If you've got some time--and even if you don't--you might want to take advantage of the opportunity to check out the following books that are available free online.
His Majesty's Dragon, by Naomi Novik, the first novel in her alternate military history series about the Napoleonic Wars--but fought with dragons. If you like Patrick O'Brian and the like, try this one.
Elizabeth Moon's Sheepfarmer's Daughter, the first book in her Deed of Paksenarrion trilogy, is a top-notch heroic fantasy with a strong female protagonist.
Assassin's Apprentice, by Robin Hobb, another first entry in a series.
And The Element of Fire, by Martha Wells.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Touched by an Angel?
In this post I'm going to reflect on "Daybreak," the two-part series finale of Battlestar Galactica. That's your cue to run for the exit if you're trying to avoid spoilers. Of course, you're probably used to having to do so by now, since there's plenty of talk about the end of BSG in the sf blogosphere.
I liked a lot of things about these three hours of one of the best tv series of all time. I enjoyed watching the Galactica slug it out with the Cylon Colony and it's high time we got to see some real Cylon on Cylon combat. Unlike some folks, I appreciated (most of) the flashback sequences and I'm glad that Ron Moore et al crafted a closing narrative that focused on the characters we love (or hate) rather than merely trying to pick up every loose plot thread.
Yet a couple of things have been bothering me. I'll begin at the end, with the astonishing dissolution of the community of people who have somehow managed to overcome seemingly unsurmountable obstacles and have finally, after a long and painful journey punctuated by the disappointments of New Caprica and the previous Earth, found their way to a beautiful new planet where they can make a home for themselves. "At last!" we should be thinking and feeling. But what are we given? Tyrol by himself on an island? Adama and Lee forever separated after a brief and inadequate goodbye? Starbuck disappearing into thin air? Helo, Athena, and Hera making their own way, apart from everyone else? All this is ultimately unsatisfying.
Now, I get that this last remnant of the Colonies must disappear so that this new planet can be our very own Earth, but from my point of view this cute gimmick isn't worth what it costs in narrative terms. So much drama between the Admiral and his son, and it ends like this? Hera's prophesied significance turns out to be that she's the mitochondrial Eve. Okay, again that's kind of cute, but we've been led to believe that she would play some key role in the life of this community of humans and Cylons--the one that's so quickly done away with by the show's writers. I'm more troubled by this than I am by the rejection of technology that others have talked about.
The other thing, as you can probably guess from the title of the post, is the revelation that the Six and Baltar that have been secretly appearing to Gaius and to Caprica Six for so long are... drum roll... angels. Apparently the writers have been reading Genesis 6. Let's add to this Starbuck's miraculous disappearance, implying that she's an angel, too, or some other kind of supernatural creature. All I can do about all this is sigh. Really?
Some have objected to this development because they want to keep their science fiction and their supernatural fiction in separate compartments. That's not my point, and I'm all for desegregation here. I've enjoyed the way that BSG has involved religion and the supernatural in its ongoing story very much. Strikingly, the Cylons are religious, and have a very different conception of the divine than humans do. People take up various positions about the legitimacy of prophecy, with Adama dismissing Roslin early on as a quack and then later coming to have some sort of faith in her visions. The show clearly wants us to think that there's something to all this religious talk. I'm delighted about that, and I wasn't at all hoping for a debunking explanation of all of the apparently supernatural happenings to which we've been witness.
But I wasn't ready for a series finale that in some ways reminded me of an episode of Touched by an Angel or some other sappy show. One of the things I've always deeply appreciated about BSG is the way the show leaves its viewers in the gray, unsure what to make of its characters and plot developments and wondering what to think about morality, politics, and religion. Thus, I'm unhappy that this finale filled in certain blanks so decisively. Moore says in this interview about Starbuck's finale that "there was more in the ambiguity and mystery of it than there was in trying to give it more definition in the end." From my point of view, her disincarnation doesn't leave enough room for such mystery. Moore has also said that one of his prime concerns is that BSG be relevant to our world and our lives. Yet for most of us, such obvious and unequivocal contact with supernatural beings isn't part of our lives. In the finale, it seems to me that BSG explicitly becomes a religious story about divine agents on a mission rather than remaining a story about beings like us who don't quite know what to make of such stories but perhaps trust and hope that some of them are true. And this shift makes it less relevant, I think, and less like the show I still love in spite of these objections to the way it leaves us.
I liked a lot of things about these three hours of one of the best tv series of all time. I enjoyed watching the Galactica slug it out with the Cylon Colony and it's high time we got to see some real Cylon on Cylon combat. Unlike some folks, I appreciated (most of) the flashback sequences and I'm glad that Ron Moore et al crafted a closing narrative that focused on the characters we love (or hate) rather than merely trying to pick up every loose plot thread.
Yet a couple of things have been bothering me. I'll begin at the end, with the astonishing dissolution of the community of people who have somehow managed to overcome seemingly unsurmountable obstacles and have finally, after a long and painful journey punctuated by the disappointments of New Caprica and the previous Earth, found their way to a beautiful new planet where they can make a home for themselves. "At last!" we should be thinking and feeling. But what are we given? Tyrol by himself on an island? Adama and Lee forever separated after a brief and inadequate goodbye? Starbuck disappearing into thin air? Helo, Athena, and Hera making their own way, apart from everyone else? All this is ultimately unsatisfying.
Now, I get that this last remnant of the Colonies must disappear so that this new planet can be our very own Earth, but from my point of view this cute gimmick isn't worth what it costs in narrative terms. So much drama between the Admiral and his son, and it ends like this? Hera's prophesied significance turns out to be that she's the mitochondrial Eve. Okay, again that's kind of cute, but we've been led to believe that she would play some key role in the life of this community of humans and Cylons--the one that's so quickly done away with by the show's writers. I'm more troubled by this than I am by the rejection of technology that others have talked about.
The other thing, as you can probably guess from the title of the post, is the revelation that the Six and Baltar that have been secretly appearing to Gaius and to Caprica Six for so long are... drum roll... angels. Apparently the writers have been reading Genesis 6. Let's add to this Starbuck's miraculous disappearance, implying that she's an angel, too, or some other kind of supernatural creature. All I can do about all this is sigh. Really?
Some have objected to this development because they want to keep their science fiction and their supernatural fiction in separate compartments. That's not my point, and I'm all for desegregation here. I've enjoyed the way that BSG has involved religion and the supernatural in its ongoing story very much. Strikingly, the Cylons are religious, and have a very different conception of the divine than humans do. People take up various positions about the legitimacy of prophecy, with Adama dismissing Roslin early on as a quack and then later coming to have some sort of faith in her visions. The show clearly wants us to think that there's something to all this religious talk. I'm delighted about that, and I wasn't at all hoping for a debunking explanation of all of the apparently supernatural happenings to which we've been witness.
But I wasn't ready for a series finale that in some ways reminded me of an episode of Touched by an Angel or some other sappy show. One of the things I've always deeply appreciated about BSG is the way the show leaves its viewers in the gray, unsure what to make of its characters and plot developments and wondering what to think about morality, politics, and religion. Thus, I'm unhappy that this finale filled in certain blanks so decisively. Moore says in this interview about Starbuck's finale that "there was more in the ambiguity and mystery of it than there was in trying to give it more definition in the end." From my point of view, her disincarnation doesn't leave enough room for such mystery. Moore has also said that one of his prime concerns is that BSG be relevant to our world and our lives. Yet for most of us, such obvious and unequivocal contact with supernatural beings isn't part of our lives. In the finale, it seems to me that BSG explicitly becomes a religious story about divine agents on a mission rather than remaining a story about beings like us who don't quite know what to make of such stories but perhaps trust and hope that some of them are true. And this shift makes it less relevant, I think, and less like the show I still love in spite of these objections to the way it leaves us.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Looking Ahead to 2088
Here's a video that's been making the rounds. It's called Mobility 2088, and in it Honda asks various people what they think transportation will look like in 80 years.
I caught at least two sf writers among the talking head futurists: Ben Bova and Orson Scott Card. What's your guess about what the world will be like in 80 years?
I caught at least two sf writers among the talking head futurists: Ben Bova and Orson Scott Card. What's your guess about what the world will be like in 80 years?
What Is It Like to be an A.I.?
What's the difference between being an A.I. and being a human being--from the inside? Listen to how one sf writer imagines the unimaginable:
What's interesting, perhaps, is that Jane is all along depicted as intelligent, as a person, as having emotions, friendships, etc. So while her existence as an A.I. is very different from our own, in some ways superior and in others inferior, still it seems right to regard her as "one of us," a person, a member of the moral community, both before and after she inhabits a body. And yet clearly Card wants us to think that having a body matters deeply.
Of course, this is a novel. But it's food for thought....
She had been in her human body only a day, and yet already the electronic self that once had felt so copious was far too small... it was small by nature. The ambiguity of flesh made for a vastness of possibility that simply could not exist in a binary world. She had been alive, and so she knew now that her electronic dwellingplace gave her only a fraction of a life. However much she had accomplished during her millenia of life in the machine, it brought no satisfaction compared to even a few minutes in that body of flesh and blood (Orson Scott Card, Children of the Mind, p. 293).The "She" here is Jane, an intelligent computer program (although that doesn't quite do her justice) who is one of the central characters in Orson Scott Card's Ender Quartet. In the fourth and last book, in a complicated series of events, Jane experiences an incarnation. The above episode describes her reaction to a temporary return to her former electronic existence.
What's interesting, perhaps, is that Jane is all along depicted as intelligent, as a person, as having emotions, friendships, etc. So while her existence as an A.I. is very different from our own, in some ways superior and in others inferior, still it seems right to regard her as "one of us," a person, a member of the moral community, both before and after she inhabits a body. And yet clearly Card wants us to think that having a body matters deeply.
Of course, this is a novel. But it's food for thought....
Sunday, March 22, 2009
More Firefly!
I just found out that Steven Brust, author of the very entertaining Vlad Taltos fantasy series, has written a Firefly novel with the title My Own Kind of Freedom and it's available to download or read online! I haven't had a chance to read it yet, but when you find out an author you like is playing around with some characters you love, it's clearly worth a look. Let me know what you think!
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Chimps and Robots Get Religion
A new story -- Mike Resnick's "Article of Faith."
And a classic one -- Robert Silverberg's "The Pope of the Chimps."
And a classic one -- Robert Silverberg's "The Pope of the Chimps."
SF in Song?
What music puts you in an sf frame of mind? Once we move past the obvious, the John Williams scores and such, are there songs that somehow connect to your jones for sf? I'll launch this category with a couple of ideas and you are encouraged to pile on in the comments section, if you want.
Check out the annotated version of "Science Fiction Double Feature," from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, with links to all the classic sf films mentioned in the tune.
This bit from Everclear's "Wonderful" makes me wistful for how much I loved certain books and films when I was a kid:
"It's the End of the 'Verse As We Know It," a nice shiny filk.
Adam Baldwin singing "The Hero of Canton: The Man They Call Jayne." You just gotta love Jayne! UPDATE: The Browncoats do a very nice remix of this song.
And, of course, you can't take the sky from me.
Check out the annotated version of "Science Fiction Double Feature," from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, with links to all the classic sf films mentioned in the tune.
This bit from Everclear's "Wonderful" makes me wistful for how much I loved certain books and films when I was a kid:
I want the things that I had beforeAnd let me indulge in some Firefly nostalgia....
Like a Star Wars poster on my bedroom door
I wish I could count to ten
Make everything be wonderful again
"It's the End of the 'Verse As We Know It," a nice shiny filk.
Adam Baldwin singing "The Hero of Canton: The Man They Call Jayne." You just gotta love Jayne! UPDATE: The Browncoats do a very nice remix of this song.
And, of course, you can't take the sky from me.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
sf humor--Star Trek
With a new movie headed our way in May, why not take a few minutes to poke some fun at a beloved sf franchise? After all, we often make fun of the things we love, right?
Some folks have gone to an awful lot of work to produce this delightful series of videos (1, 2, 3, 4, 5) recording various mistakes in the continuity of the Star Trek universe. It's like a video version of the old Nitpicker's Guides, only with a bit more bite.
Spock vs. Q
Here's a moment from the wonderful episode of Futurama that's called "Where No Fan Has Gone Before." More clips here. You'll want to find the entire episode!
Courtesy of Robot Chicken! The Wrath of Khan: The Opera! And a fight at a sf convention. Then No Power. Finally, Bloopers in Space!
A real life Trek drama: Kirk vs. Sulu! William Shatner wonders why he wasn't invited to George Takei's wedding. Takei responds. And then Shatner counterattacks. It's hard to believe, but this all seems to be for real.And if you haven't already seen it, you simply must watch Leonard Nimoy (Spock) singing "The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins." Words cannot suffice.
Star Trek vs. Star Wars is kind of fun. And, predictably, there are lots of similar attempts out there, too.
Got something funnier? Post a comment and give us a link.
By the way, you can watch Star Trek: The Original Series at CBS.com.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The End of Battlestar Galactica?
Sadly, it’s true. Only one more episode to go. But in this post I don’t intend to indulge in wild speculation about how things’ll turn out in the series finale. No, I want to talk about the end of Battlestar Galactica in a different sense, where “end” is about purpose rather than closure. This notion of end translates the word telos from the Greek, and you can’t complain about being confronted with a bit of Greek when we’re talking about BSG!
What is the aim of the reimagined BSG? What is it shooting for? What is the point of its complicated narrative? Before I give you my proposed answer to this question, let me make it perfectly clear that I don’t mean to suggest BSG is a fable with a single moral. Not at all. This is a messy story. Still, I’d like to argue that there is an aim that often gives shape and direction to the narrative. So what is it?
Consider two moments from the final few episodes of Season 4.5. (Do I need to tell you that spoilers are ahead? It’s obvious, right?) Please forgive me for reconstructing these scenes from memory.
Think about the distance we've traveled to get to a place where Starbuck and Adama can express this kind of sentiment.
In the original series, the Cylons are metallic robots from outer space who want to kill all humans. They're the enemy, pure and simple, rather like the orcs in Tolkien's LOTR. And the story is us against them, good guys and bad guys. No blurring of the lines.
Through an ongoing series of revelations, the new series disturbs and disrupts this simplistic kind of story--and the moral outlook on which it rests.
I'm fairly certain we could add to this list. But I hope the pattern can be discerned. Although it matters who you are, it doesn't matter what you are. And the lines between us and them are not at all clear. Nobody is just a good guy or just a bad guy. This is one of the many ways that Battlestar Galactica offers us a narrative universe that's more like "the real world" than most of what we see on television, whether it's sf or not.
What is the aim of the reimagined BSG? What is it shooting for? What is the point of its complicated narrative? Before I give you my proposed answer to this question, let me make it perfectly clear that I don’t mean to suggest BSG is a fable with a single moral. Not at all. This is a messy story. Still, I’d like to argue that there is an aim that often gives shape and direction to the narrative. So what is it?
Consider two moments from the final few episodes of Season 4.5. (Do I need to tell you that spoilers are ahead? It’s obvious, right?) Please forgive me for reconstructing these scenes from memory.
Starbuck demands some time alone with Sam, who’s been shot in the head. She’s talking to him, but thinks he can’t hear her. After reminding him that she once told him she’d put a bullet in his head if she found out he was a Cylon, she tells him that doesn’t matter any more. Whether he’s human or Cylon, she wants him back. Why? Because whatever else he is, he’s her Sam.
Adama asks Starbuck whether Baltar was telling the truth when he revealed to a crowd that she found her own dead body on Earth. She admits it, and goes on to say that she doesn’t know what she is. “I know what you are,” says Adama, “You’re my daughter.”
Think about the distance we've traveled to get to a place where Starbuck and Adama can express this kind of sentiment.
In the original series, the Cylons are metallic robots from outer space who want to kill all humans. They're the enemy, pure and simple, rather like the orcs in Tolkien's LOTR. And the story is us against them, good guys and bad guys. No blurring of the lines.
Through an ongoing series of revelations, the new series disturbs and disrupts this simplistic kind of story--and the moral outlook on which it rests.
Humans created the Cylons. They aren't aliens, but rather our progeny.
Some Cylons look like human beings. They're not metal, but flesh and blood.
Cylons turn out to be religious and political creatures, much like humans are.
Cylons and humans fall in love with one another and there's even a Cylon-human child, Hera.
Some of the characters we thought were humans all along (as did they!) turn out to be Cylons.
Earth, the legendary thirteenth colony of humans, turns out to be a world once populated by Cylons.
Cylons lose the ability to resurrect, and it was always this ability that made them and their way of life so radically different from humanity.
The Galactica itself has become both human and Cylon, both in its crew and in its physical constitution.
I'm fairly certain we could add to this list. But I hope the pattern can be discerned. Although it matters who you are, it doesn't matter what you are. And the lines between us and them are not at all clear. Nobody is just a good guy or just a bad guy. This is one of the many ways that Battlestar Galactica offers us a narrative universe that's more like "the real world" than most of what we see on television, whether it's sf or not.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Philosophical SF Writers: Robert J. Sawyer
The Hugo and Nebula award winning author Robert J. Sawyer has often remarked that the most ambitious science fiction stories are "philosophical fiction." It's fitting, then, that I inaugurate this new category of post by saying just a bit about Sawyer's writing--before I give you something to think about!
Many of Sawyer's books (although I confess I haven't read them all) are driven by a provocative thought experiment, often just the sort of thing that you'd find widely discussed in the philosophical literature. What would it be like if... everyone in the world were to catch a glimpse of the future? Or if we were to discover scientific evidence of a soul leaving the body at death? Or if we were able to return our aging bodies to their youthful condition? Or if we were to encounter an alien who believed in God? If you want to know what Sawyer thinks it'd be like if such things were to happen, read Flashforward, The Terminal Experiment, Rollback, and Calculating God, respectively. You can count on his books to engage your mind not only with plot and character but with ideas. As somebody once said, the true protagonist of a good science fiction story is an idea rather than a person!
I want to think about the central thought experiment in one Sawyer yarn (Mindscan) in a bit more depth. Suppose that you're in your forties and you've just discovered you have a terminal illness that'll kill you sometime in the next few months. Now suppose that you are presented with an extraordinary opportunity: your consciousness--personality, memories, and all--can be copied and downloaded into a synthetic body that will live on indefinitely. The biological you would live out whatever time you have left, too--out of the way and on the moon! What kind of objections might be raised against doing this? Would you do it? Why or why not? Do you think the result of this procedure would be you? Or a mere copy of you? What's the difference? Does it matter? Here's another chance to think about personal identity in a sf context....
UPDATE: You really ought to check out Sawyer's talk about the relevance of sf. It's called "A Galaxy Far, Far Away" My Ass! and it's been given the Youtube treatment in three parts: 1, 2, 3.
UPDATE 2: Rob has kindly linked to my little blog here. Thanks!
Many of Sawyer's books (although I confess I haven't read them all) are driven by a provocative thought experiment, often just the sort of thing that you'd find widely discussed in the philosophical literature. What would it be like if... everyone in the world were to catch a glimpse of the future? Or if we were to discover scientific evidence of a soul leaving the body at death? Or if we were able to return our aging bodies to their youthful condition? Or if we were to encounter an alien who believed in God? If you want to know what Sawyer thinks it'd be like if such things were to happen, read Flashforward, The Terminal Experiment, Rollback, and Calculating God, respectively. You can count on his books to engage your mind not only with plot and character but with ideas. As somebody once said, the true protagonist of a good science fiction story is an idea rather than a person!
I want to think about the central thought experiment in one Sawyer yarn (Mindscan) in a bit more depth. Suppose that you're in your forties and you've just discovered you have a terminal illness that'll kill you sometime in the next few months. Now suppose that you are presented with an extraordinary opportunity: your consciousness--personality, memories, and all--can be copied and downloaded into a synthetic body that will live on indefinitely. The biological you would live out whatever time you have left, too--out of the way and on the moon! What kind of objections might be raised against doing this? Would you do it? Why or why not? Do you think the result of this procedure would be you? Or a mere copy of you? What's the difference? Does it matter? Here's another chance to think about personal identity in a sf context....
UPDATE: You really ought to check out Sawyer's talk about the relevance of sf. It's called "A Galaxy Far, Far Away" My Ass! and it's been given the Youtube treatment in three parts: 1, 2, 3.
UPDATE 2: Rob has kindly linked to my little blog here. Thanks!
Friday, March 13, 2009
No one cares about the man in the box
Christopher Nolan's The Prestige (2006 ) is both a wonderful film and the source of a provocative set of thought experiments about personal identity. I'd like to talk about a few of the movie's philosophical implications of the film and ask some questions, but I should first warn you that spoilers lie ahead.
David Bowie delivers a delightfully quirky performance as the scientist and inventor Nikola Tesla (1856-1943). Surely in both character and actor we have here the nearest thing to science fiction that real life humanity has to offer!
Tesla builds a fantastic machine for the magician Robert Angier (played by Hugh Jackman), who is desperate to duplicate the astonishing feat of his arch-rival Alfred Borden (Christian Bale). Somehow Borden is able to convince an audience that he has transported himself across the stage in a mere instant. Angier (wrongly!) thinks that one of Tesla's machines is responsible, so he wants one for himself.
But the machine he receives doesn't merely duplicate Borden's trick. It duplicates Angier himself! After the Tesla lightning plays over his body, Angier is apparently unaffected--except that a second Angier appears some distance away. Now that's magic!
Suppose we're wondering just what this machine does. Consider the following possibilities:
I'd argue that the film favors (1), since it jives quite nicely with the earlier version of the trick wherein Angier must hide under the stage while his body double receives the accolades of the audience. And it's also an extension of the film's opening trick with the bird, too, in which the original bird is killed and then replaced by an exactly similar one. But that's not really my point here. Instead, I want to suggest that although these initially appear to be three distinct options, the differences among them become blurred upon reflection.
Angier says, "It took courage to climb into that machine every night... Not knowing if I'd be the Prestige.... Or the man in the box." But what is it that he doesn't know? Each of the two men thinks that he is "the real Angier." Yet they cannot both be Angier, notwithstanding Tesla's earlier remark that "they are all your hat, Mr. Angier." You see, identity is a transitive relation, so if Angier 1 is the original Angier and Angier 2 is the original Angier, then Angier 1 is Angier 2. And obviously that isn't the case, since there are two of them, and one lives and one dies. (In the first use of the machine, the Angier who remains shoots the Angier who travels, while in later uses it's the Angier who remains who is dropped into the box and drowns.)
So, if they cannot both be identical to the Angier who steps into the lightning, how do we answer Angier's question? Are we asking about the causal connection between the original Angier's body and the bodies of Angier 1 and Angier 2? Or are we asking about psychological continuity rather than bodily continuity? What's the difference between a machine that transports people and a machine that destroys and then duplicates people? (This question will be familiar to Star Trek fans....) In the end, does it matter whether the machine works in way (1), (2), or (3)? Is there really a difference?
Note that this problem isn't merely a result of the obvious fact that we don't understand how an incomprehensible fictional machine works. The deeper problem is that we don't understand exactly what it is to be a person and to be the same person when such odd things are going on. But do we understand such matters in ordinary cases? Perhaps not. And there are odd cases in real life as well as in sf.
David Bowie delivers a delightfully quirky performance as the scientist and inventor Nikola Tesla (1856-1943). Surely in both character and actor we have here the nearest thing to science fiction that real life humanity has to offer!Tesla builds a fantastic machine for the magician Robert Angier (played by Hugh Jackman), who is desperate to duplicate the astonishing feat of his arch-rival Alfred Borden (Christian Bale). Somehow Borden is able to convince an audience that he has transported himself across the stage in a mere instant. Angier (wrongly!) thinks that one of Tesla's machines is responsible, so he wants one for himself.
But the machine he receives doesn't merely duplicate Borden's trick. It duplicates Angier himself! After the Tesla lightning plays over his body, Angier is apparently unaffected--except that a second Angier appears some distance away. Now that's magic!
Suppose we're wondering just what this machine does. Consider the following possibilities:
(1) The machine creates an exact duplicate of Angier some distance away from the orginal Angier, who is otherwise unaffected by the machine and simply remains where he was. Call this case Duplication.
(2) The machine transports Angier some distance away from his original position and then creates an exact duplicate of him in that position. Call this Transport and Duplication.
(3) The machine replaces Angier with two exact duplicates of himself, one in his original position and the other some distance away. Call this one Fission.
I'd argue that the film favors (1), since it jives quite nicely with the earlier version of the trick wherein Angier must hide under the stage while his body double receives the accolades of the audience. And it's also an extension of the film's opening trick with the bird, too, in which the original bird is killed and then replaced by an exactly similar one. But that's not really my point here. Instead, I want to suggest that although these initially appear to be three distinct options, the differences among them become blurred upon reflection.
Angier says, "It took courage to climb into that machine every night... Not knowing if I'd be the Prestige.... Or the man in the box." But what is it that he doesn't know? Each of the two men thinks that he is "the real Angier." Yet they cannot both be Angier, notwithstanding Tesla's earlier remark that "they are all your hat, Mr. Angier." You see, identity is a transitive relation, so if Angier 1 is the original Angier and Angier 2 is the original Angier, then Angier 1 is Angier 2. And obviously that isn't the case, since there are two of them, and one lives and one dies. (In the first use of the machine, the Angier who remains shoots the Angier who travels, while in later uses it's the Angier who remains who is dropped into the box and drowns.)
So, if they cannot both be identical to the Angier who steps into the lightning, how do we answer Angier's question? Are we asking about the causal connection between the original Angier's body and the bodies of Angier 1 and Angier 2? Or are we asking about psychological continuity rather than bodily continuity? What's the difference between a machine that transports people and a machine that destroys and then duplicates people? (This question will be familiar to Star Trek fans....) In the end, does it matter whether the machine works in way (1), (2), or (3)? Is there really a difference?
Note that this problem isn't merely a result of the obvious fact that we don't understand how an incomprehensible fictional machine works. The deeper problem is that we don't understand exactly what it is to be a person and to be the same person when such odd things are going on. But do we understand such matters in ordinary cases? Perhaps not. And there are odd cases in real life as well as in sf.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Who Watches the Philosophers? Philosophy for Free: Video Edition
If I'm going to post about sf you can find for free on the web, it only seems fair occasionally to direct you to some exciting philosophy you can check out, too.
Shelly Kagan is a professor of philosophy at Yale and his entire class on Death can be found at Academic Earth. This is great stuff, and often connects to the kind of philosophical issues we encounter in good sf. It's really worth your time.
TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) is an annual conference that brings in cutting edge speakers (not just philosophers!) on lots of fascinating topics. Hundreds of videos are housed on their site, including Scott McCloud on comics, Aimee Mullins talking about her 12 pair of prosthetic legs, philosopher and transhumanist Nick Bostrom on humanity's problems, Daniel Dennett on consciousness, Ray Kurzweil on how technology will transform us, and much, much more.
Shelly Kagan is a professor of philosophy at Yale and his entire class on Death can be found at Academic Earth. This is great stuff, and often connects to the kind of philosophical issues we encounter in good sf. It's really worth your time.
TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) is an annual conference that brings in cutting edge speakers (not just philosophers!) on lots of fascinating topics. Hundreds of videos are housed on their site, including Scott McCloud on comics, Aimee Mullins talking about her 12 pair of prosthetic legs, philosopher and transhumanist Nick Bostrom on humanity's problems, Daniel Dennett on consciousness, Ray Kurzweil on how technology will transform us, and much, much more.
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