Classic Science Fiction 04: “The Last Question” by Isaac Asimov

(Note: After writing this I realized that it is less an examination of "The Last Question" than it is an expression of the thoughts and feelings the story inspired in me. But after all, isn't that what fiction is for?)

What is the ultimate fate of humanity? Annihilation. If our descendants are still around in five billion years and even if they somehow manage to escape our solar system when the sun expands to incinerate the Earth, they will eventually die, along with the rest of the universe. Some 100 trillion years from now star formation will cease. The universe will slowly die. Entropy will be irreversible. I doubt we would be recognizable as humans by that point but it wouldn't matter. Everything we had accomplished, all our scientific advances, all the great art and music, the books and poems, would all have been for naught. Even if the universe then collapses back upon itself and gives birth to a new big bang, a new universe, all matter will have been reverted to the molecular state. Nothing that existed before will exist any longer.

Isaac Asimov's "The Last Question" chronicles several generations of humans and their descendants pondering the question of how the entropy of the universe can be decreased. They address this question to various incarnations of supercomputers and the answer is always the same: "INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER." I will not reveal the ending in case you haven't read it (you can read it here) but the asking of the question, not the ultimate answer, is what fascinates me most about this story.

Everything humankind has accomplished will eventually be destroyed. No matter what happens to the universe, every trace of us will ultimately vanish. What does this mean? How does one process this information?

I suppose most people just end up ignoring it. They may read about entropy, etc., may briefly realize what this means, then slip comfortably back into their lives. Perhaps this is the most logical response. After all, what can you do about it? Nothing. Why let if affect you?

But I do not believe this is the correct response. What we should do is realize that no matter what happens in the future, we have today. We have the people around us that we love and care about, we have the ability to make today better not just for ourselves but for others. When you look at life on the scale of the entire history of the universe, isn't it a bit mind-boggling that of all the possible outcomes, your life is one of them? Doesn't it give you pause to think that the chain of events that led to your existence goes back nearly fourteen billion years in an unbroken line?

As Carl Sagan said, "[s]ome part of our being knows this is where we came from. We long to return. And we can. Because the cosmos is also within us. We're made of star-stuff. We are a way for the cosmos to know itself."

What do we take away from this? How should we live our lives, knowing this? I've written before about wishing to leave a literary legacy. I've expressed the hope that my work is read a hundred years from now or more. It is an egotistical wish, to be sure. But I think about legacy in more ways than one. If there is some message I can impart to future readers, if one of them reads my work and goes away thinking about notions of right and wrong, thinking about what could be done to make our little corner of the universe more just, more peaceful, then my legacy will have been secured. But I need not write a single word to accomplish this. If I can have a positive influence on the lives of the people I know, if I can live by example and show them that a life of joy and contentment can be had without exploiting or hurting others--that, in fact, the joy is more pure than if I had gained it on the backs of others--I will have left a legacy. If they, in turn, try to live their lives according to the same ideals, they can leave a legacy when they are gone.

The future illuminates the present. What can happen tomorrow tells us very clearly and without hesitation what we must do today. If tomorrow we may die, then today we must live. If tomorrow a child will go hungry, then today we must arrange to feed her. If tomorrow a war may begin, then today we must ensure peace. These are not difficult things to grasp. We have the means to largely rid the world of misery. Why haven't we? Is it the nihilistic strain within humanity that says that ultimately it won't matter? No. It is the selfishness that says whatever I give to them, I cannot have for myself. Well, that ultimately won't matter either. But if you can bring a little joy, a little happiness to someone's life, if you can remove a little misery from the world, that does matter. That will have an effect here and now. And if enough of us do it, it can have an effect until the universe comes to an end.

Perhaps we shouldn't ask "how can entropy be decreased?" but rather "how can joy be increased?" And let it not be the last question, but the first. Humanity's joy is my joy, humanity's accomplishments are my accomplishments. What benefits the planet benefits me in a very nontrivial way. Maybe that is what I am after when I speak of legacy. I want a way for my life to have not been trivial. To do this, I write. But I also live my life as well and as ethically as I can. I suppose that even if I don't leave behind a literary legacy, this will have been enough. This will have made a difference and my life, in that unbroken chain leading from the beginning of the universe to its end, will have been a link worthy of that legacy.

A Writer's Responsibility

     Two blog posts ago (in the post entitled Reflections on Writing and "Buy Indie Month") I mentioned that writers are inherently selfish. Some who read the post took minor issue with this statement. I, of course, did not mean that only writers are selfish and that compared to us the balance of the world's population is dripping with the milk of human kindness. No, not at all. I consider myself to be a rather generous person, actually, as long as I don't inconvenience myself in the process. And every human being who ever walked the Earth has been selfish in one way or another. Anything we do for our own sake is selfish. Whenever we spend time pursuing things that bring us pleasure rather than working to end hunger or prejudice, for example, is selfish.

     But this did set me thinking more about an issue I touched on in that post. I wrote that those with a voice to which the masses listen, those who are able to reach a great many people, should ask themselves what their voices are contributing to society. In a writer's selfish pursuit of writing--whatever his reasons for writing may be--shouldn't he endeavor to ensure that his writing results in a net positive to society?

     I believe that art is anything that is done for the sake of art. There may be additional motives (such as fame or fortune) and there is, of course, a vast difference between "good art" and "bad art" but I have found that works which are broadly defined as "good art" or "great art" possess a few common features.

     1. It is done for the art first. Of course, many of the greatest artists and composers had wealthy patrons but were they artists because they believed it would make them some scratch? I'm sure more than one skilled artist hoped to become the darling of a particular court or city but if the driving force was the art itself, then I believe by its very nature it will be superior to art which is done for other reasons. Commercial art, for example, is produced to sell products. The work of Thomas Kinkade, I am certain, is driven chiefly by profit. There is nothing wrong with making your art commercially viable, of course, but to create truly great art the impetus must be the art itself.

     2. Good art is attractive. Note that I do not say "beautiful" but "attractive." This means that good art must attract the attention of an audience. To do this it can be exceedingly beautiful, of course, or it can be exceedingly ugly and disturbing, it can be terrifying or saddening. But without the attention of an audience, it will fail, no matter what its other merits may be.

     3. Good art is meaningful. For me, this is the high bar. I enjoy a pretty picture or a catchy song as much as the next person but if there is no meaning I will quickly lose interest. If there is no meaning, I will not remember it much beyond my initial viewing/reading/listening. In music, this has led to a personal shift from the rock and pop music of my younger years to classical and jazz. I still like rock and pop and listen to it on occasion but classical music is what you will almost always find on my stereo. As an aside, I will point out that there is meaningless classical music as well. For the same reason, this music doesn't stay with me for long.

     4. Good art has staying power. A work of art may take the nation by storm for a summer--think of films or pop songs or mass market thrillers--but who will remember it a year from now? A generation from now? In two hundred years the works of Mozart, Beethoven, Mahler, will still be performed. Adele? Probably not. MC Hammer? Certainly not. Often a lack of staying power is the result of a lack of meaning, but not always. Sometimes it is simply not attractive enough. Dadaism was certainly attractive when it came about and it certainly had meaning--although some would argue that point--but the problem was that it created a spectacle for a few short years and, aside from freshmen studying Art History 101, no one gives it any thought these days. It was too rooted in its time and place. Great art has to transcend those boundaries and be as meaningful for a person a hundred years from now and a continent away as it is for those who were around when it was created.

     Now, I'm sure that many will be able to object to and pick apart my criteria for great art. But I would emphasize that these are my criteria. Others are welcome to disagree; in fact, I would love to know (in the comments section below) what you all think makes for great art.

     As is often the case when I write, Point A has to be informed by Point B before I can continue. So, now that you have my Point B (the makings of great art) I can return to Point A (a writer's responsibility).

     So, my main query is this: does a writer have a responsibility to attempt to create great art? I answer with a resounding maybe. As I've mentioned elsewhere there is a place for everything. People need catchy tunes to dance to in nightclubs just as I need a composer like Marjan Mozetich to carry me away on the wings of bliss. But you can only bump and grind for so long. Eventually, a person needs to feed his mind and his soul with something of substance, something that will expand one's consciousness. And it pains me to think that so many people in this world go through their lives and have very few of those types of experiences. With all the beauty and wonder in this world, it is saddening that so much of it is ignored by the majority of humanity.

     Again, I am sure that some will argue that a teen-aged girl can find as much meaning in a Justin Bieber song as I do in Beethoven's 9th Symphony, as much profound realization in Twilight as I do in 2001: A Space Odyssey. I also suppose that some will say I am a cultural snob. Perhaps I am. But pop culture can only go so far toward feeding the artistic desires of a society. At some point, we must move past the banal and realize that these things which seem so important, so profound today, will be fading memories come tomorrow and beyond.

     So, does a writer have a responsibility to create works that will transcend this time and this place, works which will be read a hundred years from now? The "maybe" I gave in response still holds. Some of us do. Some of us will. Others will write good, enjoyable books that will fill a particular need in a particular time and place. There is no shame in that. I feel that my own current series, Sullivan's War, walks a line between those two extremes. I am satisfied, for now, with providing an entertaining story that has some meaning and speaks to the human condition but by no means contains any great, original, profound realizations. But I will not always be satisfied with that. I yearn to create a work that will meet my own criteria. I want--in my selfish egotism--to create a work of lasting significance.

     I believe that I will fulfill my responsibility to society some day. And I hope that you all, whether you be writers, musicians, painters--any of you who are creative in any way--will join me in attempting to achieve the goal of leaving a legacy that will enrich our culture and carry on to generations yet to come.

Regarding the Classic Science Fiction Series

So, I suppose that technically three can be considered a "series" but my Classic Science Fiction (CSF) series of articles has been left lacking. As you can tell by my other recent updates on the blog I've been busy writing rather than reading. However, I really enjoy writing the CSF articles and will endeavor to write another installment before the month of December is out. In the mean time, here are the first three CSF articles:

01: "Flowers for Algernon" by Daniel Keyes
02: "The Moon Moth" by Jack Vance
03: "Arena" by Fredric Brown

If you have not seen them before, I hope you enjoy!

Best,
Michael

Classic Science Fiction 03: “Arena” by Fredric Brown

     We’ve all seen the episode: Kirk must use the tools provided to him by a super-intelligent alien to defeat the evil Gorn.  “Arena” is one of the most-recognized episodes of the original Star Trek series.  It was based on a story of the same name by science fiction writer Fredric Brown.  That story was first published in June of 1944 in Astounding magazine and has become a classic of the genre.

     The premise is this: a highly-advance alien entity observes humans and another species--called the Outsiders by the humans-- on the brink of a war that would devastate both civilizations.  The entity’s solution is to pit one human against one Outsider and whoever kills the other will ensure the safety of their own people and the complete annihilation of their foes.  Carson is the man who is chosen for this battle and he wakes up in a dome-shaped enclosure with a force field separating him from an Outsider.  He must find a way through that force field and kill his enemy before the Outsider finds a way to dispatch him.

     There are some flaws in the story.  For one, the entity doesn’t seem to have exhausted all options before deciding to kill off an entire species.  “It is in my power to stop the war, to send the Outsiders back to their galaxy,” it claims.  “But,” it continues, “they would return, or your race would sooner or later follow them there.  Only by remaining in this space and time to intervene constantly could I prevent them from destroying one another, and I cannot remain.”

     And is a to-the-death match between two randomly chosen individuals really fair?  Carter may be a fine pilot but his hand-to-hand training may be non-existent.  He could be abnormally weak--or strong--for a human.  The same goes for the Outsider.

     Another flaw is the mechanism by which Carson is able to pass through the force field.  It hardly seems logical or reasonable for the smarter of the combatants, the one who figured out how to get through, to have to brain himself with a rock and be exposed to attack in order to have a chance at winning.  One would think that the entity would reward the more intelligent/resourceful combatant by ensuring him victory rather than making it, in the end, a physical struggle between the two.

     But these are quibbles.  The main strength lies in the story-telling and the wonderful alienness of the Outsider.  This is no man-in-a-rubber-suit type of alien.  This is a spherical organism that utilizes rotating locomotion.  Carter calls it a “Roller.”

     Still, as much as I like this story, that issue of killing off an entire intelligent species keeps me from loving it.  For Carter, the choice is obvious: he wants to win and preserve his own species.  But suppose the entity decided to choose one to preserve and one to destroy based on criteria less arbitrary than a one-on-one cage match?  Do we humans really have much going for us, from a Universal perspective?  Are we any better or any worse than the other intelligent species that are out there?  We haven't encountered anyone else, so who knows?

     True, in Brown’s story the Outsiders are the aggressors and, based on Carter’s experience, we learn that they lack any recognizable form of compassion.  But we know from history that it doesn't take much for humans to take this same hateful, uncompassionate attitude.  So, would we be the best species to save?  Maybe we’d be better off letting a champion decide our fate after all.

Classic Science Fiction 02: "The Moon Moth"

     With a fund of racial energy and a great deal of leisure time, the population occupies itself with intricacy. …[I]ntricate symbolism, as exemplified in the masks worn by everyone; the intricate half-musical language which admirably expresses subtle moods and emotions; and above all the fantastic intricacy of interpersonal relationships. Prestige, face, mana, repute, glory: the Sirenese word is strakh. Every man has his characteristic strakh….
     -- from "The Moon Moth" 

     One of the most rewarding aspects of speculative fiction is being able to get lost in new and unique realities. Speculative fiction writers refer to the process of creating these realities as “world building.” Whether it be describing a world in which magic and mythical creatures are commonplace, exploring the planets and cultures of alien races or even just predicting what human culture will be like a hundred, a thousand, a millions years from now, world building is a process many writers relish.

Classic Science Fiction 01: "Flowers for Algernon"

     I felt sick inside as I looked at his dull, vacuous smile, the wide, bright eyes of a child, uncertain but eager to please. They were laughing at him because he was mentally retarded.
     And I had been laughing at him too.
     Suddenly, I was furious at myself and all those who were smirking at him. I jumped up and shouted, "Shut up! Leave him alone! It's not his fault he can't understand! He can't help what he is! But for God's sake... he's still a human being!"
     The room grew silent. I cursed myself for losing control and creating a scene. I tried not to look at the boy as I paid my check and walked out without touching my food. I felt ashamed for both of us.
     --  from "Flowers for Algernon"

     What is the point of art? What is its purpose, what does it hope to accomplish? This question has been debated for centuries but for me the answer is simple: art should make you think or it should make you feel and the best art does both.