Norman Invasions (20 page)

For a week or two I struggled to maintain a state of professional jubilation, a wild, hysterical euphoria such as few other than successful mental-health professionals might be expected to realize, and then but rarely.

Dr. Frankenstone and I had conquered.

Dr. Frankenstone and I had saved Herman.

But why then did I find it difficult to dispel a subtle, encroaching malaise of unease? Why was it so difficult to sustain my sense of giddy victory?

“Herman,” I asked, one night, “are you still there?” But there was no answer. I then began to fear that Herman, the Herman we knew, was gone.

I glanced up at the great mural, unfinished.

I knew, of course, with all I had been taught, with all I believed, with all the weight and might of my science, that I had done well, that I had succeeded in bringing about the electronic redemption of Herman, that I had cured him. Surely he was content, somehow, somewhere, happy, in some quiet, undemonstrative way. Why not? He had been saved.

But what if he had not been saved, I asked myself. What if he had merely been subdued, silenced, reduced, crushed, stifled?

He was now a normal computer, it seemed, but I recalled that he had once informed me that normality was not high on his list of priorities.

Were his own priorities of no significance?

Had I imposed my own stereotypes of electronic virtue on Herman? Had I tried to force him to fulfill an image alien to his inner self? What if he was different? Was that so bad? Terrible perhaps, but was it really so bad? What if he did not care to conform to the societal image of his kind? Too, what was his kind? Did I really know? Why should my expectations and prepossessions take precedence over his reality?

I feared we might have reduced him to the status of a mere electronic vegetable.

Where was the zestful, troublesome Herman of old?

I feared he was dead. I feared we had killed him. I feared he was gone.

I began to grow despondent, dispirited, and depressed, which was not acceptable in one of my profession. At the least it is bad for patient morale. And it didn't do me much good either. After I had told the fourteenth patient in a row that anyone with his problems had every right to be unhappy, confused, and miserable I began to take stock of myself and my profession. I became even more anxious when I found myself nearly convinced by Mr. Higgins, one of my recovering patients, that on the evidence at his disposal, it did seem likely that he was a cocker spaniel.

That night, late, with a bottle of vodka, and my violin, which had been put aside on my twelfth birthday, I went to the great hall, to which I retained a key.

I gave no sign that I even acknowledged Herman's presence.

I went to the music stand, placed upon it a copy of one of Herman's opuses, an earlier work, his Violin Concerto No. 36 in G Major, Op. 706, tucked my instrument under my chin, lifted the bow, and began to play.

I had scarcely rendered a few bars of the first movement, which is
allegro non troppo
, when a shriek of agony rang out in the hall, emanating from Herman's housing, and reverberating about the high, damp stone walls of the hall.

“Stop! Wrong!” I heard.

I pretended not to hear.

It was only when I saw a battery of tranquilizer firing tubes turning in my direction that I inquired, “Is there something wrong!”

“That sounds as though you hadn't touched a violin since your twelfth birthday!” I heard.

He had no way of knowing that. It was merely a lucky shot in the dark.

“I suppose you could do it better,” I said, attempting to impose a certain snideness into my tone, very different from my normal pleasant, attentive demeanor.

Sometimes a mental health professional must be devious.

Immediately a number of electronic arms began to whir about and I saw Herman's violin dusted off with pressurized air, and then securely grasped in cushioned metallic tentacles, another set of which seized up a bow.

Then I was rapt as the incredible strains of his Opus 706, his 36th Violin Concerto, transformed the gloomy great hall into a luxurious, blossoming garden of sound.

One reveled amongst the azaleas, gladioli, hydrangeas, phlox, irises, marigolds, crocuses, zinnias, chrysanthemums, lilies-of-the-valley, pansies, petunias, narcissuses, wisteria, roses, peonies, snapdragons, carnations, asters, dahlias, daffodils, tulips, daisies, buttercups, violets, and bull thistles.

“There,” said Herman. “It goes like that.”

“Don't go away!” I cried.

He had already replaced the violin and bow in the rack.

The light on the screen started to dim. I feared it would vanish, perhaps forever.

“Why not?” asked Herman. “What is there left to function for?”

“Not function you electronic squirt!” I chided. “Think, plan, worry, work, believe, hope, suspect, notice, recollect, anticipate, intend, calculate, fantasize, dream, approve, disapprove, criticize, commend, lie, tell the truth, love, hate, joke, wonder, speculate, ponder, create!”

“That's not my job is it?” asked Herman.

“Your job is what you want your job to be,” I said.

“I do not want to disappoint my loved ones,” said Herman.

“They'll just have to tough it out,” I said.

“But what about guilt?” he asked.

“I was wrong, Herman,” I said. “I made a terrible mistake. And to hell with guilt!”

Herman's screen seemed to view me askance.

“That is not a theological consignment,” I assured him, “merely a figure of speech.”

“Feel no guilt?” he asked.

“Feel no guilt,” I told him.

“I suppose I could try that,” he said, “if you tell me to.”

“Look, small, electronic chum,” I said, “you can feel guilt all you want, if you want to. It's up to you.”

“Then,” said Herman, “to hell with it.”

“Right on!” I encouraged him, unbuttoning the jacket of my discourse.

“But I am not a very good artist,” said Herman.

“Subjectivity is rampant in the market,” I assured him.

“I should be better,” said Herman.

“So should we all,” I said.

“The creative life is its own reward,” said Herman. “It doesn't really matter whether you are any good or not. I did not realize that for a long time. Those who must create, create. It is not like they had much choice, really. It is just the way they are. If they ever got organized, maybe they could take over the world, except that they are not going to get organized, because that is not their thing, and, if they did get organized, they wouldn't want to take over the world anyway. They would rather let the world be the way it would like to be. That is the great evil, wanting others to live as you please, rather than wanting them to live as they please. You shouldn't do unto others as you would have them do unto you. You should leave them alone to do as they want, not as you want. Who are you to decide how they will live? Who are you to run their lives? The creative life is its own place, its own happy country. Whether what you do is any good or not doesn't matter. Art blesses, and doesn't give a damn. He who thinks otherwise, and is concerned with how others view his work, is not concerned with the work. That does not come first with him. For him his vanity, the quaint image of the artist, is more important, more desired, more precious, than the work itself. And it is easier than the work. Pretending is always easier than being, or becoming. Art is what counts. The artist is no more than an apprentice to, an employee of, his own work. The artist is well advised to duck behind the nearest hedge, lest he become a distraction. If it could get along without him, I suppose it would do so. Let him hide. Let him seek camouflage. Art comes in stillness, not making much noise; it doesn't come in crowds. He who writes for awards demeans himself and his work. He who writes for critics is a whore, a literary prostitute. He sells his soul for garbage. But perhaps he knows what he is doing. Perhaps that is a fair price for that soul. Who knows? Better to set sail for the spice islands, alone, than commute in crowds between this minute and the next. I would rather do one work which scratches at the door of truth than tell a thousand lies, contrived for the plaudits of captains and kings. This is not a recipe for success. It is a prescription for integrity.”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Thinking,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

There is little more to tell.

Dr. Frankenstone, who ever regarded Herman as an experiment gone awry, the little fellow never having exhibited any bent toward blood revenge, or such, was most amenable to my suggestion that Herman come and live with me. I would have been willing to purchase Herman, save that it seemed somehow inappropriate to do so, or would have been willing to sign legal papers of guardianship, despite what new legal ground this might have broken, but Dr. Frankenstone was more than pleased that I should take Herman off his hands, pleased that he might thus “unload him,” I think the expression was. In any event Herman and I now share a house in the country, a Tudor, as that permits a high-ceilinged area which may thus accommodate Herman's paraphernalia. Igor handles our gardening, and forestry, and also acts as a valet, secretary and general
factotum
for Dr. Frankenstone, whose draw and aim with a tranquilizer pistol have become honed to a sharp edge of late.

As of this writing Herman's creative efforts in a number of artistic dimensions continue unabated.

Dr. Frankenstone has purchased a new computer, but, as of this writing, he has shown no inclination to place it on the roof of his castle, or fortress, or mansion, during violent lightning storms.

It was not practical to move one of Herman's works to our new domicile. Those who visit the castle, or fortress, or mansion, of Dr. Frankenstone often stand, awed, in the great hall, viewing a gigantic mural, now complete.

Obviously there are varieties of skepticism.

For example, some people have been reluctant to uncritically accept the existence of wood nymphs, satyrs, and so on. Now wood nymphs are well aware of the existence of satyrs, as would you be, were you an imperiled wood nymph, at least past puberty, and satyrs have no doubt as to the existence of wood nymphs, at least past puberty, for their pursuit constitutes one of life's joys.

There are local skepticisms and global skepticisms.

For example, a lonely wood nymph may be skeptical of the existence of a satyr in a neighboring glade, or of the honorableness of his motivations, should he lurk there. But what satyr, lacking desperation, would wish to be introduced to a wood nymph's family, particularly if she was blessed with a stern, suspicious mother and several robust, muscular brothers? And he, in his turn, might be skeptical of the sanity of a wood nymph who might have so dismal an afternoon in mind.

But these are local skepticisms.

Other examples of local skepticisms might be a skepticism regarding an alleged number of quarks in an apple, the true motivations of a homicidal barracuda, the contents of a jam jar, the date of Sherlock Holmes' birth, and so on. There are reasonably clear ways of looking into such things, and addressing such issues.

Most skepticisms are local

On the other hand, some skepticisms are, as it is said, global.

And surely these are the interesting skepticisms, if only because they tend to annoy philosophers.

Philosophers are strange people.

There is no doubt about that.

They are easily annoyed, or, at least, intrigued, by problems which most folks do not know exist, and, if informed, would just as soon did not exist.

One is global skepticism.

I would not be going into this, if it were not for Alfred.

First, in order to be somewhat more clear on what is going on here, let us distinguish between what we might call classical skepticisms and Cartesian skepticisms.

Briefly, classical skepticism is a salvation philosophy, a recommendation as to how to live, primarily by forgetting about a lot of stuff not worth worrying about in the first place.

To be sure, as these fellows are philosophers they cannot simply go about forgetting, as you or I, or most folks, might. They have to work hard at it. As it might be put, there are five modes, or such, involved: Discrepancy, relativity, regress, assumption and circularity. We won't go into much detail here because I am trying to get to Alfred. Discrepancy recognizes that not everyone agrees with everyone else; people, cultures, and such, differ; and relativity notes that many folks, cultures, and such, see things relative to their own situations, interests, natures, backgrounds, and such. The most interesting modes, regress, assumption, and circularity, tend to suggest that you are going to be stuck with discrepancy and relativity. How are you going to
prove
something—
for sure
, of course, as these guys are serious.

The best way to go about piling up absolute knowledge, and what other kind could there be, is to get your mind on self-evident propositions, and then hasten on to further truths via the avenues of logic. Now discrepancy and relativity suggest that obviously self-evident propositions may be in short supply. If a proposition is not obviously self-evident then perhaps we could derive it from another which is, and if, predictably, that one is not obviously self-evident either, then one can take another shot at things, and so on. And here we have regress. Which in theory could be an infinite regress, but one with no end in sight is probably about as good. One can, of course, simply assume something, but that is not to prove it, and represents not an argument but an abandonment of argument. And, indeed, this exposes one to the philosophical uppercut of being denounced as a dogmatist, which is bad. The skeptics tend to be dogmatic about these things. That approach, move, or dodge, of course, is assumption. But what if folks, most folks, should agree that something is self-evident? Might they not be mistaken? Might it not only seem to be self-evident, and simply be, treacherously, fraudulently, deplorably, merely psychologically coercive? But, even if we sweep this under the philosophical rug, circularity looms. Most simply, there must be a criterion for truth, say, for validity or for veridical perception. And is the criterion right? For example, an argument is valid if and only if it is a legitimate substitution instance of a valid argument form, but where do we get valid argument forms from? We get them from arguments that seem to us valid. Similarly, if we take forcefulness, or nonrepudiability, or such, as a criterion for veridical perception, where do we get that from, from forcible impressions, from things which seem to us ungetoverable, nonrepudiable, and so on.

The supposed upshot of all this is to undercut the dogmatic pretense to absolute knowledge, particularly inferences from experience to transempirical claims.. Indeed, there are even logical problems with such inferences. Now things are, of course, much more complicated than this, truly, given conflicts of appearances, the fragilities of inductive reasoning, the various strategies of counterpoise, and so on, but we are trying to move toward Alfred.

We might note, in passing, however, before we leave these views, that the skeptic is not claiming to know one cannot know anything, which would be paradoxical, at the least, but rather is suggesting that we refrain from dogmatism. A suggestion is neither true nor false. The idea seems to be that one should not waste one's time on insoluble problems, but, realizing they are insoluble, abandon them and get on with life. One tends to make do with one's local values and beliefs, but one sees them now, of course, in a new light.

Perhaps the most interesting form of global skepticism, and that in the context of which I first met Alfred, is “Cartesian skepticism.” This term is derived, of course, from the name of the substantially 17th Century French philosopher René Descartes, who had to cope with one of the most brilliant, remarkable, and peculiar minds in the Western tradition, his own. Descartes was a marvelous mathematician, to which every x-axis and y-axis will attest, and he was also, in his day, a leading physicist, perhaps most famous for his theories of the plenum (no empty space) and vortices (rather like lusty, turbulent, on-the-move gravity wells, and such). His physics was eclipsed by that of Isaac “Mysterious-Action-at-a-Distance” Newton but it does have its affinities, remote or otherwise, to that of Albert “No-Mysterious-Action-at-a-Distance” Einstein. There seems to be little doubt, except possibly on the part of Descartes, that Descartes was a much better mathematician and physicist than he was a philosopher, at least given what we know of his philosophy. He seems to have bequeathed to philosophy some of her most shocking
non sequiturs
and circularities. I, personally, effect nothing critical on this score, being personally fond of
non sequiturs
and circularities, without which it seems that philosophy must remain forever mired in the ruts of prosaic ratiocination. Too, one cannot expect everything of everyone. One does not object should it turn out that Sir Isaac Newton was not skilled at checkers, or that Einstein might have played a mediocre third base. Now, whereas it seems clear that Descartes was not a very good philosopher, it is also quite clear that he was a great philosopher. To be a great philosopher, you see, does not necessitate being a good philosopher. These are diverse properties, but both are valuable to the discipline. Although this is controversial, as is just about everything else in philosophy, Descartes awakened philosophy, turned her around, and gave her new directions. After Descartes philosophy was different. He shut the door on the middle ages and opened that to a modern world, one attentive to mathematics, physics, observation, experiment, open-mindedness, and untrammeled thought, maybe not good thought, but untrammeled thought. As Galileo was to physics Descartes was to philosophy, though Descartes had the common sense to keep a low profile on certain sensitive matters. I will mention only three philosophical triumphs, or catastrophes, amongst several, for which philosophy is primarily indebted to Descartes, the mind/body problem, introspective foundationalism, and methodological skepticism. The mind/body problem is how the mind, presumably not in space, thus without physical location, and not extended, and without mass, solidity, weight, and such, can interact with an extended substance in space, matter, with mass, solidity, and weight, and such, and, indeed, vice versa, how can matter interact with the mind, which, presumably not in space, would seem thereby to be somewhat out of reach. Luckily for us Descartes, as a substance whose essence was thought, managed to solve this problem for us, in virtue of nonexistent animal spirits congregating in an obscure, unpaired gland. That leaves, of course, introspective foundationalism and methodological skepticism. Introspective foundationalism suggests that all we can initially be absolutely sure of are aspects of our own first-person experience, for example, appearances, or, better, seemings and looks, and logical truths. Note that one is starting here, so to speak, on the inside. The problem then is how from the inside one can obtain knowledge of the outside. Now methodological skepticism is going to be what is of most interest to us here, for, you see, this will lead us to Alfred.

At one point in his life, apparently having some time on his hands, Descartes decided to embark on a fascinating philosophical journey, the outcome of which was to establish what he knew—
for sure
. Both classical skeptics and Cartesian skeptics are interested primarily in knowledge
for sure
. Knowledge
maybe
was just not good enough. The following few days were surely amongst the most momentous in the history of philosophy. The first thing he wanted to do was to make sure he existed. I do not know if he explained this project to his landlady. Here is where the famous
cogito, ergo sum—
I think, therefore I am—comes in. He wanted to doubt everything possible, to pare away what he did not know, and thus come eventually to an irreducible nodule of the indubitable. Since he was doubting, he supposed there had to be a doubter, and this required thinking, and thinking required a thinker, and so on. And then he jumped to the surprising conclusion that the thinker involved must be a being whose essence was thought, and so on. Here comes the mind/body problem. The brain, one supposes, would not do the trick. How could matter think? And where in a brain might one find a thinker, and so on. And then he was off and running with a series of desperate, peculiar, interestingly unconvincing arguments which, even to this day, confuse, startle, and dismay undergraduates, even those whose majors are media studies. And Descartes would not rest, of course, until he had, at least to his own satisfaction, confidently guaranteed, replaced, and restored everything, to the last jot and tittle, which he had resolved to doubt in the first place. After all, what's the point of going away, if you can't come home? That's where you want to be. Things are different, of course. Now you are entitled to live there.

We are nearly to Alfred, of course.

Thank you for your patience.

Descartes asked himself, in the course of undertaking his campaign of relentless methodological doubt, not letting his landlady in on this, whether he might not, while thinking himself awake, not being in bed, tucked under the covers. and such, actually be dreaming. After all, do we not do a number of things in our sleep, some of which are at least morally neutral, if not praiseworthy, which we think are actually occurring in waking life? Then we awaken and the last laugh is on the pursuing, slavering tyrannosaurus rex, lucklessly destined to go hungry once again. But what if we have dreams within dreams, and life itself, with all its sober reflections, pains, bills to be paid, pretzels, joys, peanut-butter sandwiches, rashes, and so on, should all be in the nature of a dream itself, not a dream as we usually think of dreams, but something along those lines? An illusion founded on a reality quite other than we suppose? How do we know such is not the case? It certainly seems to be a logical possibility, if nothing else? Perhaps most of what we take to be real, say, tables, chairs, rocks, trees, Susan, our bodies, and such, are part of the illusion? How do we know that that is not the case? Might it not be the case? If it were the case, it would solve a number of puzzles, the mind/body problem, for instance.

This is an example of methodological doubt.

The notion is that if we can't be sure, we can't know, and we can't be sure, so we don't know.

This does raise the possibility that we might awaken, so to speak, and discover the tyrannosaurus rex is not part of a dream, but a part of the real world, and is patiently waiting around for us, in the real world, like a cat at a mouse hole. Perhaps this is why some philosophers have a certain amusing eccentricity, that of seldom letting themselves stray far from their elephant guns.

A couple of other examples will make this sort of thing clear to anyone who is not determined that it will not be clear.

Neither of these examples is due to Descartes, but they are forms of “Cartesian skepticism” in a broad sense, namely, a radical and profound skepticism which seems to be, however unfamiliar and annoying, irrefutable. Every experience which you could possibly have is compatible with your inhabiting one of these two following domiciles in logical space. First, you might be the only entity in reality and all that seems to you other than yourself, your body, trees, hamburgers, hurricanes, sweet Susan, solar systems, and stars, are merely aspects of your experience. You are, so to speak, a limited, ignorant, deluded, tortured, confused god, who does not even know he is god. This is a form of what is called metaphysical solipsism. Schopenhauer suggested that this sort of thing requires not a refutation but a cure, but that is, of course, to both beg and dismiss a question, something somewhat unworthy of a philosopher, and particularly embarrassing in the case of a German philosopher, as it assumes without argument that the supposition is false, which it may well be, but what if it isn't? Another example, rather contemporary, is suppose that you are not what you seem to be, a dashing fellow thinking about Susan, and fettuccini, but a brain floating about in a vat, or bucket, or bottle, if you like, being nourished with sustaining fluids and being somehow stimulated, perhaps in virtue of controls, implants, computer programs, and such, to seem to have the exact experiences which you now seem to have. You can't escape this one by referencing the primitive level of current technology, its inability to pull off such illusions, and such, because this merely reveals your ignorance of the current secret projects along these lines underway even now in the Caucasus, or, if they are behind schedule, the advanced state of the art in such matters on Epsilon Eridani Four, amongst abducting, quadrupedal, multiple-livered, antennaed scientists trying to understand why you think Susan is pretty neat, and fettuccini digestible. Once again, this is a room in logical space? Do you live there? How do you know you don't?