You’re standing in front of a tank at the New England Aquarium. It’s quiet. A giant Pacific octopus named Sy moves a single, copper-colored arm toward the glass. You aren't just looking at a fish or a mollusk; you’re looking at a creature that is looking back at you with what feels like genuine, piercing intent. This isn't just a biological reaction. It’s something else. When Sy recognizes a specific keeper—someone she likes versus someone she finds annoying—she reacts differently. This is the starting point for Sy Montgomery’s groundbreaking work in The Soul of the Octopus, a book that fundamentally shifted how we talk about non-human intelligence.
Honestly, we’ve spent centuries assuming that "soul" or "consciousness" is a human-only club. We look for ourselves in monkeys or dogs because they have faces that move like ours. But an octopus? They are the ultimate "other." Their brains aren't even in one place. They have a central brain, sure, but two-thirds of their neurons are actually in their arms. Imagine if your biceps could think for themselves, taste the air, and decide to grab a snack without asking your head first. That is the reality of the octopus.
The soul of the octopus isn't a theological concept. It’s a question of presence. If you’ve ever watched a cephalopod change color not just for camouflage, but seemingly out of frustration or playfulness, you know there’s a "someone" inside that skin.
The Alien Intelligence Living Among Us
Peter Godfrey-Smith, a philosopher of science, famously called octopuses an "independent experiment in evolution." If we ever meet aliens, they’ll probably look more like an octopus than a little green man. Our last common ancestor with these creatures was a flatworm that lived roughly 600 million years ago. Since then, we went the way of backbones and centralized nervous systems. They went a completely different way.
Yet, here they are, solving puzzles.
They open jars. They remember faces. There’s a well-documented story of an octopus at the University of Otago in New Zealand that took a dislike to a particular researcher. Every time that person walked by, the octopus would spray a jet of water at them. It never sprayed anyone else. Just that one person. That’s not a reflex. That’s a grudge.
Decentralized Thinking is Weird
Most of what we understand about "minds" is based on a vertical hierarchy. The brain is the CEO, and the body follows orders. The octopus is a flat organization. Each arm has enough processing power to handle complex tasks independently. If you sever an octopus arm (which is horrific, but has happened in lab settings), that arm will still hunt. It will still try to bring food to where the mouth used to be.
This brings up a massive philosophical headache: does an octopus have one soul, or nine?
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If the "soul" is the seat of consciousness, then the octopus experience is likely a chorus rather than a solo performance. Montgomery explores this through her relationships with individual octopuses like Athena and Octavia. She describes them as having distinct personalities. Athena was curious and bold. Octavia was more reserved, almost maternal toward her eggs toward the end of her life.
Why the Soul of the Octopus Challenges Our Ethics
If we admit that an octopus has a soul—or at least a complex, self-aware consciousness—it makes our relationship with the ocean a lot more complicated. For a long time, the scientific community treated them like "stimulus-response machines." You poke it, it moves. You give it food, it eats.
But then we see "play."
At the Seattle Aquarium, researchers observed octopuses blowing jets of water at empty pill bottles, sending them across the tank into a filter stream so they would bounce back. They were essentially playing catch with themselves. Play is the hallmark of a high-level mind. It serves no immediate survival purpose. It’s just... fun.
The Short Life Tragedy
One of the most heart-wrenching aspects of the soul of the octopus is how briefly that soul inhabits the world. Most species, even the big ones, only live for three to five years. They grow fast, learn incredibly quickly, and then they "senesce."
Senescence in octopuses is a rapid decline after mating. They stop eating. They lose coordination. Their skin begins to tear. For a creature so brilliant, so capable of learning and recognizing individuals, this feels like an evolutionary glitch. Why give a creature the ability to solve a Rubik’s cube if it’s only going to be around for a few years?
Jennifer Mather, a leading expert in cephalopod psychology, suggests that this short lifespan is exactly why they are so smart. They don't have time to wait for instinct to kick in. They have to learn everything on the fly.
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The Problem with "Personhood"
When we talk about the soul of the octopus, we are really talking about personhood. In 2012, a group of prominent neuroscientists signed the Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness. It stated that humans aren't unique in possessing the neurological substrates that generate consciousness. Octopuses were specifically mentioned.
This has real-world consequences. In the UK, the Animal Welfare (Sentience) Act was expanded in 2022 to include cephalopods. This means you can't just treat them like a rock or a plant in a lab. They are legally recognized as "sentient beings."
But there’s a flip side.
The global demand for octopus meat is skyrocketing. There are currently moves to create the world’s first commercial octopus farms. This has sparked a massive outcry from biologists and ethicists. If an octopus is as smart as a dog—or perhaps smarter in certain spatial dimensions—can we morally justify farming them in cramped, barren tanks?
The consensus among experts like Sy Montgomery and Peter Godfrey-Smith is a resounding no. An octopus in a barren tank isn't just bored; it suffers. They are known to engage in "autophagy" when stressed, which is a polite way of saying they start eating their own arms.
What the Ocean is Telling Us
We often think of the ocean as a silent, empty space. It’s not. It’s full of minds. The octopus represents a version of intelligence that doesn't need a spine or a long lifespan to be profound.
Montgomery’s work highlights that "soul" isn't about being human. It’s about the ability to connect. She describes the feeling of an octopus's suckers on her skin—thousands of them, each one tasting her, feeling her, trying to understand what this weird, dry creature is. It’s a bridge between two completely different types of existence.
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Misconceptions to Ditch
- They aren't "slimy." Their skin feels more like soft suede or silk, though it can change texture to look like jagged coral in milliseconds.
- They aren't monsters. The "Kraken" myths are just that. Octopuses are generally shy and would much rather hide in a crevice than fight a human.
- Ink isn't just smoke. It actually contains chemicals that can confuse a predator's sense of smell. It’s a chemical weapon, not just a visual distraction.
Actionable Ways to Connect with Cephalopod Intelligence
If the idea of the soul of the octopus resonates with you, there are actual steps you can take to learn more and advocate for these strange, beautiful creatures.
1. Re-evaluate your consumption. If you’re uncomfortable with the idea of eating a creature that can recognize your face and solve puzzles, consider cutting octopus from your diet. The ethical arguments against octopus farming are becoming harder to ignore as we learn more about their mental needs.
2. Support the Right Research. Organizations like the Cephalopod International Advisory Council (CIAC) and various marine biology departments are doing the hard work of studying these animals without harming them. Look for research that focuses on behavioral ecology rather than just invasive biology.
3. Visit Accredited Aquariums. Don't just look at the fish. Spend twenty minutes at the octopus tank. Be still. Watch how they watch you. Places like the Monterey Bay Aquarium or the New England Aquarium do a lot of work in enrichment, ensuring these high-intelligence animals aren't just rotting in a glass box.
4. Read the Foundational Texts. To really get the "vibe" of this topic, read The Soul of an Octopus by Sy Montgomery for the emotional and personal side, and Other Minds by Peter Godfrey-Smith for the philosophical and evolutionary side.
The more we look into the eyes of an octopus, the more we see a reflection of a different kind of "us." They remind us that the world is much bigger, much stranger, and much more conscious than we usually give it credit for. Understanding the soul of the octopus isn't about anthropomorphizing an animal; it’s about expanding our definition of what it means to be alive and aware in a vast, mysterious universe.