, and
without it memories will only survive for a few seconds.
Consolidation failure occurs in normal individuals too, if they fail to
aend to the input and process it properly. However, there is also
evidence for the occurrence of a more gradual form of consolidation
whi continues to strengthen the memory trace for several years
(Squire, 1992). It is known as ‘systems consolidation’, and it can suffer
impairment in amnesics and may cause forgeing in normal
individuals too.
Reconsolidation: e activation of a memory makes it vulnerable to
ange, whi can be brought about by drugs (Nader et al., 2000) or
by emotional arousal (Finn & Roediger, 2011). Reconsolidation is

thought to be involved in strengthening some memories and
weakening others, so it may play a part in forgeing.
Inhibition: Anderson et al. (1994) suggested that there are inhibitory
meanisms at work in the brain, whi suppress unwanted
memories in order to facilitate the selective retrieval of required
memories. ere is some evidence that su inhibition may be
responsible for retrieval-induced forgeing and directed forgeing
(Bäuml et al., 2020).
Most of these theories are probably valid, since forgeing has a number of
different causes. However, the theories listed here are not entirely separate,
and some of them may overlap. For example, decay with disuse may involve
an inhibitory meanism, and interference may result from cue overload.
Useful forgetting
In the past it was generally assumed that forgeing was essentially a failure
of memory function and therefore undesirable. Most members of the public
probably still take that view, and they regard forgeing as just a nuisance.
However, there is evidence to suggest that forgeing can actually be useful,
as it helps to clear away unwanted memories in order to help us to retrieve
the memories that we require (Anderson, 2003).
A few very unusual individuals have been studied who can recall
virtually everything they have ever experienced, and who do not seem to
experience normal forgeing. is is known as highly superior
autobiographical memory (HSAM), and rather surprisingly this
remarkable memory ability causes problems for these individuals.
Remembering every memory from their entire lifetime causes a state of
mental overload, and with so many memories competing for their aention
they are unable to focus on any one specific memory (Parker et al., 2006).
HSAM sufferers tend to be confused and highly stressed people, and
surprisingly their performance on memory tests is no beer than average.

eir difficulties in coping with a near-perfect memory suggest that it is
actually useful to be able to forget (Nørby, 2015).

6.9 Memory in real-life settings
Ecological validity
One criticism whi can be made of most memory resear is that it tends to
involve rather artificial situations whi are unlikely to occur outside a
laboratory. You might like to consider when was the last time you were
asked during your normal day-to-day life to retain three leers in your
short-term memory whilst counting bawards in threes (Peterson &
Peterson, 1959), or to complete a word stem with the first word that comes
into your head aer viewing a list of words that you can no longer
remember (Tulving et al., 1982). Unless your life is very different from mine,
I suspect that these will not have been frequent experiences. ese are tasks
that do not occur in everyday life, but su laboratory experiments do have
an important function, as they enable us to isolate processes like STM decay
and implicit memory whi are not otherwise seen in a pure form. Su
processes probably do play a major part in everyday memory, but usually in
combination with other memory processes, hence the need for artificial
experiments to isolate them.
Whilst accepting the value of laboratory experiments, Neisser (1976)
argued that memory should also be investigated in real-life seings, in order
to aieve ecological validity. is means finding out how memory
functions in the real world as opposed to the laboratory. Since Neisser made
this plea for ecological validity there has been an increasing amount of
resear on memory in real-life seings, including studies of
autobiographical memory, flashbulb memory, and eyewitness testimony.
Ecological validity e extent to whi the conditions of a resear

experiment resemble those encountered in real-life seings.
Autobiographical memory

How mu can you remember about the events in your life up till now?
How well can you remember your sool days? How many of your teaers
and soolmates can you name? You might like to spend a few moments
testing yourself on these questions. Beer still, fish out an old sool
photograph (like the one showing the author in Figure 6.21) to provide some
retrieval cues. You will probably be surprised how mu you can remember
from the distant past, oen about people and events you had not thought
about for many years.
Figure 6.21
An old sool photograph. (e author is on the front row, second from the right, next to
the boy wearing a tie.)
Bahri et al. (1975) investigated the ability of American adults to

remember their old high sool classmates from an old sool photograph,
and found that most people could still mat up the names and photos of
more than 80 per cent of their college classmates even 25 years aer
graduation. In fact there was no significant decline in their performance
over the years since the actual period when they had graduated. Bahri et
al. concluded that memory for a real-life experience tends to be far more
lasting than memory for items tested in a laboratory experiment, probably
because autobiographical memories hold far greater personal significance.
Bahri et al. (2008) asked elderly people to try to recall their college grades,
and on average they still recalled 80 per cent of their grades correctly even

aer an interval of 50 years. Forgeing mostly took place in the first few
years and there was only a very slight reduction aer that. Again this study
shows that with real-life memories there is far less forgeing than in
laboratory studies of memory.
One problem with the study of autobiographical memory is that it is oen
difficult to e its accuracy. You may be quite sure that you remember the
events of your 16th birthday clearly and accurately, but how do you know
that your memories are correct? Some investigators have deliberately kept
detailed diaries of their own daily experiences over a period of many years,
whi could be used later to e the accuracy of their retrieval. Linton
(1975) found that items in her diary whi had been tested previously were
more likely to be correctly retrieved later on, whi is consistent with
laboratory findings demonstrating the ‘testing effect’. Wagenaar (1986) kept
a detailed diary over many years, and he also took the trouble to record
retrieval cues for later use. He found that successful retrieval later on
depended on the number of retrieval cues available, and with suitable cues
he recalled about half of the events recorded over the previous six years. His
findings are therefore in broad agreement with the laboratory finding that
successful retrieval depends on the availability of effective retrieval cues
(Tulving, 1972).
Rubin et al. (1998) found that most people tend to recall more
autobiographical information from recent years than from the distant past.
However, one exception was that older people recall an increased amount
from their early adult years, a phenomenon known as the ‘reminiscence
bump’. For example, Rubin et al. found that people in their seventies tend to
recall a particularly large number of events from the period when they were
aged 10–30 (see Figure 6.22).

Figure 6.22
Retrieval scores for personal events from different times of an individual’s life.
Source: After Rubin et al. (1986).
A possible explanation for the reminiscence bump is that our earlier years
tend to be more eventful, and Berntsen and Rubin (2004) confirmed that the
reminiscence bump does indeed peak at a time in life when important events
are taking place. Young adulthood is a period in life when an individual is
oen experiencing some things for the very first time, and people oen have
vivid memories for their first trip abroad or their first date. Unfortunately
subsequent dates and trips abroad tend to lose their novelty value and thus
become less memorable.
Glu and Blu (2007) showed that the reminiscence bump applies
mainly to positive and happy memories. Since older people tend to enjoy
remembering happy events from their younger days, it is likely that the
retrieval routes to those happy memories are strengthened by frequent
retrieval. Further evidence that the reminiscence bump reflects a favoured
period of our lives comes from the work of Janssen et al. (2012), who asked
people to oose their favourite footballers of all time. ey found that most
people ose players who were at their peak when the person oosing them
was in their late teens, rather than piing more recent players. Similarly,
when older people are asked to name their favourite pieces of popular music,

they tend to pi music from their teens and early adult years (Loveday et
al., 2020).
Figure 6.23
Who is your favourite footballer of all time?
Most people remember very lile from their early ildhood, and studies
have confirmed that people actually remember nothing at all from the first
two or three years of their lives (Pillemer & White, 1989). is phenomenon
is known as ‘infantile amnesia’. One possible explanation for infantile
amnesia is that the brain may not have completed its physical development

in early infancy and is not yet able to store memories. Indeed, it has been
found that the hippocampus (the brain area whi is most important for
memory storage) takes several years to become fully developed (Rimond
& Nelson, 2007). Language skills also take some years to develop during
infancy. Simco and Hayne (2003) showed that young ildren perform
very poorly on memory tests requiring verbalisation, but they do beer on
non-verbal tests.
Tustin and Hayne (2010) found that very young ildren do recall some
memories from early infancy, whi are lost as they get older. Since these
memories had been accessible at one point, it seems likely that their
subsequent loss reflects a failure of retrieval rather than a failure of initial
encoding. Hayne and Herbert (2020) suggest that this retrieval failure may
reflect a la of context reinstatement and thus low feature overlap between
encoding and retrieval, since retrieval cues (especially verbal cues) will not
mat up well with the encoding context experienced by a very young
infant.
Although most adults have no genuine memories from the first three
years of their lives, some individuals do claim to remember events from that
period. Conway (2020) argues that su ‘memories’ are actually false, and in
many cases they include details whi would be impossible for a young
ild to encode. For example, one of Conway’s participants reports seeing a
new television being delivered to wat the coronation in 1953, when he was
only 9 months old. But a baby of 9 months would not know what a
‘television’ was, let alone a ‘coronation’. ese must therefore be fictional
memories, probably originating from a story heard mu later in ildhood.
Flashbulb memories
Can you remember where you were and what you were doing when you
heard the news that Donald Trump had been elected president of the United
States? Or when you first heard about the death of Miael Jason? If so
then these are examples of flashbulb memory, so called because the sho
of hearing su news seems to illuminate the relatively trivial events of our

own lives and makes them memorable. e significance of flashbulb
memory is not that the news event itself is well remembered (whi you
would expect), but that people are also able to remember trivial details of
their own lives and their surroundings at the time of the event.
Flashbulb memory A person’s recollection of details of what they were

doing at the time of some major news event or dramatic incident.
e first study of flashbulb memory was carried out by Brown and Kulik
(1977), who decided to test out the widely held belief that all Americans
could remember what they were doing when they heard the news of
President Kennedy’s assassination. Brown and Kulik found that all but one
of their 80 participants were indeed able to report some details of their
circumstances and surroundings when they heard the news of Kennedy’s
death, despite the passage of 14 years since that event. Similar findings have
been reported for a range of other major news events, including the
explosion of the space shule Challenger (Neisser & Hars, 1992), the
terrorist aa on the World Trade Center (Talarico & Rubin, 2003), the
death of Miael Jason (Demiray & Freund, 2015), and the British vote to
leave the EU (Raw et al., 2020).
In an effort to explain the occurrence of flashbulb memory, Brown and
Kulik (1977) hypothesised that a special memory meanism might be
involved, whi could create a memory trace for emotionally shoing
events that was unusually accurate and immune to the normal forgeing
process. It was argued that su a memory meanism might have evolved
because it would convey a survival advantage, by enabling an individual to
remember vivid details of previous catastrophes whi would help them to
avoid similar dangers in the future.

Figure 6.24
e World Trade Center aa.
However, the notion of flashbulb memory as a special process has been

allenged by subsequent studies showing that flashbulb memories are far
from infallible, and in fact seem to be no more accurate than any other type
of memory. Neisser and Hars (1992) used a questionnaire to record details
of the circumstances in whi a group of Americans first heard news of the
Challenger disaster. ey tested their participants on the day aer the
disaster, and then tested them again three years later. In fact participants
showed a considerable amount of forgeing aer three years, and about half
of the details they recalled at that point disagreed with the information
recalled the day aer the crash. Flashbulb memories of the World Trade
Center aa also showed a decline in their accuracy over the months that
followed (Talarico & Rubin, 2003; Wolters & Goudsmit, 2005), and were in
fact no more accurate or lasting than the normal everyday memories of their
subjects.
Whilst there is no doubt that flashbulb memories are unusually detailed
and long lasting, they can probably be adequately accounted for by the
meanisms underlying normal memory. Neisser (1982) suggests that the

memory for a very shoing event oen benefits from frequent recall and
retelling of the memory. Davidson and Glisky (2002) point out that the
occurrence of a very dramatic event provides a very powerful contextual cue
for otherwise trivial aspects of our surroundings and activities. Demiray and
Freund (2015) found that flashbulb memories occur most strongly aer an
event of great personal significance (su as the death of a friend), and are
less likely to occur aer public events (su as the death of Miael Jason).
Most researers now agree that flashbulb memories probably do not
involve a special meanism, as they seem to be just normal memories for
very emotional and shoing experiences (Talarico & Rubin, 2017). ere is
further discussion of flashbulb memory in Chapter 12.
Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)

e occurrence of flashbulb memory shows that people form very strong
and lasting memories for emotional experiences. is raises the question:
what happens if we encounter something that causes us emotional or
psyological trauma? PTSD is a disorder whi can occur aer exposure to
a highly distressing or terrifying experience, su as a natural disaster,
warfare, traffic accident, or either physical or sexual violence. It is mainly
aracterised by intrusive memories and ‘flashbas’ (vivid and distressing
memories of the initial trauma), and other memory-related symptoms su
as nightmares, pain, nausea, sweating, or trembling. Involuntary activation
of these trauma-related memories occurs when PTSD patients are exposed to
sensory ‘triggers’, su as sights or sounds whi remind them of the
experience.
It has been estimated that around 30 per cent of trauma-exposed
individuals will go on to develop PTSD, and of these 40 per cent will have
long-lasting symptoms (Santiago et al., 2013). What causes PTSD to occur in
some people but not in others is a fundamental question for cognitive
psyologists. One possible explanation is that traumatic memories, like
other autobiographical memories, are more likely to be remembered if they
are part of a shared social experience or perceived as having personal

consequences (Brewin, 2018). In other words, it may depend on whether or
not the individual interprets the trauma symptoms as having a significant
impact on their life.
e cognitive appraisal theory of PTSD (Ehlers & Clark, 2000) proposes
that PTSD symptoms are more likely to occur when individuals appraise
their own symptoms in a way that creates a sense of current and continued
threat. For example, symptoms might be heightened if one overgeneralises
the threat of the initial trauma, or believes that their life has been
significantly anged by it, or that they can never recover from the trauma.
e Ehlers and Clarke (2000) model has been supported by numerous
studies. For example, Andrews et al. (2000) studied victims of violent crime
with PTSD symptoms and found that those with greater feelings of anger
and personal shame tended to make a slower recovery. In another study,
Steil and Ehlers (2000) studied motor vehicle accident survivors and found
that ronic PTSD symptoms were more likely to emerge in those who
interpreted their trauma-related intrusive thoughts in a more negative light.
e dual representation theory (Brewin et al., 1996; Brewin et al., 2010)
proposes that traumatic memories can be either held as verbally accessible
episodic memories (whi can be retrieved deliberately), or as situationally
accessible memories (whi are automatically triggered by particular cues).
is theory argues that in PTSD the automatic retrieval of situationally
accessible memories is strengthened, whereas the retrieval of verbally
accessible episodic memories is weakened. is leads to intrusive and
involuntary retrieval of distressing images and emotional responses, whi
are largely separated from the episodic memories of the same events. is
fragmentation of memory makes it difficult to process the memory
adequately, as the distressing images are not under conscious control and are
disconnected from the context of the stressful event.
Dual representation theory offers a possible explanation for the fact that
PTSD is so hard to treat, since it proposes that sensory memories can only be
accessed when some aspect of the initial traumatic situation automatically
cues their activation. For example, a war veteran with PTSD is likely to have
symptoms whi are associated with sensory cues (su as the sound of

gunfire or a helicopter rotor), whereas aempts to treat the disorder are
usually based on deliberate aempts to access the memories consciously and
verbally (for example, being asked by a therapist to describe one’s
experiences). e therapy is therefore accessing a different type of memory
to the one that is causing the problem, so it will be less effective in dealing
with the intrusive memory itself.
e dual representation theory is supported by neuroimaging evidence
whi shows that flashbas are associated with increased activation in
sensory and motor areas of the brain, but decreased activation of the regions
involved in conscious memory retrieval (Brewin, 2018). It has also been
shown that negative or stressful input reduces the associative binding and
overall coherence of a memory in both PTSD sufferers and healthy
individuals (Bisby et al., 2020).
One factor whi may contribute to an individual’s susceptibility to PTSD
is the extent to whi they are able to inhibit intrusive memories. is was
investigated by Catarino et al. (2015), who compared a group of PTSD
patients with a control group of trauma-exposed individuals with no current
or historical PTSD symptoms. eir results indicated that PTSD patients
performed significantly worse in regulating inhibition of their thoughts
compared to the control group.
e most effective form of treatment for PTSD is trauma-focused
cognitive behavioural therapy, whi encourages re-processing of the
emotional content of the traumatic memory to integrate new, corrective
information. is approa has been shown to be effective for survivors of
terror aas, violent assault, sexual abuse, and displacement (Duffy et al.,
2007). However, although this is the most effective type of therapy currently
available for PTSD, it is only effective in about two‐thirds of patients
(Bryant, 2019).

Courtroom witnesses
A courtroom is one place where memory can be of crucial importance, as
the testimony given by an eyewitness frequently provides the decisive
evidence whi determines whether the defendant is convicted or not.
Indeed it has been shown that eyewitness testimony is the most important
single factor influencing the outcome of criminal cases (Dando & Milne,
2018). But there is a great deal of evidence to suggest that eyewitness
testimony is oen unreliable and does not justify the faith placed in it by the
courts. Indeed the introduction of DNA testing has revealed that many
people have been convicted of crimes whi they did not commit. So far no
less than 360 Americans convicted of serious crimes have subsequently been
freed as a result of DNA testing (Innocence Project, 2020), and some of these
individuals were on death row awaiting execution. More than 70 per cent of
these individuals had been convicted on the basis of eyewitness testimony,
whi was evidently mistaken in all of these cases. It is clear that eyewitness
testimony is not always reliable, and inaccurate testimony can have tragic
consequences for those who are wrongly convicted.
Figure 6.25
An eyewitness identifies the guilty person – but could he be mistaken?

e pioneering work of Bartle (1932) demonstrated that recall is prone to

distortion by an individual’s prior knowledge and semas (see Section 6.3).
Resear on eyewitness testimony has confirmed that eyewitnesses are
indeed susceptible to reconstructive errors based on previous knowledge and
expectations (Zaragoza & Lane, 1998). However, it has been found that
eyewitness testimony is also prone to contamination from information
acquired aer the event, a phenomenon known as the misinformation
effect. is effect was first demonstrated by Lous and Palmer (1974), who
showed their participants a film of a car accident. When participants were
later asked to estimate how fast the cars had been travelling, their responses
were found to vary significantly according to how the question was worded.
ose who were asked how fast the cars were travelling when they
‘smashed into one another’ gave a higher estimate of speed on average than
did others who were asked how fast the cars were travelling when they ‘hit
one another’. ey were also more likely to report having seen broken glass,
although in fact none was shown in the video. Merely anging a single
word in the question was sufficient to influence witnesses, essentially by
making an implicit suggestion about what they must have seen.
Misinformation effect e contamination of eyewitness testimony by

information acquired aer the witnessed event.
Post-event contamination is now known to be an important influence on

eyewitness testimony in real-life criminal cases. Following the Oklahoma
City bombing of 1995, in whi 168 people were killed and over 600 injured
by a massive car bomb, witnesses were found to have made errors in their
testimony due to contamination from subsequent events (Memon & Wright,
1999). Timothy McVeigh, who was convicted of the bombing and executed
in 2001, was described by three witnesses as having an accomplice when he
hired the vehicle used for the bombing on the previous day. However, it was

subsequently established that McVeigh had been alone. One of the witnesses
had confused the memory of McVeigh’s visit to the car-hire shop with that
of two other men who came in to hire a vehicle later the same day, and that
witness had later persuaded the other two that they had also seen two men
rather than one. is case appears to demonstrate the occurrence of both
post-event contamination and cross-witness contamination. Cross-witness
contamination has since been demonstrated in a laboratory experiment
designed to simulate aspects of the McVeigh case (Wright et al., 2000), and it
was found that witnesses were particularly likely to ange their description
of a crime aer discussing it with another witness who expressed great
confidence in what they had seen.
A number of studies have shown that the retrieval of a particular piece of
information can be inhibited by omiing it from a subsequent presentation
(Wright et al., 2001), or simply by failing to ask about it during a post-event
interview (Williams et al., 2002). It is even possible to create entirely false
memories in the mind of a witness by the use of suggestion effects and
‘memory implantation’. Lous and Pirell (1995) asked people to read
several descriptions of events whi had happened to them in ildhood, but
they also included a description of one event whi was actually fictitious
(e.g. geing lost in a shopping mall). About a third of the participants
subsequently described the fictitious event as having really happened to
them, as though it had somehow been incorporated into their memory
system. Many similar examples of false memories have been reported for
real-life events, whi can be elicited simply by questions that contain
misleading information. For example, when asked whether they had seen TV
footage of a bus exploding in the 2005 London terrorist aa, around 40 per
cent of a UK sample reported that they had, despite the fact that no su
footage existed (Ost et al., 2008).
MacLeod and Saunders (2005) suggest that the meanism underlying the
misinformation effect might involve RIF (retrieval-induced forgeing; see
Section 6.7), since they found that the misinformation effect was stronger for
items whi had been subjected to RIF suppression. Indeed RIF could also be
responsible for the tendency for witnesses to forget scenes whi are omied

from a subsequent re-showing of the incident, as the strengthening of the re-
shown items would be likely to inhibit the memory traces of the omied
items.
It has been found that ild witnesses are generally more prone to
suggestion and memory distortion than adults (Davis & Lous, 2005).
Elderly people also tend to be fairly unreliable witnesses, despite showing
more confidence than younger witnesses in the accuracy of their memories
(Dodson & Krueger, 2006). Among the younger adult population, individuals
with lower intelligence and low working memory capacity are more
vulnerable to misinformation and false memories (Zhu et al., 2010).
Like other forms of memory, eyewitness testimony becomes weaker and
more fragmented with the passage of time, and consequently it becomes
more vulnerable to contamination from other sources. It is therefore
important that police interview the witness immediately aer the witnessed
event. If this is not possible, the witness can be given a self-administered
questionnaire to record their observations before any further contamination
occurs (Dando et al., 2020).
ere are important lessons to be learned from these studies. Judges and
juries should realise that witnesses cannot be expected to have infallible
memories, and they should not place too mu reliance on the evidence of
eyewitness testimony alone. Statements should be taken from witnesses as
soon as possible aer the event, and witnesses should be allowed to use
notes when giving their evidence in court at a later date. Finally, police
interviewers should avoid the use of leading questions or suggestions whi
could implant misinformation in the witness’s head. Methods of improving
the accuracy of eyewitness testimony are discussed in more detail in Dando
(2020).
e cognitive interview
e interviewing of eyewitnesses has made extensive use of the findings of
cognitive resear. In particular, the principle of context-dependent memory
has been found to be of value to police interviewers, who use context cues to

jog the memories of witnesses. One way of aieving this is by creating a
crime reconstruction, in whi the original events and context of the crime
are replicated as closely as possible. Actors play out the roles of the people
involved in the crime, sometimes in the seing where the actual crime took
place. Su reconstructions are oen shown on television in the hope that
witnesses may be reminded of some relevant piece of information.
Similar principles are used in a tenique known as the cognitive
interview (CI), introduced by Geiselman et al. (1985). Unlike the traditional
police interview, in whi the witness is simply questioned about the actual
crime, the witness undergoing a cognitive interview is encouraged to recall
all aspects of the crime scene, including contextual details. e witness may
be asked to recall what clothes they were wearing, what the weather was
like, and even the newspaper headlines on that day. ey may be shown
photographs of the crime scene, or they may actually be taken ba to it.
ere may also be an aempt to re-create their mental state during the
event, by asking them to try to remember how they felt at the time. e CI
thus increases the amount of context reinstatement, whi increases the
range of possible retrieval cues and retrieval routes. Geiselman et al. (1985)
confirmed that the cognitive interview does normally elicit more
information from the witness than does the traditional police interview (see
Figure 6.26).
Cognitive interview An approa to interviewing eyewitnesses whi

makes use of the findings of cognitive psyology, su as context
reinstatement.

Figure 6.26
Recall performance with cognitive interview and standard interview procedures.
Source: Geiselman et al. (1985).
In addition to the basic principle of context reinstatement (CR), an

additional tenique used in the CI is to instruct the witness to report
everything (RE), regardless of how trivial or irrelevant things might seem.
Studies have confirmed that both the CR and the RE teniques add to the
effectiveness of the interview and both have been found to be useful in
police work (Milne & Bull, 2002; Brown et al., 2008). ere is also evidence
that the CI procedure can reduce the witness’s susceptibility to
misinformation effects and post-event contamination (Memon et al., 2009).
Many subsequent studies have confirmed the effectiveness of the CI in
both laboratory and real-life police investigations. In a review of 42 CI
studies, Koehnken et al. (1999) concluded that the CI consistently elicited

more items of correct information than a standard interview, for both adult
and ild witnesses. However, Koehnken noted that the CI also elicits more
incorrect information. Whilst this needs to be borne in mind by police
officers making use of the CI procedure, the effect of these errors on overall
retrieval is usually quite trivial (Memon et al., 2010).
One limitation of the CI procedure is that it becomes less effective when
very long retention intervals are involved (Geiselman & Fisher, 1997). Police
officers do not always have the time to interview all available witnesses
directly aer a crime, so a self-administered booklet version of the CI has
been developed whi can be handed to witnesses when interviewers are not
available (Gabbert et al., 2009).
Another problem with the CI is that it is not very suitable for use on very
small ildren, who oen have difficulty understanding the instructions
(Geiselman, 1999). However, the CI has been found to be reasonably
effective for ildren aged 8 years and above (Milne & Bull, 2003). It has also
been found that asking the witness to draw a sket of the crime scene can
help to provide contextual cues, and this is especially useful with small
ildren and elderly witnesses (Maison & Dando, 2020).
Figure 6.27
‘So what was the weather like when you saw this man robbing the bank?’

Despite these limitations, resear has established that the CI can be an
extremely valuable procedure, and it is now used widely by police forces in
the UK and America (Brown et al., 2008; Fisher et al., 2011). e CI is a
shining example of how cognitive resear is being applied in real-life
seings. For a more detailed discussion of CI teniques, see Dando (2020).

Summary
• Processing an input to a deep level, by making use of past experience

to analyse its meaningful content, will increase the likelihood of
retrieving that input in the future.
• Retrieval cues have a major effect on the success of retrieval, and are
especially effective if there is extensive feature overlap between
retrieval cues and stored information.
• e reinstatement of the context in whi a memory trace was
acquired can be of great assistance in retrieving the trace.
• Memory involves both automatic processes (su as implicit memory
and familiarity judgements) and controlled processes (su as
explicit memory and context recollection).
• e act of retrieving a memory makes it more retrievable in the
future. is finding is known as the testing effect.
• Retrieval of a memory trace causes the suppression of rival memory
traces, a phenomenon known as retrieval-induced forgeing (RIF).
• e retrieval of a stored memory makes it vulnerable to ange, and
may result in a stronger or weaker trace. is phenomenon is known
as reconsolidation.
• Studies of memory phenomena in real-life seings, su as
eyewitness testimony and the cognitive interview, provide an
important complementary approa to laboratory studies because of
their greater ecological validity.

Further reading
Baddeley, A.D., Eysen, M.W., & Anderson, M.C. (2020). Memory. Hove: Psyology Press. A very
thorough account of memory resear, wrien by three leading memory researers.
Eysen, M.W., & Groome, D.H. (2020). Forgetting: Explaining Memory Failure. London: Sage. A
collection of apters on all aspects of memory and forgeing, ea wrien by a leading
researer in the field.
Groome, D.H., & Eysen, M.W. (2016). An Introduction to Applied Cognitive Psychology (2nd edn).
Abingdon: Psyology Press. is book contains detailed apters on most of the main areas of
memory covered in the present apter, but considered in the context of real-life applications.

 7
Disorders of memory
David Groome
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-7
Contents
7.6 Rehabilitation
Summary
Further reading

Amnesia is the name given to disorders of memory. Amnesia normally
involves severe forgetfulness whi goes beyond the everyday forgeing
observed in normal people, to the extent that it may interfere with the
activities of normal life. We are all prone to moments of forgetfulness, but
most people with intact cognitive functioning can remember quite a lot
about their lives, especially their most recent experiences and events whi
are important to them. However, a person suffering from amnesia may be
quite unable to remember any recent events. Without an intact memory it
can become impossible to keep a job, to keep up relationships with family
and friends, or even to look aer oneself and maintain an independent
existence. In fact it is clear from the study of severely amnesic patients that
memory is quite crucial to our ability to function properly as human beings.
Amnesia is a very disabling condition, but it is also a disorder from whi a
great deal can be learned about the nature of memory function.
Causes of amnesia
Amnesia may arise from a number of different causes (also known as
‘aetiologies’), whi can be divided into two main groups, the organic
amnesias and the psyogenic amnesias.
Amnesia A pathological impairment of memory function.
Organic amnesia An impairment of memory function caused by

physical damage to the brain.
Organic amnesias are caused by some form of physical damage (known as

a lesion) inflicted on the brain. is may arise from a variety of different
causes, including brain infections, strokes, head injuries, and degenerative

disorders su as Alzheimer’s disease. Organic amnesias tend to be severe
and disabling, and they are also irreversible in the majority of cases because
the brain lesion does not heal (Duff & Cohen, 2020).
Figure 7.1
MRI scan of the brain of an Alzheimer patient (right) compared with a normal brain
(le). e diseased brain is shown superimposed on a normal brain image, showing the
pronounced atrophy (shrinkage) especially affecting the temporal lobe.
Source: Science Photo Library.
Psyogenic amnesias are caused by psyological factors and usually

involve the temporary suppression of memories whi are distressing to the
patient. Psyogenic amnesias can be disorientating and disruptive, but they
are rarely completely disabling, and as there is no actual brain damage they
are reversible and in most cases will eventually disappear (Harrison et al.,
2017).
Psyogenic amnesia An impairment of memory of psyological

origin.

Alzheimer’s disease (AD) A degenerative brain disorder usually (but not
always) afflicting the elderly, whi first appears as an impairment of
memory but later develops into a more general dementia.
e organic amnesias are far more serious, and since they are also
particularly instructive in helping us to understand the nature of memory
function they will provide the main substance of this apter. ere are
many different ways in whi the brain can be damaged, and any of these
may cause amnesia if the relevant brain regions are involved, most notably
the temporal lobes. e main causes and origins (aetiologies) of organic
amnesia are listed below:
Alzheimer’s disease (AD) is the most common cause of amnesia. It is a

degenerative brain disorder whi first appears as an impairment of
memory, but later develops into a more general dementia, affecting all
aspects of cognition. AD occurs mostly in the elderly, and in fact it is the
main cause of senile dementia, affecting as many as 20 per cent of elderly
people. Although seen mainly in people who are at least 70 or 80 years old,
in rare cases AD may affect younger people, when it is referred to as pre-
senile dementia. AD was first identified by Alois Alzheimer (1907), though
the cases he described in fact concerned the pre-senile form. It was only
later realised that the same basic degenerative disorder, with its
aracteristic paern of damaged and tangled neural fibres, was also
responsible for most senile dementias too. Since the amnesic symptoms of
AD patients are usually complicated by additional symptoms of general
dementia, including significantly impaired intelligence (Storandt, 2008), it is
difficult to carry out tests of memory function in AD cases. For this reason
they are not the most widely researed amnesic group. See Box 7.1 for a
case study of Alzheimer’s disease (Ronald Reagan).

Box 7.1 Case study: Alzheimer’s disease (Ronald Reagan)
Ronald Reagan was probably one of the most famous and successful
people of all time. He first became famous as an actor, appearing in many
popular films. Aer retiring from the acting profession, Reagan began a
new career in politics and was elected President of the United States in
1980. He remained in office until 1988, and during this eight-year period
he was arguably the most powerful man in the world.
Source: Jacques M. Chenet/CORBIS.
As President, Reagan came to be regarded as an outstanding

communicator, the skills from his acting days clearly standing him in
good stead in his new career as a politician. But in 1994, a few years aer
he had le office, he was told that he had the early signs of Alzheimer’s
disease, a progressive dementia whi first destroys the memory and then
all other cognitive abilities. Reagan announced the news in a brief
handwrien leer to the American public. He wrote: ‘I have recently been
told that I am one of millions of Americans who will be afflicted with

Alzheimer’s disease. I now begin the journey that will lead me into the
sunset of my life.’ Within three years Reagan’s memory had deteriorated
so badly that he no longer remembered that he had once been the
President of the United States. He was unable to understand why people
waved at him in the street, and why strangers seemed to know him. He
was no longer able to recognise friends or former aides. In 1997 he
received a visit from George Sultz, his former secretary of state, but
Reagan did not seem to recognise his visitor despite their many years of
working closely together. However, it is possible that some slight feeling
of familiarity remained. At one point during the visit the former President
had returned to the room where his wife Nancy was aing with
Sultz. Reagan turned to his nurse and asked ‘Who is that man siing
with Nancy on the cou? I know him. He is a very famous man.’
Reagan’s dementia became increasingly severe over the next ten years,
finally reaing a point where he no longer responded to any form of
communication. In the spring of 2004 Nancy Reagan confirmed this, with
the simple statement: ‘Ronnie’s long journey has taken him to a distant
place where I can no longer rea him.’ He died a few weeks later.
Korsakoff syndrome is a brain disease whi usually results from

ronic alcoholism, and it is mainly aracterised by a memory impairment.
It was first described by Korsakoff (1887), and it has become one of the most
frequently studied amnesic conditions, mainly because it usually presents as
a relatively pure form of amnesia without the complication of extensive
dementia or reduced intelligence (Haalboom et al., 2019). See Box 7.2 for a
case study of Korsakoff syndrome.
Korsakoff syndrome A brain disease whi usually results from ronic

alcoholism, and whi is mainly aracterised by a memory impairment.
Herpes simplex encephalitis (HSE) A virus infection of the brain, whi

in some cases leaves the patient severely amnesic.

BOX 7.2 Case study: Korsakoff syndrome
Whiy and Zangwill (1976) described the case of a pub manager who
developed amnesic symptoms following many years of excessive alcohol
consumption. He was brought into hospital at the age of 60, as his wife
had noticed a severe deterioration in his memory and a number of other
signs of neurological disorder. ese included slurring of spee,
unsteadiness when walking, and occasional fits.
Memory tests revealed that he was unable to learn any new material
presented to him. For example, when a short story was read to him he
was unable to recall any of it five minutes later, and when the story was
read to him a second time he denied ever having heard it before. He also
performed very poorly on several other memory tests, including tests of
sentence recall and picture recognition. He was unable to recollect any
events or experiences from the previous seven or eight years. For example,
he had no recollection at all of his recent work as a publican, whi he
had done for the previous five years. Instead he described himself as a
newsagent, whi he had in fact been several years earlier. He also gave
his address as one from whi he had moved many years before. He gave
his age as 52 but in fact he was 60. It was as though the last seven years of
his life had completely disappeared.
e patient also had no recollection of his second marriage, whi had
taken place two years earlier. However, when visited in hospital by his
present wife he seemed to recognise her and he treated her as though she
was familiar to him. In a similar way, he began to show a sense of
familiarity with the nurses and clinicians in the hospital, although he
claimed not to recognise them. Two further observations were made
about this patient, both of whi are aracteristic of Korsakoff syndrome.
Firstly, he had a strong tendency to confabulation, claiming to recall
events whi had apparently not really taken place. Secondly, he showed
no awareness or understanding of his condition, and in fact denied that
he had any problems with his memory.

Confabulation e reporting of memories whi are incorrect and
apparently fabricated, but whi the patient believes to be true.
Herpes simplex encephalitis (HSE) is a virus infection of the brain, whi

can leave the patient severely amnesic. Fortunately cases of HSE are very
rare. One important aracteristic of HSE amnesia is its relatively sudden
onset, whi means that in many cases the date of onset of amnesic
symptoms is known with reasonable accuracy, in contrast to the very
gradual onset of degenerative disorders su as Korsakoff and Alzheimer
cases. See Box 7.4 for a case study of HSE amnesia, the patient Clive W
(Wilson & Wearing, 1995).
Temporal lobe surgery. A very small number of patients have become
amnesic as a result of brain lesions caused by surgical procedures, usually
involving the temporal lobes (Scoville & Milner, 1957; Eienbaum, 2015).
Su cases are fortunately very rare, but they have been extensively studied
because they provide a particularly valuable source of knowledge about
memory. is is because the precise moment of onset of their amnesia is
known, and furthermore the location and extent of their lesions are also
known fairly accurately. See Box 7.3 for a case study of temporal lobe
amnesia, the patient HM.
Post-ECT amnesia. Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) is a treatment
used to alleviate depression, usually in patients who have failed to respond
to any alternative form of therapy. ECT involves the administering of an
electric sho across the front of the patient’s head. It has been found that a
period of amnesia may follow the administering of the sho, and in some
cases this amnesia may persist over longer periods (Johnstone et al., 1980;
Sigstrom et al., 2020). ECT-induced amnesia has been extensively studied
because it can be a serious side effect of a deliberately administered
treatment. It is therefore important to establish the severity and duration of
post-ECT amnesia in order to evaluate the usefulness of the treatment.

Other causes of organic amnesia. Since any condition whi damages
the appropriate areas of the brain can cause amnesia, there are many other
possible causes, though none of them have been as widely studied as those
listed above. For example, strokes and tumours can sometimes lead to
amnesia, as can head injuries, cardiac arrest, HIV infection, and
degenerative conditions su as Huntington’s orea and Parkinson’s
disease.
Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) A treatment used to alleviate

depression whi involves passing an electric current through the front
of the patient’s head.
Amnesia as an impairment of long-term memory

e distinction between short-term memory (STM) and long-term memory
(LTM) was explained in Chapter 5. e main symptom of the organic
amnesic syndrome is an impairment of long-term memory, so that organic
amnesics have difficulty in consolidating new information into their long-
term memory store, and they also oen have problems retrieving old
memories from storage. However, despite this LTM impairment, organic
amnesics usually have an intact short-term memory. One clear indication of
their intact STM is the fact that most organic amnesics are able to carry on a
fairly normal conversation, though their conversation will be somewhat
limited by their inability to recall earlier events. ey are also able to reply
in a coherent way to questions, so long as the question is not too lengthy.
Organic amnesics are thus able to remember what has been said in the last
few seconds, whi suggests that their STM is normal. eir problem
therefore seems to be the inability to consolidate their memories into a
permanent form for long-term storage.
Su observations have been confirmed by more objective measurements
of STM function, su as digit span. Talland (1965) carried out a study
involving 29 Korsakoff patients, all of whom proved to be significantly

impaired on a whole baery of LTM tests su as story recall, word-list
recall, and picture recognition. However, their digit span scores were similar
to those of normal individuals, averaging about seven items. Baddeley and
Warrington (1970) also reported a normal STM span in Korsakoff patients,
and in addition they found a normal recency effect in a test of free recall. As
explained in Chapter 5, the recency effect is thought to depend on STM.
Reviewing su studies, Pujol and Kopelman (2003) conclude that most
Korsakoff patients show normal performance on tests of both verbal and
non-verbal STM. However, a recent study reported an impairment of visual
WM in some Korsakoff patients (Oudman et al., 2020).
Patients suffering from HSE (herpes simplex encephalitis) amnesia also
tend to have normal STM performance (including normal functioning of the
WM loops and the central executive), in contrast to their severe LTM
impairment (Starr & Phillips, 1970; Wilson & Wearing, 1995). e temporal
lobe surgery patient HM (see Box 7.3) was also found to retain a normal
digit span despite his extremely dense amnesia (Wielgren, 1968;
Eienbaum, 2015).
Similar findings of preserved STM span have been obtained with patients
in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease (Miller, 1977), though in the later
stages Alzheimer patients do show a deterioration of STM performance
reflecting the general dementia whi eventually pervades all aspects of
their cognitive functioning. Alzheimer patients usually show no impairment
of the phonological and articulatory loops (Morris & Baddeley, 1988), but
they suffer increasing impairment of central executive function (Storandt,
2008).
From these studies it would appear that in all major types of organic
amnesia there is severe LTM impairment, but a relatively unimpaired STM.
is finding helps to clarify the nature of organic amnesia, but it also tells us
something about the structure of memory in normal individuals. It suggests
that LTM and STM are essentially separate memory systems, since one can
be impaired while the other is unaffected. Amnesic patients also provide us
with an indication of the duration of STM storage, whi has been estimated
at approximately seven seconds, the length of time for whi information

can be retained by most severely amnesic patients. In fact Clive W, who is
one of the most severely amnesic patients ever studied, was described in a
recent TV documentary as ‘the man with the seven-second memory’ (see
Box 7.4).

Distinguishing anterograde from retrograde amnesia

Korsakoff (1887) provided one of the first descriptions of organic amnesia.
Having studied about 30 cases of severe amnesia associated with alcoholic
abuse, Korsakoff concluded that the main symptom was an impairment of
‘the memory of recent events’. However, he added that in many cases there
was also an impairment of memory ‘for the long past’, whi could extend
as far ba as 30 years before onset. ese two types of amnesia roughly
correspond to the definitions of ‘anterograde’ and ‘retrograde’ amnesia,
whi are the two main types of memory loss. ey are defined as follows:
Anterograde amnesia (AA) is the impairment of memory for events

occurring since the onset of amnesia.
Retrograde amnesia (RA) is the impairment of memory for events
occurring before the onset of amnesia.
Anterograde amnesia (AA) Impaired memory for events whi have

occurred since the onset of the disorder (contrasts with retrograde
amnesia).
Retrograde amnesia (RA) Impaired memory for events whi occurred

prior to the onset of amnesia (contrasts with anterograde amnesia).
e relationship between anterograde and retrograde amnesia is


Figure 7.2
Anterograde and retrograde amnesia shown in relation to the moment of onset (in this
case for patient HM)
e distinction between AA and RA is most important, because it offers a

possible means of distinguishing between learning disorders and retrieval
disorders. A patient suffering from a learning impairment would be
expected to have AA but not RA, since they should have no difficulty in
retrieving memories from the period before onset when their learning ability
was unimpaired. On the other hand, a patient suffering from a retrieval
impairment would have difficulty in retrieving memories from any period in
the past, and would thus be expected to have both AA and RA. It is possible
that learning and retrieval disorders could occur together in the same
patient, in whi case both AA and RA would be expected but with the AA
component probably being more severe.
A common observation, first noted by Ribot (1882), is that amnesic
patients oen have clear memories of their ildhood and early adulthood,
despite being unable to remember more recent periods in their lives. Ribot
concluded that their RA showed a ‘temporal gradient’, since the degree of
impairment increased with the recency of the event. is observation has
become known as ‘Ribot’s law’, though more recent studies have shown that
it does not apply universally since some amnesic patients have a uniformly
dense RA without any obvious temporal gradient.
Testing anterograde and retrograde amnesia

AA is essentially an impairment of new learning, so testing for AA is fairly
straightforward. e patient can simply be asked to learn some form of test
material (e.g. words, stories) and is then tested for the retrieval of these
items some time later. However, tests of RA are more problematic, since they
involve testing items learned prior to the onset of amnesia. e tester must
therefore devise test items that the patient will have encountered earlier in
their life, long before they became amnesic. Su memories from the distant
past are referred to as ‘remote memory’, as opposed to the testing of ‘recent
memory’ in more typical AA test procedures.
Remote memory tests can either involve the testing of past public events,
whi are likely to have been familiar to most people, or past personal
events, whi tend to be unique to ea individual. Tests of past public
events, su as major news events from the past, allow the same test items to
be used for all participants. is makes it possible to devise a standardised
test whi can be used on anyone, including both amnesic and normal
individuals. Various different tests have been devised for this purpose, su
as the Boston remote memory test (Albert et al., 1979), whi includes tests
of famous faces and news events from the past. More recently Steinvorth et
al. (2005) have devised tests and interview procedures for the assessment of
memory for public events and famous people.
Tests of past personal events focus on an individual’s autobiographical
memory, by asking them about their personal experiences. e scores
aained on su tests by different people cannot be directly compared, since
ea person will be recalling different events. Another problem with this
type of test is that it is oen difficult to e the accuracy of the responses
given. Some refinement of this approa has been aieved by using a
standard questionnaire to sample specific events in a typical person’s life
(Kopelman et al., 1990), whi are confirmed where possible by interviewing
relatives.
It is important to bear in mind that tests of past personal memory tend to
mainly involve episodic memory, whereas past public memories may
sometimes involve semantic memory, su as items of general knowledge
(see Chapter 6 for the distinction between episodic and semantic memory).

Some earlier investigators made the mistake of comparing episodic measures
of anterograde amnesia (e.g. ‘Where did you go yesterday morning?’) with
semantic measures of retrograde amnesia (e.g. ‘What was the name of your
primary sool?’) without realising that they were not comparing like with
like. In order to avoid su pitfalls, more recent studies have used the same
test procedure (e.g. news events) to sample both anterograde and retrograde
impairments. A further point whi has confused researers in the past is
that tests of autobiographical memory can include both episodic and
semantic memories, and it is important to distinguish between the two
(Rosenbaum et al., 2005).
Anterograde and retrograde impairment in organic amnesia

e earliest amnesia studies su as those of Ribot (1882) and Korsakoff
(1887) suggested that most amnesic patients suffer from both AA and RA,
and more recent studies have generally confirmed this finding. A paern of
AA together with RA has been observed in Alzheimer patients (Wilson et
al., 1981), in Korsakoff patients (Albert et al., 1979), and in HSE patients
(Wilson & Wearing, 1995). In many cases RA extends ba over a very long
time period. For example, in Korsakoff patients RA typically extends ba
over a period of 30 years or more before onset (Pujol & Kopelman, 2003),
and usually shows a marked temporal gradient in accordance with Ribot’s
law. Brown (2002) reviewed 61 separate studies of RA covering a wide range
of aetiologies, and found that nearly all of them had reported a temporal
gradient. Some typical results are presented in Figure 7.3.

Figure 7.3
Memory performance of Korsakoffs and normal controls for different periods from the
past.
Source: Albert et al. (1979)
However, this general paern of severe anterograde and retrograde

amnesia is not found universally. Some patients show severe AA but their
RA is limited to a very short time period. For example, the temporal lobe
surgery patient HM (see Box 7.3) had very severe AA but his RA was more
limited (Steinvorth et al., 2005). A few rather untypical Korsakoff patients
have also been studied whose RA was limited to the few years before onset,
and these patients have usually been found to la the frontal lesions whi
are otherwise typical of Korsakoff patients (Mair et al., 1979).

Box 7.3 Case study: temporal lobe surgery (HM)
On 23 August 1953 a 27-year-old man called Henry Molaison (referred to
in the literature by his initials ‘HM’), underwent a surgical operation to
remove both of the medial temporal lobes of his brain in an effort to
alleviate his severe epilepsy. Although the surgeon did not realise it at the
time, this operation was to have a devastating effect on HM’s memory.
Since that fateful day he was unable to learn anything new, and
consequently held no intact memories for any of the events of his life
since 1953.
HM proved to be virtually untestable on most measures of LTM, and it
was reported that he ‘forgets the events of his daily life as fast as they
occur’ (Scoville & Milner, 1957). Because of this HM would wat the
same TV programme several times without recognising it, and he would
do the same crossword puzzle many times without realising he had done
it before. Even aer several years of regular visits from clinicians su as
Brenda Milner, he was still unable to identify them. HM’s inability to
create new memories shows that he has severe anterograde amnesia.
Studies of HM provided a particularly clear comparison of anterograde
and retrograde amnesia, since the date of onset of his amnesia is known
precisely. We can therefore be confident about estimating the extent of his
anterograde and retrograde impairments. Although HM remembered
nothing that had happened to him since 1953, his memory was far beer
for the period preceding that date. is means that HM had severe
anterograde amnesia, but had relatively limited retrograde amnesia.
Ogden and Corkin (1991) reported that HM actually had severe retrograde
impairment for a period extending about three years before the date of his
surgery, but had fairly good retrieval of events from earlier years.
However, more recent studies of HM have shown that, whilst he had lile
RA for semantic memories, his RA for episodic and autobiographical
events was actually quite extensive (Steinvorth et al., 2005).

Despite his inability to register any new experiences in his long-term
memory, HM had an intact short-term memory and his STM span was
completely normal (Wielgren, 1968). However, this only allowed him to
hold on to his experiences for a few seconds. HM could carry on a fairly
normal conversation, but he could only remember the last sentence or so,
whi obviously restricted his conversational range. He also had a
tendency to repeat something he had just said a few moments earlier.
In addition to his intact STM and some intact ildhood memories, HM
also retained the ability to learn new motor skills su as mirror drawing,
though he had no recollection of actually learning them. He also showed
some learning on tests of implicit memory, su as completing the stems
of previously primed words. In addition, he showed a vague familiarity
with a few major news events from the period since 1953, su as the
assassination of President Kennedy (Ogden & Corkin, 1991). ese
findings suggest that HM’s amnesia was actually quite selective, an
observation whi has important implications for our understanding of
the modular nature of memory processes.
Eienbaum (2015) concludes that resear on HM has provided us
with several important new insights about the nature of amnesia, whi
are as follows:
1 Hippocampal damage impairs memory but spares perception and

thinking.
2 Amnesia spares short-term working memory, whi is distinct
from long-term memory.
3 Amnesia involves an impairment of declarative and episodic
memory.
4 e hippocampus is the core brain structure supporting memory.
5 Hippocampal damage spares remotely acquired memories.
Eienbaum (2012) notes that more papers have been published about
HM than about any other neuropsyological patient. Because of his
severe amnesia HM was unable to live a normal life, and he required

continual care. He died in 2008 at the age of 82, having spent most of his
life trapped in the brief moment of time that is amnesia.
Focal anterograde and focal retrograde amnesia

Although most amnesics exhibit both AA and RA, a few cases have been
studied who show either AA or RA in isolation. A number of studies have
reported cases of ‘focal AA’ (AA without RA). Mair et al. (1979) studied two
rather unusual Korsakoff patients with focal AA, and Cohen and Squire
(1981) also reported focal AA in their patient NA who was injured in a freak
accident. Whilst siing at his desk, NA was accidentally stabbed with a
fencing foil. A friend thrust the foil at NA as a joke, intending to stop short.
Unfortunately the foil entered NA’s nostril and penetrated his brain, with
devastating effects. e area iefly damaged was NA’s thalamus, and it le
him with severe AA but without any significant amount of RA. Other
studies of focal AA have confirmed that damage is mostly restricted to the
anterior thalamus (Kapur et al., 1996).
Examples of ‘focal RA’ (RA without AA) are extremely rare, and Mayes
(2002) points out that most cases are of psyogenic origin. However, a few
cases of focal RA have been reported in patients aer suffering head injuries
(Kapur et al., 1992; Sellal et al., 2002), and following an epileptic seizure
(Sehm et al., 2011), whi have mostly affected the temporal cortex. From
these admiedly rather rare and unusual cases it would appear that
impairments of learning and retrieval can occur separately, whi suggests
that they are independent disorders.
Brain lesions associated with anterograde and retrograde

amnesia
e brains of amnesic patients have been extensively studied in an effort to
identify the main sites where lesions (i.e. injuries) have occurred.
Traditionally this was done by post-mortem examination, but in recent years
a variety of brain-imaging teniques have been developed whi make it

possible to examine the brains of living patients. Brain scans of this kind
have been able to detect a number of lesion sites whi had not previously
been revealed by post-mortem studies. Several brain areas have been
identified where lesions tend to be found in cases of organic amnesia,
notably the temporal lobes, the hippocampus (whi lies within the
temporal lobes), the thalamus, and the prefrontal lobes. eir location in
the brain is illustrated in Figure 7.4.
Hippocampus A structure lying within the temporal lobes, whi is

involved in the encoding and storage of memories. Hippocampal lesions
usually cause impairment of memory, especially the storage of new
memories.
Figure 7.4
Brain structures involved in memory encoding and storage.
e temporal lobes contain the hippocampus, and this structure is of

particular importance to the creation of new memories. Surgical removal of
the hippocampus and parts of the medial temporal lobes of the patient HM
was found to have a devastating effect on his memory, especially his ability

to acquire and consolidate new memories (Scoville & Milner, 1957).
Subsequent scanning teniques confirmed HM’s hippocampal lesions, but
showed that his lesions also extended into the temporal cortex (Corkin et al.,
1997) and also the fornix and other temporal lobe tracts (iebaut de
Soen et al., 2015).
e temporal lobes and hippocampus are also damaged in most cases of
HSE (Colester et al., 2001), though their lesions are usually more extensive
and may involve most of the temporal cortex. Similar temporal lobe lesions
are found in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease (West et al., 1994),
though in the later stages of this progressive condition there are more
extensive lesions, extending into the forebrain at first and later affecting
most areas of the brain.
e other area of the brain where lesions tend to produce AA is the
diencephalon, a region whi includes the thalamus and the mammillary
bodies. ese are the areas whi are usually damaged in Korsakoff patients
(Victor et al., 1989), a finding confirmed by more recent PET scan studies
(Arts et al., 2017). Although Korsakoff patients tend to suffer damage to
mu of the diencephalon, their amnesic symptoms are mainly associated
with lesions in the anterior thalamic nuclei (Harding et al., 2000). Resear
on animal brains has shown that the hippocampus, anterior thalamus, and
mammillary bodies are interconnected, and appear to work as a single
system (Aggleton & Saunders, 1997). is system is known as the extended
hippocampal system, and it appears to operate as a linked circuit whi
carries out the encoding and consolidation of new memories.
Diencephalon A brain structure whi includes the thalamus and

hypothalamus. Parts of the diencephalon are involved in processing and
retrieving memories, and damage to these structures can cause amnesia.
Extended hippocampal system A system of interconnected structures

within the brain, incorporating the hippocampus, anterior thalamus, and
mammillary bodies, whi is involved in the encoding and storage of
new memory traces.

e retrieval of old memories seems to involve different regions of the
brain, notably the temporal cortex and the prefrontal cortex. Some
Korsakoff patients have prefrontal lesions in addition to their diencephalic
lesions, and these patients are more likely to exhibit retrieval problems than
those without su lesions (Reed et al., 2003). In fact Kopelman et al. (2001)
established that in Korsakoff patients the severity of AA is correlated with
the extent of thalamic damage, whereas the severity of RA is correlated with
the extent of prefrontal damage.
Lesions in the temporal cortex (i.e. the cortical area surrounding the
hippocampus) are also associated with retrieval problems (Reed & Squire,
1998). HSE patients whose lesions extend beyond the hippocampus and
include large areas of the temporal cortex usually exhibit severe RA in
addition to their dense AA (Cermak & O’Connor, 1983). Stefanacci et al.
(2001) reported that in HSE patients AA is correlated with the extent of
hippocampal lesions whilst RA is correlated with the extent of lesions in the
lateral temporal cortex.
Figure 7.5
MRI brain scans of a patient with lesions in the right temporal lobe caused by HSE.

ese scans are seen from the front of the brain, and the images run from the front
(upper le image) to the ba of the brain (lower right image).
Eienbaum (2015) has pointed out a link between amnesic symptoms and
the dorsal and ventral perceptual pathways in the brain. As explained in
Chapter 2, Goodale and Milner (1992) showed that the ventral stream carries
information about the perceptual structure of the input (the ‘What?’
pathway) whereas the dorsal stream carries contextual information (the
‘Where?’ pathway). e ‘What?’ pathway projects to the perirhinal cortex,
whi is known to be associated with semantic amnesia. e ‘Where?’
pathway projects to the parahippocampal cortex, whi is associated with
episodic amnesia. Eienbaum (2015) notes that the two pathways finally
converge on the hippocampus, whi he suggests is the site whi carries
out the crucial task of binding the ‘What?’ and the ‘Where?’ information
together.

One interesting feature of organic amnesia is that it does not involve a
universal impairment of memory function, as there are several aspects of
memory whi seem to remain unimpaired. ese areas of intact memory
function are of great interest because they not only tell us a great deal about
memory disorder, but they also shed light on the meanisms underlying
normal memory.

BOX 7.4 Case study: herpes simplex encephalitis (Clive W)
e case of Clive W is extremely well known, as he has been the subject
of two television documentaries. Before his illness Clive was a
professional musician, and his energy and brilliance had made him very
successful. He was orus master to the London Sinfoniea, and he
worked as a music producer for the BBC. But in Mar 1985 Clive
developed a flu-like illness, complaining of a severe headae and fever.
e illness was eventually identified as herpes simplex encephalitis (HSE),
a rare viral infection of the brain. Unfortunately by the time a diagnosis
had been made Clive’s brain had already sustained terrible damage, and
he would never be able to return to his previous life again.
Brain scans have subsequently revealed that Clive’s le temporal lobe
has been completely destroyed, together with some damage to his right
temporal lobe and parts of his frontal lobes. ese lesions have robbed
Clive of his memory, in fact making him one of the most severely amnesic
patients ever studied. Clive suffers both anterograde and retrograde
amnesia, and both are very severe. In fact his anterograde impairment is
almost total, so that he is completely unable to acquire any new
memories. In the words of his wife, ‘Clive’s world now consists of just a
moment. He sees what is right in front of him, but as soon as that
information hits the brain it fades. Nothing registers.’ is makes life
extremely confusing for Clive. Any conversation he has with another
person is immediately forgoen, as though it had never taken place. A
visitor who leaves the room for a few minutes will be greeted afresh by
Clive on re-entering the room, as if they were a new visitor. If Clive is
allowed to go out into the street alone, he rapidly becomes lost. is is a
risky situation for him, since he cannot find his way ba and he cannot
ask for assistance as he does not remember where he lives.
Unlike some amnesics, Clive also suffers from a very severe retrograde
amnesia. He cannot remember any specific episodes from his life prior to
the onset of his amnesia, and he no longer recognises most of his former

friends, though he seems to find them familiar. His retrograde impairment
even extends to famous public figures, and Clive says that he has never
heard of John F. Kennedy or John Lennon. He was also unable to
recognise a photo of the een and Prince Philip, though when pressed
he suggested that they might have been singers. However, Clive’s
retrograde amnesia is not total. He does remember a few facts about his
ildhood (su as the fact that he grew up in Birmingham), though he
cannot remember any specific events from that period. In contrast to these
limited recollections, Clive still clearly recognises his wife and he treats
her with the same familiarity and affection as in earlier times.
In addition to his episodic memory impairment Clive also shows
evidence of a semantic memory disorder. He is unable to provide
definitions of a number of common words su as ‘tree’ and ‘eyelid’. He
also has difficulty in recognising some common objects, for example jam
and honey whi he cannot distinguish from one another. One aspect of
Clive’s memory whi does seem to have remained surprisingly intact is
his musical ability. He is still able to play the piano and sight-read music
with great skill, despite the fact that he has virtually no memory of his
previous career as a musician.
Before he became amnesic, Clive was a person of considerable
intelligence, and he remains highly intelligent despite his lost memory.
Perhaps this is why he is so acutely aware of the limitations of his present
state. Clive does not know what has caused his problems, because when it
is explained to him he immediately forgets. However, he is well aware
that there is something wrong with his ability to remember, and he has
tried hard to find explanations for it. One of his conclusions is that he
must have been unconscious until the last few seconds. At every moment
of his life he feels as though he has just woken up, and his diary contains
repeated entries of the same observation: ‘I am now fully awake for the
first time.’ For most of us it is difficult to imagine what it must be like to
experience su a state of mind, trapped in a few seconds of existence.
For a more detailed account of Clive’s memory disorder see Wilson and
Wearing (1995). Clive’s wife Deborah has also wrien a book about their

life together (Wearing, 2005), in whi she reports that Clive’s memory
has actually improved slightly in recent years. From a neurological
viewpoint this is a remarkable and unexpected development.
Motor skills
ey say you never forget how to ride a bike. Certainly motor skills tend to
be very durable in normal people, and there is considerable evidence that
motor skills are also preserved in organic amnesics. Not only do amnesics
tend to retain their old skills from before onset, they can also learn new
skills and procedures, even in patients who find most other forms of learning
impossible. is suggests that skill learning is fundamentally different to
other forms of learning, perhaps because skills are performed in an
automatic way without needing conscious recollection.
For example, the HSE patient Clive W has retained most of his musical
skills, both in conducting and playing the piano (Wilson & Wearing, 1995),
though he is unaware that he possesses those skills. Starr and Phillips (1970)
also described a patient known as PQ, who had been a concert pianist before
becoming amnesic as a result of an HSE infection. PQ not only retained his
ability to play the piano, but proved to be quite capable of learning to play
new pieces of music, though again he remained quite unaware that he was
able to play them.
Corkin (1968) reported that the temporal lobe surgery patient HM was
able to learn a number of new motor skills su as mirror drawing. Mirror
drawing involves drawing a shape on a piece of paper viewed through a
mirror, whi is a very difficult skill to learn since all of the normal visual
feedba is reversed. HM succeeded in learning this new skill to a high level
of competence and he retained this expertise over a long period of time,
despite having no conscious recollection of acquiring this skill.
Cavaco et al. (2004) investigated the motor skills of ten amnesic patients,
mostly with temporal lobe lesions caused by HSE. All of these patients
displayed completely normal performance on a wide range of skills,
including weaving, figure-tracing, and target-traing. Oudman et al. (2015)

reviews evidence showing that Korsakoff patients retain the ability to learn
new motor skills, and suggests ways in whi su skills can be used to
devise rehabilitation teniques to help with other cognitive abilities. Glisky
et al. (1986) reported that they had successfully trained amnesics to carry out
simple computer tasks, though this training had required a great deal of time
and patience. ey also noted that although these patients had been able to
learn how to use several computer commands, these skills were restricted to
the computer program used in their training and showed no generalisation
to other computer applications. is suggests that skill learning in amnesics
is highly inflexible, possibly because it is learned at an automatic level
without full conscious control.
In view of the many studies showing intact skill learning in amnesics,
Cohen and Squire (1980) suggested a distinction between procedural
memory, whi can be demonstrated by performing some motor skill, and
declarative memory, whi can actually be stated in a deliberate and
conscious way. Cohen and Squire suggest that amnesics have an intact
procedural memory, but an impaired declarative memory. is would
explain the fact that amnesics can learn new skills and procedures but reveal
no conscious awareness of having this expertise.
Procedural memory Memory whi can be demonstrated by performing

some skilled procedure su as a motor task, but whi the individual
may not be able to report consciously (contrasts with declarative
memory).
Declarative memory Memory whi can be reported in a deliberate and

conscious way (contrasts with procedural memory).
Implicit memory
Most amnesics perform well on tests of implicit memory, in whi the
individual’s behaviour is shown to have been influenced by some previous

experience despite their inability to consciously recall it (see Chapter 6). An
early demonstration of this phenomenon was reported by Claparede (1911),
who carried out a rather bizarre experiment in whi he greeted an amnesic
patient with a handshake, made rather painful for them by the presence of a
pin concealed in Claparede’s hand. Claparede noted that the patient who
had fallen foul of this tri refused to shake hands with him the following
day, although she could not explain why she was unwilling to do so. e
cautious behaviour of this patient thus revealed evidence of learning
without any conscious awareness of the learning episode.
Another demonstration of intact implicit memory in amnesics was
performed by Warrington and Weiskrantz (1968). ey showed Korsakoff
patients a series of degraded pictures of common objects or words (see
Figure 7.6 for an example), starting with the most incomplete version and
then showing increasingly complete versions until the word or object was
correctly identified. When the same procedure was repeated at a later time,
the Korsakoff patients showed a marked improvement in their ability to
identify the item, thus providing evidence of learning.
Figure 7.6
An example of a fragmented word stimulus (Warrington & Weiskrantz, 1968).
Source: Reproduced with permission of Macmillan.

Graf et al. (1984) used the priming of verbal material to demonstrate
intact implicit memory in Korsakoff patients. Following a word priming
task, subjects were presented with word fragments and asked to complete
them with the first word that came into their heads. In most cases the
Korsakoff patients were found to respond with previously primed words,
even though they revealed no conscious memory of those words in a test of
explicit recall or recognition. In fact the Korsakoff patients aieved similar
word completion scores to the normal individuals. Graf et al. concluded that
implicit memory was unimpaired in Korsakoff patients, whereas explicit
memory was severely impaired (see Figure 7.7).
A study carried out on the temporal lobe surgery patient HM also showed
an improvement in the identification of degraded pictures following
repetition priming (Milner et al., 1968). HM also showed intact perceptual
learning, and his implicit memory performance was increased by previous
priming of test items (Corkin, 2013).
Several other studies have confirmed that implicit memory, but not
explicit memory, appears to be preserved in amnesics (Conroy et al., 2005).
However, in a few cases amnesics have shown some impairment of implicit
memory performance, and brain-scan studies suggest that this is associated
with lesions in the occipital lobes and the le dorso-lateral area of the
frontal lobes (Eskes et al., 2003).

Figure 7.7
e performance of Korsakoff amnesics and normal control subjects on tests of implicit
and explicit memory
Source: Graf et al. (1984).
Familiarity
As explained in Chapter 6, Mandler (1980) suggested that familiarity and
recollection represent two alternative routes to recognition. An item may be
judged familiar when we feel that we have seen it before, whereas
recollection involves remembering the actual occasion when the item was
encountered. Recollection therefore involves the retrieval of context,
whereas a familiarity judgement does not. Mandler argued that a familiarity
judgement is an automatic process, whereas recollection is a controlled
process requiring conscious effort.

A number of studies have suggested that organic amnesics retain the
ability to detect the familiarity of a previously encountered item, but have
difficulty recollecting the context from whi it is familiar. For example, the
HSE patient Clive W clearly found his old friends and fellow musicians
familiar. He greeted them with warmth and happiness, even though he was
unable to name them and had no idea where he had met them before
(Wilson & Wearing, 1995).
Huppert and Piercy (1976) devised an experimental procedure to test
recollection and familiarity judgements. ey showed Korsakoff and control
subjects a set of pictures, then they showed them a second set of pictures the
following day. Shortly aer the presentation of the second set, the
participants were asked whi pictures they had seen before from both
groups of pictures, and they were then asked whi day the pictures had
been presented. As Figure 7.8 shows, both the amnesics and the normal
control subjects proved to be very good at identifying whi pictures they
had seen before. However, when asked to discriminate the pictures shown
on day 1 from those shown on day 2, the performance of the amnesics fell to
lile more than ance level, whilst the normal control subjects still
aieved reasonable accuracy. Most of us would have lile difficulty in
distinguishing between something we saw today and something we saw
yesterday, but contextual judgements of this type seem to be difficult for
amnesics.

Figure 7.8
Familiarity judgements and context recollection for pictures in Korsakoffs and normal
control subjects.
Source: Huppert and Piercy (1976)
Note: scores shown are numbers of correct responses minus number of incorrect
responses.
More recent studies have confirmed that familiarity-based recognition is

relatively unimpaired in amnesics (King et al., 2004; Gardiner et al., 2008),
but others have reported a small impairment (Song et al., 2011). is
discrepancy may reflect the type of test materials employed. King et al.
(2004) reported that amnesics performed well at object recognition so long as
the same stimulus was used for the learning and the test stages, but any

ange in the viewpoint or even the baground of the stimulus led to a
significant impairment.
Brandt et al. (2009) studied an amnesic called Jon, who suffered temporal
lobe lesions following an episode of anoxia in early infancy. ey found that
Jon had very poor recall but almost normal recognition. Using the R & K
procedure (see Chapter 6), they showed that Jon’s recognition performance
was based on the use of familiarity judgements rather than recollection of
the actual learning event.
Although familiarity judgements are spared in most cases of organic
amnesia, impaired familiarity judgements are found in patients with lesions
in the perirhinal cortex (Lee et al., 2005), whi is a small region of the
medial temporal lobe lying underneath the brain.
Episodic and semantic memory

e distinction between semantic and episodic memory (Tulving, 1972) was
explained in Chapter 6. Episodic memory refers to memory for specific
events in our lives, and it therefore involves the conscious retrieval of the
event and its context (i.e. where and when the event took place). Semantic
memory refers to the store of knowledge we possess (su as the meanings
of words), and it requires no contextual retrieval and no conscious re-
experiencing of an event.
Tulving (1989) suggested that amnesics suffer a selective impairment of
episodic memory, whilst their semantic memory remains intact. is view is
consistent with the fact that amnesics usually retain normal spee and
vocabulary despite their inability to remember any recent events in their
lives. However, we might expect a person’s vocabulary to remain intact
since it is mostly acquired in early ildhood, and unlike most other
memories it is practised continually throughout life. is could explain why
it is preserved in most amnesic patients.
Resear has shown that episodic memory tends to be far more severely
impaired than semantic memory in most organic amnesics (Spiers et al.,
2001), but semantic memory can also be impaired to some degree. Korsakoff

patients usually have a severe impairment of episodic memory but with
some semantic impairment too, as shown by their poor ability to learn new
vocabulary (Verfaillie & Roth, 1996). Studies of retrograde amnesia in
Korsakoffs (Kopelman, 1989) have also revealed impairments of both
semantic memory (e.g. identifying famous people) and episodic memory
(e.g. retrieving personal autobiographical events). Similar impairments of
both semantic memory and episodic memory have been reported in HSE
amnesics (Wilson et al., 1995).
Alzheimer patients generally show impairments of both episodic and
semantic memory, though the episodic impairment is usually more severe.
Addis and Tippe (2004) reported that Alzheimer patients tend to suffer
impaired autobiographical memory extending ba over their entire lifespan,
but their semantic memory impairment is usually more limited.
e temporal lobe patient HM had no recollection of any events of his life
since onset, and in addition to this AA he also had RA for most
autobiographical events from his earlier life too (Steinvorth et al., 2005). HM
retained a considerable amount of semantic knowledge acquired before
onset, but he had difficulty in learning new words (Gabrieli et al., 1988). For
example, he was unable to define words and phrases introduced since the
onset of his amnesia in 1953, su as ‘Jacuzzi’. HM succeeded in learning
some new semantic information aer the onset of his amnesia, whi he
used to help him solve crosswords. But this new learning was apparently
restricted to items that he could relate to knowledge acquired before onset
(Scotko et al., 2004).
In view of these findings it would appear that both semantic and episodic
memory are impaired in most organic amnesics, so there is no clear support
for Tulving’s original hypothesis that organic amnesia involves a selective
impairment of episodic memory. However, some individual patients have
been studied who have focal episodic amnesia without any apparent
semantic impairment. One example is the patient KC studied by Tulving
(2001). KC has lesions whi are largely restricted to the hippocampus, and
he has no episodic memories at all but retains good semantic memory for
the period before onset. is paern of impairment has been called ‘episodic

amnesia’ (Rosenbaum et al., 2005). Other cases of episodic amnesia have
since been identified, including in the temporal lobe patient ‘Jon’ (Gardiner
et al., 2008).
Just as there are patients with focal episodic amnesia, some patients have
also been studied who have focal semantic amnesia. is normally occurs as
part of a more general condition known as semantic dementia (SD) whi is
a progressive degenerative disease. SD patients are unable to remember the
meanings of words, but they can still recall episodic memories (Hodges et
al., 1994). For example, Hodges et al. (1994) described a patient known as PP,
who no longer knew the meanings of common words su as ‘food’ and
‘queen’. Semantic dementia can be distinguished from aphasia by the fact
that SD patients do not know what the item is, whereas aphasic patients
know what the item is but they cannot produce the appropriate word for it.
For example, Corbe et al. (2009) reported that aphasics can oen mime the
use of an object (e.g. using a hammer) even if they cannot name it, but SD
patients are unable to mime the action. Brain-scan studies have suggested
that the encoding of episodic memory is impaired by lesions to the
hippocampus, whereas semantic memory impairment is associated with
lesions in the temporal cortex (Verfaillie et al., 2000; Corbe et al. 2009).
Steinvorth et al. (2005) noted that HM (whose lesions are mostly restricted
to the hippocampus and a small area of the temporal cortex) had extensive
RA for episodic memory but not for semantic memory. On the other hand
he had AA for both semantic and episodic memory. A similar paern of
amnesia has been reported in an HSE patient (McCarthy et al., 2005), who
has very similar lesions to those found in HM. ese cases suggest that
semantic and episodic memory both show impairment, though for most
amnesic patients episodic memory is more severely impaired than semantic
memory.

A number of theories have been put forward over the years to explain
organic amnesia. Ideally a theory of amnesia needs to explain the
occurrence of both anterograde and retrograde amnesia, and it also needs to
explain why some memory functions remain intact in amnesic cases. Earlier
theories aempted to identify a single underlying cause whi could explain
all of these aspects of amnesia, but it soon became clear that this was an
over-simplified view of what is a complex and very variable disorder. More
recent theories tend to offer explanations for certain key aspects of amnesia,
but do not aempt to provide a universal explanation for all aspects and
types of amnesic disorder. e main theories of amnesia are summarised
below.
Encoding deficit theories of amnesia

e early studies of HM suggested that he suffered a profound AA but very
lile RA (Scoville & Milner, 1957). On the basis of this observation, Milner
(1966) argued that HM’s impairment was essentially a failure to learn new
information. More specifically Milner hypothesised that HM was unable to
consolidate memories from a temporary STM trace into a permanent LTM
trace, bearing in mind his intact STM. is hypothesis raised the interesting
possibility that other amnesias (su as Korsakoffs) might also be explained
by the same underlying consolidation problem. It was argued that the
apparent occurrence of RA in Korsakoff patients might actually be an
anterograde (learning) impairment whi had simply gone undetected in
earlier years (Piercy, 1977), since the onset of Korsakoff’s disease is slow and
insidious. is would also provide an explanation for the temporal gradient
of RA, since the increasing impairment would reflect the gradual
deterioration of memory function.
However, later studies of HM revealed that he actually had quite
extensive retrograde amnesia (Steinvorth et al., 2005), and severe RA has

also been found in other patients whose amnesia had a sudden onset, for
example HSE patients (Wilson & Wearing, 1995; McCarthy et al., 2005). As
the date of onset of amnesia is known with reasonable accuracy in these
cases, it can be established beyond any doubt that there is a genuine
retrograde amnesia for events preceding that date. e encoding deficit
theory thus provides an adequate explanation of AA, but it is unable to
explain the occurrence of RA.
Retrieval deficit theories of amnesia

In contrast to Milner’s consolidation deficit theory, Warrington and
Weiskrantz (1970) proposed retrieval impairment as the basis of organic
amnesia. An impairment of retrieval could explain both the anterograde and
the retrograde components of amnesia, since a failure of the retrieval
meanism would be expected to affect all previous memories regardless of
when they were acquired. However, a retrieval deficit theory would predict
equally severe AA and RA, whereas most amnesics suffer far more severe
AA than RA. is could possibly be explained by the fact that earlier
memories are for some reason more durable, perhaps because they have
benefited from many years of rehearsal. is hypothesis also offers a
possible explanation for the occurrence of a temporal gradient in RA, since
the earliest memories would be the most rehearsed (Squire et al., 1984).
Whilst this remains a possible explanation for the occurrence of temporal
gradients in RA, the retrieval deficit theory cannot readily explain why some
amnesics have very lile RA or even no RA at all. Once again, it seems that
the retrieval deficit theory can explain one feature of amnesia (RA), but it
does not offer a satisfactory explanation of all aspects of amnesia.
Separate impairments of encoding and retrieval

Aempts to explain both anterograde and retrograde amnesia in terms of a
single meanism have not been supported by resear findings. It seems
more likely that impairments of encoding and impairments of retrieval are

essentially separate and independent of one another (Parkin, 1996). is
view finds support from the finding that impairments of learning and
retrieval are associated with lesions in different areas of the brain, and also
from the fact that both AA and RA can occur in isolation.
Figure 7.9
A cross-section through the human brain, viewed from the front, showing the main
areas involved in memory function.
In fact most amnesics exhibit both AA and RA to some degree, possibly

because the brain regions mainly involved in learning and retrieval (the
hippocampus and temporal cortex respectively) are actually quite close to
one another and are extensively interconnected (see Figure 7.9). Damage to
one of these regions is therefore likely to be accompanied by damage to the
other. In summary it would appear that most amnesics suffer from both
encoding and retrieval impairments, though their relative severity varies
considerably from one patient to another.
e standard model of consolidation

One problem for theories of amnesia is that some amnesics have RA periods
streting ba 30 years or more, whilst others have RA periods covering
only the two or three years prior to onset. Squire (1992) put forward a

theory to explain this finding, whi is now known as the standard model of
consolidation. Squire postulates that in addition to the well-established
consolidation of STM into LTM (known as ‘synaptic consolidation’) whi
takes only a few seconds to create an LTM trace, there is also a slower form
of consolidation (known as ‘systems consolidation’) whi continues to
strengthen the trace for two or three years aer its initial acquisition. e
trace therefore remains vulnerable for a few years aer input, since it has
still not been fully consolidated. Squire argues that this slow ‘systems
consolidation’ process probably involves the hippocampus, since patients
with isolated hippocampal damage (su as HM) appear to have a relatively
short RA period. According to Squire’s theory, the hippocampus plays a role
in both the initial encoding of a new trace and in its subsequent
strengthening over the next few years. e relatively limited RA in patients
su as HM may therefore result from disruption of this slow consolidation
process, whereas the far longer period of RA found in typical Korsakoff
patients may have a quite different cause involving an impairment of the
retrieval meanism.
Multiple trace theory

An alternative explanation of RA is offered by the multiple trace theory
(Moscovit et al., 1999), whi suggests that during the two or three years
aer a memory is first stored it undergoes a transformation from an episodic
to a semantic memory. e multiple trace theory assumes that ea time an
item is retrieved it creates new connections and new memory traces, so that
new episodic memories become incorporated into more general semantic
memories in the few years immediately following their acquisition. is
process is assumed to be carried out by the hippocampus, but once the
semantic memory is complete it becomes independent of the hippocampus
so that hippocampal damage will no longer impair it. However, the theory
assumes that the retrieval of episodic memories always requires the
hippocampus. is theory can thus explain the finding that hippocampal
lesions usually disrupt episodic memories from all time periods, but will

only disrupt the semantic memories during the few years aer acquisition.
Supporting evidence for the multiple trace theory has been provided by a
study of two amnesics (HM and WR) with temporal lobe lesions, who were
found to have episodic RA extending ba over their entire lifetime, whereas
their semantic RA was limited to the few years prior to onset (Steinvorth et
al., 2005).
Winocur and Moscovit (2011) proposed an updated version of this
theory known as the ‘trace transformation theory’, whereby the memory
trace is gradually transformed from a perceptual episodic representation in
the hippocampus into a more conceptual semantic representation in the pre-
frontal cortex. Sekeres et al. (2018) confirmed that the retrieval of a new
episodic memory trace was initially associated with hippocampal activation,
but that with the passing of time activity gradually transferred to the medial
prefrontal cortex. However, even at a later time point the hippocampus was
still found to be activated if the retrieved memory trace retained a strong
contextual association.
Impaired declarative memory

An interesting feature of organic amnesia is the finding that memory for
procedural skills, implicit memory, and familiarity judgements usually
remains unimpaired (see Section 6.3). ese three types of memory have
certain features in common, iefly the fact that they all involve
unconscious automatic processing, and they can all be demonstrated
without requiring any verbal declaration of the contents of the memory
trace. Squire (1992) described this type of memory as ‘non-declarative’
memory, as opposed to the ‘declarative’ memories whi aracterise the
conscious and deliberate recollection of some past event. Squire argues that
organic amnesia is iefly aracterised by an impairment of declarative
memory. Figure 7.10 summarises the main memory systems, indicating
those whi are prone to impairment and those whi are not. ere is some
disagreement about how the episodic/semantic distinction fits into this
general theory of amnesia. As explained in Section 7.3, Tulving (1989)

argued that episodic memory is more severely impaired than semantic
memory in most amnesics, and Sacter et al. (2000) suggest that semantic
memory is a form of implicit memory whi therefore belongs in the non-
declarative group of memory functions whi are less prone to impairment.
However, Squire (1992) argues that both episodic and semantic memory tend
to be impaired in most cases of organic amnesia, so episodic and semantic
memory should both be considered as sub-categories of declarative memory,
as shown in Figure 7.10. is viewpoint is now widely accepted as it fits in
well with the evidence available (Bayley & Squire, 2003).
Figure 7.10
Memory systems proposed by Squire (1992), who argues that declarative memory is
impaired in organic amnesia whilst non-declarative memory remains intact.
Relational memory theory

Cohen and Eienbaum (1993) point out that a central feature of declarative
memory is that it involves the creation of associative connections between
memories, su as linking two memories together, or linking an item with its
context. is process of connecting memories to one another is known as
binding. In contrast, non-declarative memory seems to be restricted to the
strengthening of a single response (su as a motor skill or the level of
activation and familiarity of an item). e view of organic amnesia as
involving primarily an impairment of associative binding is known as the
relational memory theory (Cohen & Eienbaum, 1993). Studies of amnesic
patients have revealed that the associative binding of declarative memories
is performed by the hippocampus, whereas non-declarative memory
processing occurs mostly in the cortex and cerebellum (Eienbaum, 2004;
Duff & Cohen, 2020). e relational memory theory fits well with most of
the previous studies of amnesia, as well as more recent studies showing an
impairment of relational binding in a wide range of amnesic patients (Duff
& Cohen, 2020).

Concussion amnesia
Concussion is one of the most common causes of amnesia, though
fortunately the memory disturbance is usually temporary. A person who is
knoed unconscious by a blow on the head will typically suffer from both
anterograde and retrograde amnesia, whi may be extensive at first but
whi then usually diminishes with time, to leave only a very limited period
from whi memories are permanently lost. For example, a footballer
concussed by a collision with another player will probably be unable to
remember the events immediately following the collision (e.g. being taken
off the pit and driven to hospital), and they will also usually be unable to
remember the events immediately preceding the collision (su as the actual
tale or the play leading up to it). Amnesias of this kind are known as
concussion amnesias, and they fall within a broader category known as
post-traumatic amnesias (PTA), whi include all types of closed-head
injury. Russell (1971) surveyed a large number of concussion victims and
found that retrograde amnesia usually affected memories for a period
extending only a minute or two before the accident.

Figure 7.11
Frequent blows to the head can sometimes lead to brain injury and cognitive
impairment.
In some respects the aracteristics of concussion amnesia resemble a

temporary version of the paern found in organic amnesia. For example,
during the period immediately following the concussive accident, the patient
is likely to show impairment in LTM tasks, but will perform normally on
tests of STM su as digit span (Regard & Landis, 1984). However, the very
limited extent of retrograde amnesia suggests that there is usually no lasting
impairment to the patient’s retrieval. e most likely explanation of this
paern of retrograde amnesia is that the patient is temporarily unable to
consolidate memories from the STM working memory into the LTM store.
is would explain why events held in STM immediately before the injury
may be lost, because they have not yet been transferred to the LTM.
Although the effects of concussion on memory are usually temporary,
Polinder et al. (2018) report that at least 10 per cent of concussive injuries
may leave a more lasting impairment, referred to as post-concussive
syndrome. Lasting cognitive impairment is rare with ildhood concussive
injuries, but it is more common in the elderly (King & Kirwilliam, 2011).
In recent years evidence has emerged that sports involving frequent head
impacts can produce a permanent cognitive impairment. Brain-scanning
teniques and cognitive tests have revealed that lasting cognitive
impairment occurs frequently in boxers (Galea et al., 2011). Perhaps this is
not surprising, as boxing is a sport in whi it is actually the intention of
ea participant to inflict concussive injury on his opponent. Leeds et al.
(2019) studied a sample of American Air Force cadets, and reported that
those who had taken part in boxing mates subsequently showed poorer
memory performance than those who had not. A recent review paper by
Gallo et al. (2020) reported that for boxers, rugby players, and American
football players there was a clear association between a player’s concussion
history and impaired cognitive function in later life.

ere is some evidence that soccer players may sometimes suffer
cognitive impairment as a result of heading the ball (Kirdendall & Garre,
2001). Although the evidence for serious long-term cognitive impairment in
ex-soccer players remains fairly limited at present (Rutherford et al., 2019), it
has been sufficient to convince sporting authorities in many countries to ban
young players from heading the ball.
ECT and memory loss

Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) involves the passing of an electric current
through the brain in an effort to alleviate depression. is treatment has
been in fairly widespread use for over 50 years, though its use in the
treatment of depression remains controversial. Although ECT has been
shown to reduce depression in some patients, this improvement typically
only lasts for a few weeks (Johnstone et al., 1980; Read & Bentall, 2010). e
benefits of ECT thus appear to be temporary, and these benefits must be
weighed up against the evidence that ECT may cause lasting brain damage
and impaired memory.

Figure 7.12
Patient receiving electro-convulsive therapy.
In the period immediately following the administration of an ECT sho,

the patient typically shows a temporary amnesia rather similar to that seen
following concussion. ere is usually both anterograde and retrograde
amnesia (Squire et al., 1981), whi may be extensive at first but whi
usually then shrinks to leave a fairly limited amnesia for the treatment
period only. For most patients there is only a temporary impairment of
memory, and follow-up tests of memory performance a few weeks aer the
completion of ECT treatment have oen failed to detect any lasting memory
impairment (Warren & Groome, 1984; Meeter et al., 2011). Warren and
Groome (1984) actually found that patients showed an improvement in their
memory scores over the period of their ECT treatment, probably due to the
alleviation of their depression over this period. However, it remains possible
that this general improvement may be masking an underlying memory
impairment. Despite the inconclusive evidence for a lasting memory
impairment following ECT treatment, patients oen report that they feel
that their memories have been damaged (Sigstrom et al., 2020).
A growing number of researers argue that the limited benefits of ECT
cannot be justified in view of its damaging effects on memory and cognition
(Johnstone, 2003; Read & Bentall, 2010). However, some clinicians feel that
ECT is still helpful for patients who do not respond to other forms of
treatment (McCall, 2004). In recent years some clinicians have begun to
replace ECT with TMS (transcranial magnetic stimulation), whi uses a
powerful magnetic pulse instead of an electric current. TMS is less likely to
cause lasting memory problems, but it is less effective than ECT in
alleviating depression (Magnezi et al., 2016).
Memory loss in the normal elderly

It is widely assumed that memory tends to decline in older people. However,
although there is some evidence for su an age-related decline, it is not
normally detectable until the age of about 65 or 70. Even then the degree of
impairment is usually very small, at least among the normal elderly
(Verhaeghen, 2011). e popular view of old age leading inevitably to
dementia is certainly not supported, and it is important to recognise the
clear distinction between the dementing elderly (su as those with
Alzheimer’s disease), and the normal elderly whose memory function
usually shows lile impairment.
Figure 7.13
Elderly people normally show very lile memory impairment.
Source: Shuttersto.
Studies of the normal elderly have oen detected some decline in recall
ability but not in recognition performance (Craik & McDowd, 1987). Elderly
subjects also tend to show some deterioration of explicit memory, whereas
their implicit memory performance remains unimpaired (Fleisman et al.,
2004). Elderly people also seem to have particular problems in retrieving
episodic context (Parkin et al., 1995), and indeed it has been recently argued

that episodic memory is the most age-sensitive of all memory functions
(Nyberg, 2017). One possible explanation of age-related memory decline
consistent with the above findings is that the elderly lose some of their
capacity for consciously controlled processing and aention, and have to
rely more heavily on automatic processes (Craik & McDowd, 1987).
Salthouse (1994) has presented evidence that the normal elderly show a
reduction in their speed of processing, rather than any actual deficiency of
the processing itself. Salthouse (2011) has also shown that memory
deterioration in the normal elderly mainly involves an impairment at the
learning and encoding stage, but with no impairment of retrieval even when
tested aer several years.
Many of the processes whi decline in old age involve frontal lobe
executive functions, and indeed it has been found that neural loss in the
elderly tends to affect mainly the frontal lobes (Tisserand & Jolles, 2003).
However, a meta-analysis of studies of executive function in the normal
elderly concluded that their cognitive decline is actually very slight
(Verhaeghen, 2011). It has also been established that memory decline in the
elderly can oen be avoided by maintaining a healthy lifestyle and by
adopting efficient cognitive strategies (Nyberg & Pudas, 2019). For those of
us who are ageing this is very reassuring news.
Psyogenic amnesia
Some amnesias occur without any evidence of brain lesions, and these are
assumed to be of psyogenic origin. In most cases they appear to be
brought on by stress, and they are usually temporary, typically disappearing
within a few months (Harrison et al., 2017). Psyogenic amnesias usually
involve loss of memory for past events, in other words retrograde amnesia,
and anterograde amnesia is less common. However, the paern of
impairment found in psyogenic amnesia varies widely from case to case.
Kopelman (2010) observes that psyogenic amnesias can be ‘global’ (a
complete loss of all memories) or ‘situation specific’ (amnesia for one
specific event only). In extreme cases the global form may cause amnesia for

the person’s entire previous life, and they may lose their sense of personal
identity as a result. Situation-specific amnesia involves a small gap in a
person’s memory, usually relating to a particular traumatic episode.
A major problem with psyogenic amnesia is that it is difficult to
distinguish it from faking (Kopelman, 2002). Many cases diagnosed as
psyogenic amnesia may in reality involve faking amnesic symptoms, for
example to support an insurance claim or to avoid conviction for a crime.
Indeed it has been reported that more than 30 per cent of convicted
murderers claim to have no memory of their crime (Kopelman, 2002), and
many of these cases probably involve simulated amnesia. Kopelman (1995)
describes a case of a man who stabbed his wife to death aer discovering
that she was having an affair, but he later claimed to have no recollection of
killing her. He did recall having an argument with his wife, and then going
to another room to say goodnight to his daughter, but could recall no further
events of that evening. During his trial it emerged that he had not only
murdered his wife, but he had then telephoned the police to report her
death. He therefore had lile to gain by faking amnesia, though as with
many su cases there is some uncertainty as to whether his amnesia was
genuine.
e main feature whi enables clinicians to distinguish between
psyogenic and organic amnesias is that amnesias of psyogenic origin do
not usually mat up with the usual paern of impairment found in organic
patients. Indeed the memory symptoms may be very strange and even quite
inexplicable. For example, Smith et al. (2010) describe the case of FL, a
woman who had developed a highly unusual form of amnesia following an
automobile accident. FL had normal recall of the events of ea day until she
went to sleep that night. On waking ea morning, she discovered that all of
her memories for the events of the previous day had been completely erased.
is paern of memory loss does not accord with any known type of
organic amnesia, nor with any known memory consolidation meanism.
Since MRI scans revealed no lesions of any kind, FL’s amnesia was assumed
to be psyogenic. is was subsequently confirmed by a further test, in
whi events from the previous day were secretly added to a test for

memory of the current day. e fact that FL remembered these items from
the previous day suggested that the memories were still available. It was
concluded that FL was probably suffering from a psyogenic amnesia, or
that she was deliberately feigning amnesia. e authors also suggested that
FL’s amnesia may have been influenced by a popular film of the period
called 50 First Dates, in whi the aracter, played by Drew Barrymore,
suffers from a similar amnesic disorder. FL has since made a recovery from
her amnesic symptoms.
Harrison et al. (2017) recently published a study of no less than 53 cases of
psyogenic amnesia. ey conclude that in most cases the amnesic patient
wanted to forget some of their unpleasant experiences, and had to some
extent brought on the amnesic state deliberately. Despite this, the authors
argued that the resulting amnesia was real, since the patient was genuinely
unable to recall the memories in question. Harrison et al. suggest that these
amnesic patients may be employing the same inhibitory meanisms as
those identified in studies of directed forgeing.

7.6 Rehabilitation
Helping patients to cope with amnesia

e effects of brain damage are usually irreversible, so it is not usually
possible to restore normal memory function to those who suffer organic
amnesia. However, this does not mean that nothing can be done to help
them. ere are a number of ways in whi the lives of organic amnesics
can be significantly improved by helping them to function as effectively as
possible within the limitations of their condition. is approa is known as
rehabilitation. Some rehabilitation strategies involve the use of teniques
for maximising the performance of those memory functions whi remain
intact. Other strategies aim to bypass the impairment by finding alternative
ways of carrying out a particular task, by using external memory aids su
as lists or electronic reminders.
Rehabilitation Strategies used to help patients to cope with an

impairment or disability, enabling them to function as effectively as
possible within the limitations created by the impairment.
Maximising memory performance in amnesics

Most of the teniques used to maximise memory function in amnesia are
based on methods whi also help to improve normal memory. For example,
it can be helpful to encourage amnesic patients to pay more aention to
input, to repeat what is said to them, to organise items in memory, and to
make meaningful associations between new input and the items already in
memory. A group of amnesics who were trained to use these strategies
(Milders et al., 1995) aieved a significant improvement in memory
performance compared with a control group of untrained amnesics, though

their advantage was only temporary and gradually disappeared over the
next few years.
Wilson (2004) suggests a number of additional strategies. For example, it
is helpful to ensure that an amnesic is only required to learn one thing at a
time, and it is important to keep the input simple, avoiding jargon or long
words. Amnesics also perform beer if their learning is not context-specific,
because a patient who has learned a memory tenique in one seing may
not have the flexibility to use it in other seings. Mnemonic teniques have
also proved to be helpful with some amnesics (Clare et al., 1999), though
they were not found to be effective in a study of severely amnesic Kosakoff
patients (Kessels et al., 2020).
Baddeley and Wilson (1994) demonstrated that amnesics derive particular
benefit from ‘errorless learning’, in whi various strategies are used to
prevent errors from occurring. For example, the patient’s response can be
guided in some way, or they may be provided with a very strong retrieval
cue, or be told the correct information directly before testing. One possible
benefit of errorless learning is that it ensures that there are no incorrect
responses, whi might otherwise be reinforced or strengthened. Another
advantage of errorless learning is that it facilitates the retrieval of implicit or
fragmented memory traces (Wilson & Fish, 2018).
One type of memory whi usually remains intact in amnesic patients is
procedural skill learning, and this type of learning can be used in amnesic
patients who are otherwise unable to learn new information consciously. For
example, Glisky et al. (1986) successfully taught amnesic patients to operate
computer paages whi were previously unknown to them. Procedural
skill learning has also been used to help amnesics to carry out everyday
tasks su as washing, dressing, or making tea (Zanei et al., 2001).
External memory aids

In addition to these teniques for improving memory function in amnesics,
their memory can also be assisted by the use of external aids. For example,
puing big labels on cupboards, or labelling doors as a reminder of whi is

the kiten or the toilet. Environmental adaptations of this kind can help to
make the amnesic’s life easier and safer. For a more detailed discussion of
environmental adaptations see Kapur et al. (2004).
Electronic devices and computerised systems have also been devised
whi can be programmed to produce a reminder to carry out some action
at a particular time, usually by emiing a warning ‘beep’ whi draws
aention to an instruction on screen. e first successful device of this kind
was an electronic pager called NeuroPage (Hersh & Treadgold, 1994), whi
can be programmed to remind the user to perform a variety of tasks su as
taking medicine or keeping appointments. NeuroPage has proved to be very
useful to most amnesics who have used it (Wilson, 2004).
Another electronic memory aid is the SenseCam, a small digital camera
whi is aaed to the user’s belt to take photos of events experienced ea
day. e photos can be viewed later on, enabling the user to ‘re-live’ ea
event many times to help strengthen the memory. e camera is triggered
automatically by a movement sensor, so users do not need to remember to
take photos of key events. Loveday and Conway (2011) reported that
SenseCam enabled amnesics to aieve a significant improvement in
subsequent memory for personal experiences, and this improvement was
still evident nine months later. It also improved the user’s sense of wellbeing
and general happiness in many cases. Re-viewing SenseCam pictures can
also add context to an event, by reminding the user of the things they were
doing and thinking at the time, and of their interactions with other people.
SenseCam adds a riness to the memory and a sense of re-experiencing
events. Recent studies have reported that the use of SenseCam improved
memory performance in mild Alzheimer cases (Silva et al., 2017) and also in
elderly normal individuals (Mair et al., 2019).
A variety of memory strategies and aids are now available for amnesic
patients, and many of them have been found to offer worthwhile benefits.
Wilson et al. (2017) and Hildebrandt (2019) provide recent reviews of
memory rehabilitation teniques.

Summary
• Organic amnesia is caused by brain damage, usually affecting the

temporal lobes, hippocampus, and anterior thalamic nuclei.
• Su brain lesions may arise from a variety of different causes, su
as Alzheimer’s disease, Korsakoff’s syndrome, herpes simplex
encephalitis, strokes, and tumours.
• Organic amnesia is aracterised by an impairment of long-term
memory, but the short-term working memory usually remains intact.
• Most amnesics suffer from anterograde amnesia, so that they have
difficulty in learning new information from the time period
subsequent to onset.
• Many amnesics also suffer from retrograde amnesia, in whi
memories are also lost from the period preceding onset. However, the
retrograde impairment may be fairly limited, and memories for
earlier time periods su as ildhood oen remain intact.
• e anterograde and retrograde components of amnesia appear to be
fairly independent of one another, so that their relative severity can
vary considerably from patient to patient. In rare cases either
retrograde or anterograde amnesia may occur in isolation.
• Most amnesics suffer a severe impairment of conscious declarative
and explicit memory processes su as the recollection of events and
contextual associations, but there is usually no impairment of non-
declarative and implicit memory processes su as motor skill
learning, priming, and familiarity judgements.
• In addition to the amnesias whi are aracteristic of the organic
amnesic syndrome, memory impairment may also be caused by
other factors, su as concussion, electro-convulsive therapy, ageing,
and psyogenic causes. However, these impairments tend to have
their own distinct aracteristics, and differ somewhat from the
paern of organic amnesic symptoms.

• Although brain lesions are usually irreversible, many rehabilitation
strategies have been devised to help organic amnesics to cope with
their memory impairment.

Further reading
Cohen, N., & Duff, M. (2020). Organic amnesia. In M.W. Eysen, & D. Groome (eds), Forgetting:
Explaining Memory Failure. London: Sage.
Eienbaum, H. (2015). Amnesia: beyond Scoville and Milner’s (1957) resear on HM. In M.W.
Eysen, & D. Groome (eds), Cognitive Psychology: Revisiting the Classic Studies. London: Sage.
Wilson, B.A., Winegardner, J., van Heugten, C.M., & Ownsworth, T. (2017). Neuropsychological
Rehabilitation: The International Handbook. Abingdon: Routledge.

 8
inking and problem-solving

Fernand Gobet
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-8
Contents
8.1 Introduction
8.2 Problem-solving
8.3 Creativity
8.4 Analogy
8.5 Reasoning
8.6 Decision-making
Summary
Further reading

8.1 Introduction
inking is essential in everyday life – people constantly face decisions,
some big, some small. Historically, thinking was first studied by
philosophers and mathematicians. Already in the fourth century , the
Greek philosopher Aristotle tried to understand the proper way of thinking,
and in so doing developed the field of logic. Although unsatisfactory by
current mathematical standards, his teaings were taken as gospel for more
than two millennia. Other philosophers and mathematicians studied the
‘laws of thought’, su as the British mathematician Boole (1854), who
developed ‘Boolean logic’, in whi variables can only have the values true
and false (or 1 and 0, respectively). Boolean logic is fundamental to all
computers, from your laptop to your smart phone. Another important
development in mathematics was the work on probability theory, whi
provides the correct way of thinking about events that are uncertain. e
foundations of probability theory were laid in 1654 by Fren
mathematicians Blaise Pascal and Pierre de Fermat.
eories of logic and probability have been used by psyologists to study
thinking. e hypotheses tested in this kind of resear focus on whether
human thinking follows the laws of logic (using resear on reasoning) and
probability (using resear on decision-making). If this is the case, humans
would be fully rational, as their behaviour would be optimal and could not
be improved upon. is approa first solves a problem using logic or
probability theory, whi provides the correct answer, and then compares
this to the answers provided by participants not trained in logic or
probability. Whether humans are rational is a key scientific question. In
particular, mu of the field of economics assumes that they are. As we shall
see below, there is an important line of resear at the intersection of
psyology and economics, called behavioural economics, whi has shed
important light on the question of rationality.
In addition to resear on reasoning and probability, other approaes
have been used to study thinking. While studies on reasoning and decision-

making tend to focus on whether the answer selected by participants is
correct on not, resear on problem-solving is interested in the way
participants generate solutions, whi typically consist in a sequence of
actions. Resear on creativity studies the way people come up with novel
products and ideas. Finally, resear on analogy-making is concerned with
the extent to whi knowledge acquired to solve a certain type of problem
can be used to solve other types of problems.
ese approaes differ in the kind of tasks they employ and in the
theoretical assumptions they make. As we shall see below, they also differ in
the type of methods they use to study thinking. For example, resear on
problem-solving but not the other approaes makes extensive use of verbal
protocols, where participants are asked to think aloud when they solve a
problem. Because of these differences, there is unfortunately lile
communication between these fields of resear. However, ultimately they
all study the same topic, whi is thinking.

8.2 Problem-solving
e aim of this field of resear is to understand the way people solve
problems. ese problems can be fairly simple puzzles, su as the Tower of
Hanoi (see Figure 8.1), whi has been used extensively by researers. ey
can also be more complex, su as finding the best move in a ess position,
diagnosing a patient, or even developing a new theory in science (e.g. a new
theory of human problem-solving).
Figure 8.1
e Tower of Hanoi problem. is problem involves moving the sta of disks on the
first peg to the third peg, with the following constraints: (a) only one disk can be moved
at a time; (b) only the upper disk from one of the stas can be moved; and (c) larger
disks cannot be put on top of smaller disks.
Behaviourist approaes to problem-solving

One of the first approaes that tried to understand problem-solving in
psyology was behaviourism, whi dominated psyology from about
1910 to 1960, in particular in the USA (see Chapter 1). Just like behaviour in
general, problem-solving was explained by stimulus–response links.
Behaviourism focused on problem-solving with animals, with the
assumption that animal results could be extrapolated to humans. When first

facing a problem, animals try to solve it by trial and error. Progressively,
useful information is collected, and performance improves through
reproducing learned responses. For example, orndike (1898) put hungry
cats in a box from whi they could escape by pressing a lever (see Figure
8.2). At first the cats performed all sorts of behaviours to escape. By ance,
they sometimes pressed the lever that opened the trapdoor and they would
then gain access to the food, whi acted as a reward. As they were
repeatedly put in the box, they learnt that pressing the lever opened the
trapdoor.
Figure 8.2
orndike’s box.
Source: Thorndike (1898).
e trial and error explanation proposed by behaviourism is reasonable

with animals and in some cases with humans. However, as this apter will
show, there are many instances of problem-solving where humans find a
solution without a lengthy period of trial and error.

e Gestalt approa to problem-solving
Gestalt psyologists were active from about 1915 to 1945. ey mostly
designed experiments and developed theories to account for perception (see
Chapters 1 and 2), and then applied some of their insights to problem-
solving. In general, they were strong at identifying interesting and
sometimes counter-intuitive phenomena, but were less successful when it
came to producing convincing theoretical explanations, whi oen were
just re-descriptions of the data with some fancy (German) labels. ey did
not deny the presence of learning with problem-solving (what they called
reproductive problem-solving), but were mostly interested in how people
solve new problems (what they called productive problem-solving). eir key
hypothesis was that perception and problem-solving involve more than just
creating associations – as argued by behaviourists – but also involve
restructuring; that is, anging the structure of either what is perceived or
the problem at hand. is ange in structure tends to be sudden, and, in the
case of problem-solving, aracterised by a feeling of insight and an ‘Aha!’
experience. Another hypothesis was that previous knowledge oen hinders
problem-solving, because it makes restructuring and insight harder.
Insight e reorganising or restructuring of the elements of the problem

situation in su a way as to provide a solution. Also known as
productive thinking.
Duner’s (1945) tumour problem is a good example of the kinds of

problem used by Gestalt psyologists. A patient has a malignant tumour
that cannot be removed by surgery. It is therefore necessary to destroy the
tumour by radiation. However, high-density radiation destroys not only the
tumour but also healthy tissue surrounding it, and low-density radiation is
too weak to destroy the tumour. How can the tumour be destroyed whilst
sparing the healthy tissue? e solution is to send low-intensity rays from
several different directions so that they converge on the tumour, destroying

it. It is a difficult problem and less than 10 per cent of the participants can
solve it without additional information.
Functional fixedness e inability to use an object appropriately in a

given situation because of prior experience of using the object in a
different way.
Figure 8.3
e Maier (1930, 1931) two-string problem.
In Maier’s (1931) two-string problem, participants have to tie together two

strings that are hanging from the ceiling. is seems easy except that the
two strings are too far apart to be simultaneously held by the two hands (see
Figure 8.3). Various objects are lying on the floor, including poles and a pair
of pliers. e insightful solution is to tie the pair of pliers to one of the
strings and then to swing it. One then holds the static string, cating the
other string when it swings close enough to grasp it. About 40 per cent of
the participants found the solution spontaneously, and an additional 38 per
cent could solve the problem when a hint was provided (su as brushing

against a string); according to Gestalt psyologists, hints help to restructure
the problem. Beyond insight, this problem also illustrates the notion of
functional fixedness
– the negative influence of knowledge – as pliers are perceived as a tool
for bending wire and not as weight to be used as a pendulum.
Unfortunately, support for the phenomenon of insight is inconsistent. e
main aracteristics of a subjective ‘Aha!’ experience are suddenness,
obviousness, and confidence that the answer is correct. But while ‘Aha!’
experiences are more common with insight problems than with non-insight
problems, successfully solved insight problems do not always lead to su an
experience, while non-insight problems sometimes do (Webb et al., 2016). In
addition, incorrect solutions oen lead to ‘Aha!’ experiences, in particular
when problems are solved quily (Danek & Wiley, 2017). In line with these
results, the verbal protocols collected by Fle and Weisberg (2013) showed
that participants used a number of strategies when solving insight problems,
including application of previous knowledge and various heuristics. As
restructuring was only one of the methods used, the authors concluded that
there is no sharp divide between solving a problem through analysis and
through insight.
Mental sets
(also called Einstellung effects, from the German term used by Gestalt
psyologists) occur when an idea that comes immediately to mind during a
familiar problem blos alternative solutions from being taken into account.
Luins (1942) was the first to demonstrate this phenomenon experimentally.
Participants were asked to imagine that they have three jugs to measure
different amounts of water. e task was to obtain a certain quantity of
water using these three jugs (see Figure 8.4). e capacity of the three jugs
was different for ea problem.
Mental set A term to describe the rote application of one successful

method to solve a problem whi makes one ‘blind’ to an alternative and
possibly mu simpler method.

Figure 8.4
Luins’ water jug problem.
Source: Adapted from Luins (1942).Note: e problem requires a quantity of
water to be measured out. For example, to measure out 4 litres of water, you can
either fill B and then pour 3 litres into C or follow a more complicated method,
used in the set condition, whi is to fill A, pour 7 litres of water into B and then
two lots of 3 litres into C.
Participants were first trained on five problems that had the same solution
as the first problem. ey learnt the solution quily. ey then received two
problems that had two possible solutions: the same complex solution as in
the first five problems and a shorter solution. Only 20 per cent of the
participants spoed the simple solutions; the other 80 per cent kept using the
more complex solution. Finally, participants were presented with an eighth
problem, whi had only one novel solution. Nearly two-thirds of the
participants could not solve this problem. is failure was not due to the
simple solution being hard to find in the last three problems: participants in
a control condition, where the first five problems were solved using different
methods, had no difficulty finding the simple solution for these three
problems. e experimental group failed to find it because the similarity of
the final problem to the previous ones brought the usual (but now
inappropriate) method to mind, blinding them to alternatives. In general, the

presence of su mental sets shows that people have a strong tendency to
use repetitive thinking.
Magicians oen create mental sets, as shown by an experiment by
omas and Didierjean (2016). A brown-baed playing card was
surrounded by six red-baed playing cards; all cards were the same but
were presented face down. e experimenter – a magician – then explained
to the participants of the manipulation group that he could influence their
oice by suggestion; the participants in the control group did not receive
any explanation. e experimenter then asked the participants to oose one
of six red-baed cards. To their surprise, when the brown-baed card was
turned over by the experimenter, it was the same as the card they had
selected. Participants were then invited to explain the tri. While 83 per
cent of participants in the control group guessed the secret behind the tri
(that all the cards are the same), 87 per cent of the participants in the
manipulation group did not, even aer being told that the experimenter in
fact did not use suggestion. is experiment shows that mental set effects
can be very strong, and that a single exposure to a wrong explanation can
blo correct and simpler solutions.
Problem space theory

e origins of problem space theory go ba to Herbert Simon’s theory of
bounded rationality (Simon, 1957; Gobet & Lane, 2012). In a nutshell, Simon
argued that humans cannot find the best solutions to most problems because
of the limitations of their cognitive system (e.g. limited STM capacity). ey
have to content themselves with highly selective sear and oose options
that are good enough but not necessarily optimal. To do so, they have to rely
on heuristics: rules of thumb and shortcuts that are efficient, eap
computationally and work most of the time, but that can fail every so oen.
(Heuristics can be distinguished from algorithms, whi always lead to a
solution if there is one.) us, people are satisficers, not maximisers.

Problem space A term introduced by Newell and Simon to describe the
first stage in problem-solving; represented in the problem space are the
initial state, the goal state, the instructions, the constraints on the
problem and all relevant information retrieved from long-term memory.
Heuristics Methods or strategies whi oen lead to problem solution

but are not guaranteed to succeed.
Problem spaces, states, and sear

Problem space theory (Newell & Simon, 1956, 1972) proposes that problem-
solving is a sear through a problem space. e initial state is the starting
point of a problem and includes the information given at the beginning. e
goal state is the desired end state. e operators consist of the set of legal
(permissible) operations or moves that can be performed. To find the
solution to a problem, one must link the initial state to the goal state by
moving through a number of states, whi are created by the application of
operators. In many problems, this can be likened to searing through a
maze.
One can distinguish two types of problem spaces. e external problem
space, whi can be found through task analysis, contains all the possible
states in a given problem. While external problem spaces are relatively small
for simple problems (e.g. the two-disk Tower of Hanoi; see Figure 8.5), they
can be very large indeed. For example, there are about 10120 possible ess
games – 10 followed by 120 zeroes – whi is larger than the number of
atoms in the known universe! Analysing external problem spaces is useful
because they offer normative measures about optimal solutions and thus
provide information about the difficulty of a problem.
e internal problem space is the internal representation that people
construct of the problem. It usually includes the representation of the start
state, goal state, allowed operators, as well as previous domain-specific
knowledge (‘strong heuristics’) and domain-general knowledge (‘weak

heuristics’). An example of a strong heuristic when analysing data from a
psyology experiment would be to look for a linear relationship between
two variables. Examples of weak heuristics are trial and error and means–
end analysis (reduce the difference between the start state and the goal
state). e internal problem space is progressively augmented as sear
progresses and the problem-solver learns more about the problem. Note that
the internal problem space is usually mu smaller than the external
problem space (remember the example of ess).
Figure 8.5
Problem space of the two-disk Tower of Hanoi.
Source: Drawn by Fernand Gobet
ese concepts are illustrated by the two-disk Tower of Hanoi puzzle (see
Figure 8.5). e figure shows the start and goal states as well as all the states
that can be reaed by legal moves. A few things become apparent from this
figure. For example, the number of possible moves in ea state is small (a
maximum of two moves per state). Also, moving the tower to the middle
peg (le part of the figure) considerably increases the length of the solution,
and requires some batraing. ings get quily more complicated even

with su a simple puzzle, as the reader can see by drawing the problem
space of the three-disk Tower of Hanoi.
Problems come in different forms. With well-defined problems, the initial
state, the goal state, and the operators are specified. Examples include the
Tower of Hanoi and algebra problems. With ill-defined problems, at least
some of this information is missing. Most insight problems are of this kind,
and so are most real-life problems su as buying a house or finding a
partner.
While the structure of the external problem space normally provides
reliable information about the difficulty of a problem, it is not the entire
story. For example, resear has shown that some problems, whi have the
same problem space and therefore should have the same difficulty, differ
markedly in the time it takes to solve them. A striking example is offered by
the monster-move problem, an isomorph of the Tower of Hanoi (i.e. the two
problems have the same structure when their external space is analysed). In
this problem, a small, medium-sized, and large monster hold a large, small,
and medium-sized globe, respectively. ey want to move the globes around
so that ea monster holds a globe proportionate to its size. e rules are as
follows (Kotovsky et al., 1985, p. 251):
1 Only one globe may be transferred at a time.

2 If a monster holds two globes, only the largest of the two globes may
be transferred.
3 A globe may not be transferred to a monster who is holding a larger
globe.
Figure 8.6 shows the monster-move problem and the equivalent problem
states with the Tower of Hanoi.

Figure 8.6
Monster-move problem: example of the start state and goal state of the monster-move
problem, with the corresponding states of the Tower of Hanoi.
Source: Drawn by Fernand Gobet
Kotovsky et al. (1985) found considerable differences in the time needed to

solve isomorphs of the three-disk Tower of Hanoi. While it took on average
two minutes to solve the problem in the Tower of Hanoi version, it took 14
minutes to solve the monster-move version. It took even longer (29 minutes)
to solve another version (the monster-ange) in whi the globes shrink
and expand. ese differences can be explained by the difficulties involved
in learning and applying rules, and increased working memory load.
Strengths and weaknesses of problem space theory

Problem space theory has several strengths (Gobet & Lane, 2015). With
detailed analyses of the verbal protocols of participants solving different
types of problems, Newell and Simon (1972) and other researers
demonstrated that participants used identifiable strategies, oen means–end
analysis. ey also showed that an analysis of the task environment and its

complexity oen made it possible to predict the strategies used by the
participants and their solution times. In addition, this analysis and the
generation of external problem spaces make it possible to measure the
differences between human participants and an ideal solver. us, problem
space theory offers a normative theory of problem-solving. In general, the
results show that people do not opt for the optimal solution but rather use
heuristics, whi supports Simon’s theory of bounded rationality.
Another strength is that the models developed in this tradition tend to be
well specified, and are oen implemented as computer programs. Examples
include the Logic eorist (Newell et al., 1958), one of the very first artificial
intelligence (AI) programs, whi proves theorems in mathematical logic
and has led to a theory of creativity (see below). As noted in Chapter 1,
implementing theories as computer programs ensures a high level of
precision and clarity.
One relative weakness of this approa is that the problems that are
studied tend to be puzzles: artificial and fairly simple problems. However,
the following section on creativity qualifies this criticism (see also Box 8.1).

Box 8.1 Expertise and thinking
An important application of resear into problem-solving concerns the
study of expertise. How do experts solve problems quily, with mu
beer results than non-experts? De Groot’s (1978) study of ess players
provided some key insights. He showed that top players (he had world
ampions in his sample) very rapidly zero in onto the key aspects of a
ess position; as he put it, a world ampion understands a problem
situation beer aer five seconds than a strong amateur aer 15 minutes.
When anticipating possible moves and sequences of moves, strong players
were very selective and rarely considered more than three or four moves
in a given position.
Simon and Chase (1973) extended de Groot’s resear by proposing a
meanism explaining how strong players rapidly find plausible moves, if
not the best move. With practice and study, ess players and other
experts acquire a large number of perceptual paerns, called unks,
whi are domain specific. In ess, these paerns encode the location of
a few pieces on the board. Chess players also learn what actions are
favourable given a paern. For example, a ess player would learn that,
given a certain Bla’s pawn structure with a weak square, White should
put a knight on that square. Simon and Chase estimated that ess
masters have acquired about 50,000 unks. A later estimate based on
computer simulations puts this number even higher, at about 300,000
paerns (Gobet & Simon, 2000).
Another key difference between novice and expert problem-solving is
the kind of internal problem representation used. For example, in physics,
experts use fundamental principles (e.g. the concept of gravity), while
novices use superficial aspects (e.g. the kind of device involved, pulley vs
inclined plane; Larkin et al., 1980; Chi et al., 1981). Having beer
representations affects the kind of sear used. If one uses fundamental
principles, it is easier to start from the givens and generate unknown
quantities, and thus to carry out forward search. Expertise also impacts

how external representations are used. For example, Tabanek-Sijf et
al. (1997) were interested in the way diagrams were used in economics,
specifically in problems about supply and demand. ey found that
experts were able to use graphs effortlessly and effectively. By contrast,
novices displayed great difficulties with both using and generating graphs.

8.3 Creativity
Creativity can be seen as a form of problem-solving, except that the
problems to be solved (su as discovering a new law in psyology) are
more complex than solving puzzles su as the Tower of Hanoi or Maier’s
two-string problem. In his book The Art of Thought, Wallas (1926) proposed
that creativity involves four broad stages. e first stage, preparation, is
aracterised by conscious aempts to solve the problem, oen from
multiple directions. With more difficult problems, these aempts are
unsuccessful, and one must move to the second stage, incubation. e
problem is le aside, but unconscious processing remains active and
multiple ideas get combined behind the scenes, so to speak. is is followed
by the illumination stage, where the solution comes as a flash of insight,
sometimes at an unexpected moment. Finally, there is the verification stage,
where there is a conscious and deliberate effort to e the solution. e
first three stages of the process were based on earlier work by Fren
mathematician Henri Poincaré (1913). Wallas himself was no stranger to
creativity, as he wrote prolifically on politics and co-founded the London
Sool of Economics.
Wallas’s four-stage theory emphasises unconscious processing, but the
experimental evidence for this meanism is sparse. In one experiment,
Penaloza and Calvillo (2012) presented problems from the remote associate
test, where one has to find the common associate between three words (e.g.
the common associate between ‘water’, ‘cube’, and ‘skate’ is ‘ice’). ey
found that a two-minute incubation, spent reading an article, was beneficial,
but only when the problems were presented with misleading clues.
Most of the support for Wallas’s theory comes from biographies and
autobiographies of creative scientists and artists. However, su self-reports
are unreliable – human memory is reconstructive and cannot be fully relied
upon for old memories (see Chapter 6). It should also be pointed out that the
history of art and science contains many counter-examples that clearly show
that creators depend on a systematic sear for a solution rather than

unconscious processing. An outstanding example is provided by omas
Edison, America’s greatest inventor who registered more than one thousand
patents, including those for the phonograph and the motion picture camera.
Edison argued that it was unavoidable that he would invent the first
commercial electric bulb, as he had already ruled out all the bad solutions!
e most influential theory of creativity is Newell and Simon’s (1972)
problem space theory, whi we have discussed above. According to these
authors, there is nothing mysterious about creativity: it is just a kind of
problem-solving. us, creators selectively explore a problem space, using
their knowledge and a variety of strategies to keep the sear efficient. is
hypothesis has received strong support from two sources: experimental
psyology and artificial intelligence.
On the experimental side, Qin and Simon (1990) carried out a ‘replication’
of Kepler’s discovery of the ird Law of Planetary Motion, whi describes
the motion of planets around the Sun – an important discovery in
astronomy. ey gave undergraduate students the data that Kepler used;
however, there was no information about the context (i.e. the labels
‘distance’ and ‘period’ were replaced by X and Y). e correct equation was
found within one hour by about one third of the students; in line with
problem space theory, the successful students performed a limited sear
with efficient heuristics.
On the artificial intelligence side, a number of computer programs
embodying selective sear can be described as showing creativity. is
provides strong support for the theory, as this shows that the meanisms
proposed by problem space theory are sufficient for creativity. ere are two
main approaes, whi sometimes overlap. e first approa is mainly
interested in AI: the use of computers to produce intelligent or creative
behaviour, not necessarily in the same way as humans. e second
approa, falling under the umbrella ‘computational modelling’, embodies
theories of human behaviour that are tested against empirical data.
An early example of a computer program displaying creativity, at the
intersection between the two approaes, is the Logic eorist (Newell et al.,
1958), whi specialised in logic and was able to improve on the proofs

constructed by some of the best mathematicians of the twentieth century. A
neat example of the AI approa applied to the visual arts was AARON
(Cohen, 1981), a production system program that drew pictures following
rules and constraints. (In a production system, the information is coded as
IF-THEN rules.) While limited to just a few thematic styles, AARON
displayed creativity and produced paintings of high aesthetic value (Boden,
1990). An intriguing example of the second approa – simulation of human
behaviour – is KEKADA (Kulkarni & Simon, 1988). e program was able to
replicate in detail a complex scientific discovery: the discovery of the urea
cycle whi earned Krebs the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1932.
KEKADA used a number of heuristics implemented as productions. Not
only was it able to make theoretical inferences and evaluate the acceptability
of its knowledge, but it could also make predictions and propose novel
experiments to test them. According to Kulkarni and Simon, KEKADA’s
behaviour mated the way Krebs carried out his resear fairly well. Gobet
and Sala (2019) review recent developments in creative AI and argue that
psyologists can take advantage of these developments to design novel
ways of studying human creativity and develop new theories of creativity.

8.4 Analogy
Analogy making is another important type of thinking. It can be defined as
the transfer of the solution of one problem to another problem. It is an
efficient and sometimes creative reuse of knowledge. e history of science
provides many examples of analogy. One of the most famous ones is Ernest
Rutherford’s use of the solar system to explain the structure of the atom. e
nucleus corresponds to the sun, and the electrons correspond to the planets.
In both cases, the smaller objects revolve around the larger object. Several
models have been developed in psyology to explain analogy making
(Gentner, 1983; Love & Forbus, 2017). ey usually incorporate the
following two meanisms. First, an analogue or source (i.e. a problem
similar to the one currently faced) must be retrieved from long-term
memory. In Rutherford’s example, the source was the model of the solar
system. Second, a mapping should be made between the source and the
current or target problem. In Rutherford’s example, the mapping included
the correspondence between the sun and the atom nucleus.
Unfortunately, the data suggest that making analogies is very hard
indeed, as shown by a series of experiments carried out by Gi and
Holyoak (1980) using Duner’s (1945) tumour problem, whi we have
introduced by discussing the Gestalt approa to problem-solving. Gi and
Holyoak (1980) were interested as to whether providing analogical
knowledge to the participants would improve their success rate. ey gave
the participants a story about a general wanting to aa a well-defended
fortress. e roads leading to it were mined and would explode in the
presence of large groups of soldiers; thus, it was not possible to send the
entire army on a single road. What the general did was to divide his force
into small groups that approaed the fortress simultaneously from different
directions. When they converged on the fortress, the whole army could
aa it with full power. Clearly, the fortress problem provides an analogy
to the tumour problem: the soldiers correspond to the rays, the general to
the surgeon, the fortress to the tumour, and the risk of detonating mines to

the risk of hurting healthy tissue. In both cases, the solution is to spread
one’s forces (the soldiers and the rays, respectively) before hiing the target.
Disappointingly, only 20 per cent of participants used the story
spontaneously and solved the problem successfully. Performance was beer
when they received a hint that the fortress story could be of use with the
tumour problem; the percentage of success jumped to 92 per cent. is
difficulty of using analogy has been replicated in several studies. For
example, the seven experiments of Anolli et al. (2001) reproduced the key
result that information from the source analogue is not spontaneously
transferred to the target problem but is used only when participants receive
a cue that it is relevant. One possible explanation is that, with two stories
that do not share any surface similarities, it is difficult to appreciate that
they have the same deep structure in common.

8.5 Reasoning
Considerable resear has been carried out to establish whether people
follow the laws of logic when they think, and if not, how they depart from
these laws. is resear can be divided into two main topics: deductive
reasoning, where the conclusions necessarily follow from the premises; and
inductive reasoning, where only probable conclusions can be derived from
the available information. We start with deductive reasoning, as it is easier
to unambiguously decide whether humans reason correctly or not.
Deductive reasoning task A problem that has a well-defined structure

in a system of formal logic where the conclusion is certain.
Inductive reasoning task A problem that has a well-defined structure in

a system of formal logic where the conclusion is highly probable but not
necessarily true.
Deductive reasoning
Before discussing some key results, it is necessary to provide the reader with
some of the basics of deductive reasoning. e building blos of this form
of logic are propositions (e.g. ‘the sky is blue’), whi can be either true or
false. (Note that there exist other types of logic where propositions can have
more values; for example, in fuzzy logic numbers between 0 and 1 indicate
the degree of truth.) Propositional logic allows one to establish the truth of
propositions modified or joined by logical operators (NOT, AND, OR, IF-
THEN …). For example, if the propositions ‘the sky is blue’ and ‘roses are
red’ are both true, can we conclude that the compound proposition ‘the sky
is blue AND roses are red’ is true? Logicians have developed the formalism
of truth tables to deduce the correctness of a new proposition meanically
(see Box 8.2).

Box 8.2 Truth tables
Table 1 shows the truth table for the logical conjunctive AND. e first
column gives the possible truth values of proposition A (here, ‘the sky is
blue’) and the second column the possible truth values of proposition B
(here, ‘roses are red’). e third column gives the value of the combined
proposition (A AND B), given the truth value of ea component. For
example, if A and B are both true, the combined sentence is also true. In
fact, this is the only case where the combined proposition is true. us,
concluding that A AND B is true when A is true and B is false would be
an incorrect conclusion.
Table 1 Truth table for the logical conjunctive AND.

A B A AND B
T T T
T F F
F T F
F F F
Note: T stands for ‘true’ and F for ‘false’.
e meaning of AND in logic is fairly close to its meaning in everyday

life. However, things get a bit more complicated with IF-THEN, whi is
called ‘logical implication’ or ‘conditional’. Table 2 provides the truth
values for this logical operator.
Table 2 Truth table for the conditional IF-THEN.

A B IF A THEN B
T T T
T F F
F T T
F F T
Note: T stands for ‘true’ and F for ‘false’.

Let us consider a simple example where the propositions A (‘it’s
raining’) and B (‘I’m wet’) are given. If both are true (first row of the
table), then ‘IF it’s raining THEN I’m wet’ is true too. at makes
intuitive sense. With ‘it’s raining’ and ‘I’m not wet’ (row 2), then the IF-
THEN statement is false. Again, this makes sense intuitively. Rows 3 and
4 are less intuitive; they mean that, if statement A is false, then the value
of statement B does not maer: the IF-THEN statement is always true.
is has important consequences: if a statement is incorrect in a logical
system, then by a ain of inferences any statement can be derived. us,
if one or several statements are false in a scientific theory, then anything
can be concluded from this theory.
Correct and incorrect inferences

In Box 8.2, we have given the statements A and B, and asked whether the
implication is true. It is also possible to assume that the implication is true,
to give the truth value of A (or B), and ask what can be inferred about the
truth value of the other statement. is approa has been used in many
studies about reasoning.
Let us consider an example, with the implication ‘IF I study hard, THEN
I’ll pass the exam’. I studied hard; can we conclude that I’ll pass the exam?
We can see from Table 2 in Box 8.2 that if A is true and ‘IF A THEN B’ is
also true, then B is also true. us, it is a correct inference to conclude that
I’ll pass the exam. is type of inference is called the modus ponens.
Note that the meaning of the statements is irrelevant; what maers is
their form. Consider the following example:
If psychology is a science, then the moon is blue

Psychology is a science
Therefore the moon is blue
is is a correct inference, even though it is semantically incorrect.

e second correct inference is called modus tollens. It is given that ‘IF P
THEN Q’ is true and Q is not true; the inference is: therefore P is not true.
is inference can be abbreviated as ‘IF NOT Q then NOT P’. is is a mu
less intuitive rule. Modus tollens is at the heart of mu experimental
psyology, where the aim of running an experiment is to refute a theory.
Consider the following example, whi uses some information you learned
in this apter.
If Gestalt theory is correct, then solving insight problems requires an

‘Aha!’ experience (IF P THEN Q)
Insight problems are sometimes solved without an ‘Aha!’ experience
(Webb et al., 2016) (not Q)
Therefore, Gestalt theory is incorrect (not P)
Modus ponens and modus tollens are the only two valid inferences with
conditional problems. Specifically, two inferences are incorrect, although
very common. e first is called affirming the consequent, whi has the
following structure: the givens are ‘IF P THEN Q’ is true, Q is true, and the
conclusion is ‘erefore P is true’. Why is it incorrect? Consider the
following example: if it rains, then I’m wet; I’m wet. To conclude that it
rained is incorrect, because I could be wet for other reasons (for example, I
took a shower).
e second common incorrect inference, called denying the antecedent,
has the following structure: the givens are that ‘IF P THEN Q’ is true and P
is not true; the conclusion is ‘erefore Q is not true’. To see why it is
incorrect, consider again our raining example. To conclude that I’m not wet
because it is not raining is incorrect; for example, if I take a shower on a
sunny day, I would be wet.
Empirical results
A considerable number of studies have been carried out on reasoning (for
review, see Ball & ompson, 2018). Overall, the results clearly indicate that

people do not perform well with reasoning tasks. Consider first the case
where premises (P and Q) are given, and the question is whether certain
conclusions are valid. Nearly 100 per cent of participants correctly use
modus ponens, but the percentage goes down to only 60 per cent with modus
tollens. Worse, about 50 per cent of participants commit the invalid
inferences of affirming the consequent and denying the antecedent
(Gilhooly, 1996).
Particularly insightful has been resear using Wason’s (1968) selection
task (Figure 8.7). You are presented four cards as shown in Figure 8.7, and
your task is to decide whether the following rule is correct or not: if a card
has a vowel on one side, it has an even number on the other side.
Figure 8.7
Wason selection task.
Source: Adapted from Wason (1960).
Note: The rule is ‘If there is an A on one side of the card, then there is a 2 on the other
side of the card.’ Select only those cards that would need to be turned over in order to
decide whether or not the rule is correct. Each card has a letter on one side and a number
on the other.
You should turn over only the card(s) needed for testing the rule. Whi
card(s) do you turn over? e card ‘A’ is a correct oice, and this is an
application of the modus ponens. Intuitively, this makes sense: if there is no
even number on the ba of ‘A’, the cards would not follow the rule. By
contrast, the card ‘2’ is incorrect – it is equivalent to affirming the
consequent. What we need to do is to try to falsify the rule, using modus
tollens; this can be done by turning over the card ‘7’ and expecting to see a

‘K’ on the other side. However, only few people oose the correct cards.
Most people select the cards ‘A’ and ‘2’ (46 per cent), or even ‘A’ alone (33
per cent). Only 4 per cent selected the two correct cards, ‘A’ and ‘7’
(Johnson-Laird & Wason, 1970).
e results so far provide ample evidence that people struggle with
reasoning tasks when they are presented with abstract material. However,
they do mu beer when the material consists of concrete information.
Consider the following example, whi is a variation of Wason’s task. As a
police officer, you must implement the rule that only people over 18 can
drink beer in a pub. So, the rule is: if a customer in the bar is drinking beer
then that individual must be older than 18. You are a police officer trying to
enforce the rule, and you see four customers in the bar. e first customer is
having a beer; the second is sipping coke; the third is clearly older than 18;
and the last seems to be 16 years old (see Figure 8.8). Whi customer(s) do
you need to e?
Figure 8.8
Drinking beer.
e problem is an isomorph to Wason’s selection task, but, in the pub

problem, about 75 per cent of the participants get the answer correct: the
person drinking beer and the person looking under 18 (Griggs & Cox, 1982).
Remember that only 4 per cent of the participants got the correct answer in
the abstract version.
eories
A first group of theories propose that people use content-free logical rules,
similar to those used in formal logic (Rips, 1994). Reasoning consists in
applying these rules in the same way logicians use them to derive a proof.
us, in ideal conditions, human reasoning would be perfect. However,

people commit errors because they fail to understand the statements of the
problems, use the wrong strategy to tale the problem, or suffer from limits
in working memory. A weakness of these theories is that they assume full
rationality only to add a number of ad hoc assumptions to limit it and thus
explain the paern of errors seen in the data.
While the first group of theories is based on abstract rules, a second
approa, called mental models (Johnson-Laird, 2001), assumes that people
build an internal representation of the information contained in a problem,
and then mentally inspect this representation to establish whether it is
correct. In particular, they try to find counter-examples that would
invalidate an inference. e mental model approa has been predominantly
used with a type of reasoning problems called syllogism, su as:
Mental model A representation that we construct according to what is

described in the premises of a reasoning problem, whi will depend on
how we interpret these premises.
All the artists are beekeepers.

Some of the beekeepers are emists.
Can we conclude that all the artists are emists?
If you are told that Caroline is taller than Hannah and that Hannah is
taller than Julian, it is likely that you imagine these persons in a row in your
mind’s eye. If you are now told that Paul is smaller than Julian, you can add
Paul to your mental picture, and you can ‘see’ that Paul is the smallest
person. Mental models in reasoning are based on the same idea, but the
details rapidly become more complicated.
Mental model theory does a fairly good job at predicting the time it takes
participants to solve reasoning problems of varying difficulty. However, it is
not without weaknesses. While it accords mu importance to the way the
statements of a problem are encoded to build models, it las meanisms
specifying how encoding occurs. In addition, mental model theory predicts

that problems requiring the construction of many mental models are harder
to solve, because this drains working-memory resources. However, O’Brien
et al. (1994) created problems with many statements, whi should require
many mental models, but whi are in fact easy to solve, refuting one of the
key predictions of the theory. Finally, verbal protocols offer lile evidence
that people try to find counter-examples, whi is a central assumption of
the theory.
We have seen earlier that there are stark differences in the way
participants perform the concrete version of Wason’s selection task as
compared to the abstract one. To account for these differences, Cheng and
Holyoak (1985) proposed a theory based on pragmatic reasoning semas.
ese semas are general and abstract, but less so than logical rules as they
are constrained by the satisfaction of a goal. An example is the permission
schema (if one wants to do X, then one must satisfy condition Y). Cheng and
Holyoak argue that, in everyday reasoning, people do not use rules or
construct internal representations of the problem at hand, but rather use
semas based on their experience. For example, in the pub version of
Wason’s task, but not in the original abstract version, people can use a
permission sema. When it is difficult to apply su a sema, as in abstract
problems, then people tend to make mistakes.
Pragmatic reasoning semata Clusters of rules that are highly

generalised and abstracted but defined with respect to different types of
relationships and goals.
is theory certainly accounts for the fact that people do beer with
concrete problems than abstract problems. However, just like the previous
theories, it is silent about the first phase of reasoning, where verbal
information is encoded. In addition, it is limited to problems of the type IF-
THEN, and does not say mu about other types of reasoning problems.
Inductive reasoning

We have seen that, with deductive reasoning, conclusions must follow from
the premises, and therefore there is no uncertainty about them: they are
either correct or incorrect. Maers are different with inductive reasoning: it
is possible to rea only probable conclusions from the given information.
us, with induction, the conclusions must go beyond the information
given. ere is more uncertainty than with deduction, and, indeed, no
guarantee that the conclusions that are reaed are correct. We focus on the
2–4–6 task (Wason, 1960), whi has generated mu debate.
In this task, participants receive the sequence 2–4–6 and their task is to
find the rule behind the sequence. ey can produce as many sequences of
three numbers as they want, writing down a brief description of the rule
they entertain, and are given a simple YES or NO feedba from the
experiment. Aer having received sufficient positive feedba, participants
would stop and state the rule they had found. Typical test sequences were 8–
10–12 or 14–16–18, with YES as feedba. Most participants formed the rule
‘sequence of even numbers increasing by two’. However, the rule that the
experimenter had in mind was ‘any sequence of increasing numbers’. In
Wason’s (1960) original study, only 6 out of 29 participants found the correct
rule without proposing any incorrect ones, with 13 finding an incorrect rule,
nine proposing two incorrect rules or more, and one not proposing any rule.
Importantly, few participants tried to disprove their rule by sequences su
as 8–10–6 or 3–9–44.
Experimenters have tried all sorts of manipulations, but it has turned out
surprisingly difficult to improve participants’ performance in the 2–4–6 task.
One of the rare successful manipulations consists in telling participants that
the experimenter has two rules in mind, the DAX rule and the MED rule.
DAX is the original ‘any sequence of increasing numbers’ rule, while MED
covers all the number triplets not following that rule (so MED is the
complement of DAX: any triplet not made of ascending numbers; e.g. 2–2–
8). At the beginning, participants are given the triplet 2–4–6 as an instance
of DAX. In this version of the experiment, about twice as many participants
state the correct rule in their first aempt, as compared to the standard
version of the task (Wharton et al., 1993). However, participants took

advantage of the two rules only if they were told explicitly that they are
complementary. One possible explanation for the increased success in this
experiment is that participants do not need to refute a rule; rather, what they
do is to confirm its complement.
According to most of the psyological literature on reasoning, deductive
and inductive reasoning rely on different meanisms. In a recent paper,
Stephens et al. (2018) argued that this is not necessarily the case. Using three
data sets, they compared models that assumed two different processes with
models assuming only one process. Only one model was able to account for
all the data, and it was a model whi incorporated only one meanism:
argument strength. is strength is evaluated on a single dimension, with
different decision thresholds used for inductive and deductive judgments. If
Stephens et al.’s conclusions are replicable, this means that the experimental
results on deductive reasoning and inductive reasoning can be explained by
a single theory, whi would be an important step in our understanding of
thinking.

8.6 Decision-making
Expected utility
is field of resear is interested in decision-making under uncertainty: the
way people make decisions with only imperfect information. is is the case
for most decisions: those made in everyday life, those made by scientists,
those made by politicians, and so on. One influential approa to explain
this type of decision-making, used not only in psyology but also in
economics, is to assume that people, perhaps unconsciously, use all the
available information in order to make an optimal decision. According to
this view, formalised by Von Neumann and Morgenstern (1944), people are
maximisers: they always select the optimal option. To do so, one aaes a
utility (i.e. a value) to ea outcome and assesses the probability that this
outcome will occur. By multiplying the utility of ea outcome by its
probability and taking the sum over all possible outcomes, one gets the
expected utility of an option. e same procedure is applied to all options.
e best solution is the option with the largest expected utility (see Box 8.3).

Box 8.3 Expected utility
Let us consider an example of how expected utility is computed. You have
to oose between two loery tiets (i.e. two options). With the first
tiet, there are two possible outcomes: winning £10 and losing £1. e
probability of winning £10 is .10, and the probability of losing £1 is .90.
us, the expected value is (£10 x .10) + (–£1 x .90) = £1.00 – £0.90 = £0.10.
With this tiet, you are expected to win £0.10. With the second loery
tiet, there are two outcomes: winning £20 and losing £2. e probability
of winning £20 is .10 and the probability of losing £2 is .90. us, the
expected value of the second tiet is (£20 x .10) + (–£2 x .90) = £2.00 –
£1.80 = £0.20. us, you are expected to win £0.20 with the second tiet.
As £0.20 is larger than £0.10, you should oose the second tiet.
Heuristics and biases

As seen in the section on problem space theory, the hypothesis that people
are maximisers was criticised by Herbert Simon and his resear on
bounded rationality. More recently, Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky
have continued the critique of expected utility and shown that humans oen
violate the predictions of the theory. Specifically, they showed that humans
oen use heuristics, but that these heuristics can lead to systematic biases. In
this section we describe two heuristics identified by Kahneman and Tversky
– the availability heuristic and the representativeness heuristic (see
Newell et al., 2015, for a more detailed coverage; Tversky & Kahneman,
1974).
e availability heuristic
Statistics show that flying is mu safer than travelling by car. In fact, you
are 10,000 times less likely to die in a plane accident than in a car accident.
However, people generally think that travelling by car is safer. How can that

be? Kahneman and Tversky (1973) explain this with the availability
heuristic, whi consists in basing one’s estimate of probability on how easy
it is to retrieve examples from long-term memory. Typically, there are few
casualties in a car accident. By contrast, there are many deaths in an
airplane crash and the accident is widely covered in the news, with horrific
pictures. As a consequence, more details are stored in long-term memory,
whi makes retrieval of plane accidents easier.
Consider another experiment discussed by Kahneman and Tversky (1973):
if a word of three leers or more is sampled at random from an English text,
is it more likely that the word (a) starts with ‘r’ or (b) has ‘r’ as its third
leer? When facing this question, participants usually try to generate words
starting with an ‘r’ and words having an ‘r’ as the third leer. However, it is
mu easier to generate words with a given leer in the first position than in
the third position, in part because people occasionally do the former but
never the laer. us, participants conclude that words with an ‘r’ in the
first position are more common. In fact, there are more words with an ‘r’ in
the third position.
e representativeness heuristic
You have learnt in your statistics classes that many observations lead to
more reliable conclusions than few observations (the law of large numbers).
erefore, we should try to base our decisions on a large sample of instances
and be wary of conclusions based on small samples. However, people very
oen do the opposite. A classic example is the gambler’s fallacy, where a
player believes that if, for example, a fair coin has landed three times on
heads and ten times on tails, it is more likely to land on heads in the coming
tosses so that the number of heads and tails will even out. (In fact, a coin
does not have any memory and the probability of landing heads or tails is
still .50 for the next trials.) e gambler’s fallacy is an instance of the
representativeness heuristic, according to whi people make decisions on
probability by retrieving from long-term memory instances that are similar

to the problem at hand. However, people typically use only few instances to
make a decision, whi means that the information is not reliable.
Kahneman and Tversky (1973) provided a striking experimental
demonstration of the pernicious effects of the representativeness heuristic.
ey told their participants that a person had been osen randomly from a
set of 100 individuals consisting of 70 engineers and 30 lawyers (high-
engineer group). What’s the probability that she is an engineer? Participants
correctly answered that the probability was .70. Another group of
participants was asked the same question, but now with the 100 individuals
consisting of 30 engineers and 70 lawyers (low-engineer group). e second
group correctly answered that the probability was .30. e participants were
then told that a second individual had been selected, and received the
following description (Kahneman & Tversky, 1973, p. 241):
Ja is a 45-year-old man. He is married and has four ildren. He is

generally conservative, careful, and ambitious. He shows no interest in
political and social issues and spends most of his free time on his many
hobbies whi include home carpentry, sailing, and mathematical
puzzles.
e probability that Ja is one of the 30 engineers in the sample of
100 is —-%.1
1 In the high-engineer group, ‘30 engineers’ was replaced by ‘70 engineers’.

Participants in both groups estimated that the probability of being an
engineer was .90, despite the fact that the a priori probability (i.e. the
probability without any additional information) of being an engineer
differed markedly between the two groups. Also, as established by the first
question, participants knew this a priori probability. To answer the second
question correctly, one needs to take into account baground information
(base rate information) about the population. However, participants ignored
the base rate, presumably because they thought Ja fied the description of
an engineer beer than that of a lawyer.

e participants were given the following description (Kahneman &
Tversky, 1973, p. 242):
Di is a 30-year-old man. He is married with no ildren. A man of

high ability and high motivation, he promises to be quite successful in
his field. He is well liked by his colleagues.
Again, participants have to estimate the probability that Di is one of the
30 (or 70) engineers in the sample. As this last description does not provide
any information with respect to Di’s profession, the estimates should be
the same as in the first question and reflect the a priori probabilities.
However, in both the high-engineer and low-engineer groups, participants
estimated that the probability was .50. us, participants provided a different
answer when given no additional information and when given irrelevant
information – a rather strong violation of rationality!
Heuristics and biases: evaluation

We have covered only two of the many heuristics and biases identified by
Kahneman and Tversky. In general, while heuristics were seen in a positive
way in resear on problem-solving (for example in Newell and Simon’s
resear), in resear on decision-making they shed a bleak light on human
cognition, as they lead to all sorts of systematic errors. But if humans are so
dumb, how have we been able to survive the fierce competition against
other species and indeed dominate earth? One possibility is that humans are
not dumb at all, and that Kahneman and Tversky underestimate our abilities
(Gigerenzer, 2000). For example, the term ‘probability’ in a statement su as
‘e probability that Ja is one of the 30 engineers in the sample of 100 is —
%’ might be understood as referring to similarity and not to mathematical
probability, as intended by Kahneman and Tversky. is possibility gains
plausibility given the fact that most people do not have a formal training in
probability theory and thus have a poor understanding of concepts linked to
probability. Another explanation is that humans are adapted to the

environment in whi they live and take advantage of some of its features,
su as its statistical structure. For example, you know whi
neighbourhoods of your city have a high density of restaurants and whi
do not. However, artificial problems in the laboratory do not provide su a
structure. A final possible explanation is that heuristics are useful most of
the time, but they lead to errors in Kahneman and Tversky’s experiments
because these authors cleverly identified when these heuristics would break
down. is should remind you of how visual illusions highlight weaknesses
of the visual system in spite of the fact that it is exceedingly well adapted to
the natural environments in whi it evolved.

A popular way of aracterising thinking is to propose that the cognitive
system consists of two kinds of cognition. e first evolved early and is thus
shared by many animals. It is based on perception and learning, is intuitive,
operates automatically and with lile effort, and uses simple heuristics.
Experimentally, it is independent of manipulations su as working memory
load and time pressure. e second kind of cognition is newer evolutionarily,
uniquely human, and is aracterised by analytical and rule-based thinking
that requires aention and effort. It is slow and deliberative and highly
sensitive to experimental manipulations of working memory and time
pressure. It also correlates with intelligence. is partition is a feature of
numerous theories (Fiedler & von Sydow, 2015, count no less than 30
theories!), whi differ in the nomenclature used (e.g. System 1 and 2; Type 1
and Type 2 processing) and in the exact nature of ea form of cognition.
Evans’s (2006) theory provides a good example of this dual approa in
the field of reasoning. It proposes that heuristics are implemented in System
1 and analytical processes in System 2. When a reasoning problem is
encountered, System 1 rapidly constructs a mental model using simple
heuristics. Only then does System 2 enter the picture to possibly revise or
even replace the original mental model, using deliberate and slow analytical
processes. Whi system is engaged is affected by a number of factors,
including the amount of time available to provide an answer, the level of
intelligence of the participants and the instructions provided by the
experimenter. Kahneman (2003) applied similar ideas to the field of
judgement and decision-making. Just like Evans’s (2006) theory, Kahneman’s
(2003) theory involves serial processing: System 1 enters into action first,
generating a rapid and intuitive answer. In a second step, System 2 improves
and possibly anges the original answer.
A long-standing debate in the literature on expert problem-solving
directly maps onto the issue of dual processing. Do experts solve problems
by paern recognition – rapid identification of the key features of a problem

that lead automatically to a solution – or by look-ahead sear and
analytical thinking? Simon and Chase (1973) emphasised the former
meanism, whilst Holding (1992) argued that the importance of perception,
intuition, and knowledge had been overstated by Simon and Chase, and that
experts mostly solve problems by analysing the consequences of possible
options. More recently, researers have emphasised that most domains of
expertise engage both processes (Gobet, 2016).
Dual-process theories have been highly influential in the last two decades
or so. Whilst there is good empirical support for the existence of the two
different modes of processing, a number of criticisms have been levelled at
these theories. First, they do not propose anything new (Brakel & Shevrin,
2003), as the key ideas were already present in Freud’s (2001/1915)
distinction between primary and secondary processes. Second, these theories
are not well specified, and could be aracterised as circular restatements of
the phenomena under study (Gigerenzer, 2010). ird, the features of the
two systems do not map onto the two modes of processing as neatly as
proposed; for example, heuristics are used both intuitively and deliberately
(Gigerenzer, 2010). Finally, the assumption of seriality is not plausible (De
Neys, 2006) as it is not clear how System 2 knows that it should be engaged.
A possible solution is to assume that the two systems operate in parallel, but
this would seem to throw away the benefits provided by System 1 (i.e. it is
fast and intuitive). Another possibility is that the two systems closely
interact. Su a theory was developed to explain expert problem-solving
(Gobet, 1997). e theory, implemented as a computer program, shows how
paern recognition (corresponding to System 1) is applied recursively during
sear (corresponding to System 2). Every time a new problem state is
generated in imagination, paern recognition suggests possible courses of
action. If these suggestions fail, deliberative heuristics are used. When
decisions must be taken rapidly (e.g. within one second), there is time for
only paern recognition.

Summary
• e main subfields of the psyology of thinking are problem-

solving, expertise, creativity, analogy making, reasoning, and
decision-making.
• Behaviourists proposed that problem-solving can be explained by
learning stimulus–response links. Gestalt psyologists devised
clever experiments, but their theoretical explanations were vague.
• Problem space theory proposed that problem-solving consists of
sear within a problem space. It has received support from both
experiments and computer simulations. e theory has also been
successfully applied to the subfields of expertise and creativity.
• Some authors have proposed that analogy making is at the heart of
thinking, but experiments have shown that people struggle when
trying to use analogies.
• Resear into deductive reasoning compares the way people reason
with solutions obtained by the application of logic, whi offers a
normative theory. People commit many errors when faced with
reasoning problems. With inductive reasoning, people suffer from
confirmation bias.
• Expected utility theory offers a normative theory of decision-making
under uncertainty. Humans’ decisions do not follow the predictions
of this theory, in part because they use heuristics that sometimes
lead to systematic biases.
• Dual-process theories have been developed to explain the empirical
results in most subfields of thinking. ese theories postulate the
existence of two systems: System 1 is fast and intuitive whilst System
2 is slow and deliberative.
• Resear on thinking has been dominated by the question of
rationality. In general, the data do not support the hypothesis of full
rationality. Rather, they support the hypothesis of bounded

rationality. Due to the limits of aention and working memory,
biases affecting retrieval from long-term memory, and the difficulty
of searing large problem spaces, humans are satisficers rather than
optimisers, and oose solutions that are good enough rather than
optimal.

Further reading
Ball, L.J., & A.V. ompson (eds) (2018). Routledge International Handbook of Thinking and
Reasoning. Abingdon: Routledge. is edited book, wrien by experts in their disciplines, covers
all aspects of the psyology of thinking. Its 35 apters cover both classic findings and the latest
resear developments.
Gobet, F. (2016). Understanding Expertise: A Multi-Disciplinary Approach. Basingstoke: Palgrave
Macmillan. is book addresses expertise from a number of disciplines, with a focus on
psyology. Of particular interest will be the apters on problem-solving, decision-making,
intuition, insight, and creativity. e issue of rationality is also discussed, both from the point of
view of psyology and philosophy.
Newell, B.R., Lagnado, D.A., & Shanks, D.R. (2015). Straight Choices: The Psychology of Decision-
making. London: Psyology Press. is advanced introduction to the psyology of judgement
and decision-making encompasses both the foundations of the field and state-of-the-art
developments. An interesting feature of the book is that it discusses the relationship between
decision-making and learning.
Manktelow, K.I., Over, D.E., & Elqayam, S. (eds) (2011). The Science of Reason: A Festschrift in Honour
of Jonathan St. B. T. Evans. Hove: Psyology Press. is edited book includes apters by experts
in the field of reasoning, covering probabilistic and causal reasoning, dual-process theories, and
the nature of human rationality. e volume is in tribute to Jonathan St B.T. Evans.

 9
Disorders of thinking and problem-

solving
Fernand Gobet and Nicola Brace
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-9
Contents
9.1 Introduction
9.4 Impairments in the deployment of aention
9.9 A final note
Summary
Further reading

9.1 Introduction
e last apter looked at resear focused on how we solve problems, carry
out reasoning tasks and make decisions. What became clear is that these
activities involve a number of operations su as searing, mating,
deciding, evaluating, and transforming, and successful problem-solving
sometimes requires restructuring the way the problem itself is represented.
However, it is not just these different problem-solving processes that need to
be monitored and controlled when we encounter a problem: many of our
everyday tasks involve us overseeing a whole range of well-established
routines. ink for a moment about all the steps involved in making coffee
or cleaning the bath. Exactly how the more complex operations involved in
problem-solving and the more routine everyday tasks are controlled is still
open to debate; however, it is thought that the frontal lobes play an
important role. Luria (1966) suggested that it was the responsibility of the
frontal lobes to programme and regulate behaviour, and Baddeley (1986) saw
the frontal lobes as having a coordinating, monitoring, and organising role
in working memory. is apter will consider how damage to the frontal
lobes may affect problem-solving, but it will do so by looking more broadly
at the role the frontal lobes play in relation to executive functions. ese
functions are thought to encompass meta-abilities necessary for appropriate
social functioning and everyday problem-solving: namely the deployment of
aention, the initiation of non-habitual action, goal-directed behaviour,
planning, insight, foresight, and self-regulation.
Executive functions Meanisms in overall control of cognitive

functioning, su as the deployment of aention, self-regulation, insight,
planning, and goal-directed behaviour.

e frontal lobes constitute approximately one-third of the mass of ea
cerebral hemisphere, encompassing all tissue anterior to the central sulcus. It
is not surprising, therefore, that patients with damage to the frontal lobes
area show a great diversity of impairments that may affect motor,
emotional, social, or cognitive processes. e lobes comprise a variety of
areas whi are functionally and anatomically distinct (see Figure 9.1) and
whi can be grouped into three broad regions (Kolb and Whishaw, 1996).
e first region is the motor cortex, whi was classified by Brodmann as
area 4. e second region is the premotor cortex (area 6 and some of area 8).
e motor and premotor areas play an important role in the control of limb,
hand, foot, and digit movements as well as influencing the control of face
and eye movements.
Figure 9.1
e frontal lobes. Lateral view of the brain illustrating the major subdivisions of the

frontal lobes.
Note: Areas 12–14, 25, and 32 are not included because they are not visible in a lateral
view of the brain.
e third region is the prefrontal cortex, whi in humans can be

subdivided into the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex (areas 9, 46); the ventral
(or inferior) prefrontal cortex (areas 11, 12, 13, 14); and the medial prefrontal
cortex (areas 25, 32). Studies conducted in the early decades of the twentieth
century revealed ri and complex afferent and efferent connections to a
variety of other areas of the brain. e prefrontal cortex receives afferent
pathways from the auditory, visual, gustatory, olfactory, and somatosensory
areas. ere are connections to and from many subcortical areas including
the limbic system (whi plays an important role in arousal, motivation, and
affect), the caudate nucleus (the part of the basal ganglia involved in the
integration, programming, inception, and termination of motor activity), and
the amygdala (whi is implicated in the control of fear, rage, and
aggression).

ere is great variation in the functional results of frontal lobe damage, and
this was apparent in case histories conducted in the nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries. Many of the anges in behaviour are actually related to
lesions in the prefrontal cortex, and variation is hardly surprising given the
size and complexity of the prefrontal cortex and its many connections to
most brain areas.
e most famous case is that of Phineas Gage, described by Harlow
(1868). Prior to injury, Gage was a conscientious and industrious railroad
engineer, whose responsibilities included placing and detonating explosives.
On the fateful day of 13 September 1848, Gage was preparing the explosive
using a fuse and a tamping iron – an iron bar 3.5 feet long and 13.25 pounds
in weight. Accidentally, Gage placed the tamping iron on the explosive,
prematurely detonating it, and the result was that the tamping iron
penetrated his skull. It entered through the side of his face, passed through
the le frontal lobe and exited from the right frontal bone (see Figure 9.2
and 9.3; also Macmillan, 1986).

Figure 9.2
Phineas Gage’s skull. e entry and exit of the tamping iron are shown here.
Source: From Macmillan (1986), reproduced by permission of Academic Press.
Figure 9.3
Phineas Gage.
Gage survived and the injury did not appear to have any major long-term
effects, with the exception of a ange in his personality. Following the
accident, he was no longer reliable or considerate and showed poor
judgement and poor social skills. Harlow (1868) suggested that these anges
in behaviour were a result of the frontal lobe’s responsibility for planning
and the maintenance of socially acceptable behaviour.
A ange in personality was also noted by Welt (1888) when reporting the
case of a 37-year-old man, presumed drunk, who had fallen from a fourth-
storey window. He suffered a severe penetrating frontal fracture. Five days
aer sustaining this injury he showed a ange in personality. He went from
being an honest, hard-working, and eerful man to being aggressive,
malicious, and prone to making bad jokes (the term ‘Witzelsucht’ was used
to describe this addiction to joking). He teased other patients and played
mean tris on the hospital staff. Aer about a month of su objectionable
behaviour, he became his old self, only to die some months later from an
infection. In contrast, Jastrowitz (1888) reported a form of dementia in
patients with tumours of the frontal lobe, whi was aracterised by an

oddly eerful agitation. He used the term ‘moria’ (meaning stupidity) to
describe this behaviour.
More recent clinical studies also describe anges to personality and, in
addition, highlight that decision-making can be affected, despite the fact that
there is no indication of any significant impairment in any specific cognitive
skill. For example, Eslinger and Damasio (1985) described the case of an
accountant who underwent an operation to remove part of his frontal lobes.
Aerwards, he was very poor at organising his life, even though he
performed extremely well on a wide range of neuropsyological tests and
aieved an IQ of over 130. He was unable to hold down a job, went
bankrupt and was twice divorced. He was frequently unable to make
decisions over relatively simple maers su as whi restaurants to dine in
or whi clothes to wear.

Box 9.1 ree key aspects affected
Frontal lobe damage has been found to impact upon several different
aspects of behaviour whi are not necessarily mutually exclusive
(Andrewes, 2001):
1 Drive: typically a patient fails to complete tasks on time; despite

knowing that the task needs to be undertaken, she or he will not
quite get round to doing it.
2 Impaired social skills: patients are frequently described as
behaving inappropriately in social seings. In the more extreme
cases, she or he may make inappropriate sexual advances and
show aggressive behaviour. In less extreme cases, the patient may
make inappropriate and hurtful comments.
3 La of insight: patients do not monitor their own behaviour or
the reactions of others; this may hamper rehabilitation as they
may not accept that they are performing poorly on tasks or in
their social relationships.
e studies described so far demonstrate that damage to the frontal lobes

can result in a range of different behavioural deficits, pertaining to humour,
affect, and personality as well as aspects of decision-making (Box 9.1). Della
Sala et al. (1998) comment that, although not all patients show personality
ange, certain recurring themes were observed, sometimes referred to as
‘frontal lobishness’ or ‘frontal lobe syndrome’. One patient may show a
higher level of apathy, another may display a contrasting picture of practical
joking and disinhibited social behaviour, and a third may display, at
different times, both of these paerns. Benton (1991, p. 26) noted that the
term frontal lobe syndrome ‘was adopted to refer to this aggregation of
deficits, perhaps as mu as a convenient label as from any conviction that it
represented a true syndrome, i.e., a conjunction of inherently related

symptoms’. To avoid making assumptions about the area of the brain
responsible, the term ‘dysexecutive syndrome’ is oen used instead;
alternatively, some use the term ‘executive dysfunction’ to avoid the
implications associated with the word ‘syndrome’.
e case histories of those who have sustained frontal damage are rather
perplexing in that any cognitive effects are oen by no means immediately
apparent and there is lile or no obvious mental deterioration. In the past 30
years, though, a considerable body of evidence has appeared whi suggests
that rather than being implicated in specific cognitive operations, su as
memorising, the frontal lobes are concerned with the deployment and
coordination of cognitive operations. Hence, as mentioned in the
introduction, the frontal lobes have come to be regarded as being responsible
for the highest forms of human thought, for the ‘executive’ or ‘supervisory’
functions of cognition, whi refer to a range of related abilities, including
our ability to plan and regulate goal-directed behaviour, to deploy aention,
and to use information flexibly.

9.4 Impairments in the deployment of attention
Successful problem-solving requires both goal-directed thinking and an
ability to correctly initiate, direct, and sustain aention. e ability of brain-
damaged patients to monitor what is happening in the environment, and
their ability to sustain their concentration and not be distracted has been
examined using a variety of tasks. Characteristically, patients with lesions to
the frontal lobes show impaired performance.
Initiating attention and action

In some extreme forms of frontal pathology, typically affecting superior
medial prefrontal regions, patients are unable to start any action and lay
down in bed during the entire day. is suggests that some cognitive
processes exist that initiate or ‘energise’ the beginning of an action, and that
these processes are impaired in those patients. Shallice and Gillingham
(2012) studied 40 patients with lesions in different parts of the frontal lobe.
ey found that superior medial patients were slower than healthy controls
and other frontal patients in simple and oice reaction time tasks as well as
in task-switing and go-no-go tasks. e slowing down was fairly large and
was disproportionately larger with more complex tasks, su as those
requiring switing actions. As the slowing down was observed in all tasks,
impairment of energisation seems more plausible than more specific
cognitive deficits.
In a similar vein, Frith (2000) proposed that one of the functions of the
dorsolateral prefrontal cortex consists of ‘sculpting the response space’ (p.
562); that is, to define the set of responses that are suitable for a particular
task and increase the ance that they are selected. To test this hypothesis,
Reverberi et al. (2005) gave matsti arithmetic problems to both frontal
patients and healthy individuals. ese problems involve incorrect equations
wrien in Roman numbers with matstis, and the task is to produce a
correct equation by moving only one matsti (Knobli et al., 1999). For

example, the incorrect equation VI = VII + I can be transformed into a
correct one (VII = VI + I) by moving one matsti from VII to VI. Healthy
participants find these problems difficult, because they typically understand
the constraints (i.e. they define the response space) as allowing the
matstis to be moved only from one number to another. However, some
problems can be solved only by moving matstis between the operators
(+, –, and =). For example, IV = IV + IV can be solved by rotating the vertical
matsti in the + sign by 90 degrees to make an = sign: IV = IV = IV.
Frith’s (2000) hypothesis makes the counterintuitive prediction that
prefrontal patients, who do not have the ability to construct a ‘proper’
response set, should perform better in this task than healthy individuals. e
results bore out this prediction: lateral frontal patients solved 82 per cent of
the most difficult matsti arithmetic problems, whi only 43 per cent of
the controls could solve.
Sustaining and concentrating attention

Salmaso and Denes (1982) asked participants to perform a vigilance task,
namely to detect a target stimulus whi was interspersed infrequently
among repeated presentations of other stimuli (a signal detection task). e
stimuli were either pairs of sloping lines or pairs of leers that were
presented only briefly. Participants were required to respond on those
occasional trials when the pairs of lines or leers were different. Some of the
patients with bilateral frontal lobe damage could not reliably detect the
targets. is suggests that their ability to sustain their aention was
adversely affected.
In some tasks, deploying aention requires flexibility; this is the case with
the Wisconsin Card sorting test (see Section 9.5) and task-switing
experiments. In these experiments, the same stimuli are used with two
simple tasks. e tasks alternate in a preset fashion (e.g. A A B B A A …) or
in random order (e.g. A A B A B B B …) and the participants must adapt
their behaviour to the current task. Comparing 45 frontal patients with 50
healthy individuals, Tsuida and Fellows (2013) found increased reaction

times for the patients when there was a ange in task. Brain-imaging
analyses suggested that the le inferior frontal junction played a central role
in task switing.
Suppressing attention
e reduction in the ability of patients with frontal lobe damage to sustain
their aention is complemented by evidence of their distractibility and their
inability to inhibit automatic or habitual responses. During testing, their
aention frequently wanders, and they will oen report irrelevant things.
Frontal patients have been observed to grasp or use objects placed near
them, providing evidence that the patient’s habitual responses are being
triggered even in situations where they are not required. Lhermie (1986)
describes one incident when a patient was brought to an apartment and
shown around. When introduced to the bedroom, where the bedspread had
been removed from the bed and the top sheet turned ba, the patient got
undressed and climbed into bed. is behaviour is termed ‘utilisation
behaviour’ and is dependent on external environmental cues whi capture
the aentional resources available to the patient. Patients are oen
conscious of this behavioural dependence but are unable to control it even
when they have been instructed to do something else, su as complete a
psyometric test.
An inability to suppress the most salient response was observed when
frontal patients were administered the Stroop Colour and Word Test. If
shown the word ‘red’ wrien in ‘blue’ (in the incongruent condition), we
usually have no trouble in saying what the word is, but find naming the
colour of the ink more problematic because we need to suppress our habitual
reading response (see Chapter 3 for further information). In one study,
patients with le frontal lesions were found to perform very poorly on the
Stroop test (Perret, 1974), and in another only bilateral frontal damage was
found to be associated with increased errors and slowness in response time
for the incongruent condition (Stuss et al., 2001).

Perret (1974) found that those patients performing poorly on the Stroop
test also failed to perform well on a verbal fluency test (to sear for words
beginning with a certain initial leer). He suggested that this could be
because the verbal fluency test makes similar cognitive processing demands,
namely to suppress the habitual response of searing for words according
to their meaning. Burgess and Shallice (1996a) considered this issue further,
using a task whi allowed them to examine both verbal response inhibition
as well as response initiation. ey presented a task involving sentences in
whi the last word was missing (the Hayling test). e missing word is
strongly cued by the rest of the sentence; for example, the word ‘stamp’ is
cued by ‘He mailed the leer without a …’. For the first half of these
sentences, patients were asked to provide the word whi they thought
could fit at the end of the sentence (response initiation condition). For the
second half, they were asked to provide a word whi made no sense at all
in the context of the sentence (response suppression or inhibition condition).
In comparison to patients with posterior lesions, patients with frontal lobe
lesions took longer to complete the sentences in the response initiation
condition. ey also performed worse in the response inhibition condition,
providing significantly more straightforward completions of the sentence.
Even when the answers were not completions, the words they selected were
more likely to be semantically related to the sentence. An inability to
suppress a current response is also a possible reason for frontal lobe patients’
failure on other tasks, for example the Wisconsin Card Sorting Test
described in the next section.

Successful problem-solving requires us to go beyond the information
provided and engage in abstract thinking. A traditional way of assessing the
ability to use and understand abstractions is to ask participants to explain
proverbs, where the metaphorical meaning (whi is generalisable) oen
conflicts with the concrete meaning (whi is specific to a particular
situation). us, for example, when explaining the meaning of ‘Rome was
not built in a day’, one should not focus on the exact location (Rome) or
duration (one day), but one should focus on the time it took to build the
Roman empire and understand that great endeavours need time to complete.
It has been known for a long time that frontal lobe patients oen struggle
with the task of explaining proverbs (Luria, 1966). A recent example is
offered by Murphy et al. (2013), who studied 46 patients with frontal lesions.
ey found that only the medial frontal patients performed worse than the
control group. Interestingly, most of their responses were partly correct (e.g.
for the proverb above: ‘ings take time, but you will get there in the end’, p.
2079). When only errors are considered, the le lateral group produced
concrete errors 45 per cent of the time, whi was higher than right lateral
patients (12 per cent) and healthy controls (8 per cent).
Another commonly used method of assessing abstraction involves
classification or sorting tasks. Su tasks require participants to abstract the
concept or rule used for sorting. ese are similar to the inductive reasoning
tasks described in Chapter 8. e ability of frontal patients to formulate and
test hypotheses as to what the correct rule may be is usually impaired.
Sorting tasks
In a study by Cicerone et al. (1983), patients with bilateral frontal lobe
lesions were shown stimuli that varied on four dimensions, namely size,
colour, form, and position. e task was to abstract the critical dimension.
On ea trial, patients were shown four pairs of stimuli and asked to oose

one according to what they thought the critical dimension might be (see
Figure 9.4).
Figure 9.4
Card sorting task.
Source: Adapted from Cicerone et al. (1983).
Note: The task is to abstract a single critical dimension from stimuli varying on four
dimensions: size, colour, form, and position.
On specified trials, they were told if their oice was right or wrong, and
negative feedba would require them to swit to a different hypothesis
and select a different dimension. Results showed that patients with tumours
of the frontal lobe were impaired on this task compared to participants with
posterior tumours. ose with frontal lobe lesions used fewer hypotheses
and frequently failed to shi from an irrelevant hypothesis, even when told
their oice was incorrect. ey continued to select the stimulus using the
same dimension on subsequent trials despite negative feedba, as if they
were failing to aend to all of the relevant dimensions.
Failure to make effective use of feedba was also noted in earlier resear
using the Wisconsin Card Sorting Test. Here, patients are presented with
four cards, whi can vary along three dimensions, namely number, colour,
and shape (see Figure 9.5). e number of items on the card ranges from 1 to
4, the shape of the items on the card is either a circle, triangle, cross, or star,

and the colour of the items on the card is either red, green, yellow, or blue.
e task is to sort a sta of cards into four piles.
Figure 9.5
Wisconsin Card Sorting Test.
Note: The cards vary along three dimensions: number, colour, and shape, and the task is
to sort a stack of cards according to a rule.
As with the previous test, the participant has to hypothesise the rule, for
example sort according to colour, and the experimenter provides feedba as
to whether ea card is being placed correctly in one of the four piles. So, if
the card is red, the participant must sort the card with the pile that has red
objects. Aer a specific number of cards have been correctly placed (for
example ten consecutive correct responses), the experimenter anges the
rule without warning and only sorts that accord with the new category will
result in positive feedba. Neurologically intact individuals quily detect
su rule anges and swit to a new hypothesis accordingly. Patients with
frontal lobe damage have been found to continue with their original rule
despite the negative feedba they were receiving (Milner, 1964). is has
been called a ‘stu-in-set’ tendency: a ange in rule involves a shi from
the colour dimension to the number dimension, but the patient still stis
with the colour dimension. ey may continue to sort according to their first
hypothesis for as many as 100 cards, showing an inability to shi response
strategy, known as perseveration, and a la of flexibility in their
behaviour.

Perseveration An inability to shi response strategy aracteristic of
frontal lobe patients.
Evidence concerning perseveration

Perseverative responses were also observed in a study by Miller and Tippe
(1996), when employing the Matsti Test of Cognitive Flexibility. is test
is a visual problem-solving task and therefore a very different task to the
sorting tasks described previously. It requires the participant to show
different ways of removing stis from a two-dimensional geometric figure
so that a particular shape emerges (see Figure 9.6). eir results showed that
patients with damage to the right frontal lobe were impaired in their ability
to shi strategy. ose with le frontal lobe damage displayed no significant
difficulty. ese results are consistent with earlier resear that has found
the right frontal lobe to be more important than the le when the tasks
entail minimal verbal requirements.
Figure 9.6
Matsti Test of Cognitive Flexibility.
Source: Adapted from Miller & Tippett (1996).
Note: The four problems associated with one of the geometric designs used in the
Matchstick Test of Cognitive Flexibility are shown here.

Other resear has aempted to identify the extent to whi
perseveration is a result of not aending to the feedba provided. Delis et
al. (1992) used a modified version of the Wisconsin
Card Sorting Test with three conditions. In the first condition, participants
had to sort six cards spontaneously and to report the rule they employed; in
the second condition, they had to report the rules for correct sorts performed
by the examiner; and in the third condition, they had to sort the cards
according to abstract cues or explicit information provided by the examiner.
A significant number of frontal patients showed perseveration. Although
patients were able to abstract a rule or formulate a hypothesis, they did not
use the feedba they were given to modulate their behaviour and shi to a
different rule. Delis et al.’s results suggest that frontal patients were impaired
both in their ability to use the feedba provided and in their ability to shi
to a different rule. Delis et al. concluded that, although impaired abstract
thinking was not the primary deficit, it is one of several ‘higher-level’
functions that collectively disrupt the problem-solving ability of frontal
patients. is notion is explored further in Section 9.8.
Disinhibition Impaired response inhibition, an inability to suppress

previous incorrect responses observed in patients with frontal lobe
epilepsy.
Going beyond perseveration

Maers are complicated further by the findings of Owen et al. (1991). ey
found frontal patients were not impaired if the shi involved the same
dimension. is is termed an intra-dimensional shift and occurs when a
participant is required to transfer a rule involving a stimulus dimension su
as colour or shape to a novel set of exemplars of that same stimulus
dimension. Patients were impaired, however, when they were required to
shi response set to an alternative, previously irrelevant dimension. is is
termed an extradimensional shift and is a core component of the Wisconsin

Card Sorting Test. Barceló et al. (1997) suggested that frontal lobe patients
may be impaired mostly in making extradimensional shis because of their
inability to suppress previous incorrect responses; thus, the poor
performance of frontal patients on the Wisconsin Card Sorting Test may be
linked to problems in inhibitory control. Helmstaedter et al. (1996) found
impaired response inhibition (known as disinhibition) to be one
aracteristic of patients with frontal lobe epilepsy that differentiated them
from patients with temporal lobe epilepsy.
Using a different rule-detection task, Burgess and Shallice (1996b) failed to
find significant differences in the incidence of perseverative responses when
comparing patients with different cerebral lesions. ey designed the
Brixton Spatial Anticipation Test, whi, unlike the Wisconsin Card Sorting
Test, allows the amount of guessing to be estimated. Patients were presented
with a booklet containing 56 pages, with ea page showing a 2 × 5 array of
circles numbered 1–10 (see Figure 9.7). Pages differed in terms of whi
circle was filled. e task was to predict whi circle would be filled on the
next page. e rule would apply to a certain number of pages, and this
number would vary in an unsystematic way from 3 to 8. erefore, anges
in the rule could not be anticipated. e errors made by participants were
scored either as perseverations, applications of other incorrect rules, or
bizarre responses and guesses.
Figure 9.7
Brixton Spatial Anticipation Test.

Source: Adapted from Burgess & Shallice (1996b).
Note: Each page of the test shows a 2 × 5 array of circles. The task is to predict which
circle will be filled on the next page.
Patients with anterior lesions made more errors overall, with a

significantly higher absolute number and proportion of the third type of
errors. Also, having detected a correct rule, they were more likely to
abandon it. However, their performance did not demonstrate a greater
tendency to perseverate. ese observations were confirmed by Reverberi et
al. (2005), who distinguished between two different types of perseveration
responses and found that frontal patients did not show an increase in either
type. However, they did find that only patients with le lateral frontal
lesions and not those with right lateral frontal lesions were significantly
impaired in their performance on the Brixton test.
Reverberi et al. (2005) ruled out a number of explanations for their
findings and suggested that, for their le frontal lateral group, the
fundamental process that is impaired is that of induction. ey suggest that
localised in the le frontal cortex is a key process necessary to carry out
inductive inference, and point out that this proposal is in line with the
findings of some of the imaging studies that have looked at brain activation
whilst participants undertake inductive reasoning tasks (e.g. Parsons &
Osherson, 2001).
Analogy
Krawczyk’s (2012) review of the literature on brain-damaged patients and
neuro-imaging concluded that analogy tasks engage multiple parts of the
brain. Areas in the occipital and parietal lobes (visual and spatial processing)
were first involved. is was followed by engagement of several areas in the
prefrontal cortex: the le rostrolateral prefrontal cortex (including BA10 and
47) presumably integrates information and performs explicit relational
comparisons, whilst the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex and inferior frontal
gyrus inhibit irrelevant semantic information and connect to more remote

semantic association brain areas. Finally, the temporal lobes are engaged for
retrieving semantic information. e role of the le rostrolateral prefrontal
cortex was confirmed in Urbanski et al.’s (2016) study, where frontal lobe
patients performed analogical reasoning tasks. Patients were presented with
a source and two targets; they had to decide whi of the two targets
corresponded to the source. e stimuli consisted of sets of two or three
leers, whi varied in several dimensions (size, colour, texture, orientation,
number, and identity). Damage to the le rostrolateral prefrontal cortex
impaired analogical reasoning more than damage to other regions of the
frontal lobe.
Deduction
Several studies have found that damage to the le prefrontal cortex impairs
deductive reasoning, while this is not the case with damage to the right
prefrontal cortex (e.g. Goel et al., 2007). A possible explanation is that these
tasks are presented verbally, and the le hemisphere is specialised for verbal
information. Another explanation is that the le prefrontal cortex specialises
in processing certain and complete information, aracteristic of deductive
tasks, whilst the right prefrontal cortex is engaged with uncertain and
incomplete information. Goel et al. (2007) used problems involving either of
these two types of information. ey found a two-way interaction:
prefrontal patients with le lesions were impaired only with problems
containing complete information, whilst those with right lesions were
selectively impaired with problems containing incomplete information.
With material involving emotional content, another part of the prefrontal
cortex is engaged. As documented in Section 9.3, lesions to the orbital
prefrontal cortex (Brodmann areas 10, 11, and 47) impair emotional
processing and decision-making. us, su lesions should also lead to
deficits in logical reasoning tasks using emotional material. To test this
hypothesis, Goel et al. (2017) presented participants with reasoning problems
containing either emotional or neutral content. ey had three groups:
patients with lesions to the orbital prefrontal cortex, patients with posterior

lesions, and controls. As predicted, patients with lesions to the orbital
prefrontal cortex performed worse than the other two groups with problems
involving emotional content, while the three groups did not differ with the
problems involving neutral content. Goel et al. concluded that the orbital
prefrontal cortex filters emotionally arged material before it is processed
by the dorsolateral regions of the prefrontal cortex specialised in verbal
reasoning. Damage to the orbital prefrontal impairs filtering, whi in turn
impairs reasoning.
Decision-making
Our review of clinical cases (Section 9.3) has highlighted the difficulties that
prefrontal patients face when making decisions. To study decision-making in
patients with damage to the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, Beara and
colleagues (1997) used the Iowa Gambling Task, in whi participants have
to select cards from des that offer different rewards. While healthy
individuals started making advantageous oices even before consciously
realising whi strategy was the best, prefrontal patients kept making
disadvantageous oices even aer they were aware of the optimal strategy.
Weller et al. (2007) compared the effects of lesions to the amygdala and to
the ventromedial prefrontal cortex. (e amygdala is a brain region in
arge of processing emotional responses.) ey used an adaptive decision-
making task where it was possible to separately assess decisions that could
lead to gains and decisions that could lead to losses. ey found that patients
with damage to the amygdala made suboptimal decisions with problems
involving potential gains, but not with problems involving potential losses.
By contrast, patients with lesions to the ventromedial prefrontal cortex
displayed impaired decision-making with both types of stimuli. Consistent
with these results, Studer et al. (2015) found that damage to the
ventromedial prefrontal cortex impairs the way risk is processed and thus
affects decision-making under risk.
is line of resear has practical implications. Pathological gambling
concerns gamblers who cannot control their gambling, with significant

negative consequences to their finances and well-being as well as to the
well-being of friends and family (Gobet & Siller, 2014). Prevalence is high
in many Western countries su as the UK and Canada, with important
societal implications. Resear has shown that problem gamblers display
inferior performance in the Iowa Gambling Task compared to controls,
whi seems to be linked to a reduction in activity of the ventromedial
prefrontal cortex (see Brevers et al., 2013, for a review).

Other tasks have been developed to investigate how well frontal patients can
formulate a strategy to obtain a goal, and performance on su tasks is a
good indication of how well individuals can produce a plan of action, whi
can involve sub-goals. Shallice (1982) devised the ‘Tower of London’ task (a
task related to the ‘Tower of Hanoi’ problem described in Chapter 8). e
problem involves an apparatus with three beads and three pegs of varying
heights so that ea peg can hold one, two, or all three beads. e task
requires one to move the three beads whi are placed on one part of the
apparatus to a different position (for example, see Figure 9.8). ese beads
can only be moved one at a time and can only be moved to a different peg.
e task is graded according to the number of moves necessary to aieve
the solution. Frontal patients, specifically those with le frontal damage,
were found to be both inefficient and ineffective at performing this task. In
particular, they engaged in moves that only directly led towards their goal.
Owen et al. (1990) used a computerised version of this task and found no
differences between le and right frontal lobe patients. However, whereas
normal participants and both groups of frontal patients spent the same
amount of time planning their first move, the frontal patients spent
considerably longer planning subsequent moves. Not only were they
observed to have significantly longer thinking times overall, they needed
more moves to solve the problem.

Figure 9.8
An example of a problem from the Tower of London task.
Source: Adapted from Shallice (1982).
e evidence presented so far implicates the frontal lobes in ‘planning’, at

least in the case of the Tower of London task. Goel and Grafman (1995)
presented 20 patients with lesions in the prefrontal cortex with a
computerised five-disc version of the Tower of Hanoi puzzle and found them
to be impaired on this task in comparison to normal controls. eir
individual moves to solve the problems were analysed and both patients and
controls were found to use the same strategy. However, the patients’ poor
performance could be aributed to a failure to spot and/or resolve
counterintuitive baward moves. To aieve the goal, moves have
sometimes to be made that takes you away from the goal and the conflict
between the sub-goal and goal has to be anowledged. Many of us
experience difficulty in implementing su moves as it contravenes our
favourite heuristic, to reduce the difference between the current state and
the goal state. Goel and Grafman suggest that the patients are seeking to
satisfy the goal rather than a conflicting sub-goal, and this is consistent with
explanations of impaired performance on other tasks, namely that frontal
patients have a particular problem with suppressing their current, salient, or
habitual response.

It should be evident from the resear outlined in the previous sections that
a range of neuropsyological tests have been used to investigate the nature
of the cognitive processes underlying the impaired performance of patients
with frontal lobe damage. Failure on these is usually interpreted as
suggesting that the cognitive processes involved in successfully completing
the task are damaged. Burgess et al. (1998) make the point that with many of
the tests, su as the Wisconsin Card Sorting Test, an assumption is made
that the test itself taps into processes that are used to cope with many real-
life situations. However, there may be lile correspondence between the
cognitive resources tapped by su tests and those tapped in real-world
situations. For example, real-life problem-solving is usually open-ended in
nature and different courses of action have to be considered and evaluated.
It is rare that all the relevant pieces of information are available together
and frequently solutions to real-life problems require a juggling of priorities
whi differ in importance according to the specific context. erefore, there
is a need to assess performance using tests that involve formalised versions
of real-world activities and hence are more ecologically valid.
Shallice and Burgess (1991a) have developed tests that specifically explore
higher-order planning deficits, and these mimic everyday problem-solving.
e ‘Six Elements Test’ is undertaken in a standard hospital office. It
requires the patient to complete three different but not difficult tasks, ea
with two components, within a specified time period of 15 minutes. e
tasks are: dictating a route into a recorder; carrying out arithmetic problems;
and writing down the names of approximately 100 pictures of objects. One
key aspect of the instructions given to participants is that all the tasks should
be completed and that the important thing is to do a lile of ea of the
components of ea of the tasks.
e ‘Multiple Errands Test’ requires the patient to carry out certain tasks
in situations where minor unforeseen events can arise. e patient is given a
card with eight tasks wrien on it and then sent to a shopping precinct to

carry out these tasks. ere are six simple requests (for example, buy a
leuce), the seventh task requires the patient to be somewhere in 15
minutes, and the eighth task requires the recording of four pieces of
information during the errands (for example, the price of tomatoes or the
rate of exange of the euro yesterday). Patients are instructed to spend as
lile money as possible (within reason) and take as lile time as possible
(without rushing excessively). ey are told to enter a shop only when
wanting to buy something, and to tell the experimenter when they leave the
shop what they have bought. ey are informed that they cannot use
anything not bought on the street, other than a wat, to help them. Finally,
they are told that they can do the tasks in any order.
ese tests were used in a study of three frontal head-injury patients (AP,
DN, and FS). All three had Wesler Adult Intelligence Scale (WAIS) IQs
between 120 and 130, and on 13 tests considered to be sensitive to frontal
lobe damage, for instance the Wisconsin Card Sorting and Stroop tests, the
performance of two of the patients (AP and DN) fell within the normal
range. e performance of the third patient (FS) was impaired on four of
these tests. In daily life, the three patients planned few activities and showed
lile spontaneous organisation; two had lost jobs because of gross
oversights. When asked to complete the Six Elements Test, all three patients
performed at below the normal range; not only were their scores
quantitatively lower, their performance was qualitatively different also
when compared to that of control participants. AP started by making notes
for four minutes, whi were then never used. DN spent ten minutes on one
task and did not even aempt a second task that was very similar. FS only
taled three of the six subtasks.
e three patients performed equally poorly on the Multiple Errands Test.
ey made more than three times as many inefficient actions and broke
three times as many rules in comparison with normal controls. Again, their
behaviour was qualitatively different. Two of the patients experienced
difficulties with shopkeepers. AP asked for the previous day’s newspaper
and, on obtaining it, angered the shopkeeper by leaving the shop without
paying for it, breaking the rule that only bought items can be used. DN

asked a shop assistant to give him a birthday card for free, breaking the
buying rule and resulting in a heated argument. FS broke the rule that no
shop should be entered other than to buy something; aer entering, she
found that the shop, a emist, did not sto the soap she especially liked.
She would not buy other eap soap even though this would have been
adequate for the task.
Shallice and Burgess (1991a) proposed that these patients were able to
generate intentions but not reactivate these intentions later on, when these
were not directly signalled or primed by the situation. e patients lost the
facility to activate or trigger markers. Normally, when intentions are created
or rules are temporarily created, markers are activated whi are then
triggered if a relevant situation occurs. Markers are messages indicating that
some aspects of future behaviour should not be considered as routine and
that some particular facets of the situation provide important information
for action. is triggering will interrupt ongoing behaviour to ensure that
the intention or rule is realised. e patients performed poorly on the Six
Elements and the Multiple Errands Tests, not because of motivational or
retrospective memory impairments, but because of processes that bridge
these; processes whi assist the realisation of goals and intentions.
Similar deficits were observed in a study by Goel et al. (2013). Participants
were required to help an American couple plan a trip to Italy. e main
constraints were the time available for the trip (one week), the budget
(€3,500), the diverging interests of the couple (arts vs araeology), and the
necessity to leave time for eating and relaxation. e patients with right
prefrontal cortex lesions displayed excessive precision from the beginning,
narrowing their sear to concrete options and ending up with mediocre
solutions. By contrast, normal controls were able to interleave concrete and
abstract types of representations. e results confirm the observation made
several times in this apter that the prefrontal cortex plays a key role in
planning and in encoding and manipulating abstract information.
ese findings shed light on why patients with frontal lobe damage can
perform well in many laboratory tests that supposedly tap frontal lobe
function and yet fail in everyday activities. e situations where these

patients have problems are those that (a) offer concurrent task requirements;
(b) can be approaed in a number of different ways; (c) require decisions
about how to allocate resources; and (d) tap subtle planning and prospective
memory. In addition, while laboratory tasks consist of stereotyped repetition
of trials, provide repetitions of instructions, and offer numerous verbal
prompts, this is not the case in everyday activities (Duncan et al., 1996).

It is apparent from the earlier sections of this apter that a number of
distinct processes have been related to the frontal lobes, including
abstract/conceptual thinking and planning, whi can be classified as
‘supervisory’ or ‘executive’ functions. Apart from cognitive processes,
damage to the frontal lobes can influence behaviour, emotion, and
motivation as well as impact on personality. e 20 most commonly
reported symptoms of the ‘frontal lobe’ or ‘dysexecutive syndrome’ are
reported in Box 9.2.

Box 9.2 Characteristics of the dysexecutive syndrome (taken from
Burgess et al., 1998)
1 Abstract thinking problems

2 Impulsivity
3 Confabulation
4 Planning problems
5 Euphoria
6 Temporal sequencing deficits
7 La of insight and social awareness
8 Apathy and la of drive
9 Disinhibition
10 Variable motivation
11 Shallowing of affective responses
12 Aggression
13 La of concern
14 Perseveration
15 Restlessness hyperkinesis
16 Inability to inhibit responses
17 Knowing–doing dissociation
18 Distractibility
19 Poor decision-making ability
20 No concern for social rules
Norman and Shallice’s (1986) theory

Norman and Shallice (1986) adopted an information-processing approa to
explain these deficits of executive function. Complex but well-established
paerns of behaviour are controlled by hierarically organised semas or
memory representations. High-level semas can call up subordinate
programmes or subroutines; thus, for example, ‘making dinner’ will have

component semas containing, at the lowest level, instructions on how to
use the oven and, at higher levels, how to make a eesecake. Fundamental
to their approa is the distinction between habitual and novel action
routines. ey suggested that ea of these are selected and integrated in
different ways.
Norman and Shallice suggested that we frequently function on ‘auto
pilot’, selecting and integrating cognitive or behavioural skills on the basis of
established semas. Environmental cues trigger certain responses whi in
turn trigger specific semas; for instance, a kele may trigger your ‘make a
cup of tea’ sema. Once triggered, a sema competes for dominance and
control of action by inhibiting other semas whi might conflict with it.
When there is a clash between two routine activities, an operation they call
contention seduling prevents two competing activated semas from
being selected through lateral inhibition. However, it is not always desirable
to select semas on the basis of the strength of their initial activation.
Norman and Shallice argued that coping with novelty involves the selection
of semas that are modulated by the operation of a supervisory
attentional system (similar to Baddeley’s concept of a central executive, see
Chapter 5). is system can heighten a sema’s level of activation, allowing
it to be in a beer position to compete with other semas for dominance
and thus increasing its probability of being selected in contention seduling
(see Figure 9.9).
Supervisory attentional system A term used by Norman and Shallice to

describe a system whi controls cognitive functions, su as heightening
a sema’s level of activation and thus increasing its probability of being
selected in contention seduling.

Figure 9.9
A diagram of the Norman and Shallice model.
Source: Adapted from Shallice (1982).
Norman and Shallice indicated five types of situations that would involve
the operation of this system:
1 situations that involve planning or decision-making (e.g. Tower of

London test);
2 situations that involve error correction or troubleshooting (e.g.
Wisconsin Card Sorting Test);
3 situations that require less well-learned responses or require the
involvement of a new paern of actions;
4 situations that are considered to be dangerous or tenically difficult;
5 situations that require us not to suppress a strong habitual response
or to resist temptation (e.g. Stroop test).
eir approa assumes that we might operate in one mode where

potentially demanding but routine action or thought processes are selected
by well-learned triggering procedures. When these routine operations will
not allow us to aieve our goal, then some form of explicit modulation or
novel activity must take place, involving higher-level processes and the
supervisory system. e notion that our cognitive processes might operate

on different levels or modes (routine versus non-routine processing) is also
contained in artificial intelligence models of problem-solving, e.g. Soar
(Laird et al., 1987). eir use of the concept of ‘sema’ is also apparent in
other explanations of cognitive behaviour (see Chapter 6).
Shallice (1988) explains how this approa can account for impairments of
problem-solving. Lesions to the frontal lobes impair the functioning of the
supervisory system so that contention seduling operates unmodulated.
e deficits in sustained aention and distractibility described earlier arise
because, unless strong trigger-sema contingencies are present, the patient
is unable to inhibit irrelevant input. Observations of utilisation behaviour,
the tendency to pi up and use objects in close proximity, are consistent
with this. Perseveration will be observed when the situation triggers a well-
learned set of responses. One sema would gain abnormal levels of
dominance over others and it would be difficult to swit to a different set of
responses. Perseveration has been observed in the performance of frontal
patients on the Wisconsin Card Sorting Test. Tasks or situations that require
a ‘novel’ response, for example those involving cognitive estimates, will be
problematic as there is no routine procedure that allows the patient to
produce an appropriate response.
Alternative approaes
Others have proposed accounts of frontal lobe dysfunction that do not
specify a damaged central executive meanism. Goldman-Rakic (1987)
conducted extensive resear with non-human primates and proposed that
the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex is crucial for working memory, called
‘representational memory’ by that author. is framework has been
extended by Kimberg and Farah (1993) to account for the range of human
cognitive impairments following frontal lobe damage. ey proposed that
the strength of associations among working memory representations are
weakened, specifically those representations of goals, environmental stimuli,
and stored declarative knowledge. e representations themselves are
unaffected; instead the associations among these different working memory

representations are deficient. Kimberg and Farah went on to simulate the
weakening of working memory associations using a computer model. ey
selected four tasks that frontal patients had been found to fail, and found
that their ‘damaged’ model also failed all four tasks in the same ways as
frontal-damaged patients.
Duncan et al. (1996) argued that there is considerable overlap between the
functions reflected in Spearman’s concept of general intelligence (‘g’) and
the executive functioning of the frontal lobes. is is based partly on the
finding that some tests providing good estimates of overall intelligence also
tap executive function. Based on the results of four experiments on goal
neglect, they suggested that failure to satisfy a stated task requirement was
the predominant finding in frontal patients and was closely related to
Spearman’s g in the normal population. ey argued that the conventional
view that frontal patients show normal intelligence, as measured by
psyometric tests su as the Wesler Adult Intelligence Scale, is
misleading. It is important to distinguish between tests of fluid intelligence,
whi assess ability for abstract thought and reasoning, and tests of
crystallised intelligence that relate to prior knowledge acquired partly
through fluid intelligence but also through education, culture, and other
experiences. As acquired knowledge may be less sensitive to frontal damage
than fluid reasoning, frontal patients may show deficits on tests of fluid
intelligence but not on standard intelligence tests whi measure, in part,
crystallized intelligence.
Crinella and Yu (2000) failed to replicate the findings of Duncan et al.;
their results did not find frontal lobe lesions to affect fluid intelligence,
although performance on tests of executive functions was affected. It is
possible though that the relationship between g, fluid intelligence in
particular, and executive function differs according to the tests used. Roca et
al. (2010) examined the role of fluid intelligence in executive deficits using a
range of different tasks, comparing patients with focal frontal lesions with
controls mated to patients in terms of age and National Adult Reading
Test-estimated IQ. ey found that, for some widely used tasks, including
the Wisconsin Card Sorting Test, fluid intelligence could account entirely for

frontal deficits. Furthermore, they found that these tasks were not related to
a particular lesion location within the frontal lobe. However, for a second
group of tasks that were associated with lesions in the right anterior frontal
cortex, deficits were not fully explained by fluid intelligence. is second
group of tasks were therefore more successful in tapping specific executive
functions associated with these prefrontal regions. ese findings suggest
that different tests may be tapping different types of executive functions and
this is explored next.
Fractionation of the executive functions of the frontal lobes

Other theoretical developments have sought to clarify the extent to whi
the executive functions are unitary in nature. Shallice and Burgess (1991b)
suggested that the supervisory system should not be considered to act as a
single resource and this view is supported by Stuss and Alexander (2000, p.
289), who argued that ‘there is no unitary executive function. Rather,
distinct processes related to the frontal lobes can be differentiated whi
converge on a general concept of control functions.’
Burgess et al. (1998) performed factor analysis on patients’ dysexecutive
symptoms and reported that the 20 symptoms displayed in Box 9.2 could be
grouped into five orthogonal factors; two of these relate to the emotional
and personality anges that can be seen in patients with frontal lobe
damage. e remaining three are:
• inhibition, or the ability to suppress a habitual response, assuming

that impulsivity and disinhibition are the behavioural consequences
of su a cognitive problem;
• intentionality, whi is related to the creation and maintenance of
goal-related behaviour;
• executive memory, whi is related to confabulation and inability to
recall the correct order of events.

ese findings provide support that at the behavioural level the
dysexecutive syndrome can be fractionated.
By fractionating the supervisory processes, it is possible to account for
dissociations of deficits in problem-solving, and explain why a patient may
be impaired on a seduling test su as the Multiple Errands Test and not
on other more standard tests of frontal lobe functioning. For example,
Bamdad et al. (2003) found only a weak relationship between traditional
measures of executive function and a newly developed measure of real-
world planning/problem-solving abilities. Rueert and Grafman (1996)
failed to find significant correlations between any of the three measures of
sustained aention and performance on the Tower of Hanoi or the
Wisconsin Card Sorting Test. e authors suggest that the regions of the
frontal lobe subserving sustained aention may not be the same regions
involved in the problem-solving tasks. In the Burgess and Shallice (1996a)
study that employed the Hayling Sentence Completion Test, analysis
revealed extremely low correlations between the patients’ performance in
the response initiation and response inhibition conditions. Su results
suggest that initiation and inhibition may be impaired singly and that the
two processes are separable. Burgess and Shallice (1994) also reported low
correlations between patients’ performance on the Hayling Test and the
Brixton Spatial Anticipation Test, and concluded that the two tests are
tapping either differing executive processes or dedicated supervisory
resources.
Further evidence for fractionation emerged when Stuss and Alexander
(2007) analysed the effects of focal lesions of the frontal lobes. ey argued
that the evidence points to at least three separate ‘supervisory’ processes
ea related to a different region within the frontal lobes:
(a) ‘energisation’ – a function involved in initiating and sustaining a

response; this is associated with the superior medial region of the
frontal lobes;
(b) ‘task seing’ – a function involved in seing up stimulus–response
relationships, su as in the early stages of learning to drive a car;

this is associated with the le lateral region of the frontal lobes;
(c) ‘monitoring’ – a function involved in eing a task over time and
adjusting behaviour as appropriate, for example when timing an
activity or detecting when errors occur; this is associated with the
right lateral regions of the frontal lobes.
ese three processes are anatomically and functionally independent, and

are ‘supervisory’ as they are important for controlling lower-order
processes. Stuss and Alexander consider them to be domain-general and to
operate as required by task context and complexity in different networks,
both within the frontal regions and also between frontal and posterior
regions. ere is no overaring supervisory system su as an
undifferentiated central executive higher in the hierary; instead, the
functioning of su a system is carried out by the flexible assembly of these
individual processes.
Diversity and unity of executive functions

Although the finding of low correlations among executive tasks seems to be
robust, Miyake et al. (2000) noted that it is not completely clear that these
are indeed a reflection of distinct dissociable underlying executive functions
(see also Chapters 3 and 5 for discussion of Miyake’s findings). Non-
executive processing requirements (for example ones that tap perceptual or
motor abilities) may instead obscure the existence of underlying
commonalities among the different executive tasks. In their study, Miyake et
al. sought to extract what might be common among different tasks of
executive function and then used this extracted factor to explore how
different executive functions related to ea other. ey ose three
executive functions: shiing between tasks, updating and monitoring
working memory representations, and inhibition of dominant responses.
ey then selected a number of simple tasks that are believed to tap ea
function and a more complex, conventional executive task that is thought to
tap several of these three functions. One hundred and thirty-seven college

students performed ea task. Miyake et al. concluded that their results
‘suggest that the three oen postulated executive functions of Shiing,
Updating, and Inhibition are separable but moderately correlated constructs,
thus indicating both unity and diversity of executive functions’ (p. 87). ey
also found that ea function contributed differently to participants’
performance on the more complex executive test, highlighting the multi-
factorial nature of certain executive tasks that are oen used in cognitive
and neuropsyological studies.
More recently, the relationship between intelligence and these three
executive functions, shiing mental sets, updating working memory, and
inhibiting prepotent responses, has been investigated in normal young
adults. Friedman et al. (2006) found that updating correlated with
intelligence on the WAIS IQ, and on measures of fluid and crystallized
intelligence. However, shiing and inhibition were not statistically
significantly related to intelligence once their relationship with updating
was taken into account. ese findings support those of Roca et al. (2010)
described earlier, highlighting that intelligence measures do not relate in the
same way to different executive functions.

9.9 A final note
e aim of this apter was to introduce you to disorders associated with the
frontal lobes, with a particular focus on what are referred to as executive
functions whi encompass processes associated with problem-solving. It is
important, however, to anowledge that the term ‘executive functions’ is a
psyological construct, and not to be confused with functions specifically
associated with the frontal lobes. ere are two reasons for this: impairment
on tests of executive function may arise without focal frontal damage and
aer damage to non-frontal brain areas; and not all frontal lobe functions
are executive ones – for example, as indicated earlier on in Section 9.3, some
are related to behavioural or emotional self-regulation (Stuss, 2006). It is also
important to note that, although there are many tasks that are thought to tap
executive function, not all of whi have been described in this apter,
traditional tests su as the Wisconsin Card Sorting Test were not originally
designed as a test of executive function in patient populations, and
furthermore it is not entirely clear what they actually measure. Burgess et al.
(2009) make the point that our understanding in this area is hampered by the
fact that we do not have defining features for a test of ‘abstract reasoning’
that will reliably distinguish it from other executive functions su as
‘planning’. However, it is important to seek an understanding of the specific
deficits of patients with frontal lesions, as this knowledge can assist in the
design of appropriate assessment tools and inform rehabilitation strategies.
at fluid intelligence may account for performance on some of the
measures of executive function suggests that separation from g could be an
important step towards improving assessment.

Summary
• Executive functions encompass the deployment of aention, the

initiation of non-habitual action, goal-directed behaviour, planning,
insight, foresight, and self-regulation, and hence processes that are
associated with problem-solving, an operational definition of
thinking.
• Frontal lobe damage can affect performance on a wide range of tasks
that are thought to tap executive functions.
• Case histories show that frontal damage may also result in anges
to personality and affective behaviour.
• Neuropsyological studies have shown that impairments in the
deployment of aention, in abstract and conceptual thinking, and in
strategy formation can follow frontal lobe damage, and these
processes are important for successful problem-solving.
• Findings suggest that laboratory tests may not be suitable for tapping
those social problem-solving activities that frontal patients find
difficult to perform in everyday life.
• Norman and Shallice have provided a theory of frontal lobe function
that specifies damage to the central executive of working memory;
however, alternative accounts have identified weakening memory
associations and an overlap with fluid intelligence.
• e executive functions appear separable but they also seem to share
some underlying commonality.
• Resear in this area is problematic, partly because many tests of
executive functions are complex tasks whi make demands on a
variety of cognitive skills.

Further reading
Fellows, L.K. (2010). Damaged self, damaged control: a component process analysis of the effects of
frontal lobe damage on human decision-making. In R.R. Hassin, K.N. Osner, & Y. Trope (eds),
Self Control in Society, Mind, and Brain. Oxford: Oxford University Press. is apter looks at the
effects of frontal lobe damage on decision-making; however, the focus is on self-control, exploring
why a model suggesting ‘top-down’ control over ‘instinctive/impulsive’ behaviour is
unsatisfactory, an issue not addressed in the current apter.
Fuster, J.M. (2015). The Prefrontal Cortex (5th edn). New York: Academic Press. is is the essential
reference on the prefrontal cortex. e book synthesizes the current scientific knowledge on the
topic, both for humans and animals. It includes an extensive discussion of the prefrontal functions
and how they are affected by brain damage.
Goldberg, E. (2009). The New Executive Brain. Oxford: Oxford University Press. is is not a textbook
and so provides an easy-to-read introduction to the different executive functions the frontal lobes
perform.
Levine, B., Turner, G.R., & Stuss, D.T. (2008). Rehabilitation of frontal lobe functions. In D.T. Stuss, G.
Winocur, & I.H. Robertson (eds), Cognitive Neurorehabilitation. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press. is apter provides an accessible overview of the effects of frontal lobe damage and
extends the current apter by looking at rehabilitation.
Szczepanski, S.M., & Knight, R.T. (2014). Insights into human behavior from lesions to the prefrontal
cortex. Neuron, 83, 1002–1018. is article discusses how damage to the prefrontal cortex impairs
cognitive and non-cognitive functions in both humans and non-human primates.

 10
Language
Sophie Scott
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-10
Contents
10.1 Introduction
10.4 Recognising spoken and wrien words
Summary
Further reading

10.1 Introduction
Human spee and language are arguably unique: no other animals
regularly make sounds in the way that we do when we speak, and none of
them use those sounds to express a communication system as ri and as
structured as human language.
Despite this complexity, we rarely experience language use as ‘difficult’,
perhaps because mu of our use of language is supported by automatic,
unconscious cognitive processes: by the time we are skilled speakers of a
language, we barely notice all the hard work we are doing. Indeed, the
processes are so automatic that they occur even if we don’t want them to – I
find it impossible to write if people are talking nearby, as I can’t stop
listening to what they’re saying. is fast, reflex-like processing of spee
and language was the starting point of Fodor’s interest in the modularity of
human information processing, following a colleague’s observation that
syntax (grammar) in language was so automatic, it was like a reflex (Fodor,
19831).
1 In the dedication to ‘the modularity of mind’, Fodor writes: ‘Merrill Garre made what seems to
me the deepest remark that I have yet heard about the psyological meanisms that mediate the
perception of spee. “What you have to remember about parsing,” Merrill said, “is that basically
it’s a reflex.”’
Furthermore, humans process linguistic information in a way that has
certain, distinct differences from the perceptual and cognitive processing of
other kinds of information, and this has been argued to reflect a mode of
linguistic processing whi may be fundamentally distinct from other kinds
of knowledge. us, although language may interact with many of the other
processes described in this book – su as working memory and aention –
there are theoretical reasons to suspect that language may utilise a distinct
and specialised set of perceptual and cognitive functions. Indeed, it has even
been argued that cognitive phenomena su as verbal working memory do
not represent distinct, natural cognitive faculties, instead reflecting
interactions between the (pre-existing) spee perception and spee

production systems (Jacquemot & Sco, 2006). As well as a system for
communication, language is perhaps the predominant system we have of
encoding and describing our world, as well as forming a basis for the
majority of our social interactions: language can also form an important
code for thoughts and conscious experiences (although thought need not be
linguistic in nature). Studying language thus takes us from the nature of
spee, through a whole computational system for encoding information, to
the heart of our social worlds (Sco, 2019).
is apter will address the perception and production of language, via
spee, writing, and signing. is will include the ways that language is
understood, and interactional use of language, for example in conversation.
is apter will outline these systems in the neurotypical brain: the
following apter will explore the ways that we have learnt about language
from working with people who have suffered different kinds of brain
damage.

Spoken human language is generally considered to contain structure at a
number of different levels. Sentences can be broken down in phrases,
phrases into words, words into morphemes, morphemes into individual
spee sounds; as we move through these levels we are describing elements
of language at progressively finer levels of detail.
To start at the ‘lowest’ level, we normally consider individual spee
sounds to represent the smallest and finest level of structure in spoken
language – the phonetic level. Phonemes are the building blos of spoken
language: geing the right phonemes in the right order is oen considered to
give words their individual lexical identity. us ‘toad’ and ‘dote’ contain
the same phonemes, in different orders, but they are not especially easily
confusable, and they ‘sound’ very different. e next levels of structure are
lexical and morphological structure, whi refers to words and sub-
structures of words respectively. If words refer to distinct conceptual
entities, then the morphemes can be considered to form the units within a
word, whi alter the meanings and status of words. ese can be thought of
oen as forming stems and affixes (e.g. walk, walk-ed, walk-ing, walk-er).
Semantic representation refers to the meanings of words, and syntax refers
to the grammatical rules that delineate how words can be combined to make
sentences. ere are also pragmatic aspects of language, as well as specific
uses of language, su as metaphor, and the use of language in discourse.
Spoken language has further distinctive properties su as spee rhythm
and intonation. ough we typically consider these different levels of
language to form qualitatively distinct stages, there is considerable
interaction between some of these levels.
Wrien languages are typically (though not always) related to spoken
languages, and reading and writing are both quite dependent on
meanisms for spee perception and production. Signed languages, where
languages are expressed by hand and arm movements, oen emerge
amongst communities of Deaf people, and can vary hugely, and frequently

do not have a wrien form. However, they can still be described in terms of
lower-level phonetic information, syntactic, semantic, and pragmatic levels
of representation.
Structure of spee sounds

Phonemes are a way of describing the smallest meaningful units of spoken
language, su that anging a phoneme will ange the meaning of a word:
‘p’ and ‘b’ are similar phonemes, but a pit and a bit are two different words
with distinctly different meanings. e phonetic repertoire of any one
language reflects the range of possible spee sounds that could be used to
make up a word, and languages vary considerably in their phonetic
repertoires: Mandarin is the official spoken language in China, and contains
a wider range of fricatives and affricates than English, for example, while
some sub-Saharan African languages (e.g. !Xhosa) use ingressive spee
sounds (where air is sued into the mouth, like a ‘clip clop’ sound) as
phonemes.
Within any particular language, any single ‘phoneme’ can be quite an
abstract concept: for example, for Southern British English speakers the l in
leaf and the l in bell are different in a great many ways acoustically, yet they
are both examples of the phoneme /l/. Try saying these aloud and feel how
your tongue is in a different position for both. e leaf ‘l’ is called a clear /l/
and the bell ‘l’ is called a dark /l/. ese two very different /l/ sounds are
described as allophones of the same phoneme – different sounding versions
of the same phoneme. In many accents of British English, clear /l/ is
typically found at the onsets of syllables, and dark /l/ at the offsets: to
complicate maers, however, phonemes can also vary considerably with
regional accents. us, in several Welsh accents of English, clear /l/ sounds
are oen found at the ends of syllables and words.
Different languages carve up the range of possible sounds we can make
into different phonetic identities. ere are big differences in the phonetic
profiles across different spoken languages, and this also affects the ways that
allophones work: across different languages, two sounds that are allophones

of the same single phoneme in one language may form two entirely different
phonemes in another language. In the UK we are familiar with the idea that
native speakers of Japanese have difficulty distinguishing British English ‘r’
sounds from ‘l’ sounds. is is not because these are not common sounds in
Japanese, but instead because ‘r’ and ‘l’ are both different manifestations of
the same phoneme (allophones) in spoken Japanese. Japanese listeners can
find it hard to hear the difference between the two as they are typically
grouped together as one phoneme. If English speakers were confronted with
a language where clear and dark /l/ sounds were different phonemes we
would find this hard and we would make a lot of mistakes, although the /l/
sounds themselves are very familiar to us.
Phonemes are oen categorised in terms of the precise ways that they are
made. ese are oen described as constellations of phonetic features, where
the different phonetic features are associated with where in the mouth the
sounds are made (place of articulation), the ways that the articulators are
moved to make a sound (manner of articulation), and presence/absence of
voicing – i.e. are the vocal folds in the voice box being vibrated when this
sound is made.
Place of articulation is where the smallest constriction is produced in the
mouth (or larynx): when you make a /p/ sound the place of articulation is
the lips, while /k/ has a velar place of articulation (right at the ba of the
mouth), and an ‘s’ has an alveolar place of articulation (the tongue makes a
narrowing at the ridge on the roof of the mouth, just behind the teeth).
Manner of articulation refers to how the sounds are made: is there a
complete closure of the vocal tract, followed by a release of sound as in a
plosive sound su as ‘b’? Is there a noisy raling of air, as in a fricative su
as ‘sh’? Is there a noisy sound combined with a movement of the tongue as
in the affricate ‘’? ese are all different kinds of manners of articulation.
Voicing refers to whether or not the vocal folds are vibrated together to
give the voice a strong sense of pit. Phonetically, the difference between
‘pit’ and ‘bit’ are that the vocal folds are vibrated during the ‘b’ in bit but
not during the ‘p’ in pit. Minimal pairs, in phonetic terms, are where two
different words are made by anging one phonetic feature, su as voicing

(the voicing of the initial sounds at the start of sue/zoo vary only on
voicing), place of articulation (the place of articulation of the initial sounds
at the start of pit/kit are the only things that differ between these words), or
manner of articulation (the manners of articulation of the initial sounds at
the start of sat/tat – the /s/ is a fricative and the /t/ is a plosive).
ese descriptions of manners of articulation, place of articulation, and
presence or absence of voicing give us a system for classifying spee
sounds, in a way that can be extended to all spoken languages. An enduring
interest in psyology and cognitive science is the extent to whi these
might be similar to the ways that we perceive and understand spee.
However, we do not understand spee as a sequence of unconnected
phonemes, from whi we build up words like contestants on Countdown.
Instead, spee forms sequences of phonemes, and these sequences are ri
in information for the human language system.
Sequential information in spoken language

In spee, sequences of phonemes are organised around syllables: these
correspond roughly to the ‘beats’ of spee, with ea syllable forming one
‘beat’. is can be easiest to see if you look at highly rhythmic spee, like
nursery rhymes, poems, or songs. Try saying this aloud and count the
syllables:
up and down the ci-ty road (7 syllables),

in and out the Ea-gle (6 syllables)
at’s the way the mon-ey goes (7 syllables)
pop goes the wea-sle (5 syllables)
It is the paern of syllables that gives spee sequences their rhythms,

and there is evidence that this is one of the ways that babies start to detect
words and syllables in infancy (Jusczyk et al., 1999). Although overall
syllable structure can vary across languages, languages are always based
around syllables, and syllables are always structured around a vowel. e

shortest possible words comprise one syllable (for example a, or, I) and that
syllable can be as short as one vowel. Many words in English are made up of
multiple syllables (disestablishmentarianism contains nine syllables!), and
ea syllable is still built around a vowel. Syllables are not formed of
random paerns of consonants around vowels: there are rules within every
spoken language about the ways that phonemes can be combined in
syllables, both before and aer the vowel. us in English, we can have the
combination /dw/ at the start of a syllable (as in dwelling), but not the
combination /pw/ (even though we can say two syllables where p and w sit
immediately adjacent, but across the boundary between two syllables, as in
tapwater). is ‘phonotactic legality’ varies across languages, with different
combinations of phonemes being possible in some languages but not others.
Words and syllables can start with the phonemes /bw/ in some African
languages but not in English.
e phonotactic legality of combinations of phonemes can also have
profound influences on the ways that syllables are structured in different
languages. In many languages (e.g. Japanese) syllable structure is very
constrained, su that only one consonant is possible before a vowel, and the
only consonant possible aer a vowel (if any) is a nasal sound su as ‘n’ or
‘ng’. In contrast, English allows an extravagant array of consonants before
and aer a vowel, within one solitary syllable (though there are still rules
about how those consonants can be combined). Syllables can start with up to
three phonemes before the vowel in English, su as ‘splash’, and up to four
aerwards, su as in ‘lengths’: this means that the word ‘strengths’ forms
only one syllable in English. A word like ‘strengths’ would not be
phontactically legal in Japanese.
In perception, the specific structure of syllables within our native
language(s) strongly guides what we hear. It is not permissible for there to
be strings of consonants in Japanese, where consonants (with the exception
of n and ng) are always followed by a vowel. is has su a powerful effect
on perception that Japanese listeners have been shown to hear an illusory
(epenthetic) vowel in between consonants in these illegal clusters, so that
they become legal in Japanese (Dupoux et al., 1999). If played the non-word

‘ebzu’, Japanese listeners report hearing ‘ebuzu’ – they hear a vowel
between b and z that is not actually there.
e sequential information in spee is also seen in the ways that spee
sounds affect ea other as we say them. One of these ways is ‘assimilation’;
this describes a ange in a spee sound whi occurs in anticipation of
another upcoming sound. Most English people saying the words ‘sweet girl’
in connected spee actually say ‘sweek girl’. is is because English
speakers use place assimilation: we anticipate the place of articulation of
upcoming spee sounds and this can affect the sounds we are currently
making. In ‘sweek girl’ the /t/ at the end of sweet, normally made at the
alveolar ridge, is instead produced further ba in the mouth, anticipating
the velar place of articulation of the ‘g’ at the start of ‘girl’. Again, there are
language differences in this phenomena – Fren speakers don’t show place
assimilation, but they do show voicing assimilation, so upcoming voicing
affects spee sounds. In Fren connected spee, ‘football’ is oen said as
‘foodball’, as the ‘t’ at the end of foot is voiced and becomes a ‘d’, in
anticipation of the voicing of /b/. In contrast, English speakers oen say
‘foopball’, as the ‘t’ becomes a ‘p’ in anticipation of the bilabial place of
articulation of /b/.
ese anticipation effects can also be seen more generally in co-
articulation effects, where one spee sound affects another. is means that
spee sounds are not produced in a context independent way, like beads on
a string. Instead, they affect one another, and listeners use this information
to help decode what they are hearing. If you say the words ‘see, sue, sew’
the ‘s’ sounds are very different, depending on the next vowel sound (Bailey
& Summerfield, 1980), and listeners use this information to help predict
what the upcoming lexical items are going to be. In spee perception, it is
even possible that phonemes as isolated items are not forming a distinct
level of representation in language processing, and instead their structure
over short sequences of sounds is the level of lexically related processing.
ese anticipatory effects of sounds on one another, these ways that
actions are affected by the other actions that surround them, is not specific
to spee sounds. Su co-articulation has been shown for handwriting and

fingerspelling: when humans produce fluent, fast, structured sequences of
actions, we do produce fully separate, discrete acts. is means that our
perceptual systems can and do derive information about the sequences by
how these sequential elements interact.
Structure in sign language

e precise way that language expresses information varies with the nature
of that language. In British Sign Language, for example, the main
articulators are the hands, and signs can be aracterised by the shape of the
hand, the movements of the hands, and the location where the hand(s) are
held. A word in BSL therefore corresponds to the combination of the hand
shape, hand movements made, and the hand location. is means that words
in BSL thus do not have the same kinds of sequential segmental structure
found in spee, but instead exploit positional detail in a way that spee
does not.
Minimal pairs in spee are seen when a word anges by altering one
phonetic feature – got and cot for example vary in terms of the presence or
absence of voicing of the initial plosive spee sound. Minimal pairs in BSL
occur when words differ in one feature – hand shape, movement, or
location. In Figure 10.1, the BSL words for name and aernoon are identical
in terms of hand shape and movement, but the locations are different. When
we talk about phonology in sign languages, the paerns of structure
captured by hand shape, movement, and location have important
commonalities with place of articulation, manner of articulation, and
voicing in spee, and can be used to classify the phonological structure.

Figure 10.1
ese BSL signs ‘Name’ (A) and ‘Aernoon’ (B) differ only in location. Hand shape and
movement are the same.
It is important to stress that sign languages are true languages – they are
not simply pantomimed gestures but have complex syntactic structure,
semantics, and phonology (where phonology corresponds to details of the
hand movements shapes and locations). A second factor that is important to
understand is that signed languages are not visual variants of spoken
languages – British Sign Language (BSL) is not a visual version of British
English: the grammar is very different, for example. Indeed, BSL uses space
in a very interesting way – signers will assign a spatial location to the things
or people they are talking about, and will refer ba to that place when they
refer to that person or thing. Another difference is that in spoken British
English, we mark words to show whether events happened in the past, the
present, or the future: I went to the shops, I am going to the shops, I will go to
the shops all describe different times using different tenses. In BSL, sentences
use time frames to describe whether the events about to be described happen
in the past the present or the future: aer the time frame is established, the
specific signs themselves are not marked with different tenses. Strikingly,
there are many similarities in how BSL and spoken English are processed in
the brain, suggesting that at higher-order linguistic levels of representation,
there are fewer differences between spoken and signed language than these
overt surface differences would suggest (MacSweeney et al., 2008).
Fingerspelling, in contrast, is a way of signing information in whi the
leers of the alphabet are mapped onto different finger shapes. In
fingerspelling it is relatively simple to translate between, say, British English
and a visual language.
Structure in language: words and morphemes

Words are the psyological linguistic structures that relate directly onto our
experience. We use words as representations that map onto the things and

events that we want to describe. Words and syllables are arguably the basic
units with whi we engage with language: once we have learnt to read, we
can decompose words into phonemes, but if we have not learnt to read, this
kind of detail is mu harder to grasp, while we can still decompose spee
into words and syllables. Words and syllables are also the level at whi
babies start to engage with the elements of spoken language.
Morphemes are syntactic structural units within a word, and can be
considered to refer to the smallest possible unit of meaning, whi is not
necessarily a word. e base, or stem of a morpheme, assigns meaning to the
word – for example bee is the stem or base of bees. Bee is also a ‘free’ or
unbound morpheme – it can appear without elaboration as a stand-alone
word. Prefixes are morphemes whi come before a stem, su as pre- in
prefigure or ex- in export. Suffixes are morphemes whi come aer the
stem, like the -s in bees or the -ed in carpeted. ese suffixes and prefixes are
bound morphemes – they cannot appear on their own as individual words.
ere is a lot of interest in the extent to whi morphological information
is decoded in the perception of language. e morphological structure has a
direct influence on the phonological structure of a spoken word (whi
means that it anges the phonological structure) – jump and jumped
actually sound different. Do we process the morphological structure as
distinct elements (jump +ed) or as one lexical item (jumped)? Of course, one
of the problems with spoken language is that the word’s structure unfolds
over time, and if a morpheme is at the end of a word (as with verb markings
in English) then mu of the word will have already been processed by the
time the suffix is perceived. Studies have shown that this seems to result in
morphological structure in spoken words being processed in a lexical word-
specific way, rather than as decomposable elements that are processed prior
to lexical access (Zwitserlood, 2004).
Structure and content words

Words also vary in terms of their role in spee, su as the difference
between content words and function words. Function words, su as the, on,

and, for give sentences their structure, and describe the relationships
between the elements in the sentence: content words (su as dog, Peter,
black, nine, taken) give the sentence structure referential meaning. Indeed,
oen when we talk about ‘words’ what we mean are content words. e
sentences below share their function words, and the underlying
relationships between the content words in the sentence can be seen to have
similarities, even though the meaning is different:
e cup was on the table

e dog eats on the floor
However, if we keep the function words the same and swap the content
words around then the meaning gets radically altered:
e cup was on the table

e table was on the cup
is distinction is found in all spoken languages. Phonologically, function

words tend to be quite different from content words: they are oen shorter
than content words, and they are rarely spoken with a lot of lexical stress –
we are more likely to produce content words with emphasis than function
words (Cutler, 1993).
Further distinctions can be made within the content words; for example,
nouns vs verbs. While these break down somewhat into ‘things’ versus
‘actions’, the boundary is blurred quite a lot in languages, like English,
where many nouns can be used as verbs. ere are in fact few nouns in
English whi cannot be used as a verb. ere are, however, differences in
the processing of nouns and verbs if people are parsing them as nouns and
verbs: verbs typically are longer to process than nouns (Vigliocco et al.,
2011), perhaps because a verb frequently involves associated information
about not just the action, but the object whi is performing it – it may be
less complex to access and represent information about a rabbit, for
example, than about running.

Learning a language means that we acquire new words – all the words
anyone knows are words that they at some point learnt. e words that we
know can be thought of as our vocabulary, and this is not fixed – we
continue to acquire new words and new word meanings at the rate of
around 100 a year, whi is around three per day! ese words make up our
mental lexicon, whi may nor may not form a separable linguistic store. As
we will see later, some models of word access posit separate store of lexical
items and others do not.
Sentence-level structure
Sentences contain structure at a number of different levels. ematically, for
example, sentences can be described as having different components, su as
the subject and object. In a sentence like ‘Carolyn opened the present’,
Carolyn is the subject, the theme of the sentence: the sentence is about
Carolyn. e present is the object, one of the things and events that are part
of the sentence about Carolyn.
e syntactic structure – determining the different parts in the sentence
depending on their grammatical relationship to one another – is the kind of
structure that has been discussed most thoroughly in cognitive psyology,
and there is a section discussing this later in the apter. ere are other
kinds of structure, for example thematic structure, whi refers to the
relationships between the meanings of the words in a sentence (Fillmore,
1968). is is well captured by the case of the words: for example, in the
sentence ‘Philip gave the cheese to David’, Philip is the person doing
something in the sentence, David is the person who receives something and
the eese is transferred. In terms of case, these different roles in the
sentence could be Philip is the agent, David takes the dative role (affected by
the action named in the verb) and the eese is the object (Slesinger, 1995).
e strength of case analyses of sentences is that it allows us to aracterise
a relationship between higher-order semantic relationships at a sentence
level.

e level of discourse
Spee and language are used to build narratives and stories across
sentences, and pragmatics is the term whi describes the constraints on
language use at this discourse level. Conversation is a linguistic universal –
wherever you go in the world, whatever language is spoken or signed, there
will be common aracteristics of the conversations you see. It is also the
case that most of us acquire our first spoken language in the context of
conversation, and conversation is thus a linguistic universal whi bridges
between the development and the social use of communication.

e study of psyolinguistics is traditionally associated with the laer half
of the twentieth century, as epitomised by the work of Chomsky. In fact,
there have been psyologically motivated studies of human language for a
couple of centuries (Levelt, 2012), including a great vogue for diary studies
of ildren’s language development and the neuropsyological insights of
European neurologists in the mid-1800s (see Chapter 11). Of course, all of
these different approaes embody very different approaes and intellectual
traditions, the effects of many of whi we still benefit from. However, the
psyolinguistic approa of Chomsky and colleagues deserves more
lengthy aention, not least because it has led to a number of developments
in the study of language and cognition.
Chomsky (1957) noted that we are able to generate and understand
entirely novel sentences, and his insight came from a hypothesis that this
capacity must result from an underlying application of linguistic rules. A
further development of this hypothesis holds that the ability to use these
rules must reflect an innate, pre-potent ability, whi does not need to be
learnt. is approa was formulated in opposition to theories of human
behaviour whi were popular in the 1950s and whi emphasised learning
as a key property of human behaviour (Skinner, 1938). Chomsky considered
that human language could not be acquired by learning alone, since the
kinds of learning paradigms (e.g. operant conditioning) that Skinner
addressed did not account for how ildren learn spoken language – for
example, they are rarely rewarded overtly for this.
Key to Chomsky’s approa, and congruent with a developing interest in
cognitive processes in the field of psyology at the time, was the concept of
an underlying, deeper syntactic structure, whi underpins the surface
expression of a sentence. For example, these sentences look very similar but
are very different in meaning:
Phil is easy to understand

Phil is eager to understand
In contrast, these sentences look very different but have similar meanings:
Tom wated the film

e film was wated by Tom
It was Tom who wated the film
It was this film that was wated by Tom
e differences here are that in the four sentences about Tom and the film
the same basic underlying structure is present, while in the two sentences
about Phil the underlying structure is very different.
In addition to the structural syntax of language, Chomsky noted that real
spee is liered with slang, errors, and corrections, and people rarely speak
in ‘proper sentences’. is was part of the problem, Chomsky felt, for an
approa that suggested ildren could learn this structure, as Skinner had
suggested. Instead, Chomsky addressed the difference between the
possibilities of language use and the actual ways that people speak by
considering that there were differences between linguistic competence (the
syntax of spee) and linguistic performance – the ways that people actually
talk.
Some early work in psyolinguistics found links between syntactic
structure and cognitive measures – for example, passive constructions are
harder to process than active constructions. is means that:
Nadine was followed by Carolyn
is harder to understand than an active version of the same event:
Carolyn followed Nadine
is has been demonstrated in terms of processing speed and recall,

where passive sentences take longer to read and are less well remembered
than active sentences (Harley, 2001). However, Slobin (1966) showed that the

slower processing of more complex passive sentences was held only for
reversible sentences like the ones above, where the noun could either be the
object or subject of the sentence (Carolyn could follow Nadine, and Nadine
could also follow Carolyn). In contrast, when Slobin presented sentences
like:
e emist grasped the test tube

e test tube was grasped by the emist
the slower processing of the passive voice disappeared, as test tubes are
inanimate and cannot grasp anyone or anything. Similarly, where reversing
the subject and object results in a nonsense sentence, the effect disappeared.
Slobin found that non-reversible sentences were judged to be true or false
faster than reversible sentences, whi suggested that people use the
semantic plausibility of a sentence to help constrain their interpretation. e
same can be seen with other kinds of interactions of semantics and syntax.
Clark and Clark (1968) showed that when two events are described in a
sequential order, it is easier to recall a construction like:
Toby went to bed before Angela had a bath
than
Angela had a bath aer Toby went to bed
as the temporal reversal in the second sentence is at odds with the

sequencing of the sentence. Developments of this perspective will be
discussed in a following section, but it’s important to note the powerful
implication that, although we can describe syntactic and semantic properties
of language as distinct and separable, in normal language use and the
cognitive systems that underpin this, they may be harder to pull apart.
e psyolinguistic approa has been extremely powerful in its
demonstration of language as a computational system, and in the breath-
taking complexity it has been able to capture: it continues to be a powerful

way to explore linguistic commonalities across different languages, and
debate continues about the extent to whi it is describing computational
processes whi are specific to language, or to more cognitive constraints
(Hauser et al., 2002). However, some good criticisms of this approa have
also emerged: remember Chomsky’s central claim that it would not be
possible for ildren to learn the rules of syntax? More recent studies of
babies and language learning have made considerable inroads that
demonstrate ways that spoken language can be acquired just from
sensitivities to structure in the incoming sequences.
Chomsky’s original hypothesis was that the rules governing language
must be innate, as they are not learnt: ildren are not presented with
examples of all the possible ways that rule can be combined su that the
underlying rules can be divined, and ildren are not rewarded (negatively
or positively) for their syntactic behaviour (e.g. mistakes are rarely
corrected). Furthermore, ildren go through stages where they over-apply
syntactic rules and make errors, suggesting that the rules are ‘real’. For
regular verbs in English, making a past-tense version involves adding ‘-ed’,
so cook becomes cooked, walk becomes walked: in irregular verbs, the past-
tense version is simply a completely different word so I go becomes I went, I
am becomes I was. Many ildren go through a phase when they start to
apply ‘regular’ rules to irregular verbs, and say things like ‘I wented to the
shops’. is can be interpreted as showing that they have learned asyntactic
rule, and they are over-applying it.
However, there is now a lot more evidence that the barriers to learning
these rules may not be as profound as implied by Chomsky. For example,
learning theories now anowledge that learning does not require overt
rewards; indeed, speaking and being understood may well be a reward in
itself. Furthermore, there is now evidence that babies and ildren are
exceptionally skilled at statistical learning, both for the phonetic regularities
that underlie words (or possible words) in spoken language, and for the
syntactic regularities that underlie the structure of sentences. And spoken
language is ri in su predictabilities: in English, the word ‘the’ predicts an
upcoming noun, and a preposition like on or after predicts an upcoming

noun phrase (Saffran, 2003). Saffran’s studies have shown that babies are
very good at learning the statistical dependencies in the sequences of sounds
that they hear, and that these dependencies in real spee really do contain
enough information about the ways that the underlying syntactic structures
work. In fact, one interpretation of these studies is that the constraints on
syntactic rules and processes may be due to the kinds of statistical
dependencies that human beings can learn.
Tasks in the study of language

A problem with studying language is that while we can observe people
interacting fluently with ea other, this does not tell us very mu about
how they are doing it – normal linguistic processing can be entirely passive
and people can understand a sentence they hear without making any overt
responses. Over the years, therefore, many different tasks have been
employed to help shed light on the cognitive processing involved in
language, and they almost always require people to do something other than
understand or produce language. Instead, behavioural studies of language
develop behavioural correlates of the cognitive and linguistic processes
underlying language. e tasks used normally aim to be performable in a
relatively simple way, so as to avoid effects that are just due to difficulty, but
also to involve normal linguistic processes, su that manipulations we think
will affect linguistic processes will also affect performance of these tasks.
e tasks include asking people whether a sentence is true or false in the
sentence verification task used by Slobin (1968), asking people if a target
item is a real word or a non-word in the lexical decision task, and asking
people to name a read word aloud (speeded naming) or repeat a heard word
(repetition task). In all the tasks both reaction times and errors are used as
direct indices of cognitive processing of lexical items. People have also used
measures su as eye movements to shed light on what kind of information
a participant is using to perform a task. More recently, people have started to
use functional imaging methods (Chapter 11) whi show the neural

systems recruited when people deal with linguistic information (e.g. listen to
spee they understand).

10.4 Recognising spoken and written words
How do we recognise spoken words?
When we hear someone speaking continuously in our language, we hear
sequences of spoken words: however the ‘gaps’ between the words we hear
are illusory – in continuous spee, there is no silence between words. In
Figure 10.2, the spectrogram of the sentence is shown – in this figure, time is
on the x axis, frequency is on the y axis, and where the colour is darker
there is more energy in the signal. From this, we can see that where there
does appear to be silence, this is where the mouth is closed before the words
that start with a ‘b’. ere is also silence when the mouth is closed to release
the final ‘d’ in bread, and this does not sound like the start of a new word.
Figure 10.2
Spectrogram of a spoken sentence.
us the identification and recognition of spoken words is not supported

by those words themselves being acoustically separable. Indeed, we arguably
hear gaps between words solely because we hear and recognise the words:
the gaps are illusory. In terms of processing, when we hear a word, there are
at least two ways that spoken word recognition can occur: using segmental,
spee sound information (i.e. sub-lexical phonetic information), or looking
for structure across the whole word – that is, mating for information at
the level of sequences of phonemes and/or words. ere has been a lot of
support for the laer position. Using priming, Zwitserlood (1989) showed
that both the words captain and capital are primed by the word cap,
suggesting that part of spee perception entails the mating of lexical

items. Not all ‘words-in-words’ prime other words, however: in Dut, the
word zwijn does not prime wijn (Vroomen and de Gelder, 1997). is
resear suggests that lexical activation during spee perception depends
on syllable onsets that are aligned with word onsets.
However, as described earlier in this apter, the ways that spee sound
are produced does vary with where the spee sounds are within a syllable,
and this influence of context on the actual phonetic realisation can help us
identify both word onsets and the phonetic sequences more generally. For
English speakers, plosive spee sounds are strongly aspirated when they
occur at the start of a word: try holding your hand in front of your mouth as
you say ‘port’ and ‘sport’ and you’ll notice that there is a big puff of air
when you say ‘port’ that reduced for ‘sport’: the /p/ in port is aspirated, i.e.
produced with a big release of air, whi the /p/ in sport is not. Spee
sounds can have relatively long-range effects on one another in spee – the
l at the start of let is different from the l at the start of led, as the voicing of
the syllable final d ‘darkens’ the l (Local & Kelly, 1986). Indeed, the phonetic
features like voicing have multiple acoustic factors: the sequences apa and
aba differ phonetically in just the voicing of the medial p or b; however,
there are more than 16 separate, independent acoustic differences that
underlie this phonetic difference (Lisker, 1977). Listeners are very sensitive to
these differences so it would seem plausible that acoustic/phonetic factors
(e.g. those between the word ‘cap’ spoken in isolation and in the context of
‘captain’) could influence word recognition.
is is indeed the case. Davis et al. (2002), using a cross-model repetition
priming paradigm, looked at the priming of a word in isolation and as part
of longer words. ey presented morphemes in two different contexts, su
as ‘cap’ in the sentence: ‘e solider saluted the flag with his [cap tued in]
or [captain].’ Priming was stronger in trials in whi the visual probe
mated the spee, even when the wrien probe appeared before the end of
‘cap’. is indicates that listeners use the acoustic/phonetic differences that
arise from the context in whi words are said to help them understand the
spee. is may take the form of speakers using subtle acoustic cues to
constrain lexical sear space.

Listeners will also use other cues if they are available. Lexical stress
describes the paerns of strong/weak syllables that are found in some
languages, like English and German, where pit, duration, and loudness are
used to emphasise or stress some syllables. In English, the rhythm of this
stress tends to follow a strong–weak profile, and listeners will use this, if
they can, to segment out words. In Finnish, there is a property called vowel
harmony, su that a long and a short vowel cannot appear in the same
word. My middle name is Kerttu, a Finnish name, where er is a long vowel
and u is short; the Finnish vowel harmony principle means that Kertter
would not be a legal word. Finnish listeners use this property to constrain
lexical possibilities of what they are hearing, and to predict what is coming
next.
Phontactic rules are also used to segment words. As we saw earlier, there
are ‘legal’ combinations of phonemes in any language – for example,
English syllables can start ‘sp’ but not ‘ps’, although ‘ps’ is a legal way of
ending a syllable like ‘lips’.
ese phonotactic regularities and probabilities are used by listeners: in
word spoing experiments, it is easier to identify a word if its position in a
non-word is aligned with a phonotactic cue to a syllable onset than if it is
not. us listeners are faster to identify ‘lips’ in the non-word venlips than
the non-word veglips, as ‘nl’ is not a phonotactically possibly syllable onset
in many languages (Mceen, 1998; Dumay et al., 2002).
Lexical effects also influence the recognition of words: people can take
longer to recognise words that come from dense lexical neighbourhoods, i.e.
that have many similar sounding words (Luce & Pisoni, 1998). us start,
part, and hard are close phonological neighbours. As spoken words evolve
over time, the density of the phonological neighbourhood is related to the
‘uniqueness point’ of a word, the point at whi a word’s identity can be
unambiguously determined. An unusual word like moccasin has both an
early uniqueness point and a more sparse phonological neighbourhood. e
ways that sublexical and lexical processing affects spee recognition can be
counter-intuitive: we can see that phontactically more common profiles are
faster to produce, but there is a cost to mating a word in a dense

phonological neighbourhood, and this cost can be sensitive to the precise
task required of the participants: people are faster to repeat non-words that
have a high phonotactic probability and come from dense neighbourhoods,
but this effect is reversed for real words (Vitevit & Luce, 1998, 1999, 2005).
is suggests that the repetition of non-words benefits from their being like
many real words through priming of the response, while there is a cost to
repeating real words with many phonological neighbours, through
competition processes.
ere is also evidence that the kinds of information used by listeners to
understand spee can be quite flexible. In a study varying lexical stress and
phontactic probabilities, Mays et al. (2005) showed that sentential and
lexical information dominated over phonotactic and lexical stress, in terms
of spee processing. However, when they presented the same stimuli in
noise, the rank ordering of the cues reversed. is suggests that the spee
recognition system is a highly plastic and flexible set of processes and that
listeners will utilise the information available to them in a way whi will
maximise their spee processing. Of course, su plasticity is necessary to
process spee in the real world, outside of the lab, where environments can
be noisy, and speakers can vary hugely in how they actually produce the
sounds of spee, both as a function of accent, and as a function of context.
A lot of causal, connected spee is highly under-articulated.
Adapting to different talkers

Normal spee can vary a lot from talker to talker, either due to our
geographical origins or socio-economic status, or due to more personal
factors su as our mood or our health, or idiosyncrasies of production.
Sometimes these variations can be highly specific to particular spee
sounds: it is not at all uncommon in English, for example, to encounter
people who produce the ‘r’ sound in a variety of ways: some people saying a
‘w’ sound instead, some producing a sort of ‘v’ sound. However, we do not
typically find their spee hard to understand, and there is evidence that
listeners will adapt rapidly to overtly different spee idiosyncrasies, and do

so in a talker-specific way. Eisner and Mceen (2005, 2006) played people a
story in whi the talker’s spee was manipulated su that their /f/ sounds
were more like /s/ sounds, or their /s/ sounds were more like /f/ sounds.
Although the listeners were simply listening to these stories, when their
perception of f/s sounds was tested aerwards, they nonetheless showed a
shi in perception, whi was interpreted as an alteration in the way that
the f/s boundary was represented. Crucially, however, this shi only
occurred if the same talker’s voice was used. is indicates that the
perceptual remapping has not generally affected the whole spee
perception system, but that it is an exemplar, or talker-specific, adaptation.
How do we recognise written words?

Although it is a visual skill, learning to read wrien words is highly
dependent upon spee perception (and production) skills. us, ildren
who are good at parsing a spoken word into onset-rhyme unks (i.e.
decomposing cat into c-at) are also those who find it easier to learn to read
(e.g. Goswami et al., 2002).
Learning how to read the wrien form of a language requires us to
decompose spoken words down into smaller, phoneme-like elements, and
map these onto a wrien system of symbols/leers – an orthography. In
some languages, there is a clear and simple relationship between how words
are said and their orthography – a one-to-one mapping of the spee sounds
onto the leers or symbols. is is not the case in English. Wrien words in
English do not have a simple, lawful mapping between the ways that they
are spelt, and the ways that they are spoken. us the sequence of leers -
ough can rhyme with cow (as in plough), or toe (as in though), or port (as in
thought), or shoe (as in through). Not all wrien languages have this weak
relationship between spelling and pronunciation – Finnish, for example, has
a direct one-to-one mapping between leers and spee sounds, and
anecdotally it is not unusual to meet Finnish individuals who taught
themselves to read. ese regular spelling systems are termed transparent or

regular orthographies, and spelling systems with less consistent spelling-to-
sound rules are termed opaque or irregular orthographies.
Several different factors have been shown to affect visual word
recognition. First, the ways the words are wrien will affect their
processing. Orthographic length (the number of leers) in a wrien word
has a big effect on the processing and recognition of wrien words, and the
effect is more marked for non-words than words (Coltheart et al., 2001). e
longer the word is, the longer it takes to be read, and this strongly implies
that the details of the leers – the orthographic information – is to some
extent being processed serially. is might sound obvious – how else could
you read a word other than by processing the leers – but there is also some
evidence that some words are read at the whole-word level – not broken
down into elements – and this is more likely with shorter, frequent words
(Smauder et al., 2000). e idea here is that short, commonly encountered
words can be recognised more by their overall shape than by their
constituent leers.
e regularity and consistency of wrien words also both affect word
processing and word recognition (Baron & Strawson, 1976; Gough & Cosky,
1977): people take longer to read irregularly spelled words like ‘yacht’ than
regularly spelled words like ‘bat’. e position and the kind of inconsistency
may be important; the orthographic neighbourhood of a wrien word will
affect its processing. Orthographic neighbourhood size refers to the density
of the numbers of visually similar words that any one word has: a word like
loot has many orthographic neighbours (boot, hoot, shoot etc.) and comes
from a dense orthographic neighbourhood while the word shoe has fewer
orthographic neighbours, and comes from a sparser orthographic
neighbourhood (Coltheart et al., 1977). Orthographic neighbourhood is oen
called ‘N’, so a high N refers to a dense orthographic neighbourhood and a
low N to a sparse orthographic neighbourhood. A high N has a positive,
facilitating effect on reaction times, and this effect is larger for naming than
for lexical decision (Balota et al., 2004). However non-words with a large N
(e.g. floot) are processed more slowly because the task of deciding whether
the word is a real word or not is adversely affected if the non-word is

visually similar to many real words – as this leads to more competitors
(Coltheart et al., 1977; Andrews, 1997). e effects of the high N on the non-
word processing may thus be more associated with the task used than with
the non-word itself. Indeed, the precise experimental task used does have an
impact on the ways that words are apparently processed. For example, in
lexical decision tasks the other words and non-words included can influence
the results, and the use of illegal or legal non-words affect performance – a
non-word like ‘xci’ may be more easily dismissed as a non-word than a non-
word like ‘cix’.
Another important factor is familiarity, a measure of the frequency with
whi one encounters a word: lexical decisions, for example, can be faster
for words whi are encountered with high frequency like ‘bike’ than low
frequency like ‘mace’ (e.g. Balota et al., 2004). However familiarity has been
argued to not be a stable measure (Gernsbaer, 1984), and it has been
shown that familiarity correlates with semantic properties of words, su as
their perceived meaningfulness (Balota et al., 1999). Instead of
straightforward frequency effects, it has been argued that we also need to
address the age at whi words were acquired, known as age of acquisition
(AOA), either because words that were learnt first have a special status, or
because the amount of time one can be exposed to a word is longer if we
learnt it earlier (Morrison & Ellis, 1995; Juhasz, 2005). ere are also issues
about the extent to whi AOA is an outcome measure or a standard
predictor variable – should we regard the AOA effects as arising due to the
ways that AOA affects the representations of words, or is it having a post-
lexical, task-based effect (Zevin & Seidenberg, 2002, 2004). As mentioned
above, we commonly use tasks in these kinds of investigations of the
language system, and so it is important to determine what possible
influences the tasks themselves have. us in word-naming tasks, the
density of orthographical neighbourhoods, N, interacts with word frequency
– low-frequency words show a higher effect of N than high-frequency
words. In lexical decision, high N leads to faster responses for low-frequency
words and slower responses for high-frequency words.

Influences of the phonological, spoken form of wrien words can be seen
on word recognition. Pseudohomophones are words like ranes whi can be
said aloud to produce a real word, but whi have an unfamiliar
orthographical form. People can be slower to decide that ranes is a non-
word in a lexical decision task than they are a non-word like rames. is
suggests that there are phonological influences on visual word recognition,
and that the meaning has been accessed via phonology (Rubenstein et al.,
1971).
Morphemes and word recognition

It can be relatively easy to see a role for the morphological structure of
wrien words in their processing: some words have very semantically
transparent structure, where the words have morphological constituents
whi have a clear relation to the meaning of the word, e.g. hunter = hunt +
er. Semantically opaque complex words have no semantic relation to their
apparent morphological constituents – thus a corner not comprised of the
morphemes corn+er. However, complex words that may contain morphemes
words only prime their stems if there is a semantic relationship – hunter
primes hunt but corner does not prime corn –, whi may mean that the
priming effect is down to the morphological (and possibly semantic)
structure of the words rather than the purely orthographic structure. at is,
the facilitation is not down to how the words are wrien but what they
mean and how they are constructed. is was the argument made by Rastle
and colleagues (2004), who used a priming paradigm to identify the extent to
whi lexical decision tasks are facilitated by morphological structure in
masked primes. Masking a prime means that people do not consciously see
the prime; however, lexical decisions were faster for words whi were
preceded by masked primes whi were morphologically related to the
target words (e.g. cleaner – clean). is was interpreted as showing a role for
morphological processing in the visual recognition of words.
As hinted at here, the semantic and morphological information in a word
may not necessarily be simple to separate. Some models of word recognition

(e.g. parallel distributed models) do not use morphemes as explicit
structures, instead allowing them to emerge as factors of the interaction of
phonological and semantic representations – the more overlap there is
between the two kinds of representation, the more priming there will be of a
word. Consistent with this approa, a semantic relationship can prime
word processing as mu as a morphological one: sneer primes snarl as
mu as teacher primes teach (Gonnerman et al., 2007).
Database approaes
e classic approa in cognitive psyology is to control as many factors as
constant as possible and then manipulate one factor in isolation; for
example, to mat word frequencies and imageability and vary phonological
neighbourhoods and then identify the effect on lexical decision. However,
these very focused approaes are unlikely to allow us to interrogate the
complex processes whi occur, likely in parallel, during normal word
recognition (Cutler, 1981; Balota et al., 2004). As we saw in spee
perception, multiple cues can be used and their use will vary with context.
Furthermore, in reality it can be very difficult to really control one factor
while varying another in a purely independent way. us irregular verbs are
mu more likely to be frequently encountered verbs than they are to be
uncommon, and irregularly spelled words are processed as efficiently as
regular words if they are encountered frequently (Seidenberg et al., 1984;
Jared et al., 1990; Balota et al., 2004). When oosing stimuli for experiments,
researers may unconsciously bias the lists with the kinds of words they
use: it has been shown that researers are good at predicting whi words
will lead to a long response time (RT) in a lexical decision task. Small arrays
of words in any one stimulus set may therefore be prone to bias. e use of
different list contexts can have a great deal of influence on lexical decision
responses, and it has been argued that mu of the variation in the role of
orthographic neighbourhood effects in visual word recognition across
experiments result from the use of legal vs non-legal non-words (where a
legal non-word fits with the orthographic structure of real words – e.g.

thurp vs pthru) (Andrews, 1997). Finally, Balota and colleagues (2004) point
out that almost all the visual word recognition resear uses monosyllabic
words, whi has prevented many of the properties associated with
multisyllabic words from being studied, su as stress and prosody, syllable
structures/boundaries and different kinds of length effects.
To cope with these issues, to give a broad range of lexical items, and to
permit the analysis of multifactorial aspects of word processing, Balota and
colleagues have developed a very large database of responses to wrien
words and non-words (40,481 of ea), with both lexical decision responses
and speeded naming responses for all the stimuli, called the English Lexicon
Project (ELP hp://elexicon.wustl.edu/) (Balota et al., 2007). Over 1200
participants were tested, with an average of 3400 responses per participant
on lexical decision and 2500 on speeded naming. e advantage of this
approa, in addition to the reduction of confounding factors due to the
potential use of a wide range of words, is that a multivariate approa can
be used, instead of a factorial design. is enables the relative contribution
of different factors on a speeded naming task to be explicitly determined.
Examining the lexical decision and naming latencies to 2,428 words (Spieler
& Balota, 1997; Balota & Spieler, 1998; Balota et al., 2004) demonstrated that
standard psyolinguistic variables (e.g. length, frequency, orthographic
neighbourhood size) were able to account for nearly half the variance in the
behavioural data.
From factorial studies we know that the semantic information associated
with wrien words influences their recognition, and has larger effects on
lexical decision than naming. Both naming and lexical decision are affected
by the imageability of words – more imageable words are words that it is
easier to conjure a mental image of, e.g. ‘glove’, and less imageable words
tend to be harder to see in this way, e.g. ‘love’. Using a multiple regression
analysis of the influence of different stimulus parameters on the responses, a
role was identified for both imageability and semantic connectivity – a
measure of how mu a word is semantically related to other words. If,
however, age of acquisition (AOA) is included, imageability drops out as a
significant factor, suggesting that the age of acquisition and the imageability

of a word may account for similar kinds of variance in word recognition
(Balota et al., 2007), and may indeed be related.

When we read or listen to language, how do we understand the meanings of
words? Is the meaning represented within an encapsulated, completely
modular system, where semantic information is entirely encoded in terms of
abstract representations (Smith et al., 1974)? Consistent with this, there have
been for several decades models of semantic knowledge or semantic
memory where information is stored in hieraries of words and associated
semantic features. In these kinds of models the word ‘dog’ could be part of a
larger class of words that are all ‘animals’, and could have the semantic
features of fur, being a pet, having four legs making a barking sound. In
classic approaes, this information is encoded in a completely abstract way
– just like a computer code.
In contrast to these encapsulated, abstract representations of semantics,
there is also a long-standing perspective in whi semantic knowledge is not
encapsulated, and not purely abstract. is oen entails a more distributed
quality to semantic representations, and this distribution can involve an
incorporation of sensory or motoric information into semantic
representations. ese perspectives oen therefore have a strong element of
embodied semantics – that is, the semantic representations of words can
exploit sensory-motor information associated with those words. ese
associations can vary with the kinds of words we are dealing with. We have
already seen an example of this – when words are high in imageability (like
horse), our representation of the word itself may utilise the availability of
associated stored visual information to help represent that concept. In
contrast, the word hope may have less visual (or other sensory) information
to help support the representation of its meaning. Horse is considered to be a
concrete noun – horses exist in the world, you can ride a horse or give it a
carrot, and you can describe its physical properties. Hope, in contrast, is an
abstract noun – it’s mu harder to get a mental image of hope, and the
whole concept feels harder to define, though the precise sense of hope and
what it might mean to have hope can remain crystal clear. In the context of

embodied semantics, concrete nouns like horse generally have many more
sensory associations – I can imagine what a horse looks like (visual
imageability) and I can imagine what a horse’s hide would feel like if I
stroked it (somatosensory information). Other concrete words like carpet,
cheese, crash, or tinkle have somatosensory, olfactory, motoric, or acoustic
associations, or combinations of sensory-motor qualities. Indeed, since
spoken words have an acoustic form, English has a whole class of words that
we call onomatopoeic words, where the word sounds ‘like’ the acoustic
event being described (whoosh, splash, splat, jingle). Abstract nouns like
government, affair, or hindrance are mu less ri in sensory-motor
associations and have been held to lead to a greater reliance on their
acoustic form when processing them than concrete words. However, it has
recently been demonstrated that abstract words do have other, non-abstract,
and more embodied associations, but that these may be affective, rather than
sensory-motor (Kousta et al., 2011). us abstract words like government or
distinction have relatively consistent emotional connotations for people.
ey may not therefore be represented in an entirely disembodied semantic
or acoustic code, but may also incorporate emotional representations.
A recent model of semantic representations, the hub model, has posited a
model of semantic representations where there are pure, amodal
representations of word meanings in the hub, and these are supported by
links with embodied semantic information in distributed associated
networks – for example, relevant areas of motor cortex (leg, arm, or mouth)
for different kinds of action words, high-order visual cortex for highly
imageable words, etc. (Paerson et al., 2007). is model allows for both
amodal semantic representations and less abstract perceptual-affective
properties of the objects and items to be represented.

We can see that several factors are involved in the recognition of words,
both wrien and heard, and there is also considerable interest in the ways
that we can build cognitive models that capture properties of how our
mental lexicon – all the words we know – is represented. e most
influential of these is John Morton’s logogen model (Morton, 1969, 1970,
1979; Morton & Paerson, 1980). In this model, every word is represented by
a unit, called a logogen, and ea logogen represents aracteristics (called
features) about that word. As the perceptual system(s) processes incoming
words, logogens increase in activity as evidence accumulates for ea one.
Contextual evidence can also add to this activation, so if the incoming
phonetic evidence for a word starting ‘ta’ and the contextual evidence is for
a piece of furniture, the logogen for table will increase and the logogen for
‘title’ will decrease, although both will have been increased in activation by
a word starting with a ‘t’ sound (along with all other ‘t’ initial words). When
the threshold for that particular logogen is reaed, the logogen fires, and
the word is recognised. e threshold for any one logogen is sensitive to
context. is means that a logogen whi has recently fired will have its
threshold temporarily lowered, su that it will be more likely to fire again.
e baseline frequency with whi any one word is encountered affects the
resting activation of the associated logogen, with more common words
having higher resting baselines, su that a frequently encountered word
needs less activation of its logogen to fire (and to be recognised). e
strengths of the logogen model lie in the ways that different factors can
influence the firing of the logogens, and thus different aspects of word
recognition are well captured. Words whi have just been recognised are
faster to be processed a second time, and this repetition priming is modelled
by the transitory lowering of the logogen thresholds. We are faster to
recognise frequent words, and the higher baseline activity of the logogens
for more frequent words means that they need less activity to be fired. I
notice when I am around people speaking Fren that I am oen distracted

when someone says the word ‘sauf’ – whi means except, but whi is
phonetically identical to most English pronunciations of my name, Sophie.
By Morton’s account, my name is a very frequently encountered word (by
me) and the baseline activity for my ‘Sophie’ logogen must be high enough
that it is easily fired, even in error. Everyone else who is not called ‘Sophie’
is probably not this distracted by the one word in spoken Fren.
e logogen model has been hugely influential, being recently described
as the patriar of computational models of word reading by Seidenberg
(2012), who notes that ‘it is worth pausing to recognise the sheer number of
essential concepts that were introduced in this pioneering work’ (p. 187). As
Seidenberg stresses, many later models of reading incorporate aspects of the
logogen model, sometimes in a modified form, whi is a testament to its
power. In Chapter 12, for example, we will see several links to current
connectionist models of reading.
An important alternative to the logogen model is the cohort model
(Marslen-Wilson, 1973, 1975, 1987; Marslen-Wilson & Zwitserlood, 1989),
whi is focused specifically on the recognition of spoken words. is model
involves the activation of particular candidate words by hearing the first two
phonemes of a word – these candidate words are the ‘word initial cohort’,
and this cohort declines in size as more of the incoming word is heard, and
the recognition units for words whi have been ruled out by the incoming
activation decline in activation and leave the cohort. Like the logogen
model, the cohort model allows for multiple words to be co-activated, and
for anges in activity to drive whether the words stay in the competition or
not; unlike the logogen model in whi the accumulation of activity for any
one logogen is a passive process, the activated word units in the cohort
model actively try to stay or leave the competition. is was tested in a
study of evoked response potentials (ERPs) – measures of brain activity
yoked to temporal aspects of the stimuli presented (O’Rourke & Holcomb,
2002). ERPs were measured while participants made lexical decisions about
words and non-words, and the uniqueness point – the point in a word
where it becomes different from all other words, and the point in a non-
word where it becomes unlike any existing lexical item – was varied. An

ERP component called the N400 varied in size, depending on whether the
items had early or late uniqueness points, as did the lexical decision reaction
times. is supports the incremental aspects of the cohort model and is a
demonstration of the kinds of evidence that brain response data can provide.
How should we model linguistic processing – rules or

regularities? e case of regular and irregular past-tense
verbs
Many of the cognitive models you will encounter in this book will fall into
connectionist, parallel-distributed models, and more rule-based systems.
is is the case for cognitive-linguistic models – for example, models of
reading can be connectionist (Seidenberg & McClelland, 1989) or symbolic
(e.g. the Dual-Route Cascade model; Coltheart et al., 2001). While both
approaes have strengths, they also ea have limitations, and the debate
about the best way to aracterise human cognitive processes continues.
Within the realm of language, the inflection of past-tense verbs has been
identified as an ideal system for investigating this topic (Pinker, 1997).
Although not as complex as other systems of inflection (e.g. Polish and
Cze), English words are inflected to denote aspects of their syntactic or
semantic status: nouns can be singular or plural, verbs can be in different
tenses. In English, some verbs are inflected to have a past-tense meaning by
the addition of the bound morpheme -ed (-ed is called a bound morpheme as
it cannot stand alone as a word: one whi can stand alone as a word is an
unbound or free morpheme. is encompasses a vast number of words and
thus an unbound morpheme is not always a very useful classification). us
jump becomes jumped, hand becomes handed, hum becomes hummed. ese
are termed regular past tense inflections, as the bound morpheme is added in
an identical way for ea verb morpheme (although their spoken
pronunciation can differ a lot – try saying jumped, handed, and hummed
and you will note that the -ed ending sounds different in ea, coming out
more like a ‘-t’ in ‘jumpt’, and ‘-ed’ in hand-ded, and a ‘-d’ in ‘hummd’).

ere are a great many of these regular past-tense verbs, at least 10,000 in
English. ese regular inflections can be contrasted with irregular past-tense
verbs like eat becomes ate, have becomes had, run becomes ran. For these
irregular verbs, the past-tense verbs cannot be simply predicted from the
present tense form, and they can be phonetically very dissimilar (e.g. tell and
told, am and was). ere are many fewer irregular verbs, around 106 in
English, and they typically are very high in frequency – that is, they are
very commonly used verbs.
ere is considerable debate about the ways that these two forms of past-
tense verbs are represented cognitively: do we encode and represent this
information in a symbolic, rule-like fashion, or can a distributed cognition
account adequately explain the existence and processing of these regular
and irregular forms? ese two positions have very different theoretical
implications: the symbolic processing model posits an explicit syntax in the
construction of past-tense verbs. Following on from the conceptual position
of Chomsky, Pinker (1999) proposed that regular verbs are formed by rule-
based processes, while irregular verbs are formed by lexical meanisms,
whi bear more in common with semantic processing than with rule-based
meanisms. In contrast, as will be established in Chapter 12 on
connectionism, a parallel processing account of regular and irregular verbs
does not require any explicit rules or syntax.
From the symbolic representation position, the regular verbs have been
described as a ‘paradigm example’ of a rule-based system: a very simple
bound morpheme is added to a verb to make the past-tense form. Although
the phonetic realisation of the -ed ending can differ (i.e. they can be
pronounced differently), this is still predictable from the form of the original
verb morpheme. Pinker identified three predictions of this approa whi
support this two-stage process: first, that the acquisition of the past-tense
regularisation rule should be very rapid, even instant; second, that the
application of the rule should be uniform in its application (e.g. not be
influenced by semantic information); and third, that the rule-based regular
system is distinct from the lexically mediated irregular system.

ere is a lot of evidence to support this position. First, as noted earlier,
many ildren use past tenses (both regular and irregular) correctly at first,
and then go through a stage where they over-apply the regular rules,
producing statements like ‘we goed to the zoo’ or ‘I eated that’, suggesting
that they have some awareness of the rules. Simple association learning is
held to be unable to account for this, as the ildren will not have (generally)
been exposed to these incorrect versions, and they had previously been
producing the correct version. Pinker has identified this as a sudden ‘eureka’
moment, where ildren come up with the rule whi they then start to
apply indiscriminately, both accurately and inaccurately. e uniformity of
the regular rules is seen, according to the Pinker approa, by the use of
regular inflections as a default construction of the past tense – if no irregular
construction is formed (by the lexical meanism) a regular form will be
produced. e ways in whi the rule-based meanism might be
functionally distinct from the lexical meanism has been largely explored
in neuropsyological studies of people with brain injuries, and these will be
addressed in Chapter 11.
ere has remained considerable debate about the extent to whi a
symbolic, rule-based system is necessary to model the past-tense inflections
of English. For example, an early parallel distributed processing model by
Rumelhart and McClelland (1986), with modifiable connections between
verb-root representations and the phonological form of the past-tense verbs,
was not only able to learn both regular and irregular past-tense verbs, but
also showed the same paern of early, correct application of regular and
irregular inflections, followed by a period of over-regularisation. is
demonstrated that apparently ‘rule-like’ behaviour can arise from a non-
symbolic system whi has no rules built into it.
ere are some other specific criticisms of some of the central
assumptions of the Pinker model. e suddenness with whi ildren
acquire the regular past-tense rule has been queried: since any one ild’s
profile of verb productions, both correct and incorrect, can be very noisy
and infrequent, it is possible to identify both paerns of immediate rule
gaining (e.g. an increase of regularisations from 0 per cent to 100 per cent

over three months), and of slow rule acquisition (22 per cent to 44 per cent
over six months) from the same ild’s data. Notably, for example, the 100
per cent profile was based on eight observations (McClelland & Paerson,
2002). It is certainly not the case that a clear and unambiguous onset of a
rule use is seen in the data from any one ild.
ere are also problems with the way that the regular rule is considered
to apply in a uniform way; that is, that the application of this rule is not
influenced by semantic or phonetic information. us both regular and
irregular inflections of past-tense non-words are judged to be more
acceptable if they are phontactically well formed and come from a higher
‘island of reliability’, whi is similar to orthographic and phonological
neighbourhood density, and forms a measure of how many real words are
similar to the non-word.
us, the use of the regular rule can be influenced by phonological
properties – the application is not necessarily uniform. Likewise, if a non-
word like ‘flink’ is produced in a context there is could be more semantically
linked to drink it will be more likely to be inflected as ‘flank’ than if it were
semantically linked to ‘blink’. is is an indication that the regularisation
rule is not insensitive to semantic properties.
In English there is a tremendous dominance of regular verbs – 86 per cent
of the most frequent 1000 verbs in English are regularly inflected
(McClelland & Paerson, 2002). However, it is not clear that regularisation –
application of the regularity rule – is the default way of generating past
tenses when no lexical irregular form is available. e Pinker argument
requires that the default use of regular rules is not a consequence of their
frequency, but because they reflect a truly linguistic meanism. It is thus
necessary to identify languages in whi there are both regular and irregular
inflections, but where the regular inflections are less common than the
irregular. ere are few of these, comprising the regular German past-tense -
t, the Arabic broken plural, and the German +s plural. It transpires that both
the regular German past-tense -t and the Arabic broken plural are both in
fact less frequent than has been claimed (McClelland & Paerson, 2002).
Furthermore, the German plural +s, while less frequent, is not applied as the

default inflection in language use. It may thus not be possible to make the
claim that the rule-based meanism is the default meanism, even when it
is less frequent than the irregular, lexical meanism.
In contrast to the two-stage, rule-based meanism, McClelland and
Paerson identify a connectionist model by Joanisse and Seidenberg (1999)
as a likely, parallel distributed processing alternative. Unlike the original
Rumelhart and McClelland (1986) model, this model of verb inflection has a
route for semantic as well as phonetic influences on the learning of correct
inflections.
McClelland and Paerson make the point that a connectionist model,
whi can exploit any regularities in the input, can learn the quasi-
regularities whi are found in the vast majority of irregularly inflected
verbs. In other words, ‘irregular’ verbs are typically somewhat regular, and
are part of a family of similarly declined verbs: indeed, in English only ‘be’
and ‘go’ are fully irregular and can neither be predicted, nor share
commonalities with other verbs. It has been argued that quasi-regularity
may actually be the norm in linguistic systems, and a model of past-tense
verbs whi can learn about these statistical relationships between
phonological forms and past-tense declensions will have strengths over
models whi do not (McClelland & Paerson, 2002).

We are continually confronted with ambiguity in language. When we read
the sentence ‘Time flies like an arrow’ we are seldom aware that there are
more than 100 legal syntactic interpretations (is time passing quily? Am I
timing the flights of some flies as I would time the flight of an arrow?)
(Altmann, 1998). However we do consistently find certain sentences
confusing, and will oen find them to be ungrammatical (although they are)
and these may shed light on how we are dealing with ambiguity in
sentences. Sentences like:
e car raced past the crowd crashed

e car driven past the crowd crashed
e first kind of sentence is oen considered to be ungrammatical, while

the second sentence is not. e problem is that raced is ambiguous – it can
be processed either as the main verb of the sentence, or as a past participle –
a past-tense passive form of a verb, used here to describe something about
the car in the sentence. I raced is processed as the main verb, then the crowd
crashed becomes hard to process and the sentence feels ungrammatical. In
contrast, driven can only be a past participle, not a past-tense version of a
verb (whi would be drove). is makes the second sentence considerably
more acceptable. We also experience problems with sentences like this:
I will read the paper that you submied tomorrow
We tend to associate the word tomorrow with the immediately previous

phrase ‘that you submied’. is immediately feels wrong as there is a clash
between the past tense of you submitted and the word tomorrow (Altmann,
1998). For a long while, the explanation for this is that certain syntactic
structures are more easily processed than others, and that certain syntactic
processing principles can lead us consistently into confusions. Two

particular syntactic preferences have been identified as important in this
respect (Kimball, 1973; Frazier, 1979).
e first principle is associated with a preference for a simple syntactic
structure rather than a complex one. As the perception of raced as a past
participle requires a sub-clause in the sentence, this makes for a more
complex syntactic structure than the perception of raced as the main verb of
the sentence. e second principle, as in the sentence ‘I will read the paper
that you submied tomorrow’, is called ‘late closure’ and refers to a
tendency to associate incoming information with the most recent
information acquired. ese two principles mean that we will consistently
misunderstand certain syntactic frameworks, where the construction is not
simple and words associated with earlier noun phrases are found towards
the end of a sentence.
is perspective was consistent with a psyolinguistic emphasis of the
role of syntactic structure on human language processing (as we saw
described earlier), where a syntactic processor that is informationally
encapsulated (i.e. not influenced by other kinds of information) works
through the incoming sentence. However, a more recent view, strongly
influenced by models of word recognition, has been put forward in
opposition to this, whi uses probability and context as ways of driving the
interpretation of words in sentences (Altmann, 1998). In this model, as words
are read, multiple meanings are activated, with the activation weighted by
probability of that particular meaning. e context in whi the sentence
appears also affects the weighting of the activation of any one meaning. is
means that word meaning that is normally high probability can become
lower in activation because of the semantic context in whi it appears
(Altmann, 1998).
According to this approa, a sentence like ‘e car raced past the crowd
crashed’ is harder to understand because the verb raced is ambiguous – it
can be either transitive (someone is racing something) or intransitive
(someone is racing). As we have seen, this verb can also form the main verb
of the sentence, or form a past participle, where it is defining aspects of the
meaning of one of the words in the sentence but is not the main phrase.

ese two properties of verbs interact: a past participle must be transitive (as
something is being raced by someone), while a main verb can be either
transitive or intransitive (Altmann, 1998).
As Altmann points out, verbs vary a lot in these probabilities, with some
verbs appearing as past participles very oen (e.g. enjoyed) and some less
oen (e.g. received), and readers will use this information to interpret the
meaning of the sentence. Readers will also use semantics to constrain the
interpretation of words: in the sentence starting ‘the ef fed’, readers will
use the semantic knowledge that efs are generally cooking for other
people to interpret ‘fed’ as a main verb, not a past participle. People will also
use the plausibility of whether the subject of a sentence is animate or
inanimate to interpret sentences like:
e page ripped by the toddler was mended

e page that was ripped by the toddler was mended
e phrase ‘by the toddler’ takes longer to read in the first sentence than
if the same phrase appears aer ‘that’ in the second sentence (Trueswell,
1996). is has been interpreted to show that although inanimate objects
rarely rip things, the readers are trying to process ‘ripped’ as the main verb
of the sentence, in the absence of cues like ‘that’ whi indicate sub clauses
to the sentence. is indicates that the main constraint on the processing of
this sentence concerns the plausibility of ‘ripped’ being a main verb or a past
participle (Altmann, 1998).
People will also use a wider context to help understand a sentence, as in
the following example:
Put the orange on the plate in the bag
If people hear a sentence starting ‘Put the orange on the plate’ they will
oen assume that is the start of the instruction, and have difficulty with ‘in
the bag’. In an experiment testing whether this effect can be modulated,
participants were played sentences with instructions in, and shown images
like the ones in Figure 10.3.

Figure 10.3
Testing the effect of visual context on the interpretation of a sentence.
Experiments have shown that this kind of visual context leads people to
interpret ‘on the plate’ as a description of whi orange is being discussed,
not as part of the action to perform upon the orange (Tanenhaus et al., 1995).
Importantly, this kind of resear is performed with data about eye
movements being collected as people process the sentences, and these
studies have shown that as soon as ‘on the plate’ is heard, the participants
look at the picture of the orange on the plate.
In terms of constraint satisfaction as a model of sentence processing, the
influences of these different sources of variability in interpretation will vary
depending on their probability. us the stronger the one kind of cue (e.g.
the probability of certain argument structures, like main verbs occurring
early in the sentence), the weaker the influence of other kinds of cues (e.g.
the likelihood of pages ripping things).
In normal spee perception, it must be stressed that prosodic and
intonational cues are another highly important way that talkers cue listeners
into their intended meaning, with the result that these kinds of confusions
are harder to establish in informal spee. Indeed, in normal reading, the job
of punctuation is to help readers deal with this kind of complex structure
(oen by explicitly implying aspects of spee intonation and timing). is

does not take away the importance of these constraint-based models of
sentence comprehension but it does mean that language has a structural
context (prosodic or derived from punctuation) whi also facilitates
comprehension.

Spee production – deciding what we want to say, and articulating this
accurately and fluently – is a behaviour whi we take very mu for
granted, and whi we typically do extremely well – it has been estimated
that any one talker uses a production vocabulary of around 20,000 words,
but that we make mistakes of word selection in only around every one in a
million words produced.
e processes involved in turning thoughts into spoken words are called
lexicalisation, and two main stages have been hypothesised (Levelt, 1989,
1992). e first stage comprises a link between conceptual thoughts and
word forms whi include semantic and syntactic information, but not
phonological detail. is is called the lemma, and the processes of
identifying and oosing the correct word is called lemma selection. In the
second stage, the lemma makes contact with the phonetic representation of
the word, called the lexeme, and the specifying of this form is called lexeme
selection. Mu of the evidence for this two-stage form of word selection in
spee production comes from a frustrating state that many people have
experienced, called tip-of-the tongue state. When in this condition, people
have an absolute certainty that they know a word that they want to say,
combined with a la of sensation of how they should say it. In this state,
people can oen access a lot of information about a word, su as what it
means and aspects of its syntax, and this has been ascribed to being able to
access lemma information, without being able to make contact with the
lexeme detail (Harley, 2001).
ere is also experimental evidence for these stages from studies of
priming; for example, participants name pictures more quily if they had
previously named or defined the word, but not if they had produced a
homophone whi sounds the same but has a different meaning. is
suggests that priming at the lemma level (semantic and syntax) can operate
separately from lexeme (phonological) priming.

Historically, another influence on our understanding of spee production
processes comes from studies of spee errors, or ‘slips of the tongue’.
Fromkin (1973) said these errors ‘provide a window into linguistic processes’
(pp. 43–44), although it has also been pointed out that the description and
analysis of these spee errors rely on accurate acoustic and phonetic
decoding by the listener, whi comprise a complex set of psyological
processes (Bouer, 1994).
ere are clear consistencies in the kinds of errors speakers make, where
the errors occur at the level of phonemes, morphemes, or words, rather than
random noisy paerns of errors. is gives weight to the suggestion that
they result from specific kinds of errors in the spee production system
(Fromkin, 1971, 1973; Garre, 1975; Dell, 1986; Harley 2001).
Garre developed a model of spee production based on a set of spee
errors whi he considered to be particularly informative:
Word substitutions – these affect content words, not (typically)

function words, su as ‘man’ for ‘woman’ or ‘day’ for night’, and
the substitutions oen have some semantic or phonological
association.
Word exanges in whi words from the same category normally
swap positions with ea other, su that nouns swap with nouns,
verbs with verbs, etc.
Sound exange errors su as classic spoonerisms like ‘wastey term’
for ‘tasty worm’, where the onsets or words swap positions with ea
other, commonly over words whi are next to ea other. Sound
exanges tend to be highly constrained – people don’t make
mistakes where vowels are swapped with consonants, and sound
exanges move across syllables, not within them (people do not say
‘back’ when they mean ‘cab’).
Morpheme exange – this is where word endings (morphological
inflections) move to other points in the sentence, su as ‘have you
seen Easter’s Hector egg?’ for ‘have you seen Hector’s Easter egg?’

ese are also known as ‘stranding’ errors and typically also involve
a word moving in the sentence.
ese errors inform us about the underlying structure in the planning of

spee, the kinds of frames the spee is being built upon. We can see this
structure at the level of syllables (where onsets and rhymes are important
units), at the level of content words and morphemes (whi can be swapped
within a sentence), at the level of semantics, and at the level of word class
(e.g. nouns vs verbs).
is kind of information is used to guide models of spee production, for
example that of Garre, whi involves several, independent levels:
1 the message level, whi represents the concepts and thoughts that
the speaker wants to express;
2 the functional level, at whi these concepts are expressed as
semantic lexical representations, and thematic aspects of the
sentence (the subject and object, for example) are also represented –
i.e. the roles that these semantic items will take in the sentence;
3 the positional level, at whi the semantic-lexical representations are
implemented as phonological items, with a syntactic structure;
4 the phonetic level, where the phonological and syntactic
representations are realised as detailed phonetic sequences, precisely
articulating the word forms and inflections specific by the positional
level (position within the syllable and the word);
5 the articulation level, whi form control of the vocal apparatus to
express the phonetic level as spoken language.
In Garre’s model, the semantic information about content words is

specified at the functional level, while function words and bound
morphemes (su as -ing endings) are added to the sentence structure at the
positional level, where they are associated with their phonetic forms; in
contrast, the phonological forms of the content words need to be generated
within the sentence at the positional level. is kind of constraint in the

model allows for word substitution errors, whi are generated at the
functional level (similar to the lexical level in Levelt’s model), and whi
infrequently affect function words. Likewise, sound exange errors arise
when content words are being phonologically constructed at the positional
level, and again affects function words mu less oen (as they are already
phonologically pre-specified at this level). Stranding errors occur when the
content words are being positioned in the sentence, whi occurs before
syntactic structure and inflections are added to the sentence.
is is a serial model of spee production: spee production is a result
of a series of independent output stages in whi there are distinct
computational processes specified in a serial, non-interacting fashion; this is
also true of the Levelt model. ere are other approaes to modelling
spee production whi proceed along more parallel lines, and whi are
typically modelled within the connectionist, interactive framework – for
example, the spee production model of Gary Dell (1986), Dell and
O’Seaghdha (1991), and Dell et al. (1997). In this model, a spoken sentence is
represented as a sentence frame, and is planned simultaneously across
semantic, syntactic, morphological, and phonological levels, with spreading
activation permiing different levels to affect ea other. is allows spee
errors to be ‘mixed’; as Dell has pointed out, many spee errors (su as
‘e wind is strowing strongly’) represent several different kinds of errors all
at once.
Functionally the Dell model works via different points in the sentence
frame activating items in a lexicon – for example when a verb is specified,
there will be activation across interconnected nodes for concepts, words,
morphemes, and phonemes. When a node is activated, there is a spread of
activation across all the nodes connected to it. us if the node for the verb
‘run’ is activated, there will also be activation for the verb ‘walk’. Selection
is based on the node with the highest activation, and aer a node has been
selected its activation is reset to zero (to prevent the same word from be
continuously produced). In this way, word substitution errors occur when
the wrong word becomes more highly activated than the correct target
word. e model contains categorical rules whi act as constraints on the

types of items whi are activated at ea level in the model, and these rules
place limits on the kinds of errors that can be made – nouns swapping places
with nouns, for example. In contrast, exange errors occur as a result of the
increases in activation, whi mean that a lexical element (a phoneme, or a
word) can appear earlier in a sentence than was intended if its activation
unexpectedly increased; as the activation is immediately set to zero once an
item has been selected, another highly activated item is likely to take its
place in the intended part of the sentence frame.
As in other areas of cognitive psyology, there has been a lively debate
about the extent to whi spee production is well modelled by interactive
connectionist models, or by more rule-based, serial, symbolic models. e
two-stage model of Levelt was developed into a more complex six-stage
model of spoken word production (Levelt, 1989; Bo & Levelt, 1994; Levelt
et al., 1999) called WEAVER++ (Word-form Encoding by Activation and
VERification). e stages are:
1 conceptual preparation
2 lexical selection (the stage at whi the abstract lemma is selected)
3 morphological encoding
4 phonological encoding
5 phonetic encoding
6 articulation
Like Dell’s model, WEAVER++ is a spreading activation model, but unlike

Dell’s model activation is fed forward in one direction only, from concepts
to articulation. Furthermore, the WEAVER++ model is truly serial, as ea
stage is completed before the next stage is started.
In an experimental aempt to generate spee errors, Levelt et al. (1991)
required participants to name pictures while also listening to words, and
pressing a buon when they recognised a word. e relationships between
the seen objects and heard words varied – there were semantic relationships,
phonological relationships, unrelated pairs and some had a ‘mediated’
relationship to the picture, that is, linked through a semantic and

phonological connection. If the picture was a dog, a mediated relationship
word could be ‘cot’, whi is phonologically similar to ‘cat’, whi in turn
has a semantic relationship with dog. e study was specifically designed to
test the hypothesis, inferred from Dell’s model, that a model of spee
production in whi different levels can interact would predict a facilitation
of naming ‘dog’ when ‘cot’ is heard (Levelt et al., 1991). Experimentally, this
predicted facilitation was not found; there was no phonological activation of
semantically related items. In contrast, the results supported a sequential
model. Specifically, there was priming of lexical decisions to the heard word
from semantically related words only at very short intervals (around 70ms),
while priming of lexical decisions from phonologically related words was
only significant at longer intervals (around 600ms). ese results were taken
to support a sequential, stage-based implementation of word naming.
ere is evidence in favour of the Dell model, however: Morsella and
Miozzo (2002) asked participants to name pictures in the presence of other
(distractor) pictures and there was facilitation of picture naming when there
was a phonological relationship between the target and distractor pictures.
is was taken to show a beneficial effect of phonological information at an
earlier stage in word selection and production than would be predicted by a
feed-forward, sequential model like Levelt’s.
Spee production has been somewhat less closely studied than other
aspects of language in cognitive psyology (especially when compared to
the detailed investigations of spee production seen in the aphasia
literature, as will be seen in Chapter 11); however, that profile is anging
rapidly as a range of experimental teniques are becoming available to
researers, su as the eye movement studies mentioned above (Griffin &
Crew, 2012).

Human language is not just an extraordinarily complex system for
representing and processing information; it is also the dominant system
within whi we communicate with ea other. Discourse is the term that
refers to the higher-order aspects of language use, both in terms of how
connected ideas are expressed (e.g. over the course of sentences) and in
conversation, whi is the shared use of language in interactions (be those
interactions spoken, signed, or wrien).
Conversation is an extremely interesting and complex use of language for
several different reasons. It is the context in whi we acquire spoken
language – all of us learn to speak (or sign) in interactions with others.
Conversation also represents an extremely good example of well co-
ordinated behaviour; a verbal behaviour whi relies on very high-order use
of intentions and thought – and our main social tool for interactions.
Co-ordinating conversations
When we have conversations with people, certain universal rules are
followed. ese have been summarised as (Sas et al., 1974):
1 Speaker ange occurs.

2 One person speaks at a time.
3 Simultaneous spee is common but brief.
4 Transitions with no gap and no overlap are common.
5 Turn order is not fixed, nor is turn size, duration of a turn or content.
6 Number of talkers can vary.
7 Talk can be continuous or discontinuous.
Speakers in a conversation are generally excellent at following these rules,

and if you’ve ever had the unpleasant experience of talking to someone who
won’t let you take your turn, you’ll be hopefully stru how infrequently

this happens. e principles likely exist because they form a natural
framework in whi relatively unconstrained conversation can be easily
managed. It has been observed that the maximum limit on conversational
partners is around four to five people – if a social group gets larger than this,
separate sub-groups of conversational partners will emerge (Dunbar et al.,
1995). e exact reason for this has yet to be determined, though it may well
be a result of following the Sas et al. principles with larger numbers of
people: that is, it may be relatively simple for two to four people to negotiate
the acceptable boundaries of conversation (e.g. managing who speaks next)
but mu harder for six to seven people.
e management of turn-taking in conversation is very important: even in
phone conversations, complete strangers, who cannot see ea other,
manage to take turns in the conversation very smoothly. e vast majority
of intervals between talker turns in conversation fall within a range of +/–
150ms (e.g. De Ruiter et al., 2006). is speed is far faster than one would
expect to see if turns were entirely reactive; that is, the preparation for a
turn were to start when the prior talker has finished their turn, whi would
be associated with far longer reaction times. Instead it has been suggested
that talkers in a conversation start to entrain their behaviour with ea
other, speaking at the same rates as ea other, and that talkers time their
turns based on the spee rhythm and prosody of the other talkers during
their turns (Wilson & Wilson, 2005). Indeed, conversation has been
described as an incredibly detailed exercise in co-ordinating our verbal
behaviour with that of our other co-talkers: when we talk to other people,
we start to co-ordinate our breathing and spee rate with ea other. We
also start to co-ordinate the language that we use: when we talk to ea
other, we will start to use the same words and the same grammatical
constructions (Garrod & Piering, 2004).
Meaning and intention in conversation

One of the intriguing facts about conversational spee is that we almost
never say exactly what we mean: if my partner comes into the room and

asks ‘Have you seen my phone?’ he is hugely unlikely to be pleased if I
respond ‘Yes, you had it when you rang your mother this morning’. On the
face of it, his question was about my having visual experience of his phone,
but in the context of his uering it, it is of course an indication to me that
(a) he is looking for his phone and (b) he wants to know if I know where his
phone is. For me to understand his question accurately, I need to decode not
simply the words that he says but his underlying intentions. is is a
pragmatic use of language and it means going beyond the words someone
says.
One of the first people to explore this topic was Grice (1975), who
established that when someone talks, it is important to decode their
intentions in addition to their words. Grice described talkers as implying
mu of the information in their statements: if I say that ‘I am not going to
the party, I’m feeling tired’, one can interpret my meaning by assuming the
reason why I am not going to the party is because I am feeling tired. Grice
identified differences of implied meaning – whi he termed implicatures –
whi are ways of describing the meaning implied in spee acts. He
identified different kinds of implicatures:
1 Conventional implicatures – these arise through semantic

representations of the meanings of particular ‘turns of phrase’ whi
are used in conversational spee. us someone may use the phrase
‘I have to say …’ at the start of a sentence and not be understood to
mean that they are being forced to say anything.
2 Conversational implicatures – these arise from the concept that there
is implied meaning in how sentences are constructed in spee; if a
talker says, ‘I would take fish pie to the party but I think Jane is
allergic’, the use of but is drawing a contrast between the two
statements. is kind of meaning is operating at a pragmatic level.
3 Co-operative principle – this principle entails that talkers ‘Make your
conversational contribution su as is required, at the stage of the
conversation at whi it occurs, by the accepted purpose of direction
of the talk exange in whi you find yourself’. is principle leads

to four maxims: the maxim of quantity – say what is informative for
the discussion but no more (and no less); the maxim of quality –
don’t say what is untrue (or what you consider to be untrue); the
maxim of relation – whi means, in short, that what you say should
be relevant, or germane, to what is being discussed; and the maxim
of manner – try not to be ambiguous or hard to understand (Grice,
1975).
In Grice’s theory, it is the operative use of these maxims that makes the
conversational implicatures comprehensible to talkers in a conversation.
Grice’s great insight was that in conversation, as we hardly ever specify
exactly what we mean by the words we say, the important job for a listener
is to understand a talker’s intentions. In conversations, the spee acts
produced by a talker set up expectations in a listener that they infer on the
basis of the implicatures in order to derive the meaning of what is being
said; his perspective therefore is a highly active, inferential model of
communication (as opposed to a more passive decoding strategy). is
aspect of Grice’s work was developed by Sperber and Wilson (1986) who
pied up on this active inferential model to explore the concept of relevance
in communication. Essentially, Wilson and Sperber questioned the need for
the maxims, principles, and implicatures whi Grice specified, and posited
that the expectation of relevance was sufficient for the listener to start
interpreting the uerances. Relevance, in this context, refers to a property of
uerances, but also as a property of any piece of verbal information, from a
thought to any observable phenomena. In this framework, relevance is
considered to mean that uerances are assumed, by listeners, to be relevant,
to be meaningful, to have a sense that we will be able to follow. Relevance is
thus a property not of linguistic meanisms that are recruited to
understand spee, but of human cognition: we can understand spoken
language because the quest for understanding, and the corresponding belief
that information is meaningful, is an omnipresent property of human
thought, and the ways that we engage with the world. In this light, I can
understand what my partner means when he asks ‘Have you seen my

phone?’ because I can also understand what an ominous clunking sound
means when I hear my son drop his dad’s phone onto a flagged stone floor.
Indeed, in more recent implementations of their theory, Wilson and Sperber
have been extending relevance to properties of human cognition (Wilson &
Sperber, 2002).
Social conversations
In psyology textbooks we tend to give examples of conversations whi
include lots of people maring around looking for lost phones and uering
excuses not to go to parties. However, human language is not only the main
way that we share information with ea other, it is also the main way that
we make and maintain our social connections, and when we talk to ea
other in this way, our conversation is rarely composed of demands for
information or statements of intent. Instead, one of the main things we do
when we talk to our friends is to discuss other people (Dunbar et al., 1997).
As we are social primates, it is not perhaps too surprising that the most
interesting things we have to talk about are other people. It has even been
suggested that human language has replaced social grooming for humans:
for non-human primates, an individual’s position in the social hierary is
made manifest by whom they groom and whom they allow to groom them,
and social grooming is a very important aspect of primate life, for this
reason. In humans, social language has been hypothesised as the main way
that we show with whom we have our important social links. In line with
this, humans have exploited other forms of communication than face-to-face
conversations since we have been able to write to one another, and over the
centuries this has exploded with communication on phones and text, from
SMS and email to online social media like Facebook and Twier. Notably,
however, we enjoy face-to-face conversation most of all, even if that face-to-
face conversation takes place on a computer: studies have shown that we
rate ourselves as happier, say that we have laughed more, and keep the
conversation going for longer for face-to-face conversations (both in the
presence of the other talkers and online) than phone conversations, text

messaging, or email interactions (Vlahovic et al., 2012). Indeed, the precise
linguistic aspects of our spoken language are influenced by social context: if
my partner indirectly asks if I’ve seen his phone, and I respond (with very
reduced articulation) ‘Dunno’, this might be acceptable in a way that it
would not be if he was asking me directly if I knowingly let our son drop his
phone on the stone floor, when a more fully fledged, properly articulated
spee act would be required in response, and probably one whi expresses
more than just ‘I don’t know’ (Hawkins, 2003). When we speak with people
we like, we start to align our spee to theirs, su that we will use the same
words and syntax as someone else, the more we like them. We not only
learnt to speak in conversations, we have those conversations with the
people close to us, emotionally and physically, and this may lead to a
lifelong enjoyment in talking to the people we want to be with, whi in
turn influences our own spee.

Summary
• Spee is an extremely complex sound and way of expressing

language: other ways include wrien language and sign language.
• Languages have structure at a number of different levels from
phonetic, morphological, lexical, semantic and syntactic, through to
pragmatic meaning.
• Linguistics aims to understand language as a complex system, and
psyologists have been interested in identifying how this can
inform human language use. ere may be some important
differences in these approaes, not least because linguists have
historically tended to underplay a role for learning.
• Several different factors have been implicated in how we recognise
wrien and spoken words, and database approaes have opened up
the possibility of analysing these influences in a complex
multifactorial way.
• Sentence comprehension has been strongly influenced by models
from psyolinguistics; however, approaes influenced by resear
into word recognition have shown important roles for biasing effects
of probabilities and contexts in sentence comprehension.
• In models of language processing, there is a tension between
approaes whi favour symbolic, rule-based processing models,
and approaes whi favour a more interactive, connectionist
approa. Past-tense verbs in English have been identified as key in
testing claims in this debate.
• Spee production involves a number of different kinds of
representation and the extent to whi these may or may not interact
when speaking is debated.
• Using spee in conversation is highly complex, and social and
affiliative behaviours start to interact with cognitive and linguistic
processes at this level.

Further reading
Berko-Gleason, J., & Ratner, N. (1997). Psycholinguistics. Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace. An excellent
introductory text very well presented.
Carroll, D.W. (2003). Psychology of Language (3rd edn). Belmont, CA: Brooks/Cole. is is a good
introductory textbook covering a wide range of topics in an accessible way.
Clark, H.H. (1996). Using Language. New York: Cambridge University Press. A stimulating account of
the way people cooperate together in speaking and listening,
participating in the joint enterprise of using language for conversational interaction.
Harley, T.A. (2001). The Psychology of Language: From Data to Theory (2nd edn). Hove: Psyology
Press. is is a very comprehensive textbook on the psyology of language, more advanced than
the Carroll text and with more coverage of UK-based resear. Highly recommended.
Pinker, S. (1994). The Language Instinct: The New Science of Language and Mind. Harmondsworth:
Penguin. A fascinating and exceptionally well wrien exploration of the nature of language and
its role in our mental makeup. A really good read.

 11
Disorders of language
Sophie Scott
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-11
Contents
11.1 Introduction
11.6 Reading
Summary
Further reading

11.1 Introduction
How is language represented in the human brain, and how can this go
wrong? is apter will outline the historical baground of studies of
language and the human brain, studies whi for many years were primarily
focused on case studies of people who had acquired brain damage whi
affected their use of language. e apter will also address more recent
developments in the ways that these linguistic processes can be investigated
in healthy human brains. Finally, when thinking of disorders of language, in
addition to language problems whi arise due to brain damage, there are
developmental language disorders. In acquired damage, a healthy brain is
lesioned, for example via a stroke (where the blood supply to the brain is
disrupted), disease (e.g. encephalitis), a tumour, trauma (e.g. a penetrating
object), or a progressive disease su as Pi’s disease. ese causes of brain
damage are all different in terms of what leads to them, what kinds of
damage they cause and what kinds of recovery are possible, but all lead to a
non-transient disruption in brain damage. e second kind of language
disorder is one related to developmental issues, su as autism, or specific
language impairment, where the brain is affected either during its
development in utero (e.g. due to genetic factors), or in infancy and
ildhood. e emphasis here is less on how the brain is damaged, and more
on how a ild’s behaviour and brain function is affected over the course of
development. Mu of the history of language disorders has been based on
acquired disorders, but there are also several developmental disorders whi
affect language, and I will address these towards the end of this apter.
Stroke Brain damage whi occurs as a result of cardiovascular issues.

e brain is an energy-intensive organ, using around 20 per cent of the
available oxygen circulating in the blood supply. Disruption to blood
supply causes brain damage to occur very quily. e damage can occur
due to a bloage in a blood vessel (an isaemic stroke) or due to a blood

vessel rupturing (haemorragic stroke). Strokes are associated with sudden
onsets of symptoms of brain damage, and the symptoms can reduce in
severity as time passes.
e first cognitive functions to be localised in the human brain were

associated with language. In the 1860s, following influential theories about
whether or not the human brain was organised with different specific
functions associated with different anatomical locations, there was a
developing consensus that areas in the le frontal cortex might be critical
for the production of spee (see Levelt, 2012). A neurologist called Paul
Broca was specifically interested in su cases when he was introduced to a
patient known as ‘Tan’, an adult Frenman with an expressive disorder of
spoken language – that is, he had developed a difficulty with producing
spee. Over the previous 21 years, Tan’s spee had worsened, although
otherwise his general mental abilities remained intact. By the time he came
to Broca’s aention, Tan could no longer produce any intelligible spee,
uering only ‘tan’ and some swear words (Broca, 1861). Broca was keen to
know whi brain areas might be damaged in Tan. However, relating
behavioural anges to brain damage was not easy at the time, indeed up
until the late twentieth century, when teniques su as CT scans and MRI
scans became available, neurologists were limited to post-mortem analyses
to investigate the human brain. Tan died shortly aer meeting Broca, and a
post-mortem was conducted at whi Tan was found to have brain damage
(typically called a brain lesion), caused by a tumour associated with
syphilis.1 e tumour was in the front half of the le side of his brain.
Specifically, the lesion lay in the posterior (ba) third of the le inferior
(lower) frontal gyrus (Figure 11.1). Over the next century, this brain area
became known as Broca’s area, and was associated with a disorder of spee
production called Broca’s aphasia. Broca’s aphasia is aracterised by
halting, non-fluent spee, with many grammatical errors. Broca’s aphasia
was considered to result from a loss of motor memories for spee, and

nowadays it is oen associated with difficulties in selecting and planning the
control of spee acts.
1 Until the introduction of antibiotic drugs, brain tumours caused by infections like syphilis or
tuberculosis were relatively common, but are (fortunately) less common nowadays.
Gyrus e surface of one of the folds in the cerebral cortex.
Aphasia An acquired language disorder, whi primarily affects the

comprehension of spoken language (a receptive aphasia), or the
production of spoken language (expressive aphasia). In global aphasia,
both spee production and perception are compromised.
Figure 11.1
Diagram of the brain showing the position of Broca’s area.
Source: Broca (1861).
Shortly aer Broca’s influential paper, Karl Wernie (1874) described

patients with disorders of spee comprehension, that is, people who
developed difficulties understanding spoken language: this is typically
described as a sensory, or receptive aphasia. Wernie determined that
patients with a sudden onset of spee comprehension difficulties had
damage to the le superior temporal gyrus (Figure 11.2). A deficit in

understanding spoken language aer brain damage became known as
Wernie’s aphasia, and the associated brain areas became known as
Wernie’s area. Spee production can be intact in people with Wernie’s
aphasia; that is, they can still speak fluently and oen this spee production
can be unimpaired. However, in some cases people’s spee can be
disordered in content, su that their spee is difficult to understand: their
spee can be made up of random words, a so-called ‘word salad’, or consist
of entirely invented words, known as neologisms.
Neologisms Non-words whi are used by some neuropsyological

patients in place of real words.
Figure 11.2
Diagram of the brain showing Wernie’s area.
Source: Wernicke (1874).
us, the first two disorders of language whi were described

scientifically drew a clear line between disorders of spee production and
spee perception/comprehension. Over the next few years different
neurologists and scientists developed this distinction into a more complex
model of spoken language in the brain.

e Wernie–Litheim model of aphasia and its

modifications
Wernie used his insights into the problems of patients who had difficulties
in understanding spoken language, and their differences from the issues of
spee production experienced by Broca’s aphasia, to develop a model of
spee perception and production (Figure 11.3). In terms of cognitive
processes, Wernie realised that the two different profiles of the ways that
language could be affected by brain damage indicated that there were some
underlying differences in how these processes and representations must be
implemented in the human brain – that is, to some extent spee production
and spee perception must be spatially separate in the human brain, if they
can be independently damaged. In terms of modern cognitive
neuropsyology, the findings that spee perception and spee production
can be differentially and separately affected by brain damage is evidence for
a ‘double dissociation’ (Shallice, 1988): double dissociations became a central
feature of cognitive neuropsyology and cognitive science over the next
century, especially with the rise of cognitive psyology in the second half
of the twentieth century.

Figure 11.3
Wernie’s (1874) model of spee perception and production.
From the outset, these diagrams were both very popular and
controversial: Levelt (2012) has outlined exactly how popular diagrams (or
cognitive models as we would now call them) were, and also how critical
people were: Henry Head, for example, considered that researers would
twist the clinical cases they observed to try and fit their models (Head, 1926).
However, from the outset these models had the power of being testable and
of being used to generate hypotheses. In terms of predictions, Wernie
predicted Conduction Aphasia as a consequence of his model, where there
was a disconnection of the phonetic lexicon from the spee motor planning
centre (lesion of line C in Figure 11.3), resulting in a problem where patients
can understand spee, but make errors in repetition. is condition does
indeed exist (although the precise nature of the anatomical implications is a
lile more complex; see later sections). Wernie’s model was tested by
Litheim, who identified in patients a different kind of spee problem
whi the model could not account for, in Transcortical Sensory Aphasia.
is initially resembles Wernie’s aphasia, in that patients have problems
understanding spee, and have fluent spee output (though their spee
production can be confused). Unlike Wernie’s patients, however, these
patients can still repeat accurately. In Wernie’s model, there is no route for
spee comprehension to be compromised, but for repetition to be intact.
Litheim proposed the addition of a semantic-conceptual module to the
Wernie model. is model (Litheim, 1885) has been described as the first
cognitive model that identified different subsystems in an information
processing framework (Figure 11.4).
Litheim’s modified model identified an output, motor module (D), an
input store of phonological lexical information (B) and a conceptual centre
(F). Lesions whi disconnect or damage elements of this model lead to
different profiles of aphasic problems. For example, Broca’s aphasia would
result from damage to D, and Wernie’s aphasia from damage to B.
Damage to the connection between B and D would lead to a problem in

connecting from sounds to spee output, and indeed in conduction aphasia
precisely this profile of disorder is seen. In conduction aphasia, people can
produce spee, and can understand spee, but cannot repeat heard words.
Further disruptions to spee production/perception following brain damage
within this model of aphasia are classified in the Boston aphasia
classification system (Goodglass & Kaplan, 1972).
Figure 11.4
Litheim’s (1885) model of spee perception and production.
e Boston aphasia classification system

e Boston aphasia classification system (BACS) builds on the Litheim
model of language to develop a more comprehensive model of aphasic
syndromes. is is oen also called the classical, or neoclassical,
classification system of aphasia. ese aphasic syndromes are categorised by
their symptoms, and by the ways that they are considered to be indicative of
different kinds of damage to the Litheim model of language. ese aphasic
syndromes can be considered to be the first application of the study of

disordered function to test predictions of a cognitive model. Note that some
of these aphasias are considered to be caused by damage to particular brain
areas whi underpin certain functions (e.g. Broca’s aphasia), and others are
considered to result from damage to the pathways connecting different brain
areas whi are important in language – these are considered to be
‘disconnection’ syndromes, as the implication is that the problem is one of
connectivity. us, this approa distinguishes between damage to brain
areas whi subserve specific functions and damage to connections between
brain areas, whi may mean that functioning brain areas can no longer
contribute to a language task, because they have been disconnected by the
damage. e Boston system is as follows:
e Boston aphasia classification system (BACS) A systematic

classification of aphasic profiles whi can be used to identify aphasia
and to predict what profiles of damage patients might be expected to
show when assessing their damage. e Boston classification system
builds on the models of aphasia whi were developed by Broca,
Wernie and Litheim. Implicit in this approa is the concept that
language can be localised in the human brain, and that different profiles
of language deficits are related to distinctly different paerns of brain
damage.
1 Broca’s aphasia.Spee production is laborious and grammar can be

incorrect. Within BACS, this condition is considered to be caused by
a lesion involving the expressive spee centre (D).
2 Wernicke’s aphasia. Spee comprehension is impaired: patients find
it hard to understand what is said to them. Within BACS, this
condition is considered to be caused by a lesion of the audio-verbal
centre, also referred to as the phonological lexicon (B).
3 Conduction aphasia. Patients can understand spee, and produce
spee accurately, but they have specific difficulties with the
repetition of heard words. Within BACS, this condition is considered

to be caused by a lesion of the pathways connecting the audio-verbal
and expressive spee areas (line C).
4 Global aphasia. Patients can neither understand or produce spee.
Within BACS, this profile is produced by an extensive lesion
involving both the audio-verbal centre (B) and the expressive spee
centre (D).
5 Transcortical motor aphasia. Similar in symptoms to Broca’s aphasia,
but the patient’s repetition skills are intact. Within BACS, this
disorder is associated with disruption of the pathways (shown in
Figure 11.4 as line G) connecting the concept (F) area to the
expressive spee area (D).
6 Transcortical sensory aphasia. Is similar to Wernie’s, or receptive
aphasia, except that repetition is preserved. Indeed, patients can
show echolalia, where there is an obligatory repetition of heard
words, su that repetition is oen continual and not necessarily
intentional. Within BACS, this condition is considered to be a result
of lesions of the pathways (shown in Figure 11.4 as line E)
connecting the audio-verbal centre (B) to the concept centre (F).
7 Isolation aphasia. Also known as mixed transcortical aphasia, is a
disorder in whi the patient cannot understand heard spee, and
cannot produce spee, but can still repeat words. Within BACS, this
disorder is caused by lesions whi disconnect the concept centre
from the audio-verbal centre and the expressive spee centre (in
Figure 11.4, these are disconnections of line E between B and F, and
line G, between F and D).
8 Anomic aphasia. Is a disorder associated with a problem in naming
objects across modalities (i.e. patient cannot name a cow by seeing a
picture of a cow, or hearing ‘moo’). In the BACS system anomic
aphasia can be caused either by a lesion involving the pathways
whi connect the concept centre to the expressive spee centre
(line G in Figure 11.4), or if comprehension is also disrupted, a lesion
of the concept centre itself (F).

e problem with the definition of anomic aphasia, as Litheim himself
noted, is that anomic aphasia and transcortical motor aphasia are caused by
very similar damage in the Wernie–Litheim model, but are clinically
quite distinct (Heilman, 2006). ere are several other issues with the
Wernie–Litheim model of aphasia – for example, as Sigmund Freud
pointed out, there is no account in this model of why a patient with
Wernie’s aphasia might make (and fail to notice, let alone correct)
frequent errors in their spee output, as they quite oen do (Buerworth,
1993). A slightly different model was developed by Kussmaul (1877) who
hypothesised connections from the semantic-conceptual area ba to the
phonological input lexicon: evidence from Feinberg et al. (1986) showed that
people with conduction aphasia were able to tell whether or not pictures of
words were pronounced the same way, even if they could not say those
words aloud. is was evidence in support of Kussmaul’s claim. Litheim
had also described a patient who could repeat words, but who had great
difficulty in spee comprehension: the patient also produced errors when
speaking (e.g. using the wrong words) and had problems naming. is
profile of problems was hard to account for in the Wernie–Litheim
model, since a disconnection of the acoustic-phonetic processing field from
the conceptual system would not produce these deficits (Heilman, 2006). If
there are reciprocal connections between the acoustic-phonetic input lexicon
and the conceptual-semantic system, then a disruption of these will produce
the profile that Litheim had described. Figure 11.5 shows Kussmaul’s
adaptations to the Wernie–Litheim model. In this model there is no
direct link between the conceptual semantic system and spee output
planning in Broca’s area.

Figure 11.5
Kussmaul’s (1877) model of spee perception and production.
Further support for the reciprocal connections between the semantic

conceptual system and the phonetic analysis/phonological lexicon came
when a patient was discovered who had transcortical sensory aphasia – that
is, impaired spee comprehension but intact repetition with intact naming
and clear spee production (Heilman et al., 1981). e patient was unable to
access semantic representations from phonological representations, but
could access their phonological representations via intact processing from
their semantic-conceptual module.
e Wernie–Litheim model had a link from semantic-conceptual
representations to spee output systems to provide a system for the
production of normal, spontaneous spee. is enables the model to explain
transcortical motor aphasia, where patients can understand spee but have
great difficulties in production: unlike Broca’s aphasia, the patients can
repeat words accurately. If the patients have a suspected deficit in activating
semantic-conceptual models of what they want to say, this profile of aphasia
is sometimes called adynamic aphasia: transcortical motor aphasia can also

be associated with a specific problem in initiating spee output and the
patients can be described as having a motor akinesia (a specific problem in
initiating motor acts) (Heilman, 2006). e retention of the Wernie–
Litheim link between conceptual representations and spee motor
planning would allow this profile of disorder to be accounted for, as would
the inclusions of a module to represent the control of intentional spee
production (Figure 11.6).
Figure 11.6
Heilman’s (2006) model of spee perception and production.
Another patient group that is hard for the Kussmaul–Wernie–Litheim

model to account for is deep dysphasia (Miel & Andreewsky, 1983; Katz &
Goodglass, 1990). In deep dysphasia the patients, as in conduction aphasia,
make spee production mistakes that include many phonetic errors. e
deep dysphasic patients also make errors when repeating, as in conduction
aphasia, however unlike the people with conduction aphasia, who make
phonetic errors when repeating words, the people with deep dysphasia make
semantic errors. us, when repeating ‘du’, someone with conduction

aphasia might say ‘duff’, whereas someone with deep dysphasia might say
‘goose’. When asked to repeat non-words, people with deep dysphasia
produce real words that are phonetically similar to the target real words. e
original Wernie–Litheim model can account for this profile, as there is a
route from conceptual representations to spee motor output control.
However, to account for both conduction aphasia and deep dysphasia, it has
been suggested that the Kussmaul–Wernie–Litheim model needs to split
the phonological input lexicon and the phonological output lexicon (Figure
11.6) (Heilman, 2006).
e inclusion of separate phonological input and output lexicons is
intended to provide a way to discriminate between the profiles of problems
seen in people who have deep dysphasia and conduction aphasia: in
conduction aphasia, people have a potential lesion of line E (Figure 11.6),
connecting the phonological output lexicon to the expressive spee output
centre (D): this would lead to phonetic errors in spee production and
problems with repetition, as in conduction aphasia (Heilman, 2006). In
contrast, a lesion of the connections (line C in Figure 11.6) between the
phonological input and output lexicons would not prevent repetition, as the
input and output lexicons could be connected via the semantic-conceptual
centre (I in Figure 11.6). As the semantic conceptual route is based on ‘real’
words, non-word repetition becomes difficult, as in deep dysphasia.
Furthermore, as the semantic-conceptual system does not have access to
phonology, frequent semantic errors are made in spee production, as the
words selected for output are constrained by semantic, not phonetic
representations (Heilman, 2006).
e separation of the input and output phonological lexicons also allowed
people to account for the problems experienced by a patient (Roth et al.,
2006) who made many errors during spee production, with the words
produced oen being semantically related to the target words. When
naming objects, he would oen make errors, and was not helped by
semantic cues. In contrast, phonetic cues would oen help him name more
accurately, but he would now make frequent phonological errors. It was
suggested that this patient had damage to both whole-word and phonetic

methods of naming items – and that furthermore, in normal language use,
people would use both routes when naming objects. is would link the
models to a parallel-distributed processing framework, rather than being
limited to serial processing (Heilman, 2006).
However, there is a further group of patients who have deficits of
confrontation naming – problems in identifying objects by name via
prompts. In anomic aphasia, these problems are independent of the modality
in whi the patients are tested; in optic aphasia, patients have a specific
problem when given visual objects to name (Freund, 1889). In visual agnosia,
patients have great difficulty not just in recognising and naming objects, but
in retrieving semantic information about the objects (e.g. describing how
they would be used). In optic aphasia, the problems are limited to naming
the object from visual presentation; that is, they might not be able to name a
pair of scissors, but they could mimic how they would be used, and describe
situations in whi they would be used. eir problem can be considered a
form of aphasia rather than of visual processing or visual knowledge, and
has been described as a problem in the link between visual object knowledge
and the phonological output lexicon. is has led to a modification of the
Kussmaul–Wernie–Litheim model where a module for visual object
processing has been included (Figure 11.7) (Heilman, 2006). e opposite
profile of deficits has been described in some patients with dementia, who
can name objects that they are shown, but not from verbal definitions: this
has been termed non-optic aphasia. e patients can repeat words without
mistakes, and can name objects correctly because the output lexicon and
spee motor systems are intact, as are their object recognition units and
their access to the phonological output lexicon. In contrast, normal spee
production and comprehension were impaired, including their naming to
definitions, and their non-optic aphasia was thus linked to degraded
semantic representations. is may link to semantic dementia, a focal
dementia where the first symptoms are associated with loss of the ability to
map between heard words and their meaning.

Dementia A persistent impairment in intellectual function due to brain
dysfunction, whi commonly is associated with a progressive loss of
function. It is mainly a disease of ageing, being more common in more
elderly populations. Dementias can be relatively focal in their effects (e.g.
semantic dementia) or more widespread and ‘global’ in their effects (e.g.
Alzheimer’s disease). Some dementias primarily affect subcortical regions
(e.g. Parkinson’s disease) and others have a more cortical effect (e.g.
Pi’s disease).
e cognitive neuropsyology approa to aphasia has been

tremendously influential in the understanding of aphasia and the ways that
human language is implemented in the human brain. ere are some
limitations to the uncritical application of some of these concepts, however,
that are worth considering. In the next section, more detailed aspects of
aphasic profiles are considered.
Figure 11.7
Heilman’s (2006) revised model with additional module for visual object processing.

Broca’s aphasia
Patients with Broca’s aphasia have highly non-fluent spee, with
difficulties in repetition. ere are typically long pauses between words
when they speak, and their spee sounds effortful. ere is very oen a
motor spee problem (apraxia) or dysarthria that accompanies this. eir
comprehension of spee, however, is not compromised. Broca’s aphasia is
oen associated with damage that extends out of the posterior inferior
frontal cortex into surrounding cortex. As primary motor cortex lies next to
Broca’s area, patients oen have a muscle weakness or paralysis that can
affect the rest of their body. is typically affects the right (opposite side of
the body from the lesion – contralesional) side of the body, as the motor
areas on the le side of the brain control the right side of the body, and vice
versa.
Unhelpfully, there is not necessarily a correspondence between Broca’s
area and Broca’s aphasia. ‘Classical’ Broca’s area, as described by Broca, lies
in the posterior third of the inferior frontal gyrus, and encompasses
Brodmann’s areas 44/45 (Figure 11.1). However, to have a full clinical profile
of Broca’s aphasia, more extensive damage is required. Mohr et al. (1978)
looked at 20 lesions at autopsy, and related the clinical spee problems that
the people suffered in life to their acquired brain damage. A lesion to Broca’s
area itself caused transient spee mutism – a loss of all spee production
whi resolves over time. is may well have been transient because of
plasticity in the brain (some reorganisation around the lesion), or because
the right hemisphere regions start to be recruited (parallel areas in the
opposite side of the brain underlie some recovery of function). For full
‘Broca’s aphasia’ profile, whi was not transient, the lesion needed to
encompass a lot more of the frontal lobe on the le, including le opercula,
le insula, and white maer tracts lying behind these cortical fields,
including Broca’s area. Broca’s original case, whi involved damage due to

a neoplasm (tumour), whi arose due to syphilis, involved these areas.
ere are also complexities to the nature of Broca’s area itself: Broca’s area
includes Brodmann’s areas (BA) 44 and 45. Functionally, the cell structure
and anatomy of BA 44 corresponds to premotor cortex (associated with
complex motor planning and control), and BA 45 to prefrontal cortex
(associated more with executive functions), so it is unlikely that they
perform the same computational functions. It is therefore almost certainly
the case that Broca’s area is involved in a variety of processes, some motoric,
some not. Since the development of functional imaging enabled the
investigation of language (and other cognitive, perceptual, and motoric
functions) in intact, healthy human brains, it has become clear that Broca’s
area is engaged by a range of non-linguistic tasks; for example, in the
representation of task-relevant information, or in non-linguistic aspects of
syntax. It is possible that the critical importance of Broca’s area in spee
production may therefore result from it having important general cognitive
functions in the planning and control of behaviour, for example, response
selection (Snur et al., 2009).
Wernie’s aphasia
Wernie’s aphasia is a disorder of the comprehension of spoken language,
and patients can also show poor naming and repetition. Spee output is
fluent, although some patients speak with many paraphasias and
neologisms, and spee can be (though is not necessarily) highly incoherent.
Notably, these patients rarely, if ever, correct their errors, whi suggests
they are unaware of their problem: they even seem to be unaware that their
spee makes lile sense to others (the term for su a la of awareness of a
problem is called anosognosia). e patients don’t normally have a muscle
weakness or paralysis (a hemiparesis), though they may have cortical
blindness. Cortical blindness is a la of sensitivity to visual sensory
information, whi arises due to damage to the primary visual cortex,
leading to a visual field defect (e.g. a hemianopia). is indicates a
‘posterior’ lesion whi lies towards the ba of the brain. Generally

posterior damage means damage to the brain whi lies behind the central
sulcus (Figure 11.1). Wernie’s original papers indicate that he was
describing the extent of the le superior temporal gyrus (STG) being
important in spee perception. Over the years, however, papers started to
especially emphasise the le posterior superior temporal sulcus (STS) as the
location of Broca’s area (e.g. Bogen & Bogen, 1976). is perspective almost
certainly reflects the fact that most receptive aphasia cases are caused by
cardio-vascular disease; that is, stroke: strokes follow the anatomy of the
blood supply, and in the temporal lobes, the blood supply runs ba to front,
meaning that strokes are more common at the ba end of the temporal
lobes than the front. is means that the posterior STS may be emphasised
in Wernie’s aphasia because of how strokes happen, rather than because of
its functional significance in spee perception. It is also the case that a full
profile of Wernie’s aphasia arises from a more widespread le tempero-
parietal lesion – and the larger the lesion, the more severe the spee
comprehension deficit (Naeser et al., 1987).
Conduction aphasia
In conduction aphasia, there is a disruption of repetition, with preserved
(relatively) comprehension and spontaneous spee, though there may be
phonemic errors, and the patients can have problems with confrontation
naming. ere tends to be no associated neurological problem; for example,
hemiparesis is rare. is likely reflects the fact that conduction aphasia is
generally caused by smaller lesions than other problems (e.g. Wernie’s
aphasia). Some patients have a limited right hemianesthesia (loss of
sensation to tou), or visual field defect, and the patients may have
difficulty with moving their face or limbs to command.
Following the conventions of the Boston aphasia classification system,
and the Wernie–Litheim model, conduction aphasia is known as a
disconnection syndrome because it is assumed to reflect damage to
connections between brain areas connecting, for example, the phonological
output lexicon to the expressive spee control centre (Figure 11.7). Not long

aer Wernie’s original prediction of the existence of conduction aphasia
(as a prediction of his model), the arcuate fasiculus (AF) was discovered, and
it appeared to be a good candidate route for this pathway: the acruate
fasiculus is a white maer tract running from the posterior STG to Broca’s
area, and this may represent a connection between B and D in the original
Wernie model, Figure 11.3. However other reports have implicated the
cortex in conduction aphasia, especially cortical fields within Wernie’s
area (Mendez & Benson, 1985). More recent electrical stimulation studies
have confirmed this cortical involvement. Anderson et al. (1999) worked
with an epileptic patient who, when her posterior STG was stimulated, made
spee sound errors when speaking, and had impaired repetition, with
preserved semantic comprehension. Conduction aphasia may reflect a
disorder of cortical areas important in repetition, rather than a disconnection
syndrome. is, in turn, may mean that the le STG is important in spee-
motor links as well as acoustic phonetic processing of spee.
Global aphasia
In global aphasia, all major language functions are impaired, both in output
and comprehension. is tends to follow an extensive le hemisphere lesion
involving Broca’s area and Wernie’s area. Su large-scale brain damage
involves many associated neurological signs: hemiplegia, sensory loss, visual
field defects, and aentional disturbances su as extinction or neglect. e
lesions need not necessarily be large, and they can oen spare Wernie’s
area. However, both cortical and subcortical regions tend to be involved.
Transcortical motor aphasia

In this disorder, repetition is preserved but comprehension and spontaneous
spee compromised, the laer strikingly so. e repetitions can be
mandatory, whi is termed eolalia, and whi can lead to rather
disturbing spee paerns. e patients can correct errors in what they are
asked to repeat. Spontaneous spee is stumbling, and stuering,

agrammatic, and simple. ese neurological signs are similar to Broca’s
aphasia. Lesions are not well understood, and are frequently found anterior
and superior to Broca’s area, in the superior anterior frontal lobe. If the
patients have problems with accessing conceptual-semantic representations
when speaking, their lesions are associated with lateral prefrontal cortex,
superior to Broca’s area; if they have more of a problem in initiating the
motor act of spee, their lesions are associated with midline premotor
spee areas (Heilman, 2006).
Transcortical sensory aphasia

In this disorder there is impaired comprehension, preserved repetition, and
fluent output. Words can be included in the spee output whi have been
overheard, but whi have not been understood. Su ‘repetition’ is again
oen mandatory; i.e. the patients are eolalic. Kertesz et al. (1982) carried
out a study into the localisation of the lesions, and found two sites
associated with TSA, in the medial inferior ventral temporal lobe, and
anterior STG.
Anomic aphasia
Word finding difficulties are the most prominent feature, leading to spee
whi can be ‘vague’ and imprecise in content. Most cases of anomic
aphasia have no associated neurological signs, and it has been regarded as
non-localising as no one area is shown to be implicated in patient studies.
Gloning et al. (1963) found that 60 per cent of their patients had temporal-
parietal lesions, but the other 40 per cent were wide ranging, though all in
the le hemisphere.
Pure word deafness

Pure word deafness is very rare. Patients can sometimes tell spoken words
from non-spee sounds, others cannot, but none of them can understand

spoken words at all. Spee output can be disordered, and patients cannot
repeat or write to dictation. Pure word deafness was first described as a
lesion of white maer tracts into the le auditory cortex (e.g. into A in
Figure 11.3). However more recent work has shown that cortical areas, oen
on both the le and right sides of the brain, are strongly implicated in pure
word deafness. Auerba et al. (1982) suggested that word deafness due to
loss of prephonological auditory processing is associated with bilateral
temporal lobe lesions, but that a unilateral le temporal lesion causes word
deafness due to a deficit in phoneme discrimination and identification.
Another clinical and psyophysical study of a patient does not support this,
however; the patient had an initial infarction of the le dorsolateral
temporal lobe and presented with Wernie’s aphasia, but subsequently
developed word deafness aer a right temporal infarct (Praamstra et al.,
1991). Loss of spoken word comprehension only occurred aer the second,
right hemisphere infarct. us bilateral damage seems to be necessary for
‘pure’ word deafness – this may be a result of plasticity processes in the
right hemisphere whi support the recovery of some spoken word
comprehension. Consistent with this view, more recent overviews have
indicated that pure word deafness is seen aer unilateral le temporal lobe
damage, and bilateral temporal lobe damage, but not aer unilateral right
temporal lobe damage (Griffiths et al., 1999).
A simpler model of aphasia

e complexity of these paerns of aphasia and their implications for how
language is implemented in the human brain can become a bit bewildering.
However this diagnostic ‘flow-art’ of symptoms from the American
Spee and Hearing Association is helpful in seeing the bigger picture here
(Figure 11.8); and as suggested by the initial distinction between spee
production and spee perception by Broca and Wernie, the first and most
important distinction remains whether or not the patient has any spee
production skills – i.e. is their spee fluent or not?

Figure 11.8
e classification of aphasic symptoms proposed by the American Spee and Hearing
Association.
In this approa, patients are divided first into those with and without
fluent spee, and then into those with and without spee comprehension.
e role of repetition – preserved or otherwise – can be seen to be important
beyond this – e.g. in discriminating between classic Broca’s aphasia
(repetition impaired) and transcortical motor aphasia (repetition intact).
Mixed transcortical aphasia (isolation aphasia)

In this rare disorder only repetition is preserved – both comprehension and
spontaneous spee are compromised. ere is no voluntary language use,
and the associated neurological signs are very variable. Some have a
bilateral paralysis, leading to quadriplegia or quadriparesis, or unilateral
signs, su as a right hemiplegia. ere is oen a sensory loss. A post-
mortem study indicated that anterior and posterior brain damage was
involved (Geswind et al., 1968), and a study by Ross (1980) showed
involvement of the le motor and sensory cortices, as well as parietal lobe
involvement.

Phonagnosia
Phonagnosia is a disorder in whi people are unable to recognise other
people by their voices. is is not a spee perception problem per se, but as
we saw in Chapter 10, we do adapt to idiosyncracies of spee production in
a speaker-specific way, so it is not irrelevant to consider this issue.
Phonoagnosia is rare, though this may reflect the fact that we are not good
at recognising speakers by their voices alone. It may also reflect the fact that
many interactions we have with other people are face to face, and hence
other sources of information are available; if the voice alone is presented
(e.g. on the phone) people commonly introduce themselves.
Patients with phonagnosia can recognise people by their faces, and do not
have a more general problem with person identity knowledge. ey do not
have a disorder of spee perception, instead having a specific difficulty in
recognising people from their voices. Phonagnosia associated with damage
to the brain has been linked to damage to the right temporal lobe. A recent
description of a developmental case of phonagnosia – someone with no
known brain damage who had experienced difficulties with identifying
voices all her life – revealed no lower-level auditory processing deficits, nor
problems with the perception of other kinds of information from the voice,
su as emotional vocalisations. Instead her problem seemed to be limited to
detecting speaker identity cues from the voice (Garrido et al., 2009).
Dysarthria
Dysarthria is an acquired disorder of spee production, and refers to a
difficulty in the implementation of spee plans when these are applied to
the movement of muscles. Dysarthria is a specific problem with moving the
articulators, due either to problems in the brain in the areas whi directly
control articulatory movements (e.g. damage to primary motor cortex) or to
the cranial nerves whi directly activate the muscles (the nerves whi are
sending the messages from the brain to the muscles). Either of these are

routes to muscle weakness in the articulators, and dysarthria. In dysarthria,
spee can be mumbled or indistinct, or slurred.
Spee apraxia
Spee apraxia is a disorder of the motor control of spee, in the absence of
motor weakness. People with spee apraxia have great difficulty saying
what they want to say, and they can be very inconsistent in their spee – a
word may be accurately produced on one occasion but not on the next.
Patients may be visibly groping for the right word. eir spee can have
disordered rhythm and prosody. Patients with spee apraxia commonly
have damage to the le anterior insula, whi lies medial to Broca’s area in
the le inferior frontal gyrus (Dronkers, 1996).
Prosody production and perception

Ross and Mesulam (1979) described two patients who had problems not with
the production of spoken language per se, but with the production of
appropriate melodic inflections to their spee: this had negative effects on
their interpersonal interactions and relationships (Ross, 2000). In contrast,
their ability to perceive prosody in spee was not affected. Both patients
had right fronto-parietal lesions, and a role for the right frontal lobe in the
control of spee prosody has been confirmed since (Ross, 1981; Goreli &
Ross, 1987; Ross & Monnot, 2008). In contrast, patients with damage to the
right temporal lobe oen have difficulty understanding the meaning of
melody in heard spee. It is not unusual for right temporal lobe lesions to
be relatively ‘silent’: because they do not oen lead to frank language
problems. However, on direct testing, patients with right temporal lobe
lesions oen show problems understanding the melody of spoken language,
and this can extend to problems with other kinds of melody processing, for
example in music.

e clinical basis of aphasia studies has necessarily focused on issues of
symptoms and diagnosis, rather than on more conceptual aspects of
language use. However we know that spee perception and production, as
discussed in Chapter 10, involve phonetic, lexical, semantic, and syntactic
aspects. Can we see these selectively damaged in clinical language
problems?
Phonetic deficits
A problem of phonetic processing has direct and dire consequences for the
comprehension of spoken language – a patient will be unlikely to have a
deficit in perceptual spee processing that does not impact on lexical and
semantic/syntactic processing. However the locus of phonetic processing
seems to correspond to lesions to the STG/STS (i.e. Wernie’s area).
Syntactic deficits
Agrammatic patients, who have a problem producing grammatically correct
sentences, oen have spee whi is telegraphic and in whi function
words are omied. ey can have specific problems with passive
constructions. Many of these patients (but by no means all) may have a
Broca-like aphasic profile. Notably, patients with agrammatic spee also
always have a motor spee problem – an apraxia or dysarthria of spee,
for example, or (more rarely) foreign accent syndrome, where people’s
accents sound very different to their fellow countrymen (due to the way we
listen to and label accents, rather than the acquisition of a new accent). is
suggests that syntactic processing and representations in spee production
are closely linked to spee motor acts. Importantly, Varley and colleagues
(Varley & Siegal, 2000; Varley et al., 2005) have demonstrated that densely
agrammatic patients can still perform other kinds of tasks accurately,

including logical, mathematical, and social cognitions (theory of mind
tasks), suggesting that the disorder of syntax does not necessarily affect
other kinds of complex cognitive processes.
Semantic deficits
As we can see from the descriptions of aphasia, there are a variety of
different ways that semantic processing can be compromised by an acquired
brain injury. However, only anomic aphasia resembles a ‘pure’ form of
semantic deficit. To find a (sadly) not uncommon form of semantic deficit,
one needs to turn to a kind of dementia, fronto-temporal dementia. Unlike
more global dementias like Alzheimer’s disease, a focal dementing disorder
can cause highly selective paerns of damage to the brain initially (see also
Chapter 7). A variant of fronto-temporal dementia, semantic dementia starts
with an initially very pure form of semantic deficit and a specific loss of
grey maer in (initially) quite restricted cortical fields. In semantic
dementia, the first symptom that patients report is a difficulty understanding
what words mean. At the brain level, the damage is seen in the le anterior
and ventral temporal lobe. At the start of the disease, patients can
understand what objects are, and use them appropriately, and their phonetic
and syntactic performance is unimpaired (they don’t make spee
production errors). As the disease progresses however, the patients start to
make phonetic errors, suggesting that phonological processing is being
compromised, and it has been suggested that severe problems in spee
output are seen when the disease spreads to the right temporal lobe, whi it
invariably does (e.g. Paerson et al., 2015). Semantic dementia has therefore,
in its initial stages, been identified as a selective semantic processing deficit,
and the le anterior temporal lobe has been therefore identified as a
candidate location for amodal semantic representations, and thus potentially
the central ‘hub’ in the hub model of semantic representations (Paerson et
al., 2007).

We now have access to functional imaging data, whi complements our
understanding of the neural basis of language processes based on patient
studies. Functional imaging teniques su as functional magnetic
resonance imaging (fMRI) and positron emission tomography (PET), as
well as electrophysiological teniques (like EEG and MEG), and teniques
whi briefly alter brain function (su a TMS) allow us to ask detailed
questions about the way that language is implemented in healthy brains,
and in some cases can help us both identify activity associated with a
particular activity (e.g. spee perception) and also localise the activity at
the level of gyral anatomy, rather than neurones. is can in turn allow us to
investigate language processing in the healthy human brain, and to compare
these results to the profiles seen in patients.
Positron emission tomography (PET) A method of imaging structure

and function in the human brain by directly traing blood flow using
radioactive tracers. PET can be used to form structural images of blood
flow in the brain, as the brain is rily supplied with blood. PET can also
be used to look at neural activity by traing local anges in regional
cerebral blood flow, whi are seen when there is local increase in neural
activity. Because the power of PET is limited by the number of scans, and
because the number of scans is limited by the amount of radioactivity
whi can safely be administered, PET is becoming less commonly used
for functional imaging studies.
Spee perception
Possibly because of the long-established use of neuro-cognitive models in
the study of aphasia, and the links between structure and function whi
have been made from patient studies, spee and language were two of the

first phenomena to be studied with functional imaging teniques, su as
PET or fMRI. Importantly, all functional imaging studies show paerns of
relative activation, where the activation seen is relative to that seen in some
kind of baseline contrast, so it is always important to identify what the
contrasted conditions are in a PET or fMRI study.
A PET study of spee perception (Scott et al., 2000)

Early functional imaging studies showed that the perception of spee led to
extensive bilateral activation in both the le and right superior temporal
gyri compared to silent rest. Of course, heard spee is an acoustic signal, so
to see activation specifically associated with spee, we need to control for
activation associated simply with ‘hearing a sound’; for example, in the
primary auditory cortex. In addition, spee is an immensely complex
acoustic signal, so we need to control for some aspects of acoustic
complexity, without making a sound that is in any way intelligible. A study,
whi we carried out in 2000, was an aempt to do this with two forms of
comprehensible spee. e design was a conjunction design, where the aim
was to identify cortical responses to spee in a way that was independent
of what the spee sounded like, while controlling for the complexity of the
spee signal.
1 Non-spee stimuli: spectrally rotated spee. In this, the spee

signal is ‘turned upside down’ in the frequency domain, creating a
stimulus whi contains all of the original spee signal, but whi
cannot be understood. Spectral rotation preserves the amplitude
envelope and the pit of spee sounds, so these rotated stimuli
have preserved prosody, rhythm, and syllabicity of the spee
without comprehension being possible (Blesser, 1972); it thus forms
an appropriately complex non-spee contrast.
2 ere were two forms of intelligible spee: normal, clear spee and
noise vocoded spee, whi sounds like a harsh whisper, and whi
is a simulation of what someone who uses a colear implant can

hear. e noise vocoded spee does not sound like a recognisable
person: it is intelligible but the listener cannot tell if they are
listening to a man, a woman, or a robot. Essentially, noise vocoded
spee lets us create a spee stimulus with lile associated speaker
information (of course, this is an obligatory aspect of normal spee,
where we hear spee but also hear someone speaking, their gender,
their age, their mood, etc.).
3 e conjunction design meant that there were four conditions: clear
spee, noise vocoded spee, rotated spee, and rotated noise
vocoded spee. e design aimed to identify brain areas whi were
activated by both spee over rotated spee, and noise vocoded
spee over rotated noise vocoded spee. e task was passive
listening, and the eight subjects were all familiar with the stimuli.
e le superior temporal gyrus was strongly activated by the rotated

spee as well as the intelligible clear and rotated spee. is is consistent
with other studies implicating the STG in the processing of acoustic
structure (e.g. Hall et al., 2002). Other studies have indicated that there is
complex processing of phonetic information in the le STG, with sensitivity
here to linguistically relevant anges, relative to acoustic anges (e.g.
Jacquemot et al., 2003). Further studies have indicated that properties of
phonemes are represented in the le STG (Obleser et al., 2006), and that
consonant–vowel combinations are selectively represented just below this,
in the le STS (Liebenthal et al., 2005). ere is also evidence that syntactic
and semantic information is processed in the le STG: a study explicitly
contrasting semantic and syntactic violations in spoken sentences reported
common activations to semantic and syntactic violations in the le STG
(Friederici et al., 2003). It is thus likely that there is massively parallel
processing of the spoken language in the superior temporal gyrus and
sulcus, including semantic and syntactic processing as well as phonetic
processing. is would be consistent with some of the evidence shown in
Chapter 10 that the phonetic and acoustic realisations of spoken language
vary systematically with semantic and syntactic features.

When the intelligibility conjunction was performed, to isolate cortical
responses to spee whi can be understood, over and above any
processing dependent on the acoustic structure of the stimuli, a region in the
le anterior superior temporal sulcus was identified as sensitive to
intelligible spoken sentences, whether or not they were noise vocoded or
clear (see also Evans et al., 2013). is indicated that we can identify a
cortical response in the le anterior temporal lobe to comprehensible spee,
over and above its acoustic complexity. However, as we used whole
sentences, we cannot dissociate whi elements (phonetic, semantic,
syntactic, lexical) have contributed to this response, although it is almost
certain that all factors do.
A further fMRI study (Cohen et al., 2004) used the repetition of spoken
words to investigate where the ‘auditory word form’ area lies: auditory
word forms are representations of the heard spee whi are spee specific
and not driven entirely by the acoustic signal. In this study, repetition
suppression was used – the fact that a repeated stimulus will result in a
reduction in the cortical response, while a ange in stimulus properties – to
which a particular brain area is sensitive – will not result in reduced
activation. is study played people words, either novel or repeated, and
found that the le anterior STS is the first point in the temporal lobes where
there is significant suppression to repeated words, and enhanced responses
to novel words (Cohen et al., 2004). e le anterior STS is well placed
between auditory areas and the le anterior lobe ‘hub’ for semantic
representations (Paerson et al., 2007) to form well specified auditory
representations of heard spee.
In contrast to a le anterior dominance in processing spee for meaning,
posterior superior temporal lobe regions appear to be important in the
processes subserving repetition, with posterior temporal lobe (and inferior
parietal) fields being selectively involved in verbal fluency tasks (Price et al.,
1996), the silent rehearsal of non-words (Mcgeigan et al., 2011), and vocal
sound to action links (Hiok et al., 2000; Warren et al., 2005). is is
consistent with an anatomical focus for the posterior STS in conduction
aphasia, whi is a specific disorder of verbal repetition.

Figure 11.9
Diagram of the brain showing areas responding to repetition and intelligibility.
e striking factor about all of these complex processes whi translate

between the sounds of spee and words in the brain is that they are all,
anatomically, falling within the regions in the le STG originally described
by Wernie (Figure 11.9). us ‘Wernie’s area’ subsumes a range of
different anatomical areas and functional properties, from acoustic/phonetic
to semantic and syntactic, all of whi underlie normal ‘spee
comprehension’. is probably results from considerable parallel processing
of the properties of heard spee input. Outstanding questions concern the
extent to whi these processes involve the identification of phonemic
structure, or of higher-order sequential structure over groups of phonemes.
ere is also considerable interest in the extent to whi there may be
phoneme ‘maps’ in the STG, where phonemes are coded in terms of their
features (e.g. Obleser et al., 2006).
e neural basis of context effects in spee perception

Context has a huge effect on spee processing. People find it easier to
identify phonemes in a word than in a non-word, easier to recognise a word
if it’s in a sentence, and easier to understand a sentence if it is predictable
than if it is unpredictable in content. Obleser et al. (2007) used fMRI to

identify how linguistic context supports spee comprehension. ey
contrasted sentences like:
e ship sailed across the bay

Sue discussed the bruise
e former is very easy to understand, as there is a lot of contextual

support, both semantic and syntactic, for the sentence. e second sentence
is harder to understand, as there is no contextual support to help, unless one
knows Sue and her particular tendencies to discuss these things. ese
effects can be seen in clear spee comprehension, and become very
important if the spee is presented in noise, or if the listener has a hearing
impairment.
Obleser et al. degraded spoken sentences to make them harder to
understand, su that context could have an effect, and presented these to
people whose neural activity was monitored using fMRI. When the
condition where the effects of context had the greatest impact on
comprehension were investigated, the contrast of predictable sentences over
unpredictable sentences revealed a distributed le hemisphere system, all
outside the temporal lobe, with activation in the inferior and superior frontal
gyri, angular gyrus, and posterior cingulate. is suggests that a wide
sematic network is recruited to support spee comprehension, and that this
has great impact when context can be used to enhance understanding.
Rehearsing non-words versus listening to non-words

One of the most basic findings in working memory resear is the word-
length effect – the longer the verbal items being transiently stored, the fewer
items can be stored accurately (e.g. Caplan et al., 1992). We addressed this in
a study of the rehearsal of non-words, whi varied both in duration (two or
four syllables) and in phonetic complexity (no-consonant clusters vs two-
consonant clusters) (McGeigan et al., 2011). is led to four conditions: two
syllables, no-consonant clusters (e.g. fipul), two syllables, two-consonant

clusters (e.g. frispul), four syllables, no-consonant clusters (e.g. fotumipul),
and four syllables, two-consonant clusters (e.g. frotumispul). In two separate
fMRI experiments, two different sets of participants were asked to either
rehearse the non-word prior to repeating it, or to listen to it passively, with
no overt response.
In the passive perception task, the increasing duration of the non-words
was associated with bilateral activity in the superior temporal gyri, running
ba from primary auditory cortex into the posterior temporal lobes. is
difference from the responses normally seen to spee may reflect the fact
that these non-words have no (or lile) semantic or syntactic content. Unlike
the strong response to non-word duration (in syllables), there was no
sensitivity to the consonant clusters in the STG responses, suggesting that
there is a less marked sensitivity to individual phonemes in STG than to
syllables. In the rehearsal experiment, there was also bilateral STG
activation to the four-syllable non-words relative to the two-syllable non-
words: this activation extended into le premotor cortex, and towards
Broca’s area on the le. ese premotor fields showed a sensitivity to the
presence of consonant clusters, consistent with a role for individual
phonemes in the planning of motor spee output.
In addition to showing the relationship between the articulatory loop and
brain regions critical to articulation during the rehearsal of non-words, this
study shows different sensitivities in perceptual and input systems to aspects
of spoken words. As hinted at earlier, it is possible that phonemes do not
exist in spoken words, except in the output control systems of the speaker.
Neural basis of spee production

e neuroanatomy of spee production varies, as might be expected, with
the kinds of spee production tasks used. Simple repetition, for example,
has been shown to be associated with activation of the le anterior insula,
but not Broca’s area. is is consistent with a role for the le anterior insula
as the locus of damage in spee apraxia (Dronkers, 1996), and suggests that
when spee production is simple (one word) and completely specified (the

participant is told the word to repeat directly before it is repeated) then
Broca’s area need not be recruited (Wise et al., 1999). is finding is
consistent with the le anterior insula being closely associated with the
control of the articulators, and Broca’s area being associated with higher-
order functions, including response selection and grammatical sequencing of
output.
Consistent with this suggestion, Broca’s area increases in activity if the
spee task is made more complex. Another study of spee production
contrasted counting aloud, reciting a well-learnt nursery rhyme, and
generating propositional spee (responding to questions) with a baseline
condition in whi participants listened out for occasional noises (Blank et
al., 2002). Counting aloud involves producing words according to simple
grammatical principles, as the numbers increase: the spoken numbers
themselves form normal spee production, but with a highly constrained
semantic and syntactic palate. e very familiar nursery rhymes are
similarly constrained (there is no room for improvisation), though there is a
far wider range of semantic and syntactic structure. e propositional
spee, in whi people generated spee in response to questions su as
‘tell me about a relative you know well but do not live with’, is relatively
unconstrained: while the participant might be reasonably expected to not
start to discuss the economic state of the euro, it is up to them if they discuss
a brother, parent, or cousin, and beyond that, whatever aspect of that person
that they’ve decided to discuss. is means that for the spee, in addition to
having a yet wider possible range of semantic and syntactic content than
either nursery rhymes or counting, the participant has a lot of pragmatic
decisions to make about what would constitute an appropriate answer. A
portion of Broca’s area, the pars opercularis, was least activated by the
counting condition, more activated by the nursery rhymes condition, and
most activated by the propositional spee.
e contrast of propositional spee over the counting and nursery
rhymes conditions showed extensive activations, beyond Broca’s area. ere
was activation in the le anterior temporal lobe, medial prefrontal cortex,
le angular gyrus and posterior cingulate. ese indicate the recruitment of

a distributed semantic system to support the linguistic and memory
components of normal conversational spee. It is striking that these
activations are extremely similar to those seen in the study of the use of
context in spee comprehension (Obleser et al., 2007); this suggests that the
same semantic/memory system is implicated both in spee production and
perception, as would be predicted by the Kussmaul–Litheim–Wernie
model of aphasia (Figure 11.7).
During spee production, there is commonly a deactivation in the le
mid STG/STS associated with listening to one’s own voice. is may reflect
a general reduction in sensory responses to self-generated stimulation – a
very similar reduction in self-generated tou sensations has been suggested
to underlie the fact that you cannot tile yourself (Blakemore et al., 1998).
FMRI and PET are just two ways of exploring the spee and language
systems: work using transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS), whi
induces brief disruptions in local areas of cortex has been used to explore
language and the brain. Stimulation of the le inferior, posterior frontal
cortex, the territory of classic Broca’s area, has been shown to cause spee
arrest in all participants tested (Epstein et al., 1999). When a brief train of
magnetic pulses were applied over this area, people could not speak or read
words aloud; however, they could still understand spee, repeat heard
words, name items, write and sing. ese last two points are of further
interest – presumably writing is preserved because the hand is under a
different kind of control than the voice, but it is striking that spee could be
stopped while singing, another vocal skill, could be preserved. e
presentation of singing under spee arrest may be because the production
of song is under different paerns of neural control than spee, and there
have been several decades of study into Melodic Intonation erapy, a
tenique to increase fluency in patients with difficulties in spee
production (an expressive aphasia), in whi patients are encouraged to sing,
not speak, their words (Norton et al., 2009).
e paern of disrupting le posterior inferior frontal lobes in healthy
brains leading to spee production problems is thus highly consistent with
the profile of lasting problems in patinets with a non-fluent aphasia. Can we

see similar paerns if we use TMS to ask questions about the role of the le
STG in healthy participants? is was addressed in a study that used TMS to
disrupt function in le premotor cortex (responsible for spee motor
control) and the le superior temporal lobe (Krieger-Redwood et al., 2013).
ey found that disrupting the le premotor cortex caused problems with
the discrimination of spee sounds in heard words, consistent with a role
for spee production networks in the isolation of heard spee sounds.
However, this stimulation did not affect spee comprehension: people could
still make decisions about the meanings of heard words when this frontal
field was stimulated. However, when the cortical function of the le superior
temporal gyrus was disrupted with TMS, participants had a transient
disruption of spee comprehension (in terms of understanding the
meanings of spoken words) and of phoneme discrimination. As might be
expected from the involvement of the superior temporal lobe in Wernie’s
aphasia, this suggests that the le STG is important in the perception and
comprehension of heard spee.

11.6 Reading
Both functional imaging and patient studies indicate a distributed network
of activations associated with reading, and these can be distinguished by
their involvement in either word recognition and comprehension, or eye
movements.
Visual word recognition

Primary visual cortex nestles in the calcerine sulcus, on the medial aspects
of the occipital lobes. Lateral and ventral to this is a cortical field on the
inferior surface of the le occipital lobe whi has been associated with the
visual processing of words – a visual word form area (Figure 11.10). is
region, if damaged, is associated with a dense acquired alexia – a problem
of reading words. Patients can typically use other kinds of visual symbols,
e.g. do maths. e precise function of this visual word form area (VWFA)
remains controversial – for example, subtle problems with visual object
processing can be seen in patients who have reading deficits following a
lesion to this area, and it has been argued that reading is su a recent
human development that it is unlikely that evolutionary processes have
affected the brain’s processing in this way (Price & Devlin, 2003). However,
it is clear that the le inferior occipital lobe is important, indeed critical, to
the early perceptual processing of wrien language.
Alexia/dyslexia Both refer to problems in reading wrien language.

Alexia always refers to acquired difficulties in reading, while dyslexia is
used to refer to developmental difficulties in reading. However, dyslexia
is also used to refer to particular profiles of acquired reading problems,
e.g. deep versus surface dyslexia.

Figure 11.10
Diagram of the brain showing area associated with visual processing of words.
Neural control of eye movements

e movements of the eyes (called saccades) across text are extremely
precise and reflect a great deal of processing of the upcoming visual
information – i.e. the upcoming text, whi is to the le of the currently
fixated upon word during reading (Rayner & Bertera, 1979). is is
processed in su a way that, not only are the following saccades accurate,
but they are not made onto every word – typically, for example, people do
not saccade to a function word.
I love to see the

the red sun and the
the new dawn of

of another morning
‘Illusions’ like the paragraph above (ask someone to read it aloud and see
how many times they say ‘the’) occur precisely because we do not saccade
onto every word in a sentence, so we don’t notice if a function word is
repeated.
Likewise, count the Fs in the following paragraph:
FRIENDS OF MINE HAVE FOUND FINE COMFORT FROM THE

SIGHT OF HOME
Figure 11.11
e control of saccades.
It’s not unusual for people to report ba three or four Fs, but in fact there
are seven Fs in that sentence. e illusion occurs because when reading we
do not saccade to every word, but skip the function words su as ‘of’. It is
therefore harder to ‘see’ the Fs in these words.
e planning of saccades is based on visual information in the le visual
field (Figure 11.11), in the surrounding parafoveal regions where there is less
precise resolution of the visual world, while the word whi is being fixated

upon (and onto whi the last saccade landed) is being read (Rayner &
Bertera, 1979).
ere thus has been interest in the extent to whi reading requires leer-
by-leer processing, or whole-word processing, and the general consensus is
that whole-word processing dominates. is means that sentences su as
the following can be read:
FI YOU ASY HTAT OT EM AIGAN TEHN I HVAE ON OTPOIN BTU

OT LAEVE
e role of parafoveal space in planning upcoming saccades across text

means that there is a second kind of alexia, whi is associated with
problems reading words in a sentence. is is seen in patients who have a
deficit in their right visual fields, and a consequent la of visual
information about the upcoming words that can be used to plan saccades.
ese patients can oen read a word presented to them in a leer-by-leer
fashion, sounding out ‘cat’ as C, A, and T. ey have tremendous problems
in reading connected text, because they cannot see the upcoming words.
us a motor problem (difficulty planning eye movements to the next words
in text) can result in a frank reading difficulty (Zihl, 1995).
Routes to reading
Resear has established the important concept of different potential routes
for reading – for example, skilled adult readers can either read a word by
sounding out the leers or by recognising the whole word, and when they
encounter a new or a difficult word they may emphasise one way of reading
more than another. e early diagrams incorporating the disorders of spoken
language that we saw earlier in this apter have also been developed to
account for acquired problems in reading and writing. Acquired dyslexia
(sometimes called alexia) refers to a problem in reading whi has its onset
aer the skill of reading has been aieved, and acquired agraphia refers to a
problem in writing whi occurs aer people have learnt to read. Both

agraphia and acquired dyslexia are associated with brain damage, oen
stroke or dementia.
Dyslexia Developmental difficulties in reading
As in spoken language, acquired problems with writing tend to group into

non-random profiles of difficulties, and these have been specifically
modelled along similar lines to the models of aphasia discussed earlier: some
models even manage to encompass both spee and writing disorders in the
same model (Ellis & Young, 1996) (see Figure 11.12). Tests of reading oen
focus on whether words are ‘real’ words or non-words, or whether they are
regularly spelled, or whether they are frequently encountered (high or low
frequency), and their grammatical status (e.g. function words versus content
words).

Figure 11.12
A neuropsyological model of the processing of spoken and wrien language.
Source: Adapted from Ellis and Young (1996).
Surface dyslexia
Some patients can only read words if they can sound them out first, and
tend to be beer with regular than irregular words – for example, they
might produce an irregular word like ‘pint’ as if it was pronounced like
‘hint’. Only aer they have said the word aloud do the patients understand
the meaning. is is known as surface dyslexia and is associated with
damage to the temporal lobes (Deloe et al., 1982). In surface dyslexia, there
is considered to be damage between the visual representations – the visual
word forms – and the wider semantic system. is means that the patient
cannot rely on a mapping between the visual word form and semantics to

access the meaning of a word, but will need to utilise the connections
between graphemic and phonemic representations. is can be considered as
a problem dealing with the ‘whole-word’ route for reading, whi forces the
patients to rely on sequences of individual leers to access the
pronunciations, and then the meanings, of the words.
Phonological dyslexia
In phonological dyslexia, patients can read words whi are both real words
and familiar words (i.e. words known to them) but struggle with non-words
(Shallice & Warrington, 1980; Ellis & Young, 1996). One su patient could
read a list of content words with high levels of accuracy (95 per cent correct,
including uncommon words like ‘decree’ and ‘phrase’): this same patient
was able to read only 8 per cent of a list of mated non-words (Paerson,
1982). When confronted with a non-word, for example ‘soof’, he would oen
read it as a real word (e.g. ‘soot’) – importantly, these errors with non-words
typically involved the production of a visually similar real word. Unlike the
surface dyslexia patients, who have damage to the lexical-semantic route for
reading but access to grapheme to phoneme conversion routes, patients with
phonological dyslexia are thought to have damage to grapheme to phoneme
conversion routes, whi forces them to read via lexical-semantic pathways.
is works well when they encounter familiar words, but causes problems
when a word is unfamiliar, as they cannot use grapheme to phoneme
conversion strategies to support their reading these new words accurately.
Deep dyslexia
Marshall and Newcome (1966) described a patient with ‘deep’ dyslexia, who
when reading made a large number of errors – around 50 per cent – but
these errors were oen semantically related to the target word (e.g. reading
‘abroad’ as ‘overseas’). Other errors made by patients with deep dyslexia
include reading non-words as real words (e.g. reading ‘tweeps’ as ‘sweet’),
and visual errors (e.g. reading ‘nightmare’ as ‘night’): the list of errors seen

is longer (up to 12 different kinds of errors have been described) (Plaut &
Shallice, 1993). In contrast, the patients can be surprisingly good at some
other kinds of tasks – for example, many patients can perform lexical
decision tasks quite accurately (Coltheart, 1980).
Deep dyslexia has been described as arising from damage to both
grapheme to phoneme routes and to lexical-semantic pathways, as well as
visual processing problems (Morton & Paerson, 1980). Unlike many of the
other kinds of language problems discussed in neuropsyological resear,
the variety of problems seen in deep dyslexia is harder to account for by
referring to relatively simple ways of damaging a ‘box and arrow’ model of
language (Coltheart et al., 1987). at being said, the profile of problems
associated with deep dyslexia co-occur with su consistency that the
disorder reflects a consistent and coherent kind of language problem.
One account for deep dyslexia, whi oen follows le temporal lobe
damage, is that it reflects the reading capabilities of the right hemisphere
(Coltheart, 1980; Coltheart et al., 1987; Saffran et al., 1980). In this approa,
le-hemisphere systems underlying lexico-semantic and grapheme to
phoneme conversion have been damaged, but right-hemispheric
meanisms can still process some aspects of words and associate the words
with semantic representations. is is argued to account for the semantic
errors, as the right hemisphere is considered to be less precise in its semantic
associations: it also accounts for the problems with function words and
abstract words, as these are considered to be less well represented in the
right hemisphere. Non-words cannot be read as they cannot access the intact
semantic system(s). Following semantic activation, preserved spee output
systems in the le hemisphere are recruited to support spee production.
Another approa to deep dyslexia is a connectionist model, developed by
Hinton and Shallice (1991) (see also Plaut & Shallice, 1993). is model (see
Figure 11.13) used three processing levels (grapheme, intermediate, and
semantic, plus a ‘clean-up’ level).

Figure 11.13
e network used by Hinton and Shallice. Notice that sets of connections are named
with the initials of the names of the source and destination unit groups (e.g. G–I for
grapheme to intermediate connections).
e model contained a semantic network in whi semantic associations

between words (from a limited possible set of words) was represented,
across a number of different semantic parameters: the network was trained
(using ba propagation) on a set of words, aer whi it could map
between wrien words to the correct semantic meaning. Plaut and Shallice
then systematically lesioned the model, in terms of location of damage and
severity, to identify paerns of errors that arose. ey classified four
different error types:
1 visual errors – e.g. CAT -> cot

2 semantic errors – e.g. CAT -> kien
3 visual-semantic – CAT -> rat
4 other – CAT ->mug.
All lesions were noted to lead to visual, semantic, and visual-semantic

errors at higher rates than random variation would predict. ere was also a
tendency for damage nearer the input layer to lead to visual errors, and
damage nearer to the semantic later to lead to semantic errors. However,
errors aracteristic of deep dyslexia were found following all the lesions.
us deep dyslexia was an early demonstration of the power of a

connectionist approa in accounting for paerns of damage in
neuropsyological resear.
Functional imaging studies of written language

As might be expected from the above sections, functional imaging studies
have shown the activation of the ‘visual word form area’ in the le lateral
occipital lobe when visual words are silently read, and the recruitment of
posterior parietal areas and frontal eye fields associated with the control of
eye movements during the reading of text. ese seem to be brain areas
specifically associated with wrien language rather than heard spee
(although they may not be specific to only wrien language) (Price &
Devlin, 2003). e acquisition of wrien language is parasitic on spee
perception and production: while we learn to understand and produce
spoken language without overt instruction, learning to read and write is
something we need explicit instruction in, and something whi is mu
harder for us to do if we have not learnt to understand a spoken language
first. We might therefore expect considerable overlap between neural regions
that support the processing of visual and spoken language perception.
Functional imaging studies have confirmed this relationship by showing, for
example, that both heard and read stories (ea relative to a complex
perceptual baseline) are associated with activation in the le superior
temporal sulcus, and with activation in areas associated with amodal
semantic representations running along the boom of the le temporal lobe,
and the le anterior temporal pole (Spitsyna et al., 2006). If the reading task
requires people to sound out the leers, then this can result in extra
activation in premotor and supplementary spee areas; indeed, if readers
are commonly reading by sounding out the leers, this will be oen indexed
by activity in the midline supplementary spee area. is represents ways
of using articulations to access word forms, leer by leer.

In addition to spee and language problems that are associated with
damage to the brain – known as acquired disorders of spee and language
– there are a variety of language problems that are a result of difficulties
whi are present from very early in life, and whi are not associated with
known incidents of acquired brain damage. ese are generally known as
developmental disorders, and they have some similarities and some
important differences from the profiles seen in acquired damage. Key to the
concept of developmental disorders is the need for the identified problem to
be relatively more severe than the ild’s other abilities – for example, if the
ild has poor verbal IQ on tests, they will only be considered to have a
specific language problem if their verbal IQ score is mu poorer than their
non-verbal IQ score.
Developmental disorders of spee perception and

production – specific language impairment
Specific language impairment (SLI) is a developmental disorder of language
in whi ildren show problems with spoken language comprehension and
production, problems that are disproportionate to their non-verbal IQ.
Furthermore, their language problems are not a consequence of brain
damage, hearing loss, or deprivation. e spee of ildren with SLI can be
hard to follow, as they can find it hard to express their ideas, and their
spee can sound muddled and under-articulated: they use sentences but
what they say can be difficult to understand. When they listen to other
people, ildren with SLI can themselves find it hard to understand what is
said, and find it hard to do what someone asks them to do. eir vocabulary
can be restricted to a relatively small set of words, and they can find it hard
to repeat words and sentences. ese difficulties make it hard for ildren
with SLI to cope, both in formal educational seings and in interactions
with their peers (e.g. when playing), unless support is provided for them.

e condition can vary in severity, with some ildren experiencing
relatively mild problems, and other ildren having mu more severe
difficulties: an eight-year-old ild with relatively severe SLI might be
producing spee typical of a three-year-old (e.g. ‘me go there’ rather than ‘I
went there’) (Bishop, 2006).
In terms of the underlying problem, there are three general theories of
SLI. e first is that the ildren have an underlying auditory processing
deficit, and their problems in processing sounds (e.g. in telling the order in
whi two sounds are played) can have a profound impact on their ability to
hear spee, and a kno-on effect on their ability to produce spee. e
second theory is that they have a particular problem with verbal short-term
memory, and can find it hard to repeat non-words; this problem would lead
to the ildren finding it hard to say and learn new words accurately. e
third theory is that the ildren have a specific deficit in processing syntax,
whi leads to them having particular problems in hearing and producing
syntactic properties of spee. e idea of a developmental disorder of
syntax aracted a great deal of aention from people interested in the ideas
of Chomsky and a universal grammar (Chapter 10). Similarly, there was a
lot of interest in the auditory processing deficit model, since it would avoid
the positing of specific linguistic meanisms. If a general auditory
processing deficit were primarily manifest as a language deficit, this might
be evidence against a universal grammar perspective.
Specific language impairment has a strong genetic component, being
highly heritable: however it has a complex profile of heritability, like asthma
or diabetes, and does not show a simple paern aracteristic of a dominant
or recessive genetic contribution. Instead, multiple genes seem to be
involved. Work by Dorothy Bishop has indicated that there are separable
genetic contributions to the problems with syntax and non-word repetition
tasks shown by ildren with SLI. In contrast, their problems with rapid
auditory processing have a strong environmental contribution, being
primarily associated with whether or not there is a musical instrument in
the home. ese data suggest that SLI is not only a complex and variable
disorder, but that there are separable contributions of problems with syntax

processing and verbal working memory, as well as potential environmental
issues. SLI may form an extremely important case for investigating the ways
that genes and environment interact in language development and disorders
(Bishop, 2006).
More recently, there has also been a suggestion that ildren with SLI
may have specific issues less with language per se, but with procedural
learning – the kinds of learning that are not necessarily verbal, but whi
relate more to motor skills. Consistent with this, ildren with SLI do show
issues with their ability to learn motor tasks (e.g. Bishop & Hsu, 2015). Note
that this account is consistent with the close correspondence of syntax and
spee motor skills noted earlier in the earlier stroke literature.
Developmental disorders of reading – dyslexia

In developmental dyslexia, ildren have a reading age whi is lower than
their ronological age, and the ildren have particular difficulties in
reading and writing, both in terms of accuracy and fluency. e difficulties
are out of proportion to their non-verbal IQ measures. Although ildren
with dyslexia will learn to read and write, they will oen show persistent
problems, for example with spelling. ey will also show ‘phonological’
problems – for example, difficulties in segmenting heard words around the
onset/rhyme distinction. Children and adults with dyslexia also oen have
problems with swapping onsets and rhymes around to make spoonerisms,
for example turning ‘windy day’ into ‘dindy way’.
ere are more possible accounts of dyslexia than can be done justice to
in a book about dyslexia, let alone a section in a apter on language
disorders. ere have been accounts based on visual processing deficits,
problems in general task learning, and auditory processing. One important
factor is that ‘normal’ reading and writing development involves use of
‘phonological’ information, whi typically refers to aspects of the sound
structure of words rather than to their phonetic construction (Snowling,
1998). us the ability to learn to read is predicted by ildren’s ability to tell
that two words have the same onset, or rhyme: this ability is predictive of

reading/writing development, even if a ild is learning to read a non-
alphabetic script, su as wrien Chinese. Once ildren have learnt to read,
they can break words down into phonemes, su that cat becomes C, A, and
T; this skill is a consequence of learning to read, however, and it is important
in dyslexia resear to identify problems whi are a result of the dyslexia,
rather than due to the ild’s slower acquisition of reading and reading-
related skills.
e causes of these phonological deficits, whi seem to hinder reading
and writing in dyslexia, are still unknown, and there is a lot of interest in
the possible role of auditory processing deficits (Goswami, 2010) or deficits
in the ways that ildren can access motor representations when performing
‘phonological’ tasks (Snowling, 1998). A brain-imaging study that looked at
paerns of connectivity and perceptual representations in the brains of
people with and without a diagnosis of dyslexia (Boets et al., 2013) found
that there was evidence for intact phonetic representations in the brains of
people with dyslexia, but the connectivity between perceptual fields in the
le and right temporal lobes and production networks in the le inferior
frontal lobe were disrupted in the people with dyslexia. Note that this is
conceptually more like the ‘disconnection’ hypothesis associated with
conduction aphasia, where it is the connectivity between brain areas whi
is potentially underlying the difference in performance.
Developmental disorders of spee production

In terms of spee production, one of the most difficult developmental
disorders is a developmental dysfluency, commonly known as stammering
or stuering (Wingate, 1976). In stuering, ildren have tremendous
difficulties in speaking aloud, and can get stu (known as ‘bloing’) on the
start of a word, or repeat the start of a word, or prolong (stret out) their
spee sounds. Around 80 per cent of ildren with a developmental
dysfluency will develop fluent spee production by the end of puberty;
however, 20 per cent of ildren have a problem whi persists into
adulthood. Despite the severity of the disorder, humans tend to strongly

value fluency in verbal behaviour, and can be very intolerant of speakers
whose spee is slow or hesitant. e social anxiety associated with this
knowledge can make a stammer mu worse – we still do not have a
unifying theory about stammering, nor any predictive information about
why some people’s stammers resolve while others are le with a life-long
difficulty. Strikingly, a variety of different ways of altering someone’s
auditory environment and what their spee sounds like can improve
developmental dysfluencies. us altering the acoustic consequences of
spoken language by anging the pit of someone’s voice, or playing their
spee ba with a noticeable delay, typically improves people’s stuering;
several of these teniques have been incorporated into devices (e.g. built
into phones, or as apps) that people who stuer can use to help them
communicate. Strikingly, these teniques (e.g. introducing a delay)
adversely affect the spee of fluent talkers, and can lead to them producing
very dysfluent spee. Whispering also commonly improves stuering.
Altering the acoustic environment – for example, by puing people in noisy
rooms, or geing them to talk in concert with someone else – also improves
fluency. All of these improvements are transient, meaning that the
improvements do not persist once the devices have been turned off (Howell,
2011). However the fact that they all improve spee fluency suggests
strongly that stuering may not be a straightforward disorder of spee
motor control, but may reflect a disordered processing of the dynamic
perceptual control and guidance of spee production.
Disorders of language use in autism

Autism is a term covering a spectrum of developmental disorders, whi can
vary in severity from people who have profound learning disabilities
through to people who can lead independent lives, but who may still
experience considerable difficulties in their social interactions (Happé, 1999).
Over the spectrum of autistic issues, there is considerable heterogeneity,
with two main features whi seem to separately contribute to the profile.
e first difference is one of perceptual processing, and can be crudely

aracterised as a problem of ‘seeing the wood for the trees’; people on the
autistic spectrum can show an enhanced ability to focus on finer perceptual
details, across sensory modalities. is means that they can do beer at
detecting embedded figures than a neurotypical control group, but it comes
at the cost of poorer sensitivity to higher-order structure. us in spee
perception and auditory processing, people with autism can be beer at
detecting pit anges than a control group, but worse at understanding
profiles of pit that lead to prosody differences. e second common
difference is one of perspective taking: it can be very hard for someone on
the autistic spectrum to understand that someone else can know or believe
something other than what they themselves know; this has been called a
problem with ‘theory of mind’. In practical terms, one of the most
problematic aspects of difficulties in seeing the world from someone else’s
perspective is in social interactions, especially in conversation, where (as we
saw in Chapter 10) people rarely say absolutely everything they mean, and
trust that those they are talking to will understand the context in whi
their words are said. If, as we’re unpaing the shopping and I’m about to
start cooking lun in something of a hurry, I say to my sister ‘there were
eggs on the kiten table’, then she is likely to interpret this as a request to
know where the eggs are now, as only she and I are puing the shopping
away. If she does not use context, however, she might well reply ‘yes I know
there were’ or ‘why are you telling me that?’ as without the use of context,
it is a mystifying comment to make. While language acquisition can be
delayed for people who have autistic symptoms, it has been argued that the
lasting problem is not one of a language deficit per se, but more of a problem
in the use of language. is can make social interactions even harder for
people who are already experiencing considerable problems.

Summary
• When we discuss language in the brain, we are discussing a wide

range of representations and processes across perceptual, motoric,
conceptual, and syntactic levels. Language use incorporates both
linguistic and non-linguistic processes, and it can be disturbed and
disrupted in a wide variety of ways.
• Despite Henry Head’s distaste for ‘diagram-makers’ (Head, 1926),
considerable developments have been made by using cognitive
models to reflect both on the different ways that acquired brain
damage can affect language, and also how language is processed in
the normal, healthy brain.
• Many aspects of the Kussmaul–Wernie–Litheim model have
subsequently been supported by functional imaging studies,
including a dissociation between spee motor control, spee
perception centres, and the wider conceptual-semantic system.
• In the distinction between anterior cortical temporal lobe areas
whi support the processing of intelligibility in spee, and
posterior cortical temporal lobe areas whi are important in
repetition, there is some support for the concept that the
phonological input lexicon may be distinct from the phonological
output lexicon.
• When the field is extended to include reading, we can see both
reading specific profiles (e.g. in the visual work form area) and
activations common to reading and spee comprehension (e.g. in
the anterior temporal lobe, STS and fusiform gyrus).
• Finally, developmental disorders of language reveal the potential
impact of brain connectivity on reading development, and
contributions of syntactic deficits, verbal working memory, and
motor skills to specific language impairments. We can see a potential

role for auditory processing in stuering, and a problem of the social
use of language in autism.

Further reading
Hulme, C., & Snowling, M.J. (2009). Developmental Disorders of Language Learning and Cognition.
Chiester: Wiley.

 12
Cognition and emotion

Miael Eysen
DOI: 10.4324/9781351020862-12
Contents
12.1 Introduction
12.2 Mood and aention
12.6 Reasoning
Summary
Further reading

12.1 Introduction
As the previous apters in this book have clearly shown, psyologists have
made considerable progress in understanding human cognition. In spite of
that success, there are doubts as to whether most resear in cognitive
psyology possesses ecological validity, whi is the extent to whi
experimental findings are applicable in the real world.
One of the main ways in whi mu resear in cognitive psyology
has laed ecological validity relates to participants’ mood state when taking
part in an experiment. Historically, researers typically tried to ensure their
participants were in a neutral mood state throughout the experiment. is is
very different from everyday life, where our thinking, problem-solving, and
decision-making oen occur when we happy, anxious, sad, or angry.
e above difference between the laboratory and everyday life is
important because there is compelling evidence (discussed in this apter)
that our cognitive processes and performance in everyday life are oen
strongly influenced by our current mood state. For example, consider ‘road
rage’. Wu et al. (2018) found 61 per cent of drivers become angry when
another driver overtakes them illegally and 51 per cent are angered by the
full-beam headlights of approaing motorists. Zhang and Chan (2016)
reviewed resear on road rage: anger while driving was associated with
aggressive driving, risky driving, and driving errors.
What has been said so far refers primarily to the past. Recently, there has
been a dramatic increase in resear concerned with the impact of emotion
on cognition. For example, consider the discussion of long-term memory in
Chapter 6. Mu resear on eyewitness testimony has involved exposing
participants to emotionally threatening scenes generating fear and anxiety.
Another example is resear on flashbulb memories (memories for dramatic
or traumatic events). Most individuals are in a highly emotional state when
forming memories for su events (e.g. the aa on the World Trade
Center).

Most resear in this area has involved manipulating mood states. How
does mood differ from emotion? In general terms, mood states are typically
fairly long-lasting and laing in intensity, whereas emotional states are
usually fairly short-lasting but intense. However, there is no sharp
distinction between emotions and moods. As Eldar et al. (2016, p. 16) pointed
out, emotions and moods are ‘parallel interacting processes’. Many
researers use the term affect: it refers to positive and negative reactions
and is applicable to both moods and emotions.
e emphasis in resear has been on mood states. ey are easier to
manipulate and the induction of mild mood states poses fewer ethical issues
than the induction of intense emotions (especially negative ones).
Manipulating mood states

Researers have used several different teniques to manipulate
individuals’ mood state. Len et al. (2011) conducted a meta-analysis
(combining all findings on a given topic) based on 687 studies. ey
discovered that presenting emotional films was the most common tenique
(24 per cent of studies). Another popular tenique (20 per cent of studies)
involved autobiographical recall (e.g. describing an intensely negative or
positive emotional experience).
Meta-analysis A form of statistical analysis based on combining all the

findings in a specific area to obtain an overall picture.
Chapter structure
is apter discusses the effects of mood state on cognitive processes su
as perception, aention, interpretation, learning, memory, judgement,
decision-making, and reasoning. As we will see, positive and negative mood
states as diverse as anxiety, sadness, and anger typically influence all of
these cognitive processes. We might assume that the effects of any given

mood state on any given cognitive process or task would be constant and
unanging. is assumption is oversimplified because the influence of a
given mood state on cognition is oen flexible and depends on the specific
context. More specifically, ‘Positive and negative affect serve as go and stop
signals for current inclinations. Affective influences on cognition are
therefore not fixed, but malleable and context-dependent’ (Clore et al., 2018,
p. 78). is is known as the affect-as-information approa and was
originally proposed by Clore et al. (2001). Evidence supporting this approa
is discussed later.

12.2 Mood and attention
is section will mostly focus on the effects of mood state on aention.
More specifically, do various mood states lead to a narrowing or a
broadening of aention? Note that answering this question has relevance for
our understanding of mood effects on memory – what we remember is
strongly influenced by what we aend to at the time of learning.
Attentional narrowing
One of the first systematic aempts to understand emotional effects on
aention and performance was proposed by Easterbrook (1959). According
to his hypothesis, the range of cues (i.e. the environmental features receiving
aention) reduces as arousal or anxiety increases, whi ‘will reduce the
proportion of irrelevant cues employed, and so improve performance …
further reduction in the number of cues employed can only affect relevant
cues, and proficiency will fall’ (Easterbrook, 1959, p. 193). In essence,
Easterbrook claimed that anxiety or arousal creates what is popularly
known as ‘tunnel vision’ (excessive focusing of aention).
Easterbrook’s hypothesis e notion that high levels of arousal or

anxiety cause a narrowing of aention.
What about the effects of positive affect on aentional breadth?

According to Fredrison and Branigan (2005, p. 315), positive emotions,
‘widen the array of percepts, thoughts, and actions present in mind’. us,
positive affect produces broadening of aention rather than the narrowing
of aention assumed for negative affect by Easterbrook (1959).
Mu resear has supported Easterbrook’s hypothesis by finding that
anxiety narrows aention (Eysen, 1992). What about Fredrison and
Branigan’s (2005) prediction that positive affect leads to aentional

broadening? Vanlessen et al. (2016) carried out a meta-analytic review and
reported strong support for that prediction. How can we explain these
findings? Pourtois et al. (2017) suggested that positive affect generally leads
to reduced cognitive control and this in turn produces reduced aentional
selectivity and greater aentional breadth.
Motivational intensity
Gable et al. (e.g. 2015a) argued persuasively that both theories discussed
above are over-simplified. More specifically, they both fail to consider the
role of motivational intensity (e.g. having the goal of approaing or
avoiding a stimulus). Positive affect can involve low motivational intensity
(e.g. listening to music) or high motivational intensity (e.g. seeing an
aractive member of the opposite sex). Similarly, negative affect can involve
low motivational intensity (e.g. being exposed to sad situations) or high
emotional intensity (e.g. being exposed to threatening situations).
Gable et al. (2015a) made two key predictions. First, positive and negative
mood states of high motivational intensity produce aentional narrowing
because this makes it easier for individuals to acquire desirable objects and
avoid unpleasant ones. Second, positive and negative mood states of low
motivational intensity are associated with aentional broadening because it
leaves individuals open to encountering new opportunities.
Mu evidence supports the above predictions. For example, anxiety and
anger are both associated with high motivational intensity and so should
both cause aentional narrowing. Eysen et al. (2007) reviewed the relevant
resear with respect to anxiety and found consistent support for the
predicted aentional narrowing. Gable et al. (2015b) found as predicted that
anger produced aentional narrowing.
According to Gable et al.’s (2015a) motivational intensity theory, sadness
(a mood state involving low motivational intensity) should produce
aentional broadening. However, the opposite prediction (i.e. aentional
narrowing) is predicted by Easterbrook’s (1959) hypothesis. Gable and
Harmon-Jones (2010) obtained findings supporting motivational intensity

theory. However, their findings are discrepant from most other resear. Von
Mühlenen et al. (2018) reviewed eight other studies: sadness was associated
with a narrowing of aention in four studies, and there was no significant
effect of sadness on aentional breadth in the remaining four studies.
What about the effects of positive affect on aention? Remember that
there is mu support for Fredrison and Branigan’s (2005) prediction that
positive affect should always lead to aentional broadening. In contrast, it is
predicted by motivational intensity theory that positive affect should
produce aentional narrowing if there is high motivational intensity.
Harmon-Jones et al. (2013) evaluated these theories by comparing the effects
of low motivational intensity positive affect (amusement caused by viewing
movie clips) and high motivational intensity positive affect (desire caused by
viewing a delicious dessert). e findings were as predicted by motivational
intensity theory.
In sum, mu resear indicates that aentional narrowing (or
broadening) depends mu more on whether affective states have high or
low motivational intensity than on whether they are positive or negative.
However, the theoretical prediction that sadness has low motivational
intensity and so should be associated with aentional broadening has
typically not been supported.
ere is another slight complication. As mentioned earlier, positive affect
oen acts as a go signal, leading individuals to continue with their current
processing strategy. In contrast, negative affect acts as a stop signal, leading
individuals to inhibit their current processing strategy. ese assumptions
are built into the affect-as-information approa of Clore et al. (2001, 2018).
Huntsinger (2012) tested the affect-as-information theoretical approa.
On the initial task, participants were required to use a broad or a narrow
aentional focus. Aer that, they were put into a happy or sad mood.
Finally, they performed a second task. As predicted, happy participants
generally had the same aentional focus on the second task as the first one
(regardless of whether that involved a narrow or broad focus). Also as
predicted, sad participants generally anged aentional focus (from broad
to narrow or vice versa) on the second task.

Attention and memory
As mentioned earlier, we would expect to find close links between the effects
of mood on aention and on memory. More specifically, we are mu more
likely to remember aspects of a stimulus or event to whi we aended than
those to whi we failed to aend. Levine and Edelstein (2009, p. 864)
hypothesised that, ‘Emotion enhances memory for information relevant to
present goals.’ at oen (but by no means always) means that emotion
leads to memory narrowing.
Support for Levine and Edelstein’s (2009) hypothesis has been provided by
resear on the weapon focus effect – eyewitnesses aend to a criminal’s
weapon whi reduces their memory for peripheral information. Biggs et al.
(2013) found observers fixated weapons, whi led to fewer fixations on
other aspects of the situation. Harada et al. (2015) found observers’ memory
for peripheral stimuli was reduced in the presence of a weapon.
Weapon focus effect e finding that eyewitnesses pay so mu

aention to some crucial aspect of the situation (e.g. a weapon) that they
ignore other details.
Resear by Cavene and Nixon (2006) also supports the above

hypothesis. Skydivers learned words on a plane just before they jumped out
of it (anxiety group) or when they were on the ground (control group). e
total words recalled were comparable in the two conditions. However,
skydivers who had learned under stressful conditions recognised more
skydiving-relevant words than those in the control group but fewer words
irrelevant to skydiving. us, anxiety focused skydivers’ aention on
relevant words at the expense of non-relevant ones and this was reflected in
their memory performance.
It follows from motivational intensity theory that the scope of memory
should depend on the motivational intensity of affect. readgill and Gable
(2019) obtained support for this hypothesis. High-intensity affect (anger or
threat) enhanced memory for centrally presented information but not for

peripheral information. In contrast, low-intensity affect (sadness) enhanced
memory only for peripherally presented information.

Two main approaes have been taken when assessing the effects of mood
on learning and memory. First, researers can manipulate individuals’
mood state at learning and/or retrieval. Second, researers can consider the
effects on memory of intensely emotional events in the world or in an
individual’s personal life. We start by considering both approaes. Aer
that, we focus on the amygdala, a part of the brain that plays a central role
in emotional processing.
Mood manipulations and memory

ink of times when you have experienced a negative mood state (perhaps
because something has just gone wrong in your life). What kinds of
memories spring to mind at su times? Most individuals report that they
find themselves recalling far more negative or unpleasant memories than
positive or pleasant ones. Conversely, when we are in a good mood, we
typically find ourselves recalling happy personal memories. ese are
examples of mood-congruent memory – memory is beer when a person’s
mood state matches the emotional content of the material than when it does
not.
Holland and Kensinger (2010) reviewed resear on mood and
autobiographical memory and reported two main findings. First, there was a
large mood-congruity effect with positive mood states. Second, the evidence
for mood-congruity memory was weaker and more variable with negative
mood states. Similar findings have been obtained in resear on mood
congruity with positive and negative emotional material not of an
autobiographical nature (e.g. Rusting & DeHart, 2000).
Why is mood-congruent memory somewhat elusive with negative mood?
Negative mood states are unpleasant and so individuals in su a mood state
are motivated to ange their mood into a more positive one. Reductions in

negative mood state are likely to reduce the accessibility of negative
memories.
Rusting and DeHart (2000) obtained support for the above explanation.
ey discovered that mood-congruity effects were weaker in individuals
who indicated they were generally successful at regulating negative mood
states (i.e. making those states more positive). ese findings suggest that the
reason that mood-congruency effects are hard to find with negative mood
states is because people strive to improve their mood.
Su regulation of a negative mood state is easier when it is relatively
weak than when it is intense. Accordingly, there should be more evidence of
mood-congruent memory with intense negative mood states. Loeffler et al.
(2013) tested this hypothesis measuring heart rate as an index of mood
intensity or arousal. As predicted, mood-congruent memory for individuals
in a negative mood state was found only when that mood state was
relatively intense.
Another effect of mood on memory is mood-state-dependent memory –
memory is beer when an individual’s mood state at retrieval matches
(rather than mismatches) their mood state at learning. ere is some
similarity between the notion of mood-state-dependent memory and that of
mood-congruent memory. However, one important difference is that mood-
state-dependent memory is not necessarily linked to the emotional content
of the to-be-remembered information, whereas there is su a link with
mood-congruent memory.
Mood-state-dependent memory e finding that memory performance

is beer when the individual’s mood state is the same at learning and
retrieval.
Ucros (1989) reported moderate support for the phenomenon of mood-

state-dependent memory in a review of 40 studies. e effects were greater
when participants were in a positive rather than a negative mood state
(resembling the findings for mood-congruent memory). e most plausible

explanation is the same – individuals in a negative mood state are motivated
to ange it in a positive direction.
Ei (1995) argued that mood-state-dependent effects on memory can be
explained by a ‘do-it-yourself’ principle. According to this principle, su
effects are more likely to be found when participants must generate crucial
information (i.e. the to-be-remembered material or the retrieval cues) for
themselves (e.g. recall) rather than having it explicitly presented (e.g.
recognition memory). is principle is supported by findings obtained by
Ei and Metcalfe (1989). e mood-state-dependent memory effect was four
times greater when learning required effortful generation of information
than when it did not.
Further support for Ei’s (1995) do-it-yourself principle was reported by
Kenealy (1997). Participants learned instructions concerning a given map
route in happy or sad conditions and then had their memory tested the
following day in happy or sad conditions. Two memory tests were used: (1)
free recall, in whi participants generated their own retrieval cues; and (2)
cued recall, in whi the visual outline of the map was present to facilitate
retrieval.
What did Kenealy (1997) find? e results are shown in Figure 12.1. ere
was a strong mood-state-dependent effect in free recall. When retrieval cues
were presented (i.e. in cued recall), there was no evidence of mood-state-
dependent memory. e free recall findings can be explained with reference
to Tulving’s (1979) encoding specificity principle. According to this principle,
memory depends on the overlap between the information available at
retrieval and that in the memory trace. If the memory trace includes
information about the learner’s mood state, it follows that this overlap will
be greater when the same mood-state information is available at the time of
retrieval.

Figure 12.1
(a) Free recall and (b) cued recall as a function of mood state (happy or sad) at learning
and at retrieval. (Based on data in Kenealy, 1997.)
Source: Eysenck & Keane (2010).
e amygdala
e effects of emotion on long-term memory depend on several brain
regions. However, the brain area most involved is the amygdala. e
amygdala is buried in the front part of the temporal lobe (see Figure 12.2)
and is associated with several emotions (especially fear).
Why is the amygdala so important? It is a hub, having numerous
connections to 90 per cent of cortical regions and it is involved in various
brain networks. Dolcos et al. (2017) provided a comprehensive account of the
brain networks involved in emotion’s memory-enhancing effects (see Figure
12.3).

Figure 12.2
Image of the amygdala, a structure that forms part of the limbic system and that is
activated in many emotional states.
Source: Ward (2010).
ey identified two brain meanisms: (1) a boom-up memory

meanism (including the medial temporal lobes) whi is strongly
influenced by emotional arousal; (2) a top-down meanism (including areas
within the prefrontal cortex) whi is involved in various cognitive
processes (e.g. aention; working memory; cognitive control). Of
importance, the amygdala is involved in both meanisms.

Figure 12.3
Two main brain meanisms involved in the memory-enhancing effects of emotion: (1)
the medial temporal lobes (MTL, including the hippocampus) and the amygdala (AMY);
(2) the medial, dorsolateral, and ventrolateral prefrontal cortex (mPFC; dlPFC; and
vlPFC, respectively). Encoding of negative emotions involves the temporo-occipital
cortex (TOC) and encoding of self-relevant information involves the posterior cingulate
cortex/precuneus (PCC/PCun).
Source: Dolcos et al. (2017).
ere is plentiful evidence that the amygdala is strongly involved in our

processing of (and memory for) emotional stimuli. Murty et al. (2010) found
in a review that good long-term memory for emotional material was
associated with greater activation during learning in a network of brain
regions including the amygdala and parts of the temporal lobe. Kensinger et
al. (2011) assessed amygdala activity while people studied emotional and
neutral objects. Amygdala activity at learning predicted the vividness of
subsequent memory for the objects presented. However, it did not predict
the number of details recalled.
Resear on flashbulb memories (vivid and detailed memories of
dramatic events) provides further evidence for the importance of the
amygdala. Sharot et al. (2007) compared the memories of individuals who
were close to the World Trade Center (about 2 miles) with those of
individuals further away (about 4½ miles) on 9/11. e flashbulb memories

of the former individuals were more vivid and detailed. Of importance, these
memories involved greater activation of the amygdala than the memories of
the laer individuals. As predicted, Spanhel et al. (2018) found recall of
flashbulb memories was mu worse in brain-damaged patients with
damage to the amygdala than patients without su damage.
An alternative way of assessing the role played by the amygdala in
emotional learning and memory involves the study of patients with
Urba–Wiethe disease. is is a very rare disease in whi the amygdala
and adjacent areas are destroyed and there is a reduction in the intensity of
emotional experience. Cahill et al. (1995) found a patient (BP) had poorer
recall of a very emotional story event than of an emotionally neutral event,
whereas healthy controls had mu beer recall of the emotional event.
Urba–Wiethe disease A disease in whi the amygdala and adjacent

areas are destroyed, causing the impairment of emotional processing and
memory for emotional material.
e amygdala is involved in memory for positive information as well as

negative information. Siebert et al. (2003) compared long-term memory for
positive, negative, and neutral pictures in healthy controls and ten Urba–
Wiethe patients. e patients had poorer recognition memory than the
controls for all picture categories. However, their memory impairment was
greatest for positive pictures and least for neutral ones.
Summary and conclusions

e amygdala plays an important role in enhancing the encoding and
subsequent retrieval of emotional memories. Evidence supporting that
conclusion has been obtained in studies on healthy individuals and those on
Urba–Wiese patients. e key role of the amgydala occurs because it is
associated with two major brain meanisms or networks: (1) a memory

meanism involving the medial temporal lobes; and (2) a top-down
meanism involved in aentional processes and cognitive control.

Our everyday lives are full of decisions of one sort or another. Most of these
decisions are trivial (e.g. whi programme will I wat on television?) but
others are very important (e.g. do I want to become a psyologist?). e
essence of decision-making is that it involves oosing among various
options by expressing a preference for one of them. Judgement involves
assessing the likelihood of various events using incomplete information. It
typically forms an important part of the decision-making process. For
example, someone deciding whi car to buy might make judgements about
how mu different cars would cost to run and how reliable they would be.
Of particular importance to decision-making is whether our judgements
about the future tend to be optimistic or pessimistic. For example, your
decision whether or not to become a psyologist might well be influenced
by how optimistic or pessimistic you are that there will be plenty of well-
paid and interesting jobs available for psyologists in the future.
Decision-making is involves making a selection from various options,

oen in the absence of full information.
Judgement is involves an assessment of the likelihood of an event

occurring on the basis of incomplete information; it oen forms the
initial process in decision-making.
is section focuses primarily on the effects of various mood states on

judgement and decision-making. is is an important area of resear. As
Lerner et al. (2015, p. 801) pointed out, ‘Many psyological scientists
assume that emotions are … the dominant driver of most meaningful
decisions in life.’
As we will see, mood states influence an individual’s aitude towards
risk-taking and this in turn affects their decision. Many people predict that

individuals experiencing negative affect (e.g. anxiety) will tend to be
pessimistic in their judgements and risk averse (i.e. making safe and cautious
decisions). In contrast, it seems likely that individuals in a positive mood
state will be optimistic about the future and so will tend to make risky
decisions. Intriguingly, while there is reasonable support for the above
predictions, there are also many findings that fail to do so.
Mu resear in this area has focused on the effects of any given mood
state on performance or behaviour. For example, does a particular mood
state enhance or impair the quality of decision-making? e emphasis here
is on outcome. However, it is also important to consider the effects of mood
state on the cognitive strategies used. e emphasis here is on processes. A
full understanding of the effects of a given mood state on judgement and
decision-making requires a consideration of the performance outcomes and
the underlying processes leading to those outcomes.
Finally, it is important to distinguish between incidental and integral
emotions (Lerner et al., 2015). Incidental emotions are unrelated to the
current task (judgement or decision-making). For example, the positive
affect you experience having passed an important examination may
influence your subsequent judgements and decisions on totally different
issues. In contrast, integral emotions arise from the current judgement or
oice. For example, someone deciding whether to gamble a considerable
amount of money on a risky project may experience anxiety.
It is of value to study the effects of both incidental and integral emotions
on judgement and decision-making. e advantage of resear using
incidental emotions is that experimenters can manipulate the mood state
experienced by participants more easily than is the case with resear using
integral emotions. e advantage of using integral emotions is that mu of
our decision-making in everyday life is influenced by su emotions rather
than incidental ones.
ere is surprisingly lile resear directly comparing the effects of
incidental and integral emotions on judgement and decision-making.
However, it seems likely that incidental emotions would have only modest
effects on decision-making if individuals correctly identified the reason why

they are experiencing a given emotion. For example, Yip and Côté (2013)
produced the incidental emotion of anxiety in some participants by
requiring them to prepare a short spee that would be videoed immediately
prior to oosing between a high-risk and a low-risk gamble. Half the
participants were made aware that their anxiety was irrelevant to the oice
they were making and half were not.
What did Yip and Côté (2013) find? e percentage of participants
oosing the risky option was reduced by incidental anxiety among those
not made aware that their anxiety was irrelevant to the oice. However,
there was no effect of incidental anxiety on the riskiness of the oice made
by participants who had been made aware.
Anxiety
We start with the negative mood state of anxiety. One reason for doing this
is because the findings are mostly reasonably clear-cut and in line with the
common-sensical predictions described above.
Anxiety is associated with worries and concerns about future threats
(Eysen, 1997). For example, Eysen et al. (2006) used scenarios referring
to very negative events (e.g. serious illness). e event could be a past event,
a future possible event, or a future probable event. Participants indicated
they would experience more anxiety with the future events (possible or
probable) than with the past events, thus confirming the future orientation
of anxiety. In contrast, participants reported more depression or sadness for
past negative events than future ones.
Since anxiety involves worry about future threats, it is unsurprising that
it is associated with pessimistic judgements about the future to a greater
extent than any other negative emotional state. Lerner et al. (2003) carried
out a study shortly aer the 9/11 terrorist aas. Participants were
instructed to focus on aspects of the aas that made them afraid, angry, or
sad. e estimated probability of future terrorist aas was higher in
fearful participants than those who were sad or angry.

Most individuals have an optimism bias – they believe themselves to be
more likely than other people to experience positive events (e.g. career
success; long life) but less likely to experience negative events (e.g. divorce;
serious illness). However, anxious individuals exhibit less optimism bias
than non-anxious ones. Len and Levine (2005) asked college students to
judge the likelihood of various positive and negative events happening to
them compared to the average college student. ose put into a fearful mood
were more pessimistic than those in a happy or neutral mood.
Optimistic bias An individual’s mistaken belief that they are more likely
than most other people to experience positive events but less likely to
experience negative events.
Decision-making
Anxious individuals typically make less risky decisions than non-anxious
ones. Relevant real-world evidence was provided by Lee et al. (2006). High-
anxious individuals were mu less likely than low-anxious ones to die from
accidental causes or suffer non-fatal injuries because they were more risk-
averse. Gambei and Giusberti (2012) studied real-life financial decision-
making. Anxious individuals made safer (more conservative) financial
decisions. ey were more likely to have put their money into interest-
bearing accounts than non-anxious individuals but less likely to have
invested large sums in stos and shares. Oehler et al. (2018) found that
individuals with anxious personalities generally made less risky financial
investment decisions than non-anxious individuals.
Raghunathan and Pham (1999) asked participants to decide whether to
accept job A (high salary + low job security) or job B (average salary + high
job security). ose in an anxious mood were mu less likely than those in
a neutral state to oose the high-risk option (i.e. job A): 32 per cent vs 56
per cent, respectively.

Charpentier et al. (2017) identified two different potential reasons for
findings su as those discussed above. First, anxious individuals may be
loss averse (aversion to negative outcomes). Second, anxious individuals
may be risk averse (aversion to uncertainty even when only gains are
involved). eir findings provided clear-cut support for risk aversion rather
than loss aversion.
Sadness
Sadness resembles anxiety in that both are negative mood states. However,
there is an important difference between sadness and anxiety. Sadness
(whi turns into depression when sufficiently intense) is associated with an
absence of positive affect to a greater extent than anxiety (Clark & Watson,
1991; Eysen & Fajkowska, 2018). As a consequence, sad individuals may be
mu less optimistic than other people. Waters (2008) reviewed resear on
the effects of sadness on judgement. As predicted, sad individuals regarded
the likelihood of health hazards and adverse life events as greater than did
happy or positive individuals.
Decision-making
As mentioned above, sadness or depression involves a combination of high
negative affect and low positive affect. As a consequence, sad individuals
experience the environment as relatively unrewarding. is may motivate
them to obtain rewards and may make them less averse to risk than anxious
individuals. Earlier I discussed a study by Raghunathan and Pham (1999) in
whi participants ose a high-risk or a low-risk job. Anxiety led
participants to favour the low-risk job. In contrast, sadness caused
participants to prefer the high-risk job – 78 per cent of sad participants did
so compared to only 56 per cent of those in a neutral mood. We can explain
this finding by assuming that sad individuals were motivated to obtain the
reward of high pay associated with the high-risk option.

Langille et al. (2012) studied real-life risk-taking. Depressed adolescents
were mu more likely than non-depressed ones to engage in multiple
sexual risk-taking forms of behaviour. Eherenfreund-Hager et al. (2017)
found drivers exhibited riskier driving behaviour aer being put into a sad
mood state.
ere is other evidence that the decision-making of sad individuals can be
explained in part by their increased motivation to gain immediate rewards.
For example, consider the misery-is-not-miserly effect: the willingness of
individuals in a sad mood state to pay more for some product than other
people. Garg et al. (2018) carried out a review of the published resear and
reported consistent evidence for this effect. ey also found suggestive
evidence the effect is due in part to the sense of helplessness associated with
sadness.
It is commonly believed that sad individuals make wise decisions – the
‘sadder but wiser’ hypothesis. Some doubt was cast on this hypothesis by
Lerner et al. (2013). ey assessed the extent to whi individuals prefer
immediate rewards to larger (but delayed) ones. Individuals in a sad mood
required only $37 immediately to forgo receiving $85 in three months’ time.
In contrast, individuals in a neutral mood required $56 immediately. Lerner
and Weber argued that sad individuals have myopic misery – they have a
sense of loss and so are impatient to obtain rewards to replace what has
been lost.
At the risk of oversimplification, we can distinguish between analytic or
systematic processing (slow and consciously controlled) and heuristic
processing (relatively effortless and involves using heuristics or rules of
thumb). Swarz (2000) reviewed the relevant literature. Being in a sad
mood increased the use of a processing strategy that involves paying mu
aention to details. In essence, this is analytic processing.
De Vries et al. (2008) hypothesised that people are most likely to be
satisfied with their decision-making when they have used their preferred
processing strategy. ey tested this hypothesis by requiring people to use
heuristic/intuitive or analytic/deliberative processing when making a
decision. As predicted, those put into a sad mood by wating a film clip

from Schindler’s List were more satisfied with their decision following
analytic/deliberative processing (see Figure 12.4). is study is discussed
further later in the apter.
Further evidence that sad individuals use analytic processing was
reported by de Vries et al. (2012). ey asked participants to oose
repeatedly between two gambles: (1) 50 per cent ance of winning 1.20 euro
and 50 per cent ance of winning nothing; and (2) 50 per cent ance of
winning 1.00 euro and 50 per cent ance of winning nothing. Analytic
thinking would have led them to oose the first gamble on every trial. Sad
participants were more likely than happy ones to use analytic thinking
rather than heuristic processing (e.g. switing gambles if the previous one
was unsuccessful).
Figure 12.4
Subjective value associated with decision as a function of mood (happy vs sad) and
decision strategy (intuitive vs deliberative).
Source: de Vries et al. (2008).

Anger
It is important not to exaggerate the similarities among negative emotional
states. at is especially the case with anger – it differs in several ways from
other negative mood states su as anxiety and sadness. Of most
importance, even though anger is typically regarded as a negative emotional
state, it can oen be a moderately positive emotion if an individual believes
they can control the situation and dominate those they dislike (Lerner &
Tiedens, 2006). However, anger is very oen associated with negative affect
as well as positive affect (Litvak et al., 2010). e events that cause anger are
typically remembered as unpleasant. In addition, the consequences of anger
(e.g. aggression; violence) can cause very negative emotional states.
How does anger influence judgement? ere are striking differences
between the effects of anger compared to other negative mood states. In a
review, Waters (2008) found that anger associated with relatively optimistic
judgements about the likelihood of negative events, whereas anxiety and
sadness were both associated with pessimistic judgements. e optimism of
angry individuals is surprising in view of the fact that individuals who are
aracteristically angry are more likely than other people to have
cardiovascular problems and to be divorced (Lerner & Keltner, 2001).
Why is anger associated with optimistic judgements rather than the
pessimistic ones associated with other negative mood states? As is discussed
further later, anger is different from other negative mood states in that it is
associated with a sense of certainty about what has happened and with
perceived control over the situation (Litvak et al., 2010). In contrast, anxious
and sad individuals have mu less perceived control and feel themselves at
the mercy of fate and of other people. As a consequence, they are pessimistic
about the future.
One example of how anger can lead to a positive emotional state is
Sadenfreude. is involves experiencing pleasure at the misfortune of
disliked others. For example, Lea and Spiers (2008) studied a fictitious
competition in whi their university had performed badly overall whereas
a disliked other university had succeeded. When this successful university

failed, this created Sadenfreude based, in part, on participants’ anger
caused by the pain of their university’s inferiority.
Decision-making
It is popularly believed that anger greatly reduces our ability to think
rationally and to make good decisions. e American philosopher Ralph
Waldo Emerson expressed this belief when he argued that anger ‘blows out
the light of reason’. As we will see, there is some truth in this belief. For
example, as mentioned earlier, Zhang and Chan (2016) found in a review
that anger was associated with aggressive and risky driving and also with
driving errors.
Since angry individuals perceive themselves as having a high level of
control over situations, we might expect them to make risky decisions.
Support for this prediction was reported in a study by Gambei and
Giusberti (2012) discussed earlier. Individuals with angry or aggressive
personalities made riskier financial decisions (e.g. they were more likely to
have invested money in stos and shares) than non-angry or aggressive
individuals.
While most resear indicates that anger increases the riskiness of
decision-making, there is some evidence this is more true of men than of
women. Ferrer et al. (2017) made use of a task on whi money could be
earned by pumping up balloons provided they did not burst. Angry male
participants engaged in riskier decision-making than sad or neutral ones.
However, angry female participants did not exhibit risky behaviour even
though they experienced as mu anger as male participants. e most
plausible explanation of the above gender difference based on previous
resear is that men experience greater feelings of personal control
following anger than do women. Angry women’s relatively weak feelings of
control may prevent them from engaging in risky behaviour.
ere is limited evidence that anger generally impairs the quality of
decision-making (Lerner et al., 2015). Why is this the case? Of relevance is
the distinction discussed earlier between analytic or systematic processing

and heuristic processing. According to Litvak et al. (2010), anger leads to
increased use of heuristic processing and reduced use of analytic processing.
Findings supportive of Litvak et al.’s (2010) prediction were reported by
Coget et al. (2011). Film directors mostly resorted to intuitive or heuristic
decision-making when moderately or very angry. If angry individuals
engage in lile analytic processing, their decision-making would probably
be unaffected if they performed an additional task designed to prevent
analytic processing on the decision-making task. at is precisely what
Small and Lerner (2008) found.
Apparently conflicting findings were reported by Moons and Maie
(2007). ey found in several experiments that angry individuals were more
likely than those in a neutral mood state to discriminate between weak and
strong arguments. Su discrimination ability is indicative of the use of
analytic processing. How can we reconcile the various findings? Moons and
Maie argued that mild or moderate anger not accompanied by high levels
of reported arousal (as was the case in their experiments) is associated with
analytic processing. In contrast, intense anger involving high levels of
arousal may lead to reduced reliance on analytic processing and more
reliance on heuristic processing.
ere are two rather different reasons why anger oen leads to reduced
use of analytic processing. First, it may be that anger diminishes cognitive
resources (e.g. by focusing the individual’s aention on the source of the
anger rather than the task itself). Second, anger may reduce the motivation
to use cognitive resources. In essence, the first explanation is based on the
argument that angry individuals cannot make use of effortful task-relevant
cognitive processes whereas the second explanation assumes individuals
choose not to use su processes.
Shields et al. (2016) carried out an experiment to decide between these
two explanations. eir key finding was that anger did not impair
individuals’ ability to engage in complex cognitive processing. is finding
supports the second explanation rather than the first.

Positive mood
ere are several different positive moods or emotions. Shiota et al. (2017)
made use of behavioural and neuroscience evidence to identify nine
different positive emotions: pride, sexual desire, nurturant love,
contentment, awe, amusement, aament love, gratitude, and
liking/pleasure. In spite of su evidence that there are several positive
emotions, there is a puzzling difference between resear on negative and on
positive affect. Three different kinds of negative affect (anxiety; sadness;
anger) have been emphasised in resear on judgement and decision-
making. In contrast (at least until recently), the effects of only a single broad
category of positive affect have been explored systematically.
It seems reasonable to assume that individuals in a positive mood should
show a strong optimism bias (anticipating they will experience more
positive and fewer negative events than others). ere is some support for
this assumption. Len and Levine (2005) found that individuals in a happy
mood showed greater optimism bias than fearful individuals. However, they
were no more optimistic than individuals in a neutral mood. Helweg-Larsen
and Shepperd (2001) found in a literature review that individuals in a
positive mood tended to show an optimism bias. However, the size of the
effect depended on the precise method used to assess optimism bias.
Decision-making
Mu resear indicates that individuals in positive mood states generally
adopt a risk-averse approa to decision-making (Blanee & Riards,
2010). For example, individuals in a positive mood made less risky decisions
when being on hypothetical horse races (Cahir & omas, 2010).
Juergensen et al. (2018) used a gambling task involving slot maines where
the participants could win or lose money. Positive affect led to reduced risk-
taking on this gambling task. Juergensen et al. argued that this finding
supported the mood maintenance hypothesis – individuals experiencing

positive affect want to maintain that mood state and so avoid taking risks
that might cause negative affect.
In spite of the above findings, there is other resear where positive affect
was associated with increased (rather than decreased) risk-taking. For
example, consider a study by Sarno et al. (2017) on men who have sex with
other men. eir participants kept a daily diary of their sexual activity. e
key finding for present purposes was that positive affect was positively
related to risky sexual activities. How can we explain this finding? It could
plausibly be argued that individuals in a positive mood have an optimism
bias leading them to believe themselves largely immune from the potential
health dangers of risky sexual activities.
Eherenfreund-Hager and Taubman-Ben-Ari (2016) argued that decision-
making varies depending on the specific form of positive affect. ey
compared the effects on driving behaviour of relaxed positive affect
(produced by thinking of a calm and peaceful event) and aroused positive
affect (produced by thinking of a happy and exciting event). Only relaxed
positive affect produced a reduced willingness to drive relessly. us,
positive affect may not be associated with risk-averse decision-making if it
involves excitement.
Earlier we discussed the distinction between analytic or deliberate
processing and heuristic or relatively effortless processing. Most resear has
found that individuals in a positive mood are more likely to use heuristic
processing and less likely to use analytic processing. In a study discussed
earlier, de Vries et al. (2008) argued that individuals using their preferred
processing strategy are more content with their decisions than those using a
non-preferred strategy. Some participants were put into a happy mood by
wating a video clip from The Muppet Show. As predicted, they were more
satisfied with their decision when required to use heuristic/intuitive
processing than analytic/deliberative processing (see Figure 12.4).
In a study discussed earlier, de Vries et al. (2012) assessed the processing
strategies used on a gambling task. Happy participants were more likely
than sad ones to use heuristic processing (e.g. switing gambles if the
previous one was unsuccessful even though this is not the optimal strategy).

Griskevicius et al. (2010) compared the effects of several kinds of positive
affect including aament love, awe, contentment, anticipatory
enthusiasm, amusement, and nurturant love. e participants were
instructed to assess the persuasiveness of strong or weak arguments relating
to the possible introduction of a new examination.
e extent to whi participants used heuristic processing was assessed by
considering how mu they were persuaded by weak arguments. e
findings varied considerably across the different positive emotional states
(see Figure 12.5). Participants who experienced anticipatory enthusiasm,
aament love, or amusement all exhibited heuristic or shallow processing
because they were persuaded even by weak arguments. However, awe and
nurturant love were both associated with reduced heuristic processing
compared to a neutral mood state. More resear is needed to clarify why
ea positive state has its specific effects.
Figure 12.5
Effects of six positive emotions on persuasiveness of arguments (weak vs strong).
Source: Griskevicius et al. (2010).
Evaluation

Resear on mood states and decision-making has made considerable
progress. We have seen that ea mood state is associated with its own
idiosyncratic paern of effects on judgement and decision-making (see
Figure 12.6). Progress has also been made in explaining these different
paerns (see below). Of most importance, the discovery that judgement and
decision-making are both typically influenced by mood states means that
future resear needs to investigate mood states further.
What are the limitations of resear on mood states and decision-making?
First, insufficient aention has been made to the important distinction
between integral emotions (those directly relevant to the current task) and
incidental emotions (those carried over from a previous situation and thus
essentially irrelevant to the current task). Most resear has involved
incidental emotions even though we are oen influenced by integral
emotions in everyday life. What has received very lile aention is what
happens when incidental and integral emotions are both present during
decision-making. Väställ et al. (2016) speculated that integral emotion is
increased when it resembles incidental emotion but is reduced when it does
not resemble incidental emotion. However, more resear is needed to test
these speculations.
Second, there has been mu emphasis in the literature on the distinction
between heuristic and analytic or deliberate processing. is distinction is
oversimplified (Melnikoff & Bargh, 2018): many cognitive processes cannot
be categorised neatly as heuristic or analytic, but rather involve a
combination of both. e additional implicit assumption that analytic
processing is ‘good’ whereas heuristic is ‘bad’ is also oversimplified because
the appropriateness of any given form of processing depends on the current
task and the individual’s goals.
ird, the effects of mood state or emotion on decision-making depend on
complex interactions among several factors, and so the information
contained in Figure 12.6 is somewhat oversimplified. For example, while
angry individuals tend to engage in heuristic processing, this is sometimes
not the case when they are only moderately angry (Moons & Maie, 2007).
According to Figure 12.6, sad individuals typically make use of analytic

thinking. However, it seems improbable that someone who is extremely sad
and depressed (e.g. due to the death of a loved one) would engage in
complex analytic thinking.
eoretical approaes
e most important conclusion to emerge from resear on the effects of
mood on judgement and decision-making is that ea mood state is
associated with its own paern of effects (see Figure 12.6). How can we
make overall sense of the idiosyncratic paern of effects associated with
ea mood state? Of crucial importance is the assumption that ea emotion
or mood state (even negative ones) has one or more useful functions
associated with it (Del Guidice & Ellis, 2015). is contrasts sharply with the
common assumption that ‘being in a constant state of happiness would be
ideal for human functioning’ (Len et al., 2016, p. 11).
Anxiety occurs in threatening situations involving uncertainty and
unpredictability. Accordingly, anxious individuals are motivated to reduce
anxiety by increasing certainty and predictability – this can be aieved by
minimising risk-taking and oosing non-risky options.
Figure 12.6
Effects of mood states on judgement and decision-making.
Individuals become sad or depressed when they discover a desired goal is

unaainable. is leads them to abandon the unaievable goal and engage
in analytic processing to focus on new goals (e.g. Andrews & omson,
2009). is helps us to understand why sadness is the only mood state
associated with analytic processing. In sum, sadness or depression has the
following effects: ‘Biasing cognition to avoid losses, conserving energy,

disengaging from unobtainable goals, signalling submission, soliciting
resources, and promoting analytical thinking’ (Durisko et al., 2015, p. 315).
Anger has the function of overcoming some obstacle to an important goal
by taking direct and aggressive action. What most distinguishes anger from
other negative mood states is that angry individuals oen feel they have
personal control and are thus optimistic their goal can be aieved (Lerner &
Tiedens, 2006). is perception of personal control also persuades angry
individuals to take risks to aieve their goals.
Finally, the main function of positive moods or emotions is to preserve or
maintain the current mood. is leads happy individuals to engage in
shallow or heuristic processing and to avoid taking risks that might
endanger the positive mood state.
Emotion-imbued oice model

As you have undoubtedly realised by now, the effects of affect on judgement
and decision-making are complicated and variable. Lerner et al. (2015) made
an impressive aempt to capture this complexity in their emotion-imbued
oice model (see Figure 12.7). We will start by discussing the solid lines in
the Figure. ese indicate most of the main factors included within
traditional decision-making models. According to su models, decision-
makers evaluate the available options by considering their expected
outcomes. Characteristics of the options (e.g. likelihood or probability; time
delay) and the decision-maker (e.g. preferences; personality) are also
considered, as is the notion that expected emotions influence the decision
process (line A).
If you look at the green doed lines, you can see how emotion influences
decision-making. Current emotions are influenced by (1) aracteristics of
the decision-maker (e.g. ronic anxiety; line B’); (2) aracteristics of the
oice options (line C’); (3) predicted emotions (e.g. if you expect to be made
anxious you may experience anxiety now; line F); (4) contemplating the
decision (especially if the options are nearly equally (un)aractive; line G’);
and (5) incidental emotions (e.g. those caused by the weather; line H).

Current emotions directly influence the evaluation of the outcomes (e.g.
whether heuristic or analytic process is used; whi motivational goals are
active; line G). ey also indirectly influence decision-making by anging
the predicted emotional reactions to different potential decision oices (line
I).
Figure 12.7
e emotion-imbued oice model (see text for details).
Source: Lerner et al. (2015)
What are the limitations of the emotion-imbued oice model? First,

while it is described as a ‘model’, it is actually more like a framework rather
than a fully fledged model or theory. Second, it is oversimplified in that it
omits factors that are oen involved when we make everyday decisions. For
example, as Lerner et al. (2015, p. 814) pointed out, ‘It [the model] assumes
that the decision-maker faces a one-time oice between given options,
without the possibility of seeking additional information or options.’

We have been considering ways in whi various mood states influence
judgement and decision-making. Here we focus on a somewhat different
issue. Suppose you are faced with a complex moral dilemma. Is your
proposed solution influenced more by emotional arguments or by cognitive
or rational arguments? What aspects of any given moral dilemma determine
whi type of argument will have more influence on your decision?
e above questions were addressed in Greene et al.’s (2008) dual-process
model. ey distinguished between two systems: (a) a fast, automatic, and
affective system; and (2) a slower, more effortful, and more ‘cognitive’
system. is model has been investigated using various moral dilemmas.
Consider the following two related problems or dilemmas. In the trolley
problem, you must decide whether to divert a runaway trolley that threatens
the lives of five people onto a side-tra where it will kill only one person
(see Figure 12.8a). In the footbridge problem, you must decide whether to
push a fat person over a bridge, causing that person’s death but saving five
people’s lives (see Figure 12.8b).

Figure 12.8
Two well-known moral dilemma problems: (a) the trolley problem; and (b) the
footbridge problem.
What did you decide to do? Approximately 90 per cent of people decide to
divert the trolley with the trolley problem but only 10 per cent decide to
push the person off the footbridge with the footbridge problem. Why is there
this large difference? Greene et al. (2008) argued that the footbridge problem
triggers a strong emotional response. is causes us to disapprove of pushing
the person to their death even though that would save five lives. More
specifically, we respond emotionally to the notion of causing direct harm to
another person. Problems su as the footbridge problem are known as
personal moral dilemmas. With su dilemmas, most individuals make

deontological judgements based on moral rules or obligations (e.g. do not
kill) predominantly involving the affective system.
In contrast, the trolley problem is an impersonal dilemma because any
harm is only indirectly due to our actions. With su problems, most people
make utilitarian judgements based on maximising the consequences (i.e.
saving as many lives as possible) using the cognitive system. In crude terms,
you can use your heart (deontological judgements) or your head (utilitarian
judgements) to resolve moral dilemmas (Greene, 2014).
Conway and Gawronski (2013) tested two predictions from the dual-
process model using personal moral dilemmas. First, they increased
participants’ empathic concern by showing them a photograph of the
potential victim(s) of participants’ actions. As predicted, this increased
participants’ deontological inclinations (based on emotional considerations)
but had no effect on their utilitarian inclinations (based on cognitive
processes). Second, they reduced the involvement of cognitive processing on
resolving personal moral dilemmas by requiring participants to remember a
digit string at the same time. is reduced utilitarian inclinations but had no
effect on deontological inclinations.
We can also test the dual-process model by assessing paerns of brain
activation when individuals are presented with personal and impersonal
moral dilemmas. Two relevant brain areas are the dorsolateral prefrontal
cortex (dlPFC) and the ventromedial prefrontal cortex (vmPFC) (see Figure
12.9). In general terms, the dlPFC is involved in cognitive control whereas
the vmPFC is (among other activities) important in the processing and
generation of emotion.
e above account allows us to make various predictions. For example,
individuals who make utilitarian judgements should exercise more cognitive
control than those making deontological judgements and thus have greater
activity in the dlPFC. at is precisely what was found by Greene et al.
(2004; see Figure 12.9). Patients with damage to vmPFC have reduced
emotional responsiveness and so should be less influenced than healthy
controls by emotional factors. As predicted, su patients make more
utilitarian judgements than controls (omas et al., 2011). Relevant resear

on patients with vmPFC damage was reviewed by Sneider and Koenigs
(2017).
Figure 12.9
Brain regions in the anterior dorsolateral prefrontal cortex that were activated more
when utilitarian decisions were made than when non-utilitarian decisions were made.
Source: Greene et al. (2004).
Beyond the dual-process model

Most resear on resolution of moral dilemmas has required participants to
oose between two options (i.e. action vs inaction), with one option being
described as ‘utilitarian’ and the other as ‘deontological’. ere is increasing
evidence that this approa is oversimplified.

Some early concerns about the dual-process model were raised by
resear on anti-social individuals with psyopathic tendencies. Kahane et
al. (2015) found that su individuals were more likely than other people to
produce utilitarian judgements with personal moral dilemmas. is seems
strange given that utilitarian judgements are regarded as reflecting concerns
for the greater good, concerns that anti-social individuals apparently la.
Conway et al. (2018) replicated Kahane et al.’s (2015) findings when
participants had to oose between utilitarian and deontological judgements.
However, they pointed out that su findings are ambiguous – they might
reflect increased utilitarian inclinations in anti-social individuals or reduced
deontological inclinations. Conway et al. discovered using more sensitive
measures than the laer was the case: anti-social individuals are relatively
unconcerned about moral rules against killing other people.
More evidence that categorising individuals’ responses on moral
dilemmas as utilitarian or deontological is simplistic was reported by
Farsides et al. (2018). ey presented their participants with various moral
dilemmas including two resembling the footbridge and trolley problems and
asked them to indicate the importance of various reasons in making their
decision. Some of the findings were consistent with the dual-process model.
For example, utilitarian consequences were more important on the trolley-
like problem than the footbridge-like problem, and feelings were more
important on the footbridge-like problem than the trolley-like one. Of most
importance, however, utilitarian consequences were considered on the
footbridge-like problem and feelings were considered on the trolley-like one.
Gawronski and Beer (2017) argued that requiring participants to decide
between utilitarian and deontological judgements is oversimplified and
provides somewhat ambiguous information. For example, deciding to kill
one person to save five others with the trolley dilemma may indicate a
utilitarian moral judgement. Alternatively, however, it could indicate a la
of aversion to harming others. In similar fashion, deciding not to push the
person off the footbridge with the footbridge dilemma may indicate either a
deontological moral judgement or a general preference for inaction
regardless of any moral norms.

Gawronski et al. (2017) followed the approa advocated by Gawronski
and Beer (2017) by obtaining separate measures of sensitivity to
consequences (linked to utilitarian judgements), sensitivity to moral norms
(linked to deontological judgements), and preference for inaction (vs action).
We can see the value of this approa by considering Gawronski et al.’s
study comparing individuals high and low in psyopathy (anti-social
tendencies). ey discovered that those high in psyopathy had less
preference than low scorers for inaction, less sensitivity to consequences,
and less sensitivity to moral norms (see Figure 12.10). us, a full
understanding of the effects of psyopathy on moral reasoning requires a
more complex approa than the one proposed within the dual-process
model.
Figure 12.10
Sensitivity to consequences (C), sensitivity to moral norms (N), and preference for
inaction vs action, as a function of psyopathy (low vs high).
Source: Gawronski et al. (2017).

Evaluation
Resear on moral dilemmas has focused on complex emotional issues
relevant to everyday life. Su resear has revealed mu about the
involvement of cognitive and emotional processes underlying people’s moral
judgements and decisions. e dual-process model has been extremely
influential and accounts successfully for many findings.
What are the limitations of the dual-process model? First, its approa is
oversimplified. As Gawronski et al. (2017, p. 21) pointed out, ‘e traditional
[experimental] approa conflates sensitivity to consequences, sensitivity to
norms, and general preferences for inaction in a single outcome measure.’
Second, the moral dilemmas (e.g. footbridge problem; trolley problem)
used to test the model are somewhat unrealistic. e outcomes of the
decision oices on these problems are known with certainty, but this is
typically not the case in the real world.
ird, the dual-process model provides an excessively flaering view of
utilitarianism based on the assumption that cool logic is preferable to fallible
emotions when resolving moral dilemmas. According to a strictly utilitarian
viewpoint, ‘We are permied (and even required) to instrumentally use,
severely harm, or even kill innocent people to promote the greater good’
(Kahane et al., 2018, p. 132). Most people find su a viewpoint repugnant
rather than admirable.

12.6 Reasoning
Cognitive psyologists have carried out a considerable amount of resear
on reasoning (see Chapter 8). Mu of this resear has focused on
deductive reasoning, whi allows us to draw conclusions that are certain
provided that other statements are assumed to be true. One of the most
popular deductive-reasoning tasks is syllogistic reasoning. Two premises or
statements are presented (e.g. ‘All cats are obedient’; ‘Lulu is a cat’) followed
by a conclusion (e.g. ‘erefore, Lulu is obedient’). In this example, the
conclusion must be valid if we accept the truth of the premises.
Most resear has found that negative emotional states impair deductive
reasoning (Blanee et al., 2017). For example, Oaksford et al. (1996) used
brief film clips to put participants into a negative or positive mood state.
Reasoning performance was impaired by a similar extent by both mood
states.
However, adverse effects of emotion on reasoning are not always found.
Johnson-Laird et al. (2006) asked individuals with many or few depressive
symptoms to list as many logical possibilities as they could when presented
with various scenarios. e key finding was that high depressives produced
many more valid possibilities than low depressives when the scenarios
produced depressive feelings. Why was that? Depressed individuals devote
mu more time than non-depressed ones to thinking about the causes of
their depression and so become expert at reasoning about depression.
eoretical perspectives
How can we explain the variable effects of emotion on reasoning?
Blanee et al. (2014) argued that a key factor is relevance: ‘whether the
affective state is associated with the semantic contents of the reasoning task’
(p. 1049). More specifically, reasoning performance is impaired when the
emotion is irrelevant but not when it is relevant. When emotional stimuli
are irrelevant, they aract aention and activate task-irrelevant information

that requires processing resources. is additional processing leads to
impaired performance. When emotional stimuli are relevant, in contrast,
they activate task-relevant information and so do not lead to performance
impairments.
Blanee et al. (2014) carried out a series of reasoning experiments in
whi emotionally relevant or irrelevant images or videos were presented.
As predicted, reasoning performance was impaired only when these
emotional stimuli were irrelevant. ere is even evidence that emotional
relevance can enhance reasoning performance. Blanee et al. (2007) asked
participants in London (England), London (Canada), and Manester
(England) to reason about neutral statements; generally emotional
statements; and statements emotionally relevant to terrorism. is was done
initially within one week of the terrorist aas on London, England in July
2005. e three groups differed only with respect to reasoning about
statements related to terrorism: the group most emotionally affected by the
terrorist aas (those living in London, England) had the best reasoning
performance on su statements.
Deductive reasoning An approa to reasoning in whi conclusions

can be judged valid or invalid given that certain statements or premises
are assumed to be true.
Caparos and Blanee (2017) had participants perform a reasoning task

with four different types of material: (1) generally emotional content; (2)
content related to sexual abuse; (3) content related to car accidents; and (4)
neutral content. Some participants had suffered sexual abuse whereas others
had been involved in a car accident. ere were also control participants
who had not experienced sexual abuse or a car accident.
e relative error percentages on the reasoning task (i.e. error percentages
with emotional content minus error percentages with neutral content) are
shown in Figure 12.11. e key findings indicated that relative error
percentages for problems with abuse or accident content were reduced when

the content was emotionally relevant (i.e. abuse content for victims of abuse
and accident content for accident victims). us, there was strong evidence
for the importance of relevance.
Figure 12.11
Relative mean error percentages (a) in no-abuse controls and abuse victims; and (b) no-
accident controls and accident victims, for reasoning problems having abuse content,
accident content, or generally emotional content.
Source: Caparos & Blanchette (2017).
Caparos and Blanee (2017) also considered the effect of arousal on

reasoning performance with trauma-related material (i.e. sexual abuse or car
accident). High arousal was associated with impaired reasoning performance
compared to low arousal. ese effects of arousal on reasoning were
independent of the effects of emotional relevance on reasoning.
Evaluation

Most of the resear is consistent with the notion that the effects of emotion
on reasoning performance depend on the relevance of experienced emotion
to the emotional content of the material on the reasoning task. However,
other factors (e.g. arousal) are also likely to influence reasoning
performance.
e main limitation of resear on emotion and reasoning is that the
precise meanism(s) mediating the effects of relevance on reasoning
performance remain unclear. It is plausible that irrelevant emotion impairs
reasoning because it distracts aention away from task-relevant content.
However, there is a dearth of resear in whi aentional processes were
systematically assessed.

Summary
• Mood state typically influences cognitive processing and

performance, but the impact of mood state is ignored in most
resear.
• Anxiety and anger oen lead to aentional narrowing whereas
sadness or a positive mood oen lead to aentional broadening.
However, there is also evidence that moods involving low
motivational intensity involve aentional broadening whereas those
involving high motivational intensity involve aentional narrowing.
• Mood-congruent memory is greater in positive than negative moods
because individuals in a negative mood are more motivated to
improve their mood state.
• ere is more evidence for mood-state-dependent memory when
individuals have to generate their own retrieval cues.
• e amygdala (whi is a hub connected to 90 per cent of brain
regions) is strongly involved in processing of (and memory for)
emotional stimuli.
• e three negative mood states of anxiety, anger, and sadness all
have idiosyncratic paerns of effects on judgement and decision-
making. ese differences reflect the different functions associated
with ea mood state.
• ere is some evidence that anger and positive moods are associated
with heuristic or shallow processing whereas sadness is associated
with analytic or deliberative processing.
• According to the emotion-imbued oice model, decision-making is
influenced by complex interactions among the following factors:
current emotion; personality and preferences of the decision-maker;
incidental influences (e.g. weather); expected outcomes.
• According to Greene’s dual-process model, most individuals make
deontological judgements (based on moral rules) with personal

moral dilemmas but utilitarian judgements (based on maximising the
consequences) with impersonal dilemmas. is model is
oversimplified and provides an excessively flaering view of the
advantages of utilitarianism.

Further reading
Blanee, I., Caparos, S., & Trémolière, B. (2017). Emotion and reasoning. In L. Ball & V. ompson
(eds), International Handbook of Thinking and Reasoning (pp. 57–70). Abingdon: Routledge.
Isabelle Blanee and her colleagues provide an interesting review of our current understanding
of the effects of emotion and mood state on reasoning processes and performance.
Eysen, M.W., & Keane, M.T. (2020). Cognitive Psychology: A Student’s Handbook (8th edn).
Abingdon: Psyology Press. Chapter 15 in this textbook covers the effects of cognitive processes
on emotion as well as the effects of emotion on cognition.
Kahane, G., Evere, J.A.C., Earp, B.D., Caviola, L., Faber, N.S., Croe, M.J., et al. (2018). Beyond
sacrificial harm: A two-dimensional model of utilitarian psyology. Psychological Review, 125,
131–164. Guy Kahane and colleagues discuss in detail judgement and decision-making with
respect to personal moral dilemmas.
Lerner, J.S., Valdesolo, P., & Kassam, K.S. (2015). Emotion and decision-making. Annual Review of
Psychology, 66, 799–823. Jennifer Lerner and her colleagues discuss their model of the effects of
emotion on decision-making. is model is more comprehensive than previous models and
probably more influential.

Glossary
Active perception Perception as a function of interaction with the world.

ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) A condition
aracterised by an inability to focus aention, causing poor
concentration, impulsive behaviour, and hyperactivity.
Affordance e potential uses of an object. Perceived objects afford the uses
to whi they can be put.
Agnosia e failure to recognise or interpret stimuli despite adequate
sensory function. It is usually classified by sensory modality, so visual
agnosia is the failure to recognise objects that are seen.
Alexia Acquired difficulties in reading (see also dyslexia).
Alzheimer’s disease (AD) A degenerative brain disorder usually (but not
always) afflicting the elderly, whi first appears as an impairment of
memory but later develops into a more general dementia.
Amnesia A pathological impairment of memory function.
Anterograde amnesia (AA) Impaired memory for events whi have
occurred since the onset of the disorder (contrasts with retrograde
amnesia).
Aphasia An acquired language disorder, whi primarily affects the
comprehension of spoken language (a receptive aphasia), or the
production of spoken language (expressive aphasia). In global aphasia,
both spee production and perception are compromised.
Articulatory suppression A task used to occupy the articulatory control
process of the working memory, normally involving the repetition of a
sound (su as ‘the’) whi requires articulation but lile processing.

Attention conspicuity e interaction of aspects of a stimulus (su as
colour, luminance, form) with aspects of an individual (su as aention,
knowledge, pre-conceptions) that determine how likely a stimulus is to be
consciously perceived. See also sensory conspicuity.
Automatic processing Processing that is not under conscious control, and
whi is rapid, inevitable, and not under voluntary control (contrasts with
controlled processing).
Availability heuristic Making judgements on the basis of how available
relevant examples are in our memory store.
Behaviourism An approa to psyology whi constrains psyologists to
the investigation of externally observable behaviour, and rejects any
consideration of inner mental processes.
Binaural cues Cues that rely on comparing the input to both ears, as for
example in judging sound direction.
Binding How the different properties of an item are combined so that the
whole object is correctly perceived.
Blindsight e ability of some functionally blind patients to detect visual
stimuli at an unconscious level, despite having no conscious awareness of
seeing them. Usually observed in patients with occipital lobe lesions.
Boston aphasia classification system A systematic classification of aphasic
profiles whi can be used to identify aphasia and to predict what profiles
of damage patients might be expected to show when assessing their
damage.
Bottlene e point in processing where parallel processing becomes
serial.
Bottom-up (or stimulus-driven) processing Processing whi is directed
by information contained within the stimulus (contrasts with top-down
processing).
Broca’s area A region of the brain normally located in the le frontal
region, whi controls motor spee production.
Capture e ability of one source of information to take processing priority
from another. For example, the sudden onset of novel information within

a modality su as an apple falling may interrupt ongoing aentional
processing.
Cell assembly A group of cells whi have become linked to one another to
form a single functional network. Proposed by Hebb as a possible
biological meanism underlying the representation and storage of a
memory trace.
Central executive A hypothetical meanism whi is believed to be in
overall control of the working memory. It is assumed to control a variety
of tasks, su as decision-making, problem-solving, and selective
aention.
Cognitive interview An approa to interviewing eyewitnesses whi
makes use of the findings of cognitive psyology, su as context
reinstatement.
Cognitive neuropsyology e study of the brain activities underlying
cognitive processes, oen by investigating cognitive impairment in brain-
damaged patients.
Cognitive neuroscience e investigation of human cognition by relating it
to brain structure and function, normally obtained from brain-imaging
teniques.
Cognitive psyology e study of the way in whi the brain processes
information. It includes the mental processes involved in perception,
learning and memory storage, thinking, and language.
Comprehension Refers to the outcome of a range of linguistic processes,
from acoustic to semantic and syntactic, whi contribute to the way that
a linguistic message is understood.
Computer modelling e simulation of human cognitive processes by
computer. Oen used as a method of testing the feasibility of an
information-processing meanism.
Confabulation e reporting of memories whi are incorrect and
apparently fabricated, but whi the patient believes to be true.
Congenital prosopagnosia Is thought to be present from birth and is
thought to occur without any apparent brain injury.

Conjunction A term from feature integration theory of aention that
describes a target defined by at least two separable features, su as a red
O amongst green Os and red Ts.
Constancy e ability to perceive constant objects in the world despite
continual anges in viewing conditions.
Constructivist approa Building up our perception of the world from
incomplete sensory input. See also perceptual hypotheses.
Contention seduling A term used by Norman and Shallice to describe an
operation whi prevents two competing activated semas from being
selected at the same time.
Controlled attention Aention processing that is under conscious,
intentional control. It requires aentional resources, or capacity, and is
subject to interference.
Controlled processing Processing that is under conscious control, and
whi is a relatively slow, voluntary process (contrasts with automatic
processing).
Declarative memory Memory whi can be reported in a deliberate and
conscious way (contrasts with procedural memory).
Deductive reasoning task A problem that has a well-defined structure in a
system of formal logic where the conclusion is certain.
Dementia A persistent impairment in intellectual function due to brain
lesions, usually involving a progressive loss of function associated with
ageing.
Developmental prosopagnosia Is thought to be a result of early
neurological trauma that might be caused by accident or injury.
Diencephalon A brain structure whi includes the thalamus and
hypothalamus. Parts of the diencephalon are involved in processing and
retrieving memories, and damage to these structures can cause amnesia.
Digit span A measure of the capacity of the phonological component of the
working memory, based on the largest number of digits whi an
individual can recall when tested immediately aer their presentation.
Direct perception Perception based on the input, without the need for top-
down processing.

Disinhibition Impaired response inhibition, an inability to suppress
previous incorrect responses observed in patients with frontal lobe
epilepsy.
Dorsal stream A pathway for visual information that conveys information
about the spatial location of an object (also known as the ‘where?’
pathway).
Double dissociation A method of establishing that two systems are separate
and independent, by showing that either system can be impaired whilst
the other remains intact.
Dysexecutive syndrome A collection of deficits observed in frontal lobe
patients whi may include impaired concentration, impaired concept
formation, disinhibition, inflexibility, perseveration, impaired cognitive
estimation, and impaired strategy formation.
Dyslexia Developmental difficulties in reading (see also alexia).
Early selection Selective aention that operates on the physical information
available from early perceptual analysis.
Easterbrook’s hypothesis e notion that high levels of arousal or anxiety
cause a narrowing of aention.
Ecological validity e extent to whi the conditions of a resear
experiment resemble those encountered in real-life seings.
Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) A treatment used to alleviate depression
whi involves passing an electric current through the front of the
patient’s head.
Electroencephalography (EEG) Recording the brain’s electrical activity via
electrodes placed against the scalp. Can be used to continuously record
rhythmic paerns in brain function or particular responses to events
(event-related potentials (ERPs)).
Emergent property A phenomenon (su as consciousness) whi arises
from the organisation of a complex system (su as the brain), whi was
not present in any of its constituent parts.
Encoding e process of transforming a sensory stimulus into a memory
trace.

Encoding specificity principle (ESP) e theory that retrieval cues will
only be successful in accessing a memory trace if they contain some of the
same items of information whi were stored with the original trace.
Endogenous attention Aention that is controlled by the intention of a
participant.
Episodic buffer A hypothetical component of working memory whi
integrates information from different sense modalities, and provides a link
with the LTM.
Episodic memory Memory for specific episodes and events from personal
experience, occurring in a particular context of time and place (contrasts
with semantic memory).
Event-related potentials (ERP) Systematic anges in the brain’s electrical
responses linked to the presentation of a stimulus. Typically the stimulus
is presented numerous times with the electroencephalographic (EEG)
signals time-loed to its occurrence then being averaged to separate the
signal from noise.
Executive functions Meanisms in overall control of cognitive
functioning, su as the deployment of aention, self-regulation, insight,
planning, and goal-directed behaviour.
Exogenous attention Aention that is drawn automatically to a stimulus
without the intention of the participant. Processing by exogenous
aention cannot be ignored.
Experimental psyology e scientific testing of psyological processes
in human and animal subjects.
Explicit memory Memory whi can be reported consciously and
deliberately (contrasts with implicit memory).
Extended hippocampal system A system of interconnected structures
within the brain, incorporating the hippocampus, anterior thalamus, and
mammillary bodies, whi is involved in the encoding and storage of new
memory traces.
Familiarity e recognition of an item as one that has been encountered on
some previous occasion.

Feature detectors Meanisms in an information-processing device (su as
a brain or a computer) whi respond to specific features in a paern of
stimulation, su as lines or corners.
Feature overlap e extent to whi features of the memory trace stored at
input mat those available in the retrieval cues. According to the
encoding specificity theory (qv) successful retrieval requires extensive
feature overlap.
Features Elements of a scene that can be extracted and then used to build
up a perception of the scene as a whole. See also geons.
Flashbulb memory A person’s recollection of details of what they were
doing at the time of some major news event or dramatic incident.
Form agnosia Is now the generally accepted term for patients who are
unable to discriminate between objects and are unable to copy line
drawings of objects (this was previously termed apperceptive agnosia).
Frontal lobe syndrome e paern of deficits exhibited by patients with
damage to the frontal lobes. ese patients are distractible, have difficulty
seing, maintaining and anging behavioural goals, and are poor at
planning sequences of actions.
Functional fixedness e inability to use an object appropriately in a given
situation because of prior experience of using the object in a different
way.
Functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) A medical imaging
tenology that uses very strong magnetic fields to measure anges in
the oxygenation of the blood in the brain and thus map levels of activity
in the brain.
Fusiform face area (FFA) e fusiform area has been shown to be a key
structure in face and object processing and numerous studies have shown
that the fusiform gyrus contains an area dedicated to face processing.
Geons Basically features, but conceived explicitly as being 3-D features.
Gestalt psyology An approa to psyology whi emphasised the way
in whi the components of perceptual input became grouped and
integrated into paerns and whole figures.
Gyrus e surface of one of the folds in the cerebral cortex.

Haptic perception Tactile (tou) and kinaesthetic (awareness of position
and movement of joints and muscles) perception.
Hemianopia Blindness in one half of the visual field, usually caused by a
stroke.
Herpes simplex encephalitis (HSE) A virus infection of the brain, whi in
some cases leaves the patient severely amnesic.
Heuristics Methods or strategies whi oen lead to problem solution but
are not guaranteed to succeed.
Highly superior autobiographical memory (HSAM) e ability found in a
few unusual individuals to recall a very high proportion of the
experiences of their life.
Hippocampus A structure lying within the temporal lobes, whi is
involved in the encoding and storage of memories. Hippocampal lesions
usually cause impairment of memory, especially the storage of new
memories.
Illusions Cases in whi perception of the world is distorted in some way.
Implicit memory Memory whose influence can be detected by some
indirect test of task performance, but whi the individual is unable to
report deliberately and consciously (contrasts with explicit memory).
Inductive reasoning task A problem that has a well-defined structure in a
system of formal logic where the conclusion is highly probable but not
necessarily true.
Insight e reorganising or restructuring of the elements of the problem
situation in su a way as to provide a solution. Also known as productive
thinking.
Integrative agnosia Is the generally accepted term for associative agnosia.
It refers to patients who can perceive the individual shapes and elements
of objects but are unable to integrate these into a representation of the
whole object.
Korsakoff’s syndrome A brain disease whi usually results from ronic
alcoholism, and whi is mainly aracterised by a memory impairment.
Late selection An account of selective processing where aention operates
aer all stimuli have been analysed for their semantic properties.

Laws of perceptual organisation Principles (su as proximity) by whi
parts of a visual scene can be resolved into different objects.
Lesion Tissue damage, whi in the brain is usually caused by a stroke, a
tumour, an infection, a direct injury, or a progressive disease su as
Alzheimer’s dementia.
Lexical decision task An experiment in whi participants are given a
target item (typically wrien), and asked to decide whether it is a real
word or not. e amount of time taken to give a response can indicate
how the target item is being processed.
Long-term memory (LTM) Memory held in permanent storage, available
for retrieval at some time in the future (contrasts with short-term
memory).
Long-term potentiation (LTP) A lasting ange in synaptic resistance
following the application of electrical stimulation to living brain tissue.
Possibly one of the biological meanisms underlying the learning
process.
Masking e disruptive effect of an auditory or visual paern that is
presented immediately aer an auditory or visual stimulus. is is
baward masking, but there are other types of masking.
Means–end analysis A general heuristic where a sub-problem is selected
that will reduce the difference between the current state and the goal
state.
Meta-analysis A form of statistical analysis based on combining all the
findings in a specific area to obtain an overall picture.
Misinformation effect e contamination of eyewitness testimony by
information acquired aer the witnessed event.
Mnemonic A tenique or strategy used for improving the memorability of
items, for example by adding meaningful associations.
Modality e processing system specific to one of the senses, su as vision,
hearing, or tou.
Modular system A system in whi different types of processing are carried
out by separate and relatively independent sub-systems.

Mood-congruent memory e finding that memory performance is beer
when the individual’s mood state mates the mood state associated with
the to-be-remembered material.
Mood-state-dependent memory e finding that memory performance is
beer when the individual’s mood state is the same at learning and
retrieval.
Morphemes Units of meaning within words.
Neologisms Non-words whi are used by some neuropsyological
patients in place of real words.
Neurotransmitter A emical substance whi is secreted across the
synapse between two neurons, enabling one neuron to stimulate another.
Numena e world as it really is. See also ‘phenomena’.
Optimistic bias An individual’s mistaken belief that they are more likely
than most other people to experience positive events but less likely to
experience negative events.
Organic amnesia An impairment of memory function caused by physical
damage to the brain.
Orienting task A set of instructions used to influence the type of cognitive
processing employed.
Pandemonium A conceptual model of a feature extraction process.
Parallel distributed processing (PDP) Stimuli are represented in the brain,
not by single neurons, but by networks of neurons. An approa
sometimes used to model cognitive processes.
Perception e subjective experience of sensory information aer having
been processed by the cognitive processes (e.g. aention). As compared to
‘sensation’.
Perseveration An inability to shi response strategy aracteristic of frontal
lobe patients.
Phantom word illusion What we hear may be influenced by what we
expect to hear.
Phenomena Numena as we perceive them.
Phenomenological experience Our conscious experience of the world.

Phoneme e smallest unit of spee whi contributes to its linguistic
meaning: anging a phoneme will ange the meaning of a word.
Phonological loop A hypothetical component of working memory, whi is
assumed to provide brief storage for verbally-presented items.
Phonotactics Rules whi govern how phonemes can be combined and
sequenced in any one language (for example, a syllable can start with dw-
in English, but a syllable cannot end -dw).
Pop-out An object will pop-out from a display if it is detected in parallel
and is different from all other items in the display.
Positron emission tomography (PET) A method of imaging brain structure
and function by directly traing blood flow using radioactive tracers.
Pragmatic reasoning semata Clusters of rules that are highly generalised
and abstracted but defined with respect to different types of relationships
and goals.
Problem space A term introduced by Newell and Simon to describe the first
stage in problem-solving; represented in the problem space are the initial
state, the goal state, the instructions, the constraints on the problem and
all relevant information retrieved from long-term memory.
Procedural memory Memory whi can be demonstrated by performing
some skilled procedure su as a motor task, but whi the individual
may not be able to report consciously (contrasts with declarative
memory).
Production system A computational model based on numerous IF-THEN
condition-action rules. IF the rule is represented in working memory
THEN the production stored in long-term memory is applied.
Proprioception Knowledge of the position of the body and its parts (arms,
fingers, etc.). See also ‘haptic perception’.
Prosopagnosia An inability to recognise faces despite adequate visual
acuity.
Psyogenic amnesia An impairment of memory of psyological origin.
Recency effect e tendency for participants to show particularly good
recall for items presented towards the end of a list.

Recollection Remembering a specific event or occasion on whi an item
was previously encountered.
Reconsolidation e finding that the reactivation of a memory makes it
temporarily vulnerable to ange.
Re-entrant processing Information flow between brain regions (bi-
directional).
Rehabilitation Strategies used to help patients to cope with an impairment
or disability, enabling them to function as effectively as possible within
the limitations created by the impairment.
Representativeness heuristic Making judgements on the basis of the extent
to whi the salient features of an object or person are representative of
the features thought to be aracteristic of some category.
Repression Motivated forgeing of traumatic or other threatening events.
Retrieval-induced forgetting (RIF) e phenomenon whereby the
successful retrieval of a memory trace inhibits the retrieval of rival
memory traces.
Retrograde amnesia (RA) Impaired memory for events whi occurred
prior to the onset of amnesia (contrasts with anterograde amnesia).
Reversible figure A figure in whi the object perceived depends on what is
designated as ‘figure’ and what is designated as ‘baground’.
Saccade e movement of the eyes during whi information uptake is
suppressed. Between saccades the eye makes fixations during whi there
is information uptake at the fixated area.
Sema A mental paern, usually derived from past experience, whi is
used to assist with the interpretation of subsequent cognitions, for
example by identifying familiar shapes and sounds in a new perceptual
input.
Scotoma A blind area within the visual field, resulting from damage to the
visual system.
Selective filter An aentional meanism whi selects some information
from the sensory input for further processing whilst discarding other
information from that input.

Semantic memory Memory for general knowledge, su as the meanings
associated with particular words and shapes, without reference to any
specific contextual episode (contrasts with episodic memory).
Semantics e meanings of words and the ways that this knowledge is
structured and interpreted.
Sensation e ‘raw’ sensory input (as compared to ‘perception’).
Sensory conspicuity e extent to whi aspects of a stimulus (su as
colour and luminance) influence how easily it can be registered by the
senses. See also ‘aention conspicuity’.
Shadowing Used in a diotic listening task in whi participants must
repeat aloud the to-be-aended message and ignore the other message.
Short-term memory (STM) Memory held in conscious awareness, and
whi is currently receiving aention (contrasts with long-term memory).
Sign language A visual language, normally arising in deaf communities, in
whi the hands are used to express linguistic information.
Size constancy e perceived size of objects is adjusted to allow for
perceived distance.
Spectral cues Auditory cues to, for example, distance, provided by the
distortion of the incoming stimulus by (e.g.) the pinnae (ear lobes).
Spee Spoken form of a language: a way of conveying linguistic
information with the human voice.
Storage memory (SM) Long-term memory for items in passive storage and
not currently receiving conscious aention.
Stroke Brain damage whi occurs as a result of vascular problems, su as
bloage in a blood vessel (an isaemic stroke) or rupturing of a blood
vessel (haemorragic stroke).
Subliminal Below the threshold for conscious awareness or confident report.
Supervisory attentional system A term used by Norman and Shallice to
describe a system whi controls cognitive functions, su as heightening
a sema’s level of activation and thus increasing its probability of being
selected in contention seduling.
Synaesthesia A condition in whi individuals presented with sensory input
of one modality consistently and automatically experience a sensory

event in a different modality (for example seeing colour on hearing
musical notes).
Synaesthete A person who has the condition synaesthesia.
Synapse e gap between the axon of one neuron and the dendrite of
another neuron.
Syntax Grammatical rules of a language. ese rules govern the ways that
words can be combined (and declined).
Templates Stored representations of objects enabling object recognition.
Testing effect e finding that actively testing a memory improves its
subsequent retrievability.
Top-down (or sema-driven) processing Processing whi makes use of
stored knowledge and semas to interpret an incoming stimulus
(contrasts with boom-up processing).
Transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) is tenique uses an electrical
coil placed near the surface of the head to induce a rapid ange in the
magnetic field, whi in turn produces a weak electrical current in
underlying brain tissue.
Unilateral spatial neglect (also called hemispatial neglect or hemispatial
inaention) A difficulty in noticing or acting on information from one
side of space, typically caused by a brain lesion to the opposite
hemisphere.
Urba–Wiethe disease A disease in whi the amygdala and adjacent
areas are destroyed, causing the impairment of emotional processing and
memory for emotional material.
Ventral stream A pathway in the brain that conveys the visual information
for what an object is (also known as the ‘what?’ pathway).
Visual masking Experimental procedure of following a briefly presented
stimulus by random visual noise or fragments of other stimuli. Interferes
with or interrupts visual processing.
Visual sear Experimental procedure of searing through a field of
objects (‘distractors’) for a desired object (‘target’).
Visuo-spatial sketpad A hypothetical component of working memory,
whi is assumed to provide brief storage for visually-presented items.

Wernie’s area A region of the brain normally located in the le temporal
region, whi is concerned with the perception and comprehension of
spee.
Word A word is a lexical unit whi can stand alone in terms of its use in a
language and its meaning.
Word-length effect e finding that word span in immediate recall is
greater for short words than for long words.
Working memory (WM) A hypothetical short-term memory system whi
serves as a mental workspace in whi a variety of processing operations
are carried out on both new input and retrieved memories.

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Author Index
Addis, D.R. 151, 194

Adlam, A.L.R. 150
Aggleton, J.P. 12, 138, 187
Aglioti, S. 56
Albert, M.S. 183–184
Alexander, M.P. 127, 247–248
Allen, G.A. 157
Altmann, E.M. 135
Altmann, G.M.T. 272–273
Alzheimer, A. 178
Ames, A. 34–35
Amir, N. 156
Amodio, D.M. 155
Anderson, A. 60
Anderson, B. 94
Anderson, J.M. 294
Anderson, M.C. 158–161, 164
Andreewsky, E. 290
Andrewes, D. 232
Andrews, B. 170
Andrews, P.W. 330
Andrews, S. 265–266
Anolli, L. 217
Arts, N.J.M. 187
Asher, J.E. 83

Assal, G. 107
Atkinson, R.C. 113–114
Auerba, S.H. 295
Avesani, R. 103
Avidan, G. 109
Awh, E. 71
Azzopardi, P. 89, 91
Baddeley, A.D. 17, 114, 117, 119–128, 131, 141, 147–148, 154, 181–182, 204, 229, 244
Bahri, H.P. 135, 165
Bailey, C.H. 14
Bailey, P.J. 255
Baizer, J.S. 44
Ball, L.J. 220
Balota, D.A. 265–267
Baltussen, H. 53
Bamdad, M.J. 247
Banaji, M.R. 155
Bani, M.T. 48
Barceló, F. 238
Bareham, C. 95
Bargh, J.A. 330
Barne, K.J. 83
Baron, J. 265
Baron-Cohen, S. 18, 81–83, 84, 87
Bartle, F.C. 5–7, 136–138, 171
Barton, J.J.S. 104, 106, 109
Basden, B.H. 161
Basden, D.R. 161
Bate, S. 109
Bauer, R.M. 108
Bauml, K-H. 159–161, 164
Bayley, P.J. 198

Beara, A. 240
Be, A.T. 149
Be, D.M. 47
Beer, J.S. 334–335
Behrman, M. 109
Bellas, D.N. 93
Bellugi, U. 122
Benson, D.F. 294
Bentall, R. 200–201
Bentin, S. 109
Benton, A.L. 233
Beranek, L.L. 52
Berman, M.G. 117
Berntsen, D. 166
Bertera, J.H. 304–305
Berti, A. 95
Besner, D. 124
Biederman, I. 29
Biggs, A.T. 318
Bisby, J.A. 170
Bishop, D.V.M. 309–310
Bisia, E. 93–94
Bisra, K. 158
Bjork, E.L. 135, 158, 163
Bjork, R.A. 135, 158, 161, 163
Blamore, S. 19
Blaiss, C.A. 162
Blakemore, C. 83–84
Blakemore, S.J. 302
Blanee, I. 328, 336–337
Blank, S.C. 302
Blesser, B. 299
Bliss, T.V.P. 14

Blu, S. 166
Bo, J.K. 277
Bodamer, J. 103
Boden, M. 216
Boets de Bee, B.H.O. 311
Bogen, G.M. 293
Bogen, J.E. 293
Boole, G. 207
Bor, D. 87
Bornstein, B. 107
Boini, G. 86
Bouer, V.J. 275
Boutsen, L. 106
Bowen, A. 92
Bower, G.H. 149
Bowles, D.C. 109
Brakel, L. 227
Brandt, K.R. 193
Branigan, C. 317
Bransford, J.D. 137
Bredemeier, K. 149
Brevers, D. 240
Brewer, N. 136
Brewin, C.R. 169–170
Bridgeman, B. 64
Broadbent, D.E. 10, 66, 70
Broadbent, M.H. 70
Broca, P. 11, 284–285, 287–289, 292–295, 301–303
Brown, A.S. 155, 184
Brown, C. 174
Brown, I.D. 37
Brown, J. 116
Brown, R. 168

Bruce, V. 25, 104, 106, 108
Brunet, A. 162
Bruyer, R. 107–108
Bryant, R.A. 170
Bull, R. 173
Bullier, J. 44
Burgess, P.W. 17, 235, 238, 241–244, 247, 249
Burton, A.M. 108
Buerworth, B. 288
Cahill, L. 322
Cahir, C. 328
Calvillo, D.P. 215
Camp, G. 160
Campbell, R. 109
Campion, J. 89
Caparos, S. 337
Caplan, D. 301
Carpenter, S. 84
Carpenter, S.K. 157
Carroll, D.W. 282
Carroll, M. 159
Caterino, A. 170
Cavaco, S. 190
Cavene, T. 318
Cermak, L.S. 188
Chalmers, D.J. 18
Chan, A.H.S. 315, 327
Chase, W.G. 138, 215, 226
Chen, Y. 66
Chen, Z. 68
Cheng, P.W. 222
Cherry, E.C. 72

Chi, M.T.H. 215
Chomsky, N. 258–259, 261, 269–270, 310
Chu, S. 147
Cicerone, K. 236
Claparede, E. 191
Clare, L. 204
Claret, P.L. 37
Clark, D.M. 170
Clark, E.V. 260
Clark, H.H. 260, 282
Clark, L.A. 324
Claxton, G. 155
Cleary, A.M. 151
Clements-Cortes, A. 60
Clore, G.L. 316, 318
Cloutman, L.L. 51
Coget, J.F. 327
Cohen, G. 216
Cohen, L. 300
Cohen, N.J. 177, 186, 190, 198, 199
Cohen, Y. 70
Colester, A. 187
Cole, B.L. 38
Coltheart, M.T. 264–265, 269, 307
Compton, R.J. 48
Conroy, M.A. 154, 191
Conway, M.A. 168, 204
Conway, P. 333–334
Corbe, F. 195
Corbea, M. 70, 77
Corkin, S. 185, 187, 190–191
Corsi, P.M. 119
Cosky, M. 265

Côté, S. 323
Cowan, N. 72, 116, 118, 127–128, 132
Cowey, A. 60, 89–91
Cox, J.R. 221
Craik, F.I.M. 118, 139–142, 146, 202
Crew, C.M. 278
Cri, F. 17
Crinella, F.M. 246
Cunitz, A.R. 115–116
Cutler, A. 257, 266
Dallas, M. 153
Damasio, A.R. 106, 232
Dando, C.J. 171–174
Danek, A.H. 211
Davidson, P.S.R. 169
Davis, D. 172
Davis, M.H. 262
Day, R.H. 34
De Gelder, B.D. 262
De Gelder, W. 51
De Graaf, T.A. 18
De Groot, A.D. 215
De Haan, E.H.F. 60, 108–109
De Houwer, J. 75
De Neys, W. 17, 227
De Renzi, E. 93, 106
De Ruiter, J.P. 279
De Vries, M. 325–326, 329
De Zeeuw, C.I. 15
Dehaene, S. 18
DeHart, T. 319
Del Guidice, M. 330

Delaney, P. 161
Delis, D.C. 237–238
Dell, G.S. 275–277
Della Sala, S. 232
Deloe, G. 306
Demiray, B. 168–169
Denes, G. 234
Desimone, R. 69, 94, 97
Deuts, D. 52
Devlin, J.T. 304, 308
Di Campli San Vito, P. 59
Di Lollo, V. 42–43
di Pellegrino, G. 106
Didierjean, A. 211
Dixon, M.J. 83, 85
Dobler, V.B. 95
Dodds, C.M. 95
Dodson, C.S. 172
Dolcos, F. 320–321
Doss, M.K. 148
Downes, J.J. 147
Downing, P.E. 31
Driver, J. 86, 94, 97
Dronkers, N.F. 296, 302
Duaine, B.C. 104, 109, 109
Duff, M. 177, 199
Duffy, M. 170
Duffy, P.L. 82
Duhamel, J.R. 66
Dumay, N. 263
Dunbar, R.I.M. 278, 280
Duncan, J. 243, 246
Duncan, J. 68–69, 94, 97

Duner, K. 209, 217
Dupoux, E. 255
Durie, B. 54
Durisko, Z. 331
Earhard, M. 163
Easterbrook, J.A. 316–317
Ebbinghaus, H. 4, 56–57, 115, 134–136, 163
Edelstein, R.S. 318
Edgar, G.K. 39
Edquist, J. 85
Edworthy, J. 74
Egeth, H.E. 51, 69
Eherenfreund-Hager, A. 325, 328is
Ehlers, A. 170
Ei, E. 320
Eienbaum, H.E. 152, 181–182, 186, 188, 198–199
Eisner, F. 264
Eldar, E. 316
Ellis, A.W. 265, 306–307
Ellis, B.J. 330
Endler, J.A. 35
Engle, R.W. 128
Enns, J.T. 42–43
Epstein, C.M. 303
Epstein, R. 31
Eriksen, B.A. 66
Eriksen, C.W. 66
Eskes, G.A. 192
Eslinger, P.J. 232
Espinosa, M.A. 59
Evans, J. St. B.T. 77, 226
Evans, S. 299

Eysen, M.W. 142, 160, 317, 320, 323–324
Fajkowska, M. 324
Farah, M.J. 97–98, 102–103, 107, 125, 246
Farooqui, A. 92
Farsides, T. 334
Fedorenko, E. 31
Feinberg, T. 288
Felleman, D.J. 42
Fellows, L.K. 234
Ferrer, R.A. 327
Fiedler, K. 226
Fillmore, C.J. 258
Fimm, B. 95
Fink, G.R. 86
Finn, B. 162, 164
Fish, J.E. 204
Fisher, R.P. 146, 157, 174
Flannagan, M. 59
Fle, J.I. 211
Fleisman, D.A. 202
Fodor, J.A. 251
Forbus, K. 217
Fornazzari, L. 80
Franz, V.H. 102
Frassinei, F. 96
Frazier, L. 273
Fredrisen, B.L. 317
Freiwald, W.A. 31
Freud, S. 163, 227, 288
Freund, C.S. 168–169, 291
Friederici, A.D. 299
Friedman, N.P. 126, 128–129, 131, 248

Frith, C. 233–234
Fromkin V.A. 275
Fukuda, K. 128
Funnell, E. 103
Gabbert, F. 174
Gable, P. 317
Gabrieli, J.D.E. 194
Gainoi, G. 106
Gaissert, M. 54
Galea, K.M. 200
Gallace, A. 56
Gallo, V. 200
Galloway, J.A. 49
Galton, F. 82
Gambei, E. 324, 327
Gardiner, J.M. 152–153, 193–194
Gardner, M.B. 49
Gardner, R.S. 49
Garg, N. 325
Garre, M. 275–276
Garre, W.E. 200
Garrido, L. 296
Garrod, S. 279
Gathercole, S.E. 123–124
Gauthier, I. 31
Gawronski, B. 333–335
Gazzaniga, M.S. 12
Geiselman, R.E. 161, 173–174
Gelade, G. 52, 67
Gentner, D. 217
George, M. 95
Gernsbaer, M.A. 265

Geswind, N. 296
Gibson, J.J. 8, 23–25, 34, 43, 52, 55, 141
Gi, M.L. 217
Gigerenzer, G. 225, 227
Gilhooly, K.J. 220
Gillingham, S. 233
Giudice, N.A. 59
Giusberti, F. 324, 327
Glanzer, M. 115–116
Glisky, E.L. 169, 190, 204
Gloning, I. 294
Glu, J. 166
Gobet, F. 212, 214–215, 226, 227, 240
Godden, D.R. 147–148
Goel, V. 239–241, 243
Goh, W.D. 145
Goldberg, E. 250
Goldman-Rakic, P.S. 246
Golomb, J.D. 66
Gonnerman, L.M. 266
Goodale, M.A. 44–45, 56–58, 60, 91, 98, 101–102, 108, 130, 188
Goodglass, H. 287, 290
Goodwin, D.W. 149
Gopie, N. 154
Goreli, E.D. 297
Goswami, U. 264, 311
Goudsmit, J.J. 169
Gough, P. 265
Goyani, M. 32
Graf, P. 154, 191–192
Grafman, J. 241, 247
Grant, N. 159
Green, M. 69

Greenberg, D.L. 150
Greene, J.D. 332–334, 338
Greenspoon, J. 147
Greenwald, A.G. 77, 155
Gregory, R.L. 32–33, 40, 43, 45
Grice, H.P. 279–280
Griffin, Z.M. 278
Griffiths, T.D. 295
Griggs, R.A. 221
Grimes, J. 64
Grimm, J.L.C. 27
Grimm, W.C. 27
Griskevicius, V. 329
Groome, D.H. 120, 139, 159, 161, 201
Grossenbaer, P.G. 82, 87
Gustavson, D.E. 128
Haalboom, R. 180
Habib, R. 14
Hae, T.A. 50
Haier, R.J. 11
Hall, D.A. 299
Halligan, P.W. 93–95
Handy, T.C. 25
Happé, F. 312
Harada, Y. 318
Harding, A. 187
Harley, T. 260, 275, 282
Harlow, J.M. 231–232
Harmon-Jones, E. 317
Harrison, N.A. 178, 202–203
Hars, N. 168–169
Hart, J. 15

Hauser, M.D. 260
Hawkins, K. 96
Hawkins, S. 281
Haxby, J.V. 31, 106
Hayashi, T. 34
Hayman, C.A.G. 154
Hayne, H. 167
Haynes, J.D. 9, 28
Head, H. 286, 312
Hebb, D.O. 13–15, 31
Heilman, K.M. 95, 288–292, 294
Heller, M.A. 55
Helmstaedter, C. 238
Helweg-Larsen, M. 328
Henriques, D.Y. 54
Herbert, J. 167
Hermann, L. 32
Hersh, N. 204
Hiok, G. 50–51, 300
Hildebrandt, H. 205
Hill, E. 126
Hinton, G.E. 308
Hiraoka, K. 103
Hit, G.J. 114, 119, 120–121, 141
Hodges, J.R. 195
Holcomb, P.J. 269
Holding, D.H. 226
Holland, A.C. 319
Holyoak, K.J. 217, 222
Howell, P. 311
Hsu, H.J. 310
Hu, Y. 57–58
Hubbard, E.M. 86–87

Hubel, D.H. 9, 28
Hughes, P.K. 38
Hulme, C. 118, 123, 129
Humphreys, G.W. 69, 94, 98–101, 103, 106
Hunt, R.R. 142
Huntsinger, J.R. 318
Hupba, A. 162
Hupe, J. M. 42, 86
Huppert, F.A. 152, 192–193
Husain, M. 47
Husserl, E. 46
Huerman, S. 66
Hyden, H. 13
Innocence Project 171
Jacoby, L.L. 153

Jacquemot, C. 252, 299
Jaeggi, S.M 129
Jaen, E.R. 75
Jagadeesh, B. 31
James, W. 4, 113
Janak, P.H. 162
Jansma, J.M. 75
Janssen, S.M.J. 166
Janssen, W. 59
Jared, D. 266
Jastrowitz, M. 232
Jensen, A.R. 75
Jerabek, I. 148
Jewanski, J. 82
Joanisse, M.F. 272
Jobe, T.A. 161
Johnson, M.K. 137

Johnson-Laird, P.N. 220–221, 336
Johnstone, E.C. 181, 201
Johnstone, L. 200
Jolles, J. 202
Jones, D.M. 118, 123
Jones, R.D. 109
Jonides, J. 128, 130
Jonker, T.R. 160
Joseph, R. 95
Juergensen, J. 328
Juhasz, B.J. 265
Jung, R.E. 11
Juscyk, P.W. 255
Kaas, J.H. 50
Kahane, G. 334, 336
Kahneman, D. 17, 78, 224–226
Kandel, E.R. 14
Kane, M.J. 128
Kant, I. 36
Kantor, J. 60
Kanwisher, N. 31, 106
Kaplan, E. 287
Kapur, N. 186, 204
Karba, J. 129
Karnath, H.O. 94, 96
Kasel, R. 127
Katz, R.B. 290
Keane, M.T. 320
Kelley, L.A. 35
Kelly, J. 262
Keltner, D. 326
Kenealy, P.M. 320

Kennard, C. 64
Kensinger, E.A. 319, 321
Kentridge, R. 90
Kertesz, A. 294
Kessels, R.P.C. 204
Kihlstrom, J.F. 149, 163
Kim, H. 155
Kimball, J. 273
Kimberg, D.Y. 246
King, J.A. 152, 193
King, N.S. 200
Kinsbourne, M. 96
Kints, W. 143
Kircanski, K. 160
Kirdendall, D.T. 200
Kirwilliam, S. 200
Klatzky, R.L. 55
Klauer, K.C. 125
Klein, D.E. 144
Klein, R.M. 70
Knight, R.T. 250
Knobli, G. 234
Ko, C. 17
Koehnken, G. 174
Koenigs, M. 334
Koa, K. 5
Koh, A.W.L. 157
Kohler, W. 5
Kolb, B. 230
Kopelman, M.D. 181, 183–184, 188, 194, 202
Kornblith, S. 30
Korsakoff, S.S. 180, 182, 184
Kotovsky, K. 213–214

Kousta, S.T. 268
Kozak, K. 59
Kramer, G. 52
Kraut, M.A. 15
Krawczyk, D.C. 239
Krieger-Redwood, K. 303
Kroliczak, G. 45, 57, 60
Krueger, L.E. 172
Kuffler, S.W. 28
Kuhbandner, C. 161
Kuhl, B.A. 11
Kulik, J. 168
Kulkarni, D. 216–217
Kussmaul, A. 288–291, 302, 312
Laberge, D. 66
Laird, J. 245
Lambert, A.J. 78
Landis, T. 199
Lane, P.C.R. 212, 214
Lane, S.M. 171
Lang, A.J. 160
Langham, M. 38
Langille, D. 325
Larkin, J. 215
Lashley, K. 13
Lavie, N. 74
Law, R. 139, 160
Lawrence, R.K. 66
Lawson, J.R. 96
Lea, C.W. 327
Lederman, S.J. 55
Lee, A.C.H. 193

Lee, D.N. 24
Lee, W.E. 324
Leeds, D.D. 200
Leigh, R.J. 64
Len, H.C. 316, 324, 328, 330
Lerner, J.S. 323–327, 331–332
Levelt, W.J.M. 259, 275, 277–278, 284, 286
Levin, D.T. 64–65
Levine, B. 250
Levine, L.J. 318, 324, 328
Lewis, V.J. 121, 123
Lewis-Peaco, J.A. 131
Lhermie, F. 234
Libet, B. 18
Litheim, L. 285–291, 293, 302, 312
Liebenthal, E. 299
Lin, J. 154
Linton, M. 166
Lisker, L. 262
Lissauer, I.R. 97–98
Litvak, P.M. 326–327
Lobo, L. 24
Local, J. 262
Lohart, R.S. 139, 141
Loeffler, S.N. 319
Lous, E.F. 171–172
Logie, R.H. 122, 125
Logothesis, N.K. 44
Lomo, T. 14
Loveday, C. 166, 204
Lovelace, C.T. 82, 87
Love, A. 217
Lu, S.H.X. 145

Luce, P.A. 263
Luins, A.S. 211
Lundh, L.G. 77
Luria, A.R. 11, 229, 235
Luzzai, C. 93–94
Maen, W.J. 118, 123

Maie, D.M. 327, 330
MacLeod, M.D. 159, 172
Macmillan, M.B. 231
Macpherson, F. 53
Macrae, C.N. 159
MacSweeney, M. 256
Magnezi, R. 201
Maier, N.R.F. 209
Mair, W.G.P. 185–186, 205
Majerus, S. 124, 130
Malhotra, P.A. 95
Mallikarjun, A. 72
Mandler, G. 16, 18, 142–143, 151–153, 192
Manly, T. 92, 95
Mantyla, T. 144
Marr, D. 10, 29–30, 38
Marsh, L. 161
Marshall, J.C. 93–95, 307
Marslen-Wilson, W. 269
Martin, R.C. 123
Matelli, M. 47
Maingley, J.B. 82, 84
Maison, M.L.A. 174
Mason, A.J. 106
Mays, S.L. 263
Maurer, D. 87

Mayes, A.R. 186
McCall, W.V. 201
McCarthy, G. 103, 106
McCarthy, R.A. 195
McClelland, J.L. 10, 31, 269, 271–272
McConkie, G.W. 64
McDaniel, M.A. 157
McDonald, P.V. 51, 54
McDowd, J.M. 202
McGee, H.W. 59
McGeigan, C. 300–301
McGinn, C. 18
McGurk, H. 51
McIntosh, R.D. 93
McLelland, J.L. 103
McNeil, J.E. 107
Mceen, J.M. 263–264
Meeter, M. 134, 201
Melby-Lervag, M. 129
Melnikoff, D.E. 330
Memon, A. 172, 174
Mendez, M.F. 294
Meredith, C. 57, 74
Mesulam, M. 296, 96
Metcalfe, J. 320
Miel, F. 290
Middlebrooks, C.J. 50
Milders, M.V. 203
Miller, E. 182
Miller, G.A. 118, 123, 138
Miller, L.A. 237
Mills, C.B. 84
Milne, R. 171, 173

Milner, A.D. 44–45, 56, 98, 101–102, 108, 130, 188
Milner, B. 12, 114, 163, 181, 185, 187, 191, 195, 237
Miozzo, M. 278
Miranda, R. 149
Misanin, J.R. 162
Mishkin, M. 44–45
Mitell, D.B. 155
Miyake, A. 126, 128–129, 131, 248
Mohr, J.P. 292
Mondlo, C.J. 87
Monnot, M. 297
Moons, W.G. 327, 330
Moors, A. 75
Moray, N. 72
Morgenstern, O. 223
Morris, P.E. 138
Morris, R.D. 182
Morrison, C.M. 265
Morsella, E. 278
Mort, D.J. 96
Morton, J. 268–269, 307
Moscovit, M. 197
Mulligan, N.W. 146
Murayama, K. 160
Murphy, D.R. 155
Murphy, G.L. 144
Murphy, P. 235
Murty, V.P. 321
Muter, P. 117
Myles, K.M. 85
Na, D.L. 95
Naccae, L. 18

Nader, K. 162, 164
Naeser, M.A. 293
Nairne, J.S. 127, 143, 145
Naish, P. 49
Naka, M. 159
Nakayama, K. 104
Narote, S.P. 59
Navarro, J. 59
Neath, I. 127
Nee, D.E. 128
Neely, J.H. 159
Neil, T.R. 50
Neisser, U. 7–9, 27, 45, 165, 168–169
Nelson, C.A. 167
Ness, H. 105
Neufeld, J. 87
Neuhaus, W. 75
Newcombe, F. 307
Newell, A. 8, 76, 212, 214, 216, 225
Newell, B.R. 224
Niendam, T.A. 131
Nilssen, L. 59
Nishihara, K. 30
Nixon, R.D.V. 318
Norman, D.A. 16, 28, 76, 244–245
Norman, J. 45, 245
Norton, A. 303
Nowak, L.G. 44
Nunn, J.A. 86
Nyberg, L. 146, 202
O’Brien, D.P. 221

Oaksford, M. 336

Oberauer, K. 116
Obleser, J. 299–302
O’Connor, M. 188
Oehler, A. 324
Ogden, J.A. 185
Ohman, A. 77
Oldfield, S.R. 50
O’Regan, J.K. 46
O’Rourke, T.B. 269
O’Seaghdha, P.G. 276
Osherson, D. 239
Ost, J. 172
Oudman, E. 190
Owen, A.M. 131, 238, 241
Owen, D.H. 54
Ozonoff, S. 126
Oztekin, I. 128
Palmer, J.C. 171

Parker, E.S. 164
Parker, S.P.A. 50
Parkin, A.J. 152, 154, 196, 202
Parra, M.A. 125, 131
Parsons, L.M. 239
Patel, N. 32
Paerson, K. 268, 270–272, 298, 300, 307
Penaloza, A.A. 215
Pennycook, G. 17
Perkins, C. 59
Perret, E. 235
Persaud, N. 17
Peru, A. 103
Peterson, L.R. 116–117, 164

Peterson, M.J. 116–117, 164
Pham, M.T. 324–325
Phillips, C.E. 122
Phillips, J.G. 75
Phillips, L. 182, 190
Piering, M.J. 279
Pilesimer, M. 146
Pirell, J.E. 172
Piercy, M. 152, 192–193, 195
Pillemer, D.B. 167
Pinker, S. 270–271, 282
Pisoni, D.B. 263
Plaut, D.C. 307–308
Poeppel D. 50–51
Poincaire, H. 215
Polinder, S. 200
Poppel, E. 88
Posner, M. I. 66, 70–71, 75
Postman, L. 135
Pos, R. 161
Pourtois, G. 77, 317
Power, M.J. 162
Praamstra, P. 295
Price, C.J. 300, 304, 308
Proulx, M.J. 69
Pudas, S. 202
Pujol, M. 181, 184
Qin, Y. 216
an, S. 77
Radon, V. 77
Raffone, A. 118
Raghunathan, R. 324–325

Raine, A. 123
Ramaandran, V.S. 86–87
Ranyard, R. 147
Rastle, K. 266
Ratner, K.G. 155
Rauseer, J.P. 50–51
Raw, J. 168
Rayner, K. 64, 304–305
Read, J. 199, 200–201
Readinger, W.O. 69
Reason, J.T. 16
Reed, J.M. 188
Reed, L.J. 188
Rees, G. 9, 18, 28
Reeve, D.K. 138
Regard, M. 199
Renault, B.S. 108
Rensink, R.A. 64
Reverberi, C. 234, 239
Reynolds, J.H. 69
Ribot, T. 183–184
Riccio, G.E. 54
Riards, A. 328
Rimond, J. 167
Riddo, M.J. 94, 98–102, 103, 106
Rips, L.J. 221
Rizzolai, G. 47, 95
Robbins, T.W. 122
Robertson, I.H. 95–96
Roca, M. 246, 248
Ro, I. 40
Roediger, H.L.III. 162, 164
Rogers, T.B. 167

Rohwer, W.D. 75
Rose, D. 30
Rose, N.S. 131, 141
Rosen, V.M. 128
Rosenbaum, R.S. 184, 194
Rosenbloom, P.S. 76
Rosei, Y. 96
Ross, E.D. 296–297
Ross, G. 195
Roth, H.L. 194, 291
Rouw, R. 86
Rubenstein, H. 265
Rubin, D.C. 134, 166, 168–169
Rubin, E. 26
Rueert, L. 247
Rugg, M.D. 168
Rumelhart, D.E. 10, 31, 271–272
Russell, W.R. 199
Rusting, C.L. 319
Rutherford, A. 200
Sabey, B. 37
Sas, H. 278
Saffran, E.M. 307
Saffran, J. 261
Sala, G. 217
Salame, P. 123, 125
Saliba, A. 51
Saling, L.L. 75
Salmaso, D. 234
Salthouse, T.A. 201
Samuelson, H. 95
Santiago, P.N. 169

Sarno, E.L. 328
Saunders, J. 172
Saunders, R.C. 187
Sacter, D.L. 151, 156, 198
Sank, R.C. 164
Sen, T. 60
Siller, D. 192
Siller, M. 240
Sindler, I. 96
Slesinger, I.M. 258
Smauder, A.R. 264
Smid, M. 86
Sneider, B. 334
Sneider, G.E. 45, 91
Sneider, W. 15, 75
Snur, T.T. 293
So, B.H. 155
Sulz, K.P. 126
Sunn, C.D. 135
Swartzman, D.J. 87
Swarz, N. 325
Scotko, B.G. 194
Sco, S.K. 50–51, 252, 298
Scoville, W.B. 180, 185, 187
Scullin, M.K. 8
Searle, J. 17
Sedda, A. 51
Segall, M.H. 34
Sehm, B. 186
Seidenberg, M.S. 265–266, 269, 272
Sekeres, M.J. 197
Selfridge, O.G. 28
Sellal, F. 186

Sensoy, O. 35
Sergent, J. 107
Shallice, T. 12, 16–17, 76, 102–103, 122–123, 233, 235, 238, 240–245, 247, 249, 286, 307–308
Shapley, R. 43
Sharot, T. 322
Shaw, J.S. 160
Shelton, J.T. 8
Sheppard, D.M. 95
Shepperd, J.A. 328
Sheridan, J. 103
Shevrin, H. 227
Shields, G.S. 328
Shiffrin, R.M. 15, 75, 113–114
Shimamura, A.P. 151
Shiota, M.N. 328
Shipstead, Z. 129
Shulman, H.G. 70, 77
Siebert, M. 322
Siegal, M. 297
Sierra, M. 197
Signoret, J.L. 107
Sigstrom, R. 181, 201
Silva, A.R. 205
Simco, G. 167
Simon, H.A. 138, 212, 214, 215, 216–217, 225, 226
Simon, S.R. 108
Simons, D.J. 64–65
Simons, J.S. 12
Singh-Curry, V. 47
Skinner, B.F. 5, 259
Slater, A. 35
Slobin, D.I. 260–261
Small, D.A. 327

Smilek, D. 83
Smith, C. 203
Smith, E.E. 130, 267
Smith, S.M. 174, 176
Snowling, M.J. 310–311
Soeting, J.F. 54
Song, Z. 193
Soon, C.S. 18
Sorger, B. 106
Spanhel, K. 322
Spears, R. 327
Spence, C. 56, 86, 97
Sperber, D. 280
Sperling, G. 114
Spieler, D.H. 267
Spiers, H.J. 116, 194
Spitsyna, G. 309
Sprague, J.M. 96
Squeri, V. 54
Squire, L. 156, 163, 186, 190, 196–198, 201
St Jaques, P.L. 192
St.James, J.D. 66
Standing, L. 148
Stanovi, K.E. 77
Starr, A. 182, 190
Staughton, G.C. 37
Stefanacci, L. 188
Steil, R. 170
Steinvorth, S. 183, 185, 194–195, 197
Stephens, R.G. 222
Sterkaj, F. 161
Steven, M.S. 83–84
Stewart, F. 102–103

Stone, S.P. 92
Storandt, M. 178, 182
Storm, B.C. 161
Strawson, C. 265
Stroop, J.R. 75–77, 84
Studer, B. 240
Stuss, D.T. 127, 235, 247–248, 250
Sullivan, J. 59
Summerfield, Q. 255
Suprenant, A.M. 127
Szczepanski, S.M. 250
Tabanek-Sijf, H.J.M. 215

Talarico, J.M. 168–169
Talland, G.A. 181
Tandoh, K. 159
Tanenhaus, M.K. 274
Taubman-Ben-Ari, O. 328
Taylor, F.K. 161
Taylor, R. 123
Tempere, S. 72
eeuwes, J. 71
iebaut de Soen, M. 187
omas, C. 211
omas, K. 328, 334
omas, N.J.T. 46
ompson, A.V. 220
omson, D.M. 144, 163
omson, J.A. 330
orndyke, E.L. 135, 163, 208–209
readgill, A.H. 318
Tiedens, L.Z. 326, 331
Tippe, L.J. 107, 194, 237

Tisserand, D.J. 202
Toffalo, M.B.J. 148
Tomson, S.N. 83
Tranel, D. 109
Treadgold, L. 204
Treisman, A.M. 52, 66–68, 72, 74
Troscianko, E. 148
Trueswell, J.C. 272
Tsao, D.Y. 30
Tsuida, A. 234
Tsuruhara, A. 41
Tuey, M.R. 136
Tulving, E. 140–145, 149–150, 152–154, 163–164, 166, 194, 198, 320
Turner, G.R. 250
Turner, M.L. 128
Tustin, K. 167
Tversky, A. 224–226
Tyler, C.W. 17
Ucros, C.G. 319

Underwood, B.J. 135
Ungerleider, L.G. 44–45
Urbanski, M. 239
Vallar, G. 93, 123, 125

Van den Busse, E. 92
Van Essen, D.C. 42
Van Leeuwen, T.M. 86
Vanlessen, N. 317
Varley, R.A. 297
Väställ, D. 330
Vela, E. 176
Verfaillie, M. 150, 194–195
Verhaeghen, P. 129, 201–202

Victor, M. 187
Vigliocco, G. 258
Vitevit, M.S. 263
Vlahovic, T.A. 281
Voeller, K.K.S. 95
Von Mühlenen, A. 317
Von Neumann, J. 223
von Sydow, M. 226
Vroomen, J. 51, 262
Wada, Y. 106
Wagenaar, W.A. 166
Wager, T. 130
Walker, B.N. 52
Wallas, G. 215–216
Wallraven, C. 54
Wang, X. 59, 152
Ward, J. 81, 83, 88, 321
Warren, E.W. 201
Warren, J.E. 300
Warrington, E.K. 12, 102–103, 107, 114, 122–123, 178, 181, 191, 196, 307
Wason, P.C. 220–222
Waters, E.A. 324
Waters, G.S. 324, 326
Watson, D. 324
Watson, J.B. 4
Wearing, D. 116, 180, 182, 184, 189–190, 192, 195
Weaver, G.E. 167
Webb, M.E. 210
Weber, E.U. 325
Wegner, D.M. 18
Weinberg, J. 95
Weisberg, R.W. 211

Weisel, T.N. 9
Weiskrantz, L. 12, 17, 88–90, 191, 196
Weiss, P.H. 86
Weller, J.A. 240
Wells, G.L. 197
Welt, L. 232
Wen, Z. 127
Wenzel, A. 134
Wernie, C. 12, 285–291, 293–295, 297, 300, 302–303, 312
Wertheimer, M. 5, 26
Wessinger, C.M. 90
West, M.J. 187
West, R.F. 77
Westwood, D.A. 58, 60
Wharton, C.M. 223
Whishaw, I.Q. 230
White, H.A. 188
White, S.H. 167
Whiy, C.W.M. 180
Wielgren, W.A. 182, 185
Wiesel, T.N. 28
Wiley, J. 211
Williams, J.M.G. 77
Williams, S.J. 172
Wilson, B. 116, 125–126, 180, 182, 184, 189–190, 192, 194–195, 204–205
Wilson, C.E. 109
Wilson, D. 280
Wilson, M. 279
Wilson, T.P. 279
Winawer, J. 84
Wingate, M.E. 311
Winocur, G. 197
Winograd, E. 167

Wise, R.J. 302
Wiho, N. 84
Wixted, J.T. 163
Wolters, G. 118, 169
Wood, B. 72
Wright, D.B. 172
Wu, X. 315
Wundt, W. 4
Xie, W. 128, 162
Yakamoto, T. 106
Yantis, S. 51
Yaro, C. 88
Yeshurun, Y. 66
Yip, J.A. 323
Young, A.W. 104, 106, 108, 306–307
Yu, J. 246
Zanei, O. 204
Zangwill, O.L. 180
Zaragoza, M.S. 171
Zeki, S. 47
Zelinsky, G.J. 66
Zevin, J. D. 265
Zhang, R. 32
Zhang, T.R. 315, 327
Zhao, Z. 125
Zhu, B. 172
Ziat, M. 64
Zihl, J. 93, 305
Zinke, K. 129
Zola, D. 64
Zwitserlood, P. 257, 262

Subject Index
accents (in spoken language) 264

action slips 16, 76
active perception 55
age of acquisition (AOA) 265
alexia 303, 305–6
allophones 253
Alzheimer’s disease (AD) 60, 98, 104, 125–7, 177–180, 182, 184, 187, 194
Ames room illusion 35–6
amnesia 177–205; aetiology of 177–81; as an impairment of long-term memory 181–2; and concussion
199–200; encoding deficit theories of 195–6; episodic 188, 194–5; and familiarity 192; focal
anterograde and retrograde 186, 196; and declarative memory 190, 198; and implicit memory 190–
2; and multiple trace theory 197; psyogenic 178, 186, 202–3; rehabilitation from 203–5; and
relational memory theory 198–9; retrieval deficit theories of 196; semantic 188 194–5; and standard
model of consolidation 197;
amygdala 230, 240, 320–2
aphasia 195, 284–303; anomic 288, 291, 294, 297; Broca’s 284–9, 292; conduction 286–8, 290, 293–4, 300;
global 284, 288, 294; isolation 288, 295–6; psyological and psyolinguistic aspects of 297–8;
Transcortical sensory 286, 288, 289, 294; transcortical motor 288–9, 294, 295; Wernie –Litheim
model of 285–90, 302; Wernie’s 285, 288, 293, 295, 303
apperceptive agnosia see form agnosia
articulatory control process 124–5, 130
articulatory suppression 121, 124
assimilation (in spee) 255
associative agnosia see integrative agnosia

aention 63–78; auditory 66–7, 72; automatic processing of 75; capture 69–70; controlled processing of
75; early selection and 74; endogenous 70–5, 77–8; exogenous 70–5, 77–8; late selection and 74
aention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) 95, 126
aention disorders 93–7
aentional control theory 160
aentional narrowing 316–18
auditory aention 52–3
auditory localisation 48–51
auditory modality 66
auditory perception 48–51
autism 18, 104, 109, 126, 312
autobiographical memory 165–7, 194, 319
automatic processing 15–17, 65–66, 71, 75–6, 84, 87, 126, 152–3, 156, 161, 170, 192, 198, 202, 226, 252
behaviourism 4–5, 208–9

Biederman’s recognition-by-components approa 29
binaural cues 48
binding 17, 68, 125, 131, 171, 189, 198–9, 341
blind spot 80, 89
blindsight 17, 88–92, 110
Boston Aphasia Classification System 287–8
Boston Remote Memory Test 183
boom-up processing 7–8, 15, 28, 32, 34, 38, 152
bounded rationality 212
Brixton Spatial Anticipation Test 238–9
Broca’s area 11, 130, 284, 292–4, 301–2
cell assembly 13–14

central executive 11, 17, 121, 125–7, 181, 229–30, 243–9
ange blindness 47, 64–5
unking 138
cotail party phenomenon 72
cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) 170
cognitive interview 173–4

cognitive psyology (definition) 1
cohort model (of lexical access) 269
colour perception 87
computer models (of cognitive processes) 3, 8–10, 31
computer-generated imagery (CGI) 25
confabulation 180, 244
confirmation bias 227
connectionist models of dyslexia 31
conscious awareness 15, 17–19, 34, 77, 84, 88, 91–2, 95, 97, 108, 113, 125–6, 190–1
conspicuity, aention 38–40
conspicuity, sensory 38–40
constructivist approa (to perception) 40–3
contention seduling 244–5
context reinstatement 147–9, 160, 167, 173–4
context-dependent memory 146–9, 160, 163, 173–4
controlled processing 15
conversational plagiarism 155
Corsi blos test 119
covert recognition 108–9
cryptomnesia see conversational plagiarism ?
decay with disuse theory 135–6, 158, 163

decision-making 322–32; and anger 326–8, 330–1; and anxiety 323–4, 330; and moral dilemmas 332–6;
and positive mood 328–31; and sadness 324–6, 330–1
declarative memory 190, 198–9
deductive reasoning 239–40, 336
deep dysphasia 290–1
déjà vu 155
Dell model of spee production 276–8
dementia 60, 178–180, 201, 232, 291, 297–8, 306
depression 149, 160–2, 181, 200–1, 324–5, 330
diotic listening 66–7, 72
diencephalon 187–8

digit span 115, 117–18, 123, 182, 199
direct perception 24–5
directed forgeing 161–2
disinhibition 238, 244, 247
dorsal stream 44–8, 102, 130, 152, 188
double dissociation 12, 115, 286
dual-store model (of memory) 113–14
dual-task paradigm 120–1
dysarthria 296–7
dysexecutive syndrome 126, 233, 243–4
dyslexia 303, 306, 310–11; deep 307–8; phonological 307; surface 306–7
early selection 66
Easterbrook’s hypothesis (of aention) 316–17
Ebbinghaus illusion 56–7
eolalia 288
ecological approa (to perception) 23–5, 43, 45, 52, 55
ecological validity 164–5, 315
effortful processing 151–2, 156, 320, 328, 332
elaborative encoding 142
elderly and memory loss 201–2
electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) 181, 200–1
electroencephalograph (EEG) 85, 108
emergent property 17
emotional Stroop task 77
emotion-imbued oice model 331–2
encoding 133–4
encoding specificity principle (ESP) 144–5, 149, 320
English Lexicon Project 267
episodic buffer 125–6, 128, 131
episodic memory 149–51, 170, 183–4, 194–5
errorless learning 204
event-related potential 85

executive function see central executive
experimental psyology 3
explicit memory 153–5
extended hippocampal system 187
external memory 46
eye (anatomy of) 22–3, 28
eyewitness testimony 136–7, 160, 171–4
face recognition disorders see prosopagnosia

false memories 168, 172
familiarity and recollection 16, 151–3, 156, 192–3, 198
feature detectors 8–10
feature extraction 27–31
feature integration theory 68
feature overlap 144–5
flanker objects 56–8
flashbulb memory 168–9, 315, 322
forgeing (theories of) 163?
forgeing curve 134–5
form agnosia 98–102
friendly fire incidents 39
frontal lobes 229–49; anatomy and physiology of 230; aspects of damage to 232
frontal lobe syndrome see dysexecutive syndrome;
functional fixedness 210
functional localiser approa (to brain imaging) 106
functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) 85–6, 108, 128, 152, 155, 298, 300–1, 308–9
fusiform face area (FFA) 106
fusiform gyrus 87, 106, 155, 304
Gage, Phineas 231–2

generate and recognise (GR) theory 143
geons 29
Gestalt psyology 5–7, 26–7, 52, 209–11
Gibson’s view of perception see ecological approa

haptic perception 53–60, 93
Hayling Sentence Completion Test 235, 247
Heilman’s model of spee perception and production 290, 292
hemianopia 93
hemispatial neglect see unilateral spatial neglect
Hermann grid 32
Herpes Simplex Encephalitis (HSE) 180–2, 187–90, 192, 194–5
heuristics 212, 224–6, 325, 327–30
highly superior autobiographical memory (HSAM) 164
hippocampus 152, 186–8
hub model (of semantic representations) 268
illusions 32–6
implicatures (in spee) 279–80
Implicit Association Test 77
implicit memory 153–6, 185, 190–1, 198, 202
incidental emotions 323, 330
infantile amnesia 167–8
inhibition of return 70
inner scribe 125
insight 209–11
integral emotions 323, 330
integrative agnosia 98–102
interactive activation and competition (IAC) model of facial processing 108
interference 135, 162–3
intra-parietal sulcus (IPS) 86–7
intuition 155
Iowa Gambling Task 240
irrelevant spee effect 123
judgement see decision-making
Korsakoff’s Syndrome 180–2, 184–5, 187–8, 191–5, 197

language study tasks 261
levels of processing (LOP) 139–42
lexical decision tasks 265
lexicalisation 275
Litheim’s model of spee perception and production 287–8
limited-capacity processor model 10
linguistics see psyolinguistics
listened but failed to hear 74
logogen model (of lexical access) 268–9
long-term memory 113, 133–175
long-term potentiation (LTP) 14
looked but failed to see (LBFS) accidents 37–40
magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) 3, 91, 178, 188, 203, 284

magnocellular pathway 43–4
Marr’s computational theory 29–30
masking, visual 42
matsti test of cognitive flexibility 237
McGurk effect 51
means-ends analysis 214
melodic intonation therapy 303
memory implantation 172
mental models in reasoning 221
mental set 211
meta-analysis 155, 160, 202, 316
mirages 32
misinformation effect 171–3
mnemonics 138–9
modality 66
mood: and aention 316–8; and memory 319–20
mood-congruent memory 149, 319–20
mood-dependent memory 149, 319–320
morphemes 252, 256–7, 262, 266

motion parallax 49–50
motivational intensity 317–18
motor skills 185, 190, 310
Müller –Lyer illusion 33–4, 56
Multiple Errands Test 242–3
neologisms 285, 293

neural networks 31–2
neuron 13–15
NeuroPage 204
neurorealism 86
neurotransmier 13
nociception 53
non-declarative memory 198–9
nonsense syllable 134–6
numena 36–7
optimism bias 324

orienting task 140
orthographies 264–6
Pandemonium model of feature extraction 28–9

parallel distributed processing (PDP) 31–2, 61
parietal cortex 12, 47, 97, 102, 130
parvocellular pathway 43–4
perception (definition) 21, 36–7
perception and action 101–2
perceptual hypotheses 40
perseveration 95, 237–8, 245–6
phantom word illusion 52–3
phonagnosia 296
phonemes 252–5
phonetic features 253–4, 262
phonological loop 121–5, 130, 182

phonological store 124–5
pop-out (in visual aention) 66, 85
positron emission tomography (PET) 3, 14, 187, 298–300
post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) 155–6, 160, 162, 169–70
pragmatics 258
primacy effect 115–16
primal sket 29
priming 153–4, 92, 262–3, 266, 269, 275, 277
pro-active interference 135–6
problem-solving 207–248; using analogy 217; behaviourist approa to 208–9; computer programs
216–17; and conceptual issues 243–8; and creativity 215–17; and deficits in everyday higher order
planning 241–3; and expertise 215; Gestalt approa to 209–12; and impairments in abstract and
conceptual thinking 235–40; and impairments in the deployment of aention 233–5; and impaired
strategy formation 240–1; and problem space theory 212–14
procedural skills memory 190, 197–8, 204, 310
proprioception 54
prosody production and perception 296–7
prosopagnosia 103–9; congenital 108–9; developmental 108–9
Proust phenomenon 147
psyolinguistics 258–61
pure word deafness 294–5
rainbows 32
raster displays 89–90
reading 303–9
reasoning 218–23, 336–8; deductive 218–19; and decision making 223; dual process theories of 226–7;
and empirical results 220–1; and expected utility 223; inductive 222–3; mental models in 221–2;
and pragmatic reasoning semata 222; and rules of inference 219–20; theories 221–2; truth tables
in 218–19
recall and recognition compared 143
recency effect 115–16
recollection 151–2
reconsolidation 162, 164

re-entrant processing 42–3
remember and know (R & K) procedure 152–3
reminiscence bump 166
repression 163
retrieval cues 143–4
retrieval practice and inhibition 157–60
retrieval-induced forgeing (RIF) 158–61, 172
retro-active interference 135–6
reversible figures 26
Ribot’s law 183–4
road rage 315
saccade 64–5, 304–5

sadenfreude 327
sema 5–7, 29, 136–7, 139–40
sema-driven processing see top-down processing
scotoma 88
selective aention 10
semantic dementia 194–5, 297–8
semantic memory 149–51, 183–4, 194–5
sensation (definition) 36–7
SenseCam 204
shadowing (sound) 72
short-term memory 113–133; clinical evidence for 114–15; measuring performance of 116–17; capacity
for spoken words or numbers 117–18; capacity for visually presented items 118–19
sign language 252–3, 255–6
Six Elements Test 242–3
size constancy 34–5
size-contrast illusion 56–8
somatosensory perception 93
spatial neglect see unilateral spatial neglect
specific language impairment 309–10
spectral cues 49

spee apraxia 296–7, 302
spee perception and recognition 261–4
spee production 275–8, 302, 311
spontaneous decay 135, 163
spreading activation 276–7
state-dependent memory 149
stimulus-driven processing see boom-up processing
striate cortex 88
stroke 283
Stroop effect 75–7, 84–5, 141, 234–5, 245
subliminal perception 77–8
supervisory aention system 17, 244–5
synaesthesia 80–8
synapse 13
synaptic consolidation 197
syntax 252, 259–61, 270, 272–3, 310
template mating 29–31

temporal lobes 12, 31, 180–2, 185–6, 190–1, 193–4
temporal lobe surgery 180–2, 185–6, 190–1, 193–4
testing effect 157
theory of mind 18, 312
orndike’s box 208–9
top-down processing 7–8, 15, 24, 32–8, 40, 43, 52–3, 55, 152
tou, sense of 53–5, 57–8
Touree syndrome 126
Tower of Hanoi task 208, 213–14, 240–1
Tower of London task 240–1, 245
trace transformation theory 197
transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) 47, 86, 201, 302–3
transfer-appropriate processing 145–6, 164
tumour problem 209–10
tunnel vision 317

two-string problem 210
unified model of vision and aention 78

unilateral spatial neglect 92–7
Urba –Wiethe disease 322
utilisation behaviour 234
ventral intraparietal area (VIP) 51

ventral stream 44–8, 102, 130, 152, 188
verbal fluency test 235
visual acuity 42
visual agnosia 97–103
visual buffer 130
visual cae 125, 130
visual masking 42–3
visuo-spatial sketpad 121–2
Wason’s selection task 220–1

water jug problem 211
weapon focus 318
Wernie’s area 12, 285, 294, 297, 300
Williams syndrome 122
Wisconsin Card Sorting Test 235–7, 242, 245–6
word-length effect 123, 301
working memory (WM) 114–5, 119–24; later revisions to 124–7; neuro-imaging studies and 130–1;
other theories of 127–9; training 129
wrien language 264–7

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An Introduction to Cognitive

An Introduction to Cognitive Psychology: Processes and Disorders provides a

• Completely revised and updated throughout to provide a

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will appeal to all students on an

David Groome was formerly Principal Lecturer and Senior Academic in

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DAVID GROOME with

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Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

First edition published by Psyology Press 1999

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

A catalog record for this book has been requested

ISBN: 978-1-138-49667-5 (hbk)

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8 inking and problem-solving

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9 Disorders of thinking and problem-solving

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David Groome was Senior Academic in the Psyology Department at the

Nicola Brace was a Senior Lecturer in Psyology at e Open University.

Graham Edgar is currently Professor of Psyology and Applied

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Miael Eysen is Emeritus Professor at Roehampton University and

Fernand Gobet is Professorial Resear Fellow in the Centre for Philosophy

Robin Law is a Senior Lecturer in Psyology at the University of

Tom Manly is a clinical psyologist and programme leader at the Medical

Hayley Ness is a Senior Lecturer in Psyology at e Open University,

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Sophie Scott is Professor of Cognitive Neuroscience at the Institute of

Elizabeth Styles was lecturer in psyology at St. Edmund Hall, University

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A deﬁnition of cognitive psyology

Cognitive psyology e study of the way in whi the brain

Stages of cognitive processing

Information taken in by the sense organs goes through an initial stage of

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Approaes to the study of cognition

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In the ﬁrst place there is the approa known as experimental cognitive

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Experimental cognitive psyology e scientiﬁc testing of

Computer modelling e simulation of human cognitive processes by

Cognitive neuropsyology e study of the brain activities underlying

Lesion Tissue damage, whi in the brain is usually caused by a stroke, a

Cognitive neuroscience e investigation of human cognition by

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