Books – Ash Clifton, Writer

AI Heaven, AI Hell (Repost)

When I was an English major at the University of Florida, one of the best classes I took was a Survey of Science Fiction Literature course. It covered a lot of famous American and British SF, some of which I had already read as a teenager and some of which were new to me.

Looking back on it now, it occurs to me that two of the writers we read in the class were not only totally different from each other, they also presented two completely opposite visions of what we now call artificial intelligence. These writers were Isaac Asimov and Harlan Ellison.

For Asimov, we read his early, seminal work, I, Robot. This is the short story collection that included his first formulation of the Three Laws of Robotics, which have been alluded to (i.e, ripped off) in countless other science fiction stories, including Star Trek. The book came out before the term AI became common parlance. Yet, in Asimov’s imagined future, the world is rife with robots that are essentially AIs with mechanical bodies. All of them have positronic brains (yeah, Star Trek ripped off this conceit, too) with the Three Laws hard-wired in. The result is that all robots function as humanity’s tireless, benevolent servants. (Some would say, slaves.)

Actually, they are much more than that. They can think, reason, and make choices. In fact, they have to make choices. The moral dilemmas created by the Three Laws as the robots interact with chaotic (and often evil) human beings is the source of drama in most of the stories.

Despite the mystery and drama of the stories, though, Asimov’s vision is a very optimistic, almost Buck-Rogers-esque idea of the future—not quite a utopia but close to it. There is no poverty, no hunger, no war. It’s only upon close reading of the stories in I, Robot that the exact nature of the master/servant relationship between humans and robots appears fraught—probably more so than Asimov consciously intended. This is especially true in a few of the stories, where it’s revealed that future governments are secretly run by the highest order of HAL 9000 style robots, whose plans might be beyond human comprehension.

Later in the Science Fiction class, we read Harlan Ellison’s short story “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream,” which is quite possibly the darkest and most disturbing short story I have ever read, sci-fi or otherwise. And, of course, it involves an AI.

The story is mostly set underground, about one hundred years after a nuclear war wiped out all of humanity except for five people. The war was started by a mutinous Pentagon computer (yeah, just like Skynet) called AM that becomes self-aware and decides it hates human beings more than anything. After killing everyone on the planet, it preserves the five people as its playthings, running them through an endless number of elaborate, sadistic games. Unfortunately for them, AM has somehow obtained God-like technological power over physics, able to shape and project matter wherever it wishes, and also to keep the humans alive and immortal in their banged-up, miserable state. So, in effect, the protagonists spend an eternity in a kind of Holodeck-like hellscape, trying to figure out how to either escape or kill themselves.

Yeah, it’s heavy.

This enormous gulf between Asimov’s and Ellison’s visions of the future—an AI paradise versus an almost literal AI hell—is, in part, symptomatic of various generational and cultural shifts between the two men. I, Robot was published in 1950, on the tail-end of the Golden Age of Science Fiction, the time when the prosperity of America in the post-war years seemed destined to go on forever, fueled by newer and greater technological innovations (AI among them). In contrast, Ellison’s short story was published in 1967, at the height of a counter-cultural revolution that extended into science fiction literature —the New Wave that introduced some of my favorite sci-fi writers of all time, such as Samuel R. Delany, Ursula K. Le Guin, Roger Zelazny, and Ellison himself.

Thus, the difference between Asimov and Ellison’s work is essentially the difference between the lingering triumph of World War II and the horrors of VietNam. Between the optimism of the Atomic Age and the nihilism of the Cold War. In some ways, it’s also the difference between fantasy and realism, and between genre fiction and literary fiction. As dark as Ellison’s short story is, it’s also a much better work of fiction than Asimov’s. More convincing, too, alas. Told from the point-of-view of AM’s youngest victim, Ted, the story is filled with vivid, sharp writing and devastating passages, like this one:

Nimdok (which was the name the machine had forced him to use, because AM amused itself with strange sounds) was hallucinating that there were canned goods in the ice caverns. Gorrister and I were very dubious. “It’s another shuck,” I told them. “Like the goddam frozen elephant AM sold us. Benny almost went out of his mind over that one. We’ll hike all that way and it’ll be putrified or some damn thing. I say forget it. Stay here, it’ll have to come up with something pretty soon or we’ll die.”

Benny shrugged. Three days it had been since we’d last eaten. Worms. Thick, ropey.

You don’t have to be a literary critic to see that Asimov and Ellison are worlds apart, not just on the subject of Artificial Intelligence but on literally everything. Asimov was a scientist, a rationalist, and his optimistic views on the future of humanity were deeply rooted in the legacy of the Enlightenment. Ellison is more of a Gothic Romantic, full of existential angst and cosmic horror. His story is essentially an updated version of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, with the supercomputer in the role of the monster, determined to torment its creator.

Of course, the Frankenstein story is, itself, a reworking of an even older one—the Faustian myth. According to German legend, Faust is an intellectual who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge, and ends up going to hell. If the story seems familiar, it’s probably because the legend has been the psychological basis for countless tales of perverted science for centuries. Scientists, the story goes, want to attain the power of God, and thus end up being destroyed by their own hubris (often in the form of some infernal creation like Frankenstein’s monster or, more recently, SkyNet).

Perhaps the biggest irony here (at least for me, personally) is that while I have great admiration for Ellison’s story, and I believe it is a much greater artistic work that anything ever penned by Asimov, Asimov’s vision is probably more accurate of what we can actually expect from the AI revolution. For all the hype about AIs destroying art and music and literature and taking away our jobs, I think AI will be a net positive for humanity. Perhaps a big net positive. It’s already making contributions in the fields of materials science, medicine, and even fusion energy. Yeah, it’s probably going to take away some people’s jobs, but those were probably crap jobs anyway. (If you train an AI to do it as well as a human, it’s probably not worth doing.)

As for the whole AM/Skynet thing, I don’t worry about it because I don’t believe computers will ever become conscious. In fact, the very idea of a machine becoming conscious seems like a category error, the kind of conceit that will seem laughable a hundred years from now as those old drawings of “men of the future” with feathered wings strapped to their arms.

This doesn’t mean, of course, that we won’t, someday, create an artificial life form that might replace us. But it won’t be a computer. It will be…something else.

But that’s a subject for another post.

Classic Sci-Fi Book Cover: “The Demolished Man”

As usual, I was on Wikipedia the other night, looking up one of my favorite rock songs of all time—“Deacon Blues” by Steely Dan. There, I was surprised to learn that the first line of the song, “[t]hese are days of the expanding man,” is a reference to a classic sci-fi novel, Alfred Bester’s The Demolished Man. Donald Fagan apparently said,

The concept of the “expanding man” that opens the song may have been inspired by Alfred Bester’s The Demolished Man. Walter [Becker] and I were major sci-fi fans. The guy in the song imagines himself ascending to the levels of evolution, “expanding” his mind, his spiritual possibilities, and his options in life.

Finding this unexpected reference to Bester’s novel was yet another moment of that Synchronicity for Bookworms phenomomenon that I write about so often, mainly because I had been considering to a post on a great cover I had found for the book. And here it is!

I read The Demolished Man in my late twenties and found it a really bizarre yet engrossing sci-fi novel, one that seems to straddle two eras, “Golden Age” (1940s-50s) sci-fi—with its Buck Rogers’ style future and tropes—and New Wave (1960s-70s) sci-fi—with its trippy, subversive themes and immoral main character. (Roger Silverberg’s The Man in the Maze, which I posted about recently, is very similar in this respect.)

Bester’s novel asks this intriguing question: How does one commit murder in a world where all the police have E.S.P. and can literally read your mind? Yeah, it’s a very, very similar idea to Philip K. Dick’s The Minority Report, which was published three years later. In Bester’s book, people with telepathic abilities—“espers,” who come in ability levels 1, 2, and 3—form a kind of privileged Mandarin caste on 24^th Century Earth. They run much of the government and law enforcement with apparent competence, benevolence, and integrity. They may only marry and have children within their own esper class, and they prefer their own company. Most importantly, they can suss out crimes, either before they happen (usually) or afterward (always).

So, what’s a brilliant, daring, sociopathic billionaire like Ben Reich to do when his mind tends toward homicide? The target of his animus is an older business rival, Craye D’Courtney, whom Reich despises with a passion bordering on obsession. Reich devises a cunning plan to kill D’Courtney at a swingin’ dinner party they are both scheduled to attend, and he hires the services of a rare corrupt esper to run interference. Reich also—in one of the book’s cleverest plot devices—pays a corporate jingle-writer to play him the most annoying, brain-embedding ear-worm she has. Reich knows that he won’t be able to get the jingle out of his head, which will temporarily flummox any espers who might try to scan him.

After Reich does the deed at the party, an esper police detective, Lincoln Powell, shows up to investigate. Using a mixture of his esper abilities as well as good old-fashioned intuition, Powell immediately realizes that Reich is guilty of the murder but can’t prove it thanks to the layers of interference that Reich has devised. The rest of the book is like a futuristic episode of Columbo as Powell pursues Reich across the solar system, trying to trap him and reveal his guilt.

If Powell does manage to catch him and prosecute him successfully, Reich faces neither prison nor execution but a fate far worse—“demolition,” the process whereby espers mentally strip a person of their memories and personality so that they might be “rehabilitated” as a productive, normal (non-evil, non-insane) member of society.

In this way, The Demolished Man becomes a very suspenseful inverted detective novel, with the reader breathlessly following Powell and wondering how—or whether—he will catch Reich. I also found myself rooting for the wicked, rebellious anti-hero Reich, which was clearly Bester’s intention. The last half of the book has some genuinely surprising and cool plot twists, and it’s very entertaining overall—especially if you can get past Bester’s very 1950s, conservative, often misogynistic sensibilities (which are very similar, alas, to Robert Heinlein’s).

I really like this 1979 cover by Adrian Chesterman because it evokes the sense of horror (of demolition, presumably, but also of insanity, self-discovery, and other dark things) that pervades the book.

It’s also just really, really trippy.

Today I Learned a Word: “Eucatastrophe”

Ever since I stumbled upon it some years ago, In Deep Geek has been one of my favorite video podcasts. In each episode, the creator/narrator (known only as Robert) goes into extreme depth on some subject of profound interest to fans of The Lord of the Rings, The Witcher, and A Game of Thrones. I’ve never seen those two latter shows (yeah, I know; I live under a rock), but I am a big fan of LOTR, so I watch those episodes with great interest and enjoyment. I don’t know Robert’s background, but I would guess he has some training in English Literature. His explications—which are unfailingly graceful, insightful, and genuinely interesting—remind me of the “close readings” I used to do as an English Major.

One especially perceptive episode is one that I saw recently on the subject of Tolkien’s Eagles. These are, of course, the race of giant, sentient eagles that play a small but crucial role in the lore. In fact, they literally save the heroes from catastrophe, flying in to assist in the Battle of the Five Armies at the conclusion of The Hobbit, and rescuing Frodo and Sam from incineration on the slopes of Mt. Doom in The Return of the King. As Robert explains, the eagles provide a eucatastrophe—a word I had never heard before, and one which (as Robert helpfully goes on to explain) was coined by Tolkien himself.

You don’t need to be a linguist like Tolkien to get the gist of what the word eucatastrophe means. Basically, it’s the opposite of a catastrophe—a sudden, unexpected change of fortune that saves the hero(es) from near certain doom. I think the key adjective here is unexpected. Indeed, a true eucatastrophe must be not only unexpected but unforeseeable, coming (quite literally, in the case of the eagles) out of the blue. For example, the ending of Star Wars: A New Hope, when Luke Skywalker uses the Force to blow up the Death Star, is a great, thrilling ending, but it’s not a true eucatastrophe. After all, Luke did what he came there to do. Yes, the odds were incredibly stacked against him, but the ending is not unforeseeable. It’s just very, very unlikely (and, therefore, very exciting and dramatic).

Upon being introduced to the term, one might wonder—as I did—what the difference is between a eucatastrophe and the classic Deus ex machina ending, as used in the theater of ancient Greece. Literally the “God-from-the-Machine,” it took the form of an actor playing Zeus or Poseidon or some other God, who was “levitated” over the stage using a wooden cherry-picker called a mechane. The “God” would then deliver some boon that rescues the protagonists and resolves the drama. Basically, a happy ending, courtesy of the divinity.

All good writers know that a Deus ex machina-style ending is usually pretty lame, simply because it has nothing to do with the drama that has preceded it. It doesn’t force the characters to get themselves out of trouble in a way that has meaning for the reader (or viewer). It’s the sudden “happy ending” that completely subverts the conflicts and themes that the reader has invested themselves in and is anxiously waiting to see how they will be resolved, not by some magical deity swooping in and snapping His fingers, but by the characters themselves.

Clearly, this is not the kind of ending Tolkien had in mind, nor does it describe the rather fabulous and exciting conclusions of both The Return of the King and The Hobbit. Rather, in both cases, the sudden appearance of the eagles seems somehow perfect. Unexpected, yet totally satisfying. And fitting.

But how? How does Tolkien do it?

I think it has something to do with the fact that, in Tolkien, the appearance of the eagles only comes near the end of some great struggle. In The LOTR, for instance, when the eagles rescue Sam and Frodo, the main goal of the story has already been achieved. That is, they have already destroyed the ring and defeated Sauron. More importantly, they have overcome—not just Sauron—but themselves. Their own fear, exhaustion, and despair, as they held the true course to victory.

Tolkien knows that if Sam and Frodo were to die afterward, their deaths would serve no purpose, either dramatically or thematically. So, the eagles’ showing up at the critical moment seems not only fitting but logical; the eagles have witnessed the Hobbits’ ordeal, and, like us, they seek a better ending for those poor little fellows who have saved the world.

In other words, unlike a Deus ex machina ending, a true eucatastrophe comes as a result of what has come before. It is a kind of miracle, but an earned miracle.

Also, as Robert points out so beautifully in his video, the eagles also function as a stand-in for God in Tolkien’s legendarium, Eru Ilúvatar. Ultimately, a eucatastrophe represents a kind of divine intervention. A deliverance from evil.

As Robert states:

This is sometimes dismissed rather sneeringly as Deus ex machina…. The writer intervening in the plot to save characters or move things along in a way that otherwise wouldn’t happen in that created world. The eagles, some have said, are a failing in Tolkien’s writing. A convenient, easy way to save characters from whatever scrape they find themselves in. But to think that would be to completely misunderstand Tolkien’s notion of eucatastrophe and what the eagles represent. The eagles’ appearances aren’t failures of imagination on Tolkien’s part. They are deliberate and intentional, and they are supposed to feel like God intervening. They are God in the works.

The important thing to note is that intervention comes after the fact. The battle, in a sense, must already be won, if only symbolically. In the Battle of the Five Armies, for instance, the true victory—the coming together of dwarves, elves, and men in common purpose—has already been achieved, even before the battle starts. The intervention of he eagles to finally win the day is, more or less, just icing on the metaphysical cake.

Come to think of it, there is a kind of eucatastrophe in Star Wars: A New Hope. It comes, not at the end of the battle for the Death Star, but just before it, when Luke is about to be blown to smithereens by Darth Vader. “I have you now,” Vader intones from inside his deluxe, specially fitted TIE Fighter as he prepares to pull the trigger. At that very last instant, though, Vader’s ship is hit by a laser blast and disabled. Luke is free to finish his mission.

But where did the blast come from? All of Luke’s friends are already dead.

The blast was fired, of course, by Hans Solo, who has come to the rescue in the Millenium Falcon. The moment feels momentous because we, the viewers, know that Solo should not be there. He has, in the previous scene, vehemently declared himself to be a selfish man—a cynic—concerned only with his own survival. He would never be a sucker for any crazy, doomed cause like the Galactic Rebellion.

Yet, there he is—a symbol of people’s ability to change, to discover their own basic, human decency and courage. And, just as the eagles are a stand-in for Eru Ilúvatar, Solo is a stand-in for God, The Force, or whatever you want to call it. He represents the potential for good in all people and living things.

Classic Sci-Fi Book Cover: “Damnation Alley”

For this latest entry in my Classic Sci-Fi Book Covers series, I’ve chosen a fairly recent (2004) edition of Roger Zelazny’s Damnation Alley. The book is a great, sci-fi action yarn about a post-WWIII America in which most of the heartland is scarred by nuclear radiation. Gale-force winds above 500 feet prevent any kind of air travel between the coasts, where the few remaining cities struggle to survive. When an epidemic breaks-out in Boston, officials in Southern California offer a tough criminal, Hell Tanner, a pardon if he will lead a convoy through Damnation Alley, a cross-continental route that bypasses the worst radiation spots. The rest of the story is a kind of post-apocalyptic Iditarod, complete with bandits, micro-hurricanes, and grotesque mutants (both human and animal), all of which Tanner must survive in order to deliver a vaccine.

If you grew up in the 1970s, you might remember the really cheesy (but fun) B-movie that was adapted from it (starring George Peppard, no less!). But even if you’re younger than that, the outlaw-turned-hero plot might seem familiar, mainly because it’s been ripped-off so many times in movies, from Mad Max: The Road Warrior to Escape from New York to Pitch Black.

Speaking of movies, Zelazny himself was probably inspired by numerous Westerns from the 1950s and 60s that used the same story. (I’m thinking of The Magnificent Seven, 3:10 to Yuma, and even The Searchers). All such tales focus on a criminal whose ruthlessness and brutality cause him to be ostracized from civilization under normal circumstances, but whose strength and cunning become indispensable in a crisis.

The idea, of course, goes back further still. Greek and Hindu epics like The Iliad and The Mahabarahta are full of instances of big, nasty warriors who must face a seemingly insurmountable gauntlet of enemies (warriors, monsters, demi-gods, etc.) and defeat them all to achieve some seemingly unattainable boon. In the process, the hero delivers his people from danger and (usually) achieves some kind of moral rehabilitation, if only after his death.

But there are a couple of key differences between modern tales like Damnation Alley and The Illiad. In ancient literature, the warrior’s violent tendencies are not a minus; they’re a plus. Paleolithic civilizations valued and glorified violent aggression even more than we do, probably because they faced real, existential threats much more often. Also, in ancient myths, it’s usually the hero himself who, seeking glory, embarks on the challenge of his own free-will. In stories like Damnation Alley, the hero (really more of an anti-hero) is compelled by others to take part in the saga. In the end, he might fight some deeper, non-selfish part of himself—or not. It all depends on the worldview of the author.

I really like this cover (by renowned comic book artist Dennis Callero) because it highlights the book’s anti-hero—Hell Tanner—in all his badass glory. He looks like a Hell’s Angel because, according to the story, he is a Hell’s Angel (back before the world got nuked). Now, instead of a Harley, he rides a tank-like vehicle called a Landmaster, bristling with weaponry, which is shown in the background. I also like the greenish glow (of radiation, presumably) coming from the edge of the picture.

Most of all, I admire how the cover, which was probably done using some kind of digital tool, still looks like an oil painting from old days of 1960s and 70s sci-fi illustration. It’s realistic, but not photo-realistic. It looks like…art.

RACNT: What Margaret and Ash Are Reading (Not Charles Dickens)

In the latest episode of our Read a Classic Novel…Together! channel, my great friend Margaret Luongo and I reveal the books we have been cheating with while we were SUPPOSED to be reading David Copperfield by Charles Dickens.

Books (briefly) discussed in this episode:

A Mercy by Toni Morrison
Titus Groan by Mervyn Peake
The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter
The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett
The Rib Joint by Julia Koets

Check it out…!

Classic Sci-Fi Book Cover: “The Man in the Maze”

Once again, I have the great library district of Alachua County to thank for my latest classic sci-fi book cover post. I was browsing through the library’s website, looking at their most recent e-book purchases, when I stumbled upon this oldie by famed sci-fi author Robert Silverberg. I don’t know how exactly, but I never read Silverberg before. I had heard of him, of course. I knew that he was a famous sci-fi author (he’s actually still with us, at 91, as of this writing), often lumped in with the New Wave that emerged in the 1960s.

Having read one book by him now, I must say that he feels more like a Golden Age writer to me. The Man in the Maze, after all, has not one but two brilliant, highly educated yet macho heroes (ala Heinlein) who live in a Buck-Rogers-style galactic civilization of the future (ala Asimov), where they are very successful with the hot babes of many, far-flung planets.

Still, this book has a lot more character depth and thematic complexity then the average sci-fi tale, then or now. In fact, it’s clever as hell. I mean, how many other sci-fi works are based on an ancient Greek play? Specifically, this one is a retelling of Sophocles’ drama Philoctetes, in which the titular hero, a great archer and warrior of the Achaeans, is wounded early in the Trojan war. His wound is of a supernatural origin—literally a curse from the Gods—and will not heal. It also stinks to high-heaven, so much so that the other Achaean Greeks dump him on an island called Lemnos, where he stews in his own self-pity and growing hatred of all humankind.

Silverberg cleverly transposes the tail to a far-future civilization, where interplanetary diplomat Dick Muller is similarly afflicted after completing a mission to a newly discovered planet, Beta Hydri IV. During his visit, the Beta Hydrians bestow upon him the “gift” of telepathy. Unfortunately, the kind they give him only works one way, outward. When he returns to human-occupied space, he is horrified to learn that his innermost and darkest thoughts, fears, and impulses are constantly transmitted to those around, to the point that people literally run away.

Basically, he stinks. In despair, he exiles himself to a bizarre planet (called Lemnos, naturally) which was abandoned millions of years earlier by a highly intelligent but now extinct race. All that remains of their civilization is a huge, diabolical maze, filled with automated traps and snares that kill virtually everyone who goes into it. Except Mueller, that is, who finds his way to the center and takes up residence there.

All this occurs before the main action of the novel, when, as in the original Sophocles drama, Muller’s old friends soon realize that they desperately need the forsaken man to save them from a new crisis. In the play, the Achaeans learn via prophecy that only Philoctetes, with his awesome archery skills, can secure the final victory over Troy. In the novel, Muller’s old friend, Charles Boardman (the guy who sent him to Beta Hydri IV) seeks his help in dealing with yet another alien civilization, this one threatening to enslave all humanity.

I really like this cover from the 1987 Avon edition because it feels like a great, archetype 1980s cover. Done by master illustrator Jim Burns, it has the photorealistic, industrial style that was typical of that era, the age before digital art was even a dream. (It feels a lot like a Syd Mead work actually.) It’s also got a strangely muted scene, with a rugged-looking man—Charles Boardman, presumably—sitting in the cockpit of a starship while a younger comrade—Ned Rawlins, presumably, whom Boardman convinces to venture into the maze and befriend Muller, in hopes of gulling him into coming with them back to civilization. And behind Rawlins, of course, is the insane, sci-fi maze of Lemnos.

It’s a really fun book. Kind of a precursor to The Hunger Games and The Maze Runner and lots of other, later yarns. Check it out…

What I’m Reading: “Saint Jack” (Repost)

Author’s Note: I’ve be rereading Saint Jack by Paul Theroux this spring. Again. Every time I read it, I feel like my own writing improves. Maybe it’s my imagination.

Anyway, I thought I’d repost this essay about it. Enjoy…!

Novice writers sometimes ask about the difference between “literary” fiction and “commercial” fiction, and so-called learned people often answer something like this: “Commercial fiction is about plot; literary fiction is about character.”

But what any real student of literary fiction knows is that all novels—all good novels, at least—have a plot. That is, they have a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end, and some element of that story compels the protagonist (and, thus, the reader) through each phase. A short story without a plot isn’t a short story; it’s a poem. And a novel without a plot is a very long poem, the only real difference being a lack of fixed line-breaks.

No, what people really mean when they talk about literary fiction being “plotless” is that the plot, while discernable, is usually internal in nature. This lies in direct opposition to popular novels. Plots of popular novels are often extrinsic, with threats and goals that are externalized and easy to understand. Plots of literary fiction are intrinsic, private to the hidden thoughts, fears, and desires of the main character. Or, put another way, literary fiction often makes use of a plot that revolves around a symbol—something crucial to the hero for reasons that even they might not understand.

Horror and suspense novels have the most obvious and extrinsic plots: Escape the Monster; Kill the Monster; Get the Girl (or Boy); Live to Tell About It. The degree to which the writer of such fiction can make the internal life of the hero relevant to this plot might define the quality of the work, its “literary merit,” but it is by no mean an essential aspect of the genre itself.

Great horror novelists like Stephen King can blur the line between genre and literary fiction almost to undetectability, as in King’s most famous and widely admired novel, The Shining. While ostensibly a ghost story, King elevates his novel by rendering the psychological make-up of his main character, Jack, in vivid and poignant detail. Early in the book, the reader learns that Jack is a failed writer and recovering alcoholic—conditions that combine to make him uniquely susceptible to the seductions of evil emanating from the villainous hotel. But only later do we learn that Jack is also an adult victim of child abuse, a “key” to his psychic make-up that makes the second half of the novel all the more tragic.

In this way, King confirms what Flannery O’Connor said about fiction: “A story always involves, in a dramatic way, the mystery of personality.” She also said that every novel is, in a sense, a whodunnit, if only the psychological sense. The whodunnit of The Shining is Jack’s abusive, alcoholic father.

Of course, the best literary fiction writers can blur the line, too, from the opposite direction. I’ve written before of my love of Robert Stone’s Dog Soldiers, which won the National Book Award in 1973. The story of two world-weary young men who conspire to smuggle a kilo of pure heroin from Viet Nam back to the States, the novel could easily be mistaken for a crime thriller. It’s only the way Stone is able to make the heroin a symbol for both of the men, especially the tragic main character, Ray Hicks, that allows him to wind a deeply affecting literary novel around the spine of that frantic and violent tale.

I’ve been thinking about all this plot business recently, even since I read a very fine novel called Saint Jack by Paul Theroux. Most people classify Theroux as a travel writer—his book The Great Railway Bizarre is often cited as a masterpiece of travel literature—but I know him primarily as a fiction writer, one of the best of the past fifty years. I had admired his books Kowloon Tong and Hotel Honolulu, but for some reason I never read Saint Jack, one of his earlier novels, despite my having been intrigued by it since I was in high school, when I saw Peter Bogdanovich’s wry and mysterious movie adaption starring Ben Gazarra. Part of my failure to actually read the book probably had to do with its relative obscurity; I could never find a copy even in my favorite used book stores. But one of the great boons of the digital era is that the back-catalogues of countless writers are now available, and Saint Jack somehow popped up in my Kindle recommendations for a whopping two bucks! Woo-hoo!

And, man, was that two bucks well spent! Saint Jack presents the reader with one of the most colorful and endearing low-life characters in the history of literature. American ex-pat Jack Flowers is a part-time shipping supplier and full-time pimp working the streets of Singapore. Middle-aged and mildly alcoholic, Jack’s seedy character is redeemed, somewhat, by the kindness with which he treats his affable young prostitutes (his “girls”) and also the hypocritical men (the “fellers”) who seek their services. At least, Jack hopes he is redeemed, fancying himself as a man of importance, a protector to the feckless, lustful, and greedy souls haunting the streets of the city. Cooling his heels in a hotel lobby as he waits for a girl to finish her session with a “feller,” Jack often indulges in…

[t]hat momentary daydream which flits into every reflective man’s mind and makes him say his name with a tide, Sir or President or His Highness—everyone does it sometimes: the clerk wants a kingship, it’s only natural—this dubbing was a feature of my every waking moment. I wasn’t kidding; even the most rational soul has at least one moment of pleasurable reflection when he hears a small voice addressing him as Your Radiance. I had a litany which began Sir Jack, President Flowers, King John, and so forth. And why stop at king? Saint Jack! It was my yearning, though success is nasty and spoils you, the successful say, and only failures listen, who know nastiness without the winch of money. If the rich were correct, I reasoned, what choice had they made? Really, was disappointment virtue and comfort vice and poverty like the medicine that was good because it stung? The President of the United States, in a sense the king of the world, said he had the loneliest job on earth; where did that leave a feller like me?

Unhappy and adrift, Jack’s only ambition is to somehow strike it rich, though he has no plan for doing so. He once dreamed of opening the classiest whore-house in Singapore, a goal that, we learn, was briefly realized in previous years (with tragic consequences). At the point of the novel’s opening, he seems to have stagnated, both financially and spiritually. Then, a stranger enters his life. Leigh, a British accountant hired by Jack’s boss, is of roughly the same age and disposition as Jack, but his life has taken an opposite path. Completely conventional and straightlaced, Leigh nonetheless takes a liking to Jack, even as he finds himself slightly horrified by the details of the man’s street-wise existence. Jack, for his part, sees Leigh as a kindred spirit, a decent “feller,” albeit one who would never hire one of his “girls”. More importantly, Jack is disturbed by Leigh’s disapproval of him, although he struggles to understand why.

Of course, the reader knows why: Leigh is a symbol. He’s a mirror in which Jack sees himself—or, rather, some better version of himself that might have been. In Leigh, all of Jack’s moral failings are revealed.

In this way, his appearance serves as the instigating action of the novel, the beginnings of the plot in which Jack will be forced to explore his own life history. A more generic kind of novel might have proceeded with a burgeoning friendship between the two men, Jack and Leigh, in which the former would find enrichment and even escape from his louche existence. But in Theroux’s capable hands, the story takes an unexpected turn when, barely one-third into the novel, Leigh dies suddenly from a heart attack while drinking in Jack’s favorite “club,” surrounded by boozy British ex-Pats (whom Jack loathes even as he craves their approval).

I previously alluded to O’Connor’s theory that every good novel is a kind of whodunnit, and Saint Jack is a wonderful case in point. It falls to Jack to call Leigh’s wife and tell her of the man’s passing, and also to arrange the funeral, which Theroux renders as predictably absurd and yet surprisingly moving. At this point, the story becomes a huge, Mobius-loop of a flashback in which we learn much about Jack’s past, including the reason he finds himself in Singapore (he’s a fugitive fleeing drug charges in the States) as well as his brief and glorious stint as a whore-house proprietor. Jack pours all his artistic and self-aggrandizing impulses into this joint, an opulent mini-resort which he grandly bestows with the name Dunroamin—a moniker which vaguely evokes an English estate as well as being a homophone for Jack’s yearning for permanence, a true home. (He’s “done roamin’”; get it?). He also pours in all his money, and for a time Dunroamin is successful. But its very success contains the seeds of Dunroamin’s destruction, as it soon attracts the ire of the local Triads, whose henchmen kidnap Jack and tattoo his arms with Chinese curses. Upon his release, Jack finds Dunroamin burned to the ground, his hopes for a better future having gone up with it.

As it turns out, Jack’s days as a house-pimp are not entirely over. He gets a visit from an old acquaintance named Schuck, a CIA spook who once ran a government-subsidized “hotel” with Jack providing R&R to battle-crazed Vietnam soldiers. If the operation of this hotel represented an even deeper moral failing for Jack than his previous ones, Schuck soon tempts Jack all the way into the abyss, hiring him to film a troublesome American general trysting with a prostitute. Whether or not Jack will go through with the plan is the climax of the novel (and one which I will not reveal here).

Saint Jack is a classic novel by one of our most underrated literary writers. Check it out…

What I’m Reading: “UFOs: Generals, Pilots, and Government Officials Go on the Record” (Repost)

Author’s Note: The Department of Defense released some more really cool ufo videos yesterday. So, I thought it would be a good time to re-post a review I wrote some years ago of a great book on the subject. Enjoy…!!!

From 1989 to 1992 I went to graduate school at the University of Arizona. This was around the same time that Fife Symington was elected governor of that fine state. I don’t remember having any opinion of Symington at the time, except that he seemed a man very much in the mold of Arizona politicians: a conservative, folksy cowboy.

So it was probably not that big of a surprise when, six years later, Symington handled an unusual political crisis in what many saw as a callous, flippant way. The crisis in question was a UFO—literally, an unidentified flying object—that was spotted by hundreds of people in the Phoenix area on the night of March 13th, 1997. The incident, which has since become known as The Phoenix Lights UFO Incident, resulted in dozens of 911 calls and hundreds of letters being written to the governor. Eventually, Symington was forced to hold a press conference about the event, in which he essentially laughed-off the whole affair. (One of his aides came to conference dressed as a green alien. Hilarity ensued.)

This is just one of many stories which writer Leslie Kean has recounted in her fascinating book, UFOs: Generals, Pilots, and Government Officials Go on the Record. Kean, who has become a favorite bête noire of scientists and UFO debunkers, has been writing about the UFO phenomenon for many years. In this book, she describes many of the more famous incidents in a sober, agnostic tone that I found completely engrossing. In fact, after reading Kean’s meticulously documented and detailed narrative, I decided that one of two things must be true:

The book is an extremely clever work of fiction masquerading as journalism or…
UFOs are a genuine mystery, one which has been experienced by many people for a very long time.

Yeah, I know. Any rational skeptic would point out a third, more obvious possibility. Namely, that Kean is just a very silly woman who is misinterpreting the testimony of many other silly people who think they have seen something strange—odd lights in the sky which are almost certainly a natural phenomenon, probably the planet Venus. (Venus seems to be the go-to scapegoat put forth by many of these debunkers.)

But Kean has crammed her book with so many testimonials from so many apparently rational, non-silly people that I just can’t buy this argument. (I mean, have you ever mistaken Venus for a UFO?)

Most startling among these testimonials was that by none other than Symington himself. Incredibly, despite his ridicule of the sightings in 1997, Symington eventually admitted that he had seen the UFO. To his credit, he writes a chapter about this in Kean’s book, beginning with this simple, explosive statement:

Between 8:00 and 8:30 on the evening of March 13th, during my second term as Governor of Arizona, I witnessed something that defied logic and challenged my reality: a massive, delta-shaped craft silently navigating over the Squaw Peak in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve.

Symington goes on to explain that the sighting were so widespread that he felt compelled to “dampen any incipient panic” on the part of his constituents, hence the infamous press conference in which he basically made the whole matter into a joke.

Which leads me to another aspect of Kean’s book that I found totally fascinating: the idea that so-called “UFO coverups,” which are the bread-and-butter of The X-Files and so many other science fiction stories, might be nothing more than an institutional form of denial.

One is reminded of the late Soviet Union, in which prostitution was officially declared to no longer exist, which meant that women who were caught engaging in that trade had be arrested for some other crime, such as loitering. The Party Line is a powerful motivator, psychologically speaking, and it might also be at the root of the self-censorship that high officials like Symington (Jimmy Carter is another famous example) imposed on themselves.

In fact, Kean suggests that such a choice might actually be a complex psychological defense mechanism, a way of dealing with the anxiety which might otherwise result from an actual admission that one has perceived a genuine mystical experience. This idea was explicated in detail by two political scientists, Alexander Wendt and Robert Duval, in their 2008 academic paper, “Sovereignty and the UFO.” In this paper, they make the case that mere possibility that extraterrestrials might exist represents a such a mind-blowing idea that it cannot be entertained or harbored, not even secretly. Such a discovery, after all, would completely undermine the legitimacy of every national governments on earth, whose compact with the citizenry is based on the premise that human beings are alone in the universe and must be final arbiters of their own destiny.

It’s a very clever theory, and typical of the kind of intelligent discourse that pervades Kean’s book. As she herself states early on, 95% of all UFO sighting are simple cases of mistaken identity—aircraft, balloons, flares, hoaxes and (yes) Venus. But the other 5% remain a mystery. Nothing more or less; just a mystery.

So what’s the big deal? Can’t we still have mysteries without getting all bent out-of-shape? Apparently, not.

The problem, as Kean explains it, is that…

…[t]he term “UFO” has been misused and become so much a part of the popular culture that its original (and accurate) definition has been completely lost. Almost everyone equates the term “UFO” with extraterrestrial spacecraft, and thus, in a perverse twist of meaning, the acronym has been transformed to mean something identified instead of something unidentified.

When I first read this passage, I was impressed by Ms. Kean’s obviously lucid and graceful explanation of this fascinating paradox. But I could also detect a faint whiff of disingenuousness. After all, if strange triangular objects really are zipping around our skies at tremendous speeds, thumbing their noses at our own pathetic avionic abilities, what other explanation comes to mind?

Even so, I found buying Kean’s essential arguments: that UFOs really constitute some kind of unsolved atmospheric events, that the people who see them are not crazy, and that they might indicate some world-changing scientific discovery (yes, aliens). If she’s a nut, then I’m a nut too.

You be the judge…

What I’m (Re-)Reading: “The Emperor’s New Mind”

It was a late-summer day in 1990. I was teaching two sections of English Composition 101 at the University of Arizona, and it was the first day of the semester. My second class was in the afternoon, three o’clock. Being a very young Teaching Assistant, I had dressed in my best slacks, dress-shirt, tie, and loafers in a rather comical effort to earn my students’ respect (or, at least, their forbearance). My outfit was also completely inappropriate to the 100-degree-plus temperatures outside, which I felt even more than usual because my classroom for that section was across campus, so I had to schlep it from the dark, air-conditioned office that I shared with a two-dozen other T.A.’s in the basement of the Modern Languages building.

The first class went well. I liked the students, and they seemed to like me. When class was over, I gathered my things into my backpack and headed out. The moment I stepped outside, though, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. A late summer rainstorm—monsoons, as they are called out there—had struck. I went back into the building and waited until the rain finally stopped. Unfortunately, Tucson, like every other desert city, is prone to flooding, and I knew the streets and even the sidewalks would be swamped for hours. Not wanting to wait that long, I took off my jacket and put it in my backpack. I did the same with my socks and shoes, then rolled up the cuffs on my slacks. Thus barefoot, I ventured out, sloshing my way across campus and then out into the little urban neighborhood where I had parked my car.

I didn’t mind, in part because I had something to read, a paperback copy of Roger Penrose’s new book The Emperor’s New Mind. Yes, it’s one of those rare books that, even in chapter one, become so engrossing that one will read while walking through the streets after a monsoon, barely noticing the cold water that’s up to your ankles. I held it in front of me as I walked the familiar route, absorbed in the slow, methodical, yet miraculous argument that Penrose was weaving, which is simple yet dumbfounding: There is something non-mechanical (that is, non-algorithmic) about consciousness.

That is, our brains are not merely “machines made of meat,” to paraphrase the words of AI pioneer Marvin Minski. Minksi is, of course, a founding proponent of the “Hard-AI” theory of computer science, which states that the brain is really just a very complicated computer, which, though made of biological parts, is nonetheless executing an algorithm. In the future—the theory goes—when digital computers become sophisticated enough to execute this mysterious algorithm, they will become “conscious,” too. Just like us. At this point in our technological evolution (the vaunted Singularity), machine consciousness and human consciousness will blur together, such that human beings might wish to “upload” their consciousness (i.e., all their thoughts, memories, desires, etc.) to a computer as digital data, and thus achieve immortality in cyberspace.

It’s an idea that would have seemed absurd—if not incomprehensible—a hundred years ago, but which has been gaining traction since the 1960s. Now, in the age of Generative AI—whose power really does seem miraculous, at time—the notion seems almost a given. A fait accompli.

Yet, if you’re like me, you’ve thought to yourself: This is all bullshit. The human mind is not a computer; and computers—as we now understand them—will never be conscious. To suggest otherwise is a category error.

However, you’ve probably kept this thought to yourself (deep inside your consciousness, as it were, heh heh) for fear of being ridiculed by the tech-bros and computer nerds in your office or classroom or wherever. Guys who not only completely subscribe to the Hard-AI theory, they read (and sometimes write) sci-fi novels about it. They not only believe in the Singularity; they look forward to it!

Not me. Whenever I hear one of these bros blathering on about Skynet becoming self-aware or uploading their consciousness to a computer, I just say, “Roger Penrose says it’s impossible.” At which point the bro in question will usually give me a befuddled look, as if to say, Who the fuck is Roger Penrose? Which is, of course, a kind of tragedy in and of itself. I usually answer: “Roger Penrose was Stephen Hawking’s partner in theoretical physics.” That shuts the bro up for a bit. After all, anyone smart enough to hang with Stephen Hawking is surely a force to be reckoned with. You can’t as easily dismiss a theoretical physicist of that stature, even when he is opining on a subject—computers—that might seem a bit outside his field.

In fact, thinking about thinking is right up Penrose’s alley, so to speak. He’s not just a theoretical physicist; he’s a mathematical theoretical physicist, which means that he’s is a world-class mathematician whose creations are designed to help us understand cosmology, particle theory, etc. He shared the Wolf Prize in Physics with Stephen Hawking for their work on the Penrose–Hawking singularity theorems, and he is the discoverer of the first known aperiodic tile, the now-famous Penrose Tiling. (Many other aperiodic tiles have been discovered since, at least one of which I have posted about.) His other accomplishments are too numerous to mention.

So, Penrose brings a considerable amount of street cred when he finally makes his main assertion in the book—namely, that there is some as-yet unknown quality about consciousness that computers do not possess, and probably never will. He writes, “…there must be something essentially non-algorithmic about consciousness.” He further writes,

When I assert my own belief that true intelligence requires consciousness, I am implicitly suggesting (since I do not believe the strong-AI contention that the mere enaction of an algorithm would evoke consciousness) that intelligence cannot be properly simulated by algorithmic means, i.e. by a computer, in the sense that we use that term today.

He doesn’t fully come out and say until last few chapters of this (very long) treatise. The bulk of the book is dedicated to the evidence he has for his belief, beginning with discussion of Turing Machines. There are a lot of great videos about Turing Machines on YouTube, but suffice to say that it is a very simple machine imagined by Alan Turing (yeah, Benedict Cumberbatch played him in the movie) in the 1930s. It consists solely of a reading head through which a long—infinitely long, if need be—magnetic tape is run back and forth. A mechanism inside the head is capable of a few simple operations: it can move the tape forward/backward X places; it can read a symbol off the tape in the current position; it can write a symbol to the current position; and it can store the last symbol read in a single variable (called a “state” by Turing).

If this sounds vaguely familiar, it should. A Turing Machine is basically an abstract, idealized version of a modern, programmable computer. If you replace the magnetic tape with a hard drive, you essentially have a modern computer—albeit one with only 1 byte of RAM (or thereabouts) and a very simple CPU. Even so, with a sufficient amount of tape, a Turing Machine could run any computer program in existence, even those used currently by AI networks. (It would, of course, do so very, very slowly.)

With this in mind, Turing set out to determine whether one could, eventually, make a Turing Machine that could solve any math problem. That is, could the science of mathematics ever become so advanced, so perfect, so complete, that one could use it to write an algorithm (which would be encoded on the tape) that could decide if any mathematical statement (also encoded on the tape) were true or false.

If so, then one would never need another, more advanced calculator. It would be a universal computational device.

Sadly (or, rather, happily, in my opinion), Turing was able to prove definitively that this was not possible. One can never—not in a million years—devise an algorithm so smart it can decide the truth or falsity of any math problem. The logic he used to prove this fact is encapsulated in a scenario now called the Halting problem (on which there is at least one excellent video on Youtube here).

Turing’s proof was the final nail in the coffin of David Hilbert’s Entscheidungsproblem, which posed the question of whether it was possible to make a perfect, complete mathematical algorithm. Two-thirds of the question had already been solved (in the negative) by Kurt Gödel’s Incompleteness theorems, which rocked the worlds of math and logic in 1931. Penrose also delves into these theorems at great length, demonstrating how Gödel proved that no set of axioms can prove the truth or falsity of any mathematical statement. In other words, no single set of statements (no algorithm), no matter how large or sophisticated, will ever be able to solve every math problem.

Penrose’s main point, however, goes beyond even this revelation. He asserts that Gödel’s theorems, by proving that no single algorithm can solve any problem, could not, themselves, be the product of any algorithm system! In other words, Gödel was not, himself, a computer running some incredibly elaborate, highly-evolved “consciousness algorithm.” Rather, Mr. Gödel, like all conscious beings, was…something else. Penrose writes,

Let us recall the arguments given in Chapter 4 establishing Gödel’s theorem and its relation to computability. It was shown there that whatever (sufficiently extensive) algorithm a mathematician might use to establish mathematical truth – or, what amounts to the same thing,1 whatever formal system he* might adopt as providing his criterion of truth – there will always be mathematical propositions, such as the explicit Gödel proposition Pk (k) of the system…, that his algorithm cannot provide an answer for. If the workings of the mathematician’s mind are entirely algorithmic, then the algorithm (or formal system) that he actually uses to form his judgements is not capable of dealing with the proposition Pk (k) constructed from his personal algorithm. Nevertheless, we can (in principle) see that Pk(k) is actually true! This would seem to provide him with a contradiction, since he ought to be able to see that also. Perhaps this indicates that the mathematician was not using an algorithm at all!

But if Gödel’s brain isn’t just a computer, what is it? Where does the magic of consciousness come from?

Well, nobody knows—not even Penrose himself, as he readily admits. Unsurprisingly, he does not reach for some mystical, supernatural answer (as I, ultimately, do). Rather, he argues—very convincingly—that consciousness might have some relationship to quantum mechanics. That is, there might well be some quantum mechanical aspect to minds, both human and animal.

This is not to say, of course, that quantum mechanics (QM) necessarily causes consciousness. Rather, Penrose merely suggests that there is some deep relationship between QM and consciousness. It’s a pretty cool idea, which he spends the last fifth of the book elaborating.

When the book came out, critics immediately howled that Penrose is not a neurologist, nor an expert on the human brain, and that no one has (yet) found a truly quantum mechanical action in the brain. Still, there is something incredibly seductive—even uplifting, I would say—to the idea there really is something “magic” about us, our experience of life, which is still inexplicable to science. Still defensible, that is, from the brutal, deterministic nihilism of the New Atheists and the hard-core scientific materialists.

At least, I think so. Check it out.

Shameless Plug: “West”

I recently decided to gather my best short stories into a collection, which I have entitled West. You can now get it on Amazon! And it’s cheap! (Free, if you have Kindle Unlimited.) The paperback will be coming out soon.

Please check it out!