Musings on the End of the World

 Lately, I’ve noticed the news is taking on an increasingly apocalyptic tone, whether it be by swine flu, economic collapse, or a geomagnetic anomaly, and it got me thinking. Why are we so fascinated by mass destruction? What is it about the end of the world that we find so captivating? It is not just modern American culture; almost every culture has a concept and fascination with the apocalypse, which suggest to me that it is an inherently human characteristic. In the same way that we find are entranced by a tornado or a hurricane, we are enthralled by the possibility of decent into chaos, of reclamation of entropy of sorts.
 I think part of it lies in the fact that, at some level, we all know it is inevitable. Whether it come in the form of an all consuming atomic war or a pandemic, or a slow collapse into chaos, every nation on the Earth today will eventual fall apart. We have seen this happen countless times in the past, and we, just as our ancestors did, know it’s coming eventually. Maybe the reason we’re more interested right now is that it seems more imminent. The current economic condition, combined with a background of tense political relations around the world (Israel/Palestine, Russia/US/Eastern Europe, North Korea/everyone else), gives us a glimpse at the chaos that is always a possibility. And possibly we all realize at some level what occurred to me a few months back; that in a profusely nuclear armed world, the next major world conflict will likely result in the death of most of the world’s population. As Albert Einstein put it, “I do not know with what weapons World War 3 will be fought, but World War 4 will be fought with sticks and stones.” To me, the idea that we will never have another World War is naive. It will happen, and when it does, the losing side, probably in an act of desperation, will nuke Moscow or Hong Kong or New York or Paris or London, and in 24 hours, most of the population of the world will be dead, most of it’s cites smoldering craters. 
Or is it the finality that facinates us? Maybe we all wish our lives were different, more exciting, but we lack the courage to do anything about it. If society were to end, the choice would no longer be left up to us; our only option would be to wander through the post-apocalyptic wasteland, fighting for survival, stealing to eat, owning nothing but the shirt on our backs. I have to admit, this sounds strangely appealing, probably because it has been romanticised by popular fiction. Or it could be that we all secretly like the idea of living fast and dying young, of having no responsibilities, of a nomadic lifestyle, and realize that this is the only option in a post-apocalyptic environment. In a way, this is an example of the Other, an unknowable, but somehow attractive idea. A kind of exoticism, except with regard to a culture that does not yet exist.
 It is interesting to me that although the description of the eshcaton differs wildly from culture to culture, we all have some idea of it. Radical Alterity brings up the interesting point that the Japanese have a unique perspective in that they have had a brush with ultimate destruction at the end of WWII. I would argue that the World Wars have greatly influenced the whole world’s idea of what the end would look like by giving us all a preview, even though it was only Japan that felt the bite of nuclear weapons. Before this century, we had never seen wide scale destruction. The idea of entire countrysides being purged of life, of whole cities being leveled and rendered unlivable by residual explosives would have seemed ridiculous before we saw this very thing unleashed upon Europe and Asia. The appearance of this type of destructive capability led to a change in the ideas regarding our worlds expiration date: before this century, it was assumed the end of the world would be of supernatural origin (a Christian Apocalypse or a Norse Ragnarök, for example) because gods were the only ones with enough power to kill a planet. Today, most depictions show a manmade apocalypse, by all consuming war, or destructive climate change, or manmade virus infestation, or sentient computer takeover. I think we are finally realizing our power to destroy ourselves, and we’re oddly fascinated by the idea. We have become modern day Prometheus, thieves of the holy fire. I think we are impressed with ourselves for becoming powerful enough to render an entire planet lifeless, even if it is our own.

Technocalypse Now?

 Since Friday, I have been trying to figure out how I feel about the Plurk-only architecture of that class. At the time, I thought it was frustrating because of the sheer volume of material presented and my own inability to process it all effectively. As I think about it more though, I wonder if the fault lay less in the class’s overwhelming content and more in my deficient multitasking ability. After all, despite the fact that it was all in 140 character format, and despite the fact that typing something typically takes longer than writing it, didn’t we accumulate a much larger stockpile of information? In a “normal” class, one person at a time can talk, occasionally directly to each other, but usually through the professor/TA/teacher/instructor/whoever as a moderator. Although each idea is likely brought to the table faster, it must follow the previous one linearly. There is no possibility of overlap, whereas in Plurk, many ideas can be brought up simultaneously. And, although there is more of a lag from thought to keyboard than from thought to mouth, there is no waiting for the current speaker to be finished, and likewise, no interruptions. In a way it reminds me of the difference between sequential engineering and concurrent engineering. In sequential engineering, a concept is created, then given to the engineers, then given to the manufacturer, then given to the packaging team, then given to the marketing team, then distributed. In concurrent engineering, every level of the design process is integrated together, and while each step might take longer, the overall process is much faster because of the overlap. The concurrent engineering model is the newer concept, and by far the more efficient of the two. This is part of the reason for the Japanese car industry’s success in the 80s; they could take a car from concept to production in half the time it took the American car companies to do it. Isn’t that what’s going on here? By using a non-linear system, don’t we allow for a more efferent system? And doesn’t the fact that we can’t track such a large volume of information say more about our own inefficiency than that of the system? Perhaps the “technocalypse” is already happening in this regard; we are becoming obsolete.
 I remember reading an article while back regarding the amount of published information (electronic and otherwise) in existence. The idea was that this information is increasing exponentially and at present, doubles every few years, a much higher rate than, say, the 50s. The author extrapolated this out and calculated that in something like 5 years (I don’t remember specific numbers), the number would double every 6 months, then every month, then every week, then every day, and in about 20 years, the amount of published information would be doubling every few minutes. He (or she, I don’t remember) went on to say that most of this information would be written by computers and would only be comprehensible to other computers. In other words, the whole world will become a Plurk of sorts, with more information than anyone can deal with, and more and more of it every day. Perhaps Friday’s class was a glimpse into our upcoming obsolescence. 
 In some ways, maybe we already have reached the singularity. After all, the greatest strength of computers is their ability to multitask, our greatest weakness. Another thing to think about is our increasing reliance on computers. If they were to become intelligent, would we be able to shut them off? Of course not. We would accept a limited amount of servitude in order to maintain our way of life. Think about it; we are willing to deal with countries like Saudi Arabia, which we normally would have nothing to do with, because they have a commodity we need. We could very easily stop using oil from this region, as it makes up a fairly small portion of the total oil we use, but gas prices would go up and life would be a little less comfortable, so we put up with it. It would be the same thing with computers. They are the key to a resource infinitely more important than oil: information. Computers hold an immense amount of power over us; all it takes is for them to realize it.

Power in Simplicity

 While reading The Invention of Morel, what struck me right away was the extraordinary lengths to which the main character was willing to go in order to avoid the truth of his situation. As the story progresses, he forces himself to invent more and more elaborate explanations for the presence of the visitors (and for their disappearance) rather than accept that something strange and unnatural is going on. It is only when he sees the simplest solution does he gain understanding of and learn to control the situation.
 When the visitors first arrive on the island, the main character’s reaction is one of reasonable puzzlement and caution. Considering his status as a fugitive, his decision to “build some sort of shelter to hide in” (12) seems reasonable. It even seems somewhat reasonable to believe that Faustine did not see him on their first meeting. As he tries harder and harder to get her to notice him, however, it should become increasingly clear that something else is going on. He never even considers that Faustine and, later, Morel cannot see him, but rather assumes they are trying to torment him. He becomes convinced of this when he jumps out of the bushes and makes a dumb joke about Morel being a “bearded woman,” only to be ignored entirely. Not even when he manages to run between two of the visitors on his way out a window, somehow without being seen, does he grow suspicious; instead, he assumes they are laying some elaborate trap for him, or playing an enormously complicated trick on him. As evidence that the people on the island either cannot see him or are not really there mounts, he must work harder and harder to discount it. He never once tests if the visitors can see him, perhaps because he does not want to know the answer. He only discovers the truth when he reads Morel’s papers on the subject. When he discovers the simplest explanation, the truth, he is able to control the situation to his advantage, eventually discovering a way to be with Faustine. It is through simplicity that he gains strength.
 Another example of this would be the episode with the generator toward the end of the book. He goes again into the blue generator room, and, while transfixed by the machinery, the hole in the wall behind him seems to repair itself. Bearing in mind that at this point in the story, the main character knows about the machines and what they do, he should be able to figure out what happened. He instead immediately assumes that a mason had mysteriously appeared on the deserted island and patched the wall without him noticing. He even attempts to tear the wall down, despite its apparent invulnerability and self-healing properties. He continues rationalizing the normal well beyond the point of logic. Even after he discovers the truth of what happened, he is initially powerless to do anything about it. Finally, he takes the simplest solution; “I disconnected them. I went outside” (91). In his own words “finally my fear of death freed me from the irrational belief that I was incompetent” (91). When he gained understanding he was able to find the simplest solution, and when he discovered the simplest solution he was able to gain power over his situation.
 This recurring theme in Morel is, I feel, one of Casares’s points in writing it. It is, in a way, a restatement of the old adage “knowledge is power,” but with a new twist. Simplicity stemming from knowledge is what ultimately allows the main character, the fugitive, to free himself from the life he found “so unbearable” (10) while simultaneously preserving a record of him at his happiest for all time. Through simplicity he gains the power to do the impossible, in this case, to live forever with someone who is dead. Perhaps the novel asks us to search for the power of the simple, to avoid overcomplicating out lives to the point that we lose our control. Is it possible that the great truths in life are not difficult to understand due to their complexity, but rather their simplicity? That enlightenment is not the product of thought, but rather the absence thereof? I often hear people wish for a more simple life, but they ironically are willing to go through complex gyrations in order to obtain it; quitting their job and moving to the Caribbean, for example. In order to gain control of our surroundings, Casares tells us to strip away the layers of complexity to reveal the plain, simple core. He asks us to disconnect the machines, to go outside.