Author Archives: Abalieno

The Golden Standard

I noticed this discussion on twitter and decided to join (it also sports Mark Lawrence and Joe Abercrombie defending their work). Not because I needed so bad to put all the blame on Ian Sales, but because it typifies an attitude that I see frequently, and so I decided to do my best to expose it for what it is.

ian_sales: John Crowley, Mary Gentle, Paul Park, David Herter, Cat Valente. No other authors working in fantasy even comes close to them. And certainly not anyone writing epic fantasy – most of them can barely string coherent sentences together.

If you’ve read one grimdark fantasy, you’ve pretty much read them all.

some types of fantasy attract the better writers. Commercial epic/grimdark fantasy isn’t one of those.

it seems a bit daft to start defending writers of commercial epic fantasy given that we all agree that beautiful prose in such books is neither desirable nor expected.

It seems pretty obvious that ian_sales’ thesis on this forum thread is that all Epic Fantasy is crap, because of what it is and not because of who writes it.

His mistake is the common one of those who absolutely need to put labels on everything, or draw lines on the ground: here’s where there’s quality stuff and where I stand with my lofty standards, over there is the popular, commercial stuff for the uneducated masses. So in order to elevate himself and his literary taste, he needs to mark the difference from the Genre.

The mistake is clumping together stuff so that he can put the “sh*t” label on all Epic Fantasy. It’s a prejudice like any other. It’s what enables him to pick up a book and be able to tell whether its good or crap just by looking at the cover. It should be obvious that this is delusional, as are always delusional prejudices in all forms.

The simple fact that he RESISTS the suggestion of making distinctions within Epic Fantasy, and the rationalization that goes in explaining why Epic Fantasy MUST have crap prose as an unavoidable requirement just exposes his “bias”.

—
On the matter of prose quality and elaborate obfuscation, I used in the past to compare Erikson and Wolfe. This simply because they can be seen as two opposites. I sometimes criticized Gene Wolfe because he can write in elegant, elaborate ways a simple concept. I don’t consider this an honorable achievement. What’s more praiseworthy is the opposite: express clearly a complex matter.

Wolfe’s prose usually require lots of work to extricate meaning from his sentences, and he loves obfuscation on all levels. It’s as if reading becomes a puzzle itself. And it’s not simply just prose, since everything from the characters to the plots, to the dense symbolism contributes to this puzzle. So I use here another broad scheme: writers that are “esoteric” and those that are “generous”. No matter how hard you try, some subtle meanings and purposes in Wolfe’s books will stay out of your grasp, simply because you lack the knowledge of some external material that Wolfe is referring to. Either you share the “code” to decipher what he writes, or you’re left out staring through a window and figure out a fragment of what’s there to figure out. I sometimes resent this kind of deliberate obfuscation.

Erikson instead I consider more “generous” because the writing style and purpose don’t hamper comprehension. There’s stuff that is complex, but it just requires patience to figure out. He doesn’t write deliberately to obfuscate or to be understood only by cultists who share an hidden code. Some writers like Pynchon, Joyce or Wolfe sometimes work hard to avoid being understood, to obfuscate and hide. This game is interesting to play, but it’s an elitist purpose. You write for a self-appointed minority. Whereas other writers tackle complex matters and demand work from the reader (the same way I put Wolfe and Erikson as opposites, I can do with Pynchon and David Foster Wallace), but the kind that is accessible and that wants you to be part of it, instead of pushing you away. So this is a broad distinction that I sometime use because it works.

That said, even the quality of prose sometimes is still subject to the purpose of the book itself. I enjoy the broad spectrum. For example Glen Cook has a disjointed, blunt prose. You’d think that the prose being not good pulls away from the book, but instead it’s the kind of prose that perfectly fits the story and adds to it. A prose style also is a tool that can fit a specific purpose.

So the broader error is once again trying to decide the formula that is perfect and ideal for every case. The Golden Standard. Writing being art, instead, draws its qualities from its variety and the impossibility to canonize. Or it goes stale and fades.

If you enjoy just one flavor, whether its Literary, or popular, you’re simply missing out by drawing your walls safe and near.

More publishing fuck-ups – V. by Thomas Pynchon

Once again I’m baffled by how little consideration and attention major publishers give even to major Literature writers.

This time I ordered an used, old copy of “V.” by Thomas Pynchon. Shipped from Amazon US, making the shipment cost me twice the price of the used book itself. This simply because I dislike all the most recent covers of this book, and instead I like much more the mass market Bantam edition:

So it was solely a decision about the cover, and the fact that I like a lot the tiny print that was used in the old editions and the yellowy pages that make one feel as if being pushed back in the past when the book came out. Little vanities.

I received the book today after it took almost a month to get over here, and when I gave a look to the wikipedia page I learned that:

In 2012 it emerged that there were multiple versions of V. in circulation. This was due to the fact that Pynchon’s final modifications were made after the first edition was printed and thus were only implemented in the British, or Jonathan Cape, edition and the Bantam paperback. The fact was forgotten soon after in the U.S., so most US editions, including the newly released eBook, follow the first printing and are therefore unauthorized versions of the text, while the British editions, which follow the first edition printed by Jonathan Cape, contain Pynchon’s final revisions.

This is the article that explains it more in detail. I checked my own copy and was glad to find out it’s the revised, “final” version. Such luck. Then I went checking the most common version sold on Amazon and, yep, it’s the unrevised, “unauthorized” version (also notice the crappy cover). I checked the lines inside. PERENNIAL CLASSICS MY ASS.

On twitter they even told me that the newest US editions added errors ON TOP of those already present. Sure, it is not the end of the world because Pynchon is one of those writers who obsess every single word, and from what I’ve read the total of the differences is likely negligible and unnoticeable for the final reader. But still, it’s responsibility of the publisher to obsess at least as much as the writer about every detail. It’s basically their whole job knowing what they are dealing with, knowing all the different editions and take care so that whatever small error is properly dealt with.

From the wikipedia I also read that:

“In 2012 Pynchon’s books were released in e-book format, ending a long holdout by the author. Publisher Penguin Press reported that the books’ length and complex page layouts made it a challenge to convert them to a digital format.“

What? Pynchon’s books are too long for e-books? Does the digital binding risk to fail? It required so much work and dedication that they based the text of the e-book too on the wrong version with the errors. Once again.

Apparently modern technology isn’t good enough to reproduce this:

The language of roots and branches

That title is once again a reference to the Kabbalah. It seems I bring this up often, but I want to point out that I don’t “believe” in it, nor it even represents my view on things. The value I recognize in it, instead, is that it offers some patterns or schemes that, when generalized, can be extremely useful and revelatory when applied to all sorts of different contexts and themes. It’s like a tool that can offer an interesting angle.

In this case I’m pointing this out because it’s directly connected with what I wrote in my review of “Forge of Darkness” and with something I just read in Dune. So I’ll use it to simplify again what I intend with that “metaphor made real” that Erikson uses, and why it can oppose Fantasy “as escapism”.

This is the quote from “Dune”:

“Words,” Kynes said.

Paul stared at him. Presently, Paul said: “You have a legend of the Lisan al-Gaib here, the Voice from the Outer World, the one who will lead the Fremen to paradise. Your men have –”

“Superstition!” Kynes said.

“Perhaps, “Paul agreed. “Yet perhaps not. Superstitions sometimes have strange roots and stranger branchings.”

I doubt that Herbert here made a deliberate reference to the Kabbalah, but the image made me link that concept to how I perceive value in Fantasy.

In the Kabbalah the image presented is that of an inverted tree. You have the roots on top and the branches down. This threshold between roots and branches represents the separation between the physical, material world, and the spiritual one, the metaphysics. A pattern that you can repeat wherever you want. For example between the determined world of cause and consequence, and consciousness (the basic Cartesian Dualism). Between the shadowy activities of the greater brain and those of consciousness, the space that is “lit”. In this case that Dune reference about “the Voice from the Outer World” can also imply the fact that Paul is described (and really is) an external agent that operates meta-linguistically on the fabric of the story/plot (though I’m pretty sure that Herbert dropped the ball here and didn’t carry it all the way). In any case, back to this essential division between material world and spiritualism (which regardless of religion or belief, is the true foundation of what we perceive as “human being”). What Kaballah says is that these two dimensions, or worlds, are entirely separated in substance. Things you do in the material world actually have no consequence on the spiritual one, or at least the cause/consequence is only a relationships that goes from the above to the below, so the spiritual affecting the material, but not the opposite. You’ll see how this one-way also applies to writing, which reproduces a similar duality.

The strong idea is: since these are two completely different and separated worlds, divided by an impassable barrier (that it is impassable is the basic tenet of reductionism), it is then not possible to “speak” of the spiritual world, since language only deals with this side we’re on. So the whole of Kabbalah is shaped like a “code”. When we say “apple” we usually mean the idea of a real apple, whereas an “apple” in Kabbalistic language would only be a symbol representing a spiritual idea. If you then read a Kabbalistic text literally, then you understand nothing of it, because it actually describes an “elsewhere” you aren’t aware of. The “language of roots and branches” is the idea of this code that describes the spiritual world while using material language. For every word, you then have to learn a new meaning that points over, across that barrier.

The reason why I associated this with the Fantasy genre is because I think it expresses well the most fundamental idea. You can have Fantasy as escapism. My point isn’t about diminishing it, it’s just that it doesn’t satisfy me as much. So I can criticize for example Brandon Sanderson’s famous “magic systems”. For some readers they are clever, fun and cool, inventing them so that they make some sense and are consistent. But for me this idea is somewhat “empty”, because it doesn’t really say anything of value (and doesn’t want to, so it’s not a flaw). Being empty for me means it has no “meaning”. No sense of purpose beside the honorable one of pure entertainment. Once again, I don’t want to be judgmental or glorify a sub-genre while dissing another, as I often can join that group too and I’m not a partisan.

But can Fantasy be more? It can when it is more enlightened. It’s very obvious to readers of Gene Wolfe, where for example every little fragment is a manipulation taken directly from the real world mythology (or religion, as a flavor of mythology). Gene Wolfe reshapes myth, adding his own invention, but tries to grasp the reason and core of myth, not just the outward surface, not just its look and manners (hello, Wheel of Time). So that’s also an attempt to plunge in the depth of the soul (because classic myths also weren’t arbitrary, solipsistic inventions), and the soul of “meaning”. “Metaphor made real” is a similar concept. You write about fantastic worlds but only as the shaping of a truly personal landscape that reflects the material, real world. The world as seen, hence the world rebuilt, human-s(e)ized. In the same way Science Fiction can be a thoughtful reinterpretation of society, so too can Fantasy give shape to ideas that have their “roots” this side of the world. Not just unhinged fantastic worlds.

That’s when Fantasy is at its “maximum meaning”. You are completely aware of writing *this*, while thinking and describing *that* (the error is when you only reproduce exactly something specific, without digging at its universal roots). The material world you shape in fiction is the “stage”, that needs its consistency to give the feel of being whole. But what is performed on that stage is something that connects to the reader because it is relevant. The fantasy world rebuilt becomes the “branches” of the tree. The part that is visible, shaped by every word that is written on the page. But it then evokes those patterns and themes that have their core on the other side, which is the case of a book is the dangerous fourth wall, that delicate link to the reader. So giving shape to myths that hold truths about the real world we live in. That is exactly why Greek myths were so powerful and still frequently used in psychological, modern studies. That’s Fantasy that doesn’t sever the link and simply builds an alternative, independent world, but that grows powerful and meaningful because its roots go deep in the human soul, and because it is aware about where it comes from.

From this interplay of meta-linguistic levels you can squeeze so much creativity that is powerful exactly because it’s not merely arbitrary and not severed from the source. That is rich because as rich as the soul, that can only grow more and more, or even be reduced to sharp clarity. Invention in the right place. Wolfe and Erikson (or Bakker) from my point of view do all this, with the difference that Erikson is more accessible and direct, but both originate from a similar intent.

So you can THINK. Not to try reproducing a fictional and sterile landscape, but because those fundamental questions you come up with share the truth of a personal condition, and so observe, learn or whatever you come to. Every branch is relevant.

Forge of Darkness – Steven Erikson

And now I fear that I am not unusual, not cursed into some special maze of my own making. I fear that we are all the same, eager to make strangers of the worst that is in each of us, and by this stance lift up the banners of good against some foreign evil.

But see how they rest against one another, and by opposition alone are left to stand. This is flimsy construction indeed. And so I make masks of the worst in me and fling them upon the faces of my enemies, and would commit slaughter on all that I despise in myself. Yet, with this blood soaking the ground before me, see my flaws thrive in this fertile soil.

Reading this book was for me a stimulating experiment. “Forge of Darkness” is the first tome in a prequel trilogy, to a series that is ten books wide. Naturally it would be read by fans who went through all the ten, huge books building the Malazan series. I’m one of them, but I read at my own pace and I’m exactly halfway through that series, ready to pick up “The Bonehunters”, the 6th volume. I decided instead to read this one first. It was an occasion to read the book when it came out (or at least within a few months) and to make a contrast between books that shared themes but separated by some meaningful years. So that I could see more clearly how Erikson’s writing changed and if that direction was one I “approved”. About a year ago I read “This River Awakens” that, while not Malazan, I considered his best book, and it was written years before even the first volume in the Malazan series. It was not exactly an encouraging perspective. So I’m glad to say, bluntly, that in my personal Malazan ladder, this book comes first, above the other five in the main series that I’ve read (it goes like this, for those who recognize these codes: FoD > HoC > MoI > DG > MT > GotM).

I read the book holding some kind of three-way perspective, which was not forced. Usually when I try to write down a review my goal is to give a sense of that book, especially about why one should read it, instead of millions of other books out there. Like a sense of urgency. What sets it apart and gives it its uniqueness of flavor. In the case of long series there are three perspectives. First there’s my own, the very personal and emotional response that rises spontaneously and that one has then to struggle to rationalize in clear patterns, then there’s the perspective of readers who know well if not the book, at least the series, author and setting, and finally readers who are completely new. In the case of this book all three are particularly interesting since it’s a prequel, and so, already in the intentions of its writer, a possible starting point for brand new readers (as well veterans who still have not finished the main series).

Is “Forge of Darkness” a good starting point for readers who have yet to pick up the Malazan series? Initially I thought it was. The writing is measured and careful, so easy enough to follow without feeling lost. The problem is that from the middle point onward there are a number of mysterious scenes steeped in myth that were confusing even for me, who ravel in that kind of thing. So I would say that reading this book first is definitely possible, even recommended, but it comes with some conditions. It is not an easy book. It is extremely demanding. From one side it will make understand a reader what’s the (real) deal with the Malazan series, whereas “Gardens of the Moon” is nowhere as clear about what is that sets this series apart from everything else. But from the other it could discourage a reader even more than GotM because it’s a steep climb that demands a lot from the reader, and to engage with it deeply. The story has better hooks and it can be more seducing, it isn’t baffling, impersonal and confusedly crowded as GotM was, but it also lacks the lures one expects in epic fantasy: the journeys, visiting places, meet peoples, big setpieces. All these do exist, but are twisted in the unique Malazan way.

Erikson said that, as the Malazan series was conceived as an homage to Homer, the seed of epic fantasy, these prequels would be another homage, but to Shakespeare, the bard. Pretentious claim, everyone would say. Whether deserved or not, I recognized this particular air (and the setting is also particularly suited). The PoVs and scenes in this book have a perceivable theatrical quality. Sometimes I perceived that “enter” and “exit” lines that built a scene, characters coming on stage, facing each other. Erikson always used this style, this time slightly different because often the next scene follows logically the one before, and so reducing the jumps in context typical of Malazan, but this time it gives a sense of a play and contained space. These scenes remain intimate, usually not more than an handful of characters interacting. Malazan was more sweeping wide, panoramic and movie-like.

This time things are personal and stay lodged tightly with the characters even if events have a big import. “Worldbuilding” is interesting because built in a false way. This is not a typical fantasy backdrop, here less than Malazan proper, that objective world that is stated with certainty. The fantasy, secondary world built as an independent, whole thing. One of the lures of reading fantasy can be this escapism, the seduction of a different, fascinating world finely detailed and precisely described. Instead I call what Erikson does “false worldbuilding” because it stays on the characters. The world shifts and blurs, is shaped and defined by the characters who live within it and that observe it. Things either have subjective value and meaning, or do not appear. And it is only in the opposition of the many PoVs that you can perceive it as something whole.

It is in my nature to wear masks, and to speak in a multitude of voices through lips not my own. Even when I had sight, to see through a single pair of eyes was a kind of torture, for I knew – I could feel in my soul – that we with our single visions miss most of the world.

The value in what Erikson does, compared to other Fantasy writers who don’t always have it in focus, is in the “metaphor made real”. This could become just a tiresome trick on its own when simply repeated, but the strength is about knowing what you write about. The reason why it’s so important is that it builds a true resonance with what’s meaningful. A story grips a reader when it builds a bridge, between what happens on the fictional side and what’s deep in the reader (and that’s also the distinction with escapism, wish fulfillment and all that). You could fashion clever magic systems and cool looking demons, show epic battles, but those demons only have true power if they come deep from one’s true soul. In this book even more effectively than anything else I’ve read, Erikson turns the human being inside out. What is shown is the dark side of the human landscape. Those true demons. Those that truly scare you and won’t go away, ever, when you turn on the light or when you grow up. It is done without rhetoric and embellishment. Without spectacle and complacency. From my point of view, this is Erikson at his apex.

Erikson at his best, excellent prose. Filled to the brim with beautiful and meaningful lines. It is a pleasure to read, but it also rather dense and can discourage readers who do not engage on this level and prefer something that has a brisk, lighter pacing. Or something that doesn’t take itself so seriously. Erikson is known and often criticized for heavy-laden introspection and one either has interest in it, or this book can be incredibly daunting and tiresome (especially with it moves toward the cosmogony of myth, which is a theme of this book I simply love and find, oh, so incredibly interesting). I’d also say that this is the one that the most gets close to the work of Gene Wolfe (without any of that artificial affection that I see in Wolfe), also admired for beautiful, meaningful prose and criticized for lack of ease of access and flow of plot. Lots of interesting, pivotal things happen, but as I said this is colored by what the characters see and their thoughts. The landscape has a dream-like flavor and also gives it an haunted atmosphere.

Many times Rise Herat had seen a face stripped back by the onslaught of loss, and each time he wondered if suffering but waited under the skin, shielded by a mask donned in hope, or with that superstitious desperation that imagined a smile to be a worthy shield against the world’s travails. These things, worn daily in an array of practised expressions insisting on civility, ever proved poor defenders of the soul, and to be witness to their cracking, their pathetic surrender to a barrage of emotion, was both humbling and terrible.

It is not an easy book because it’s often, always, a punch in the gut. It is not simply bleak to the point of being mono-tone. As usual Erikson shows the full range of emotion and there is humor and lighter scenes. But that human warmth and friendship is always a very narrow ledge that opens on a Abyss of miasmatic chaos, always eroded. A frightful thing. Like a candle light in a forest of darkness. There isn’t (anymore) any conceit about what Erikson does with his writing, and no attempt to reassure the reader after an hard experience. Those decorative curtains are torn away. Reading this book is like drinking wine on a empty stomach. There’s is lots of beauty, but it’s also mean and bewildering. This is thick and heady wine, the kind that takes quite a toll.

I’m still answering that question, the answer is: read it if you dare. Expect an exhausting book. The reward is an unique one because I’m simply not aware of another writer who achieves as much. Simply. You think it’s “hype”, for me it’s being honest. What Erikson writes contains the breadth of the world. Any world. And as far as I know no one has ever attempted to do the same. What Tolkien did was incredible, especially in the latter part, post-LotR, and Erikson indeed sits on the shoulder of giants, but he sees further away and describes that he sees better than anyone else. This book is a distillation of all the qualities the Malazan series possesses (and none of the flaws and growing pains I recognize in it), by a writer who’s now probably at the very top of his skills and is no more struggling to find his voice as he was in “Gardens of the Moon”. If you want to know right from the start what Malazan is about, then this book is ideal, but if you want to take it easy without being plunged on the very deep end, then start from the beginning of the series.

P.S.
I also believe, contrary to what everyone would say, that this book is perfectly self-contained and doesn’t necessarily need the two upcoming books that will complete the trilogy. Some (most?) PoVs are left hanging, but but not in a frustrating or dissatisfying way, and the book has its cohesion.

Suggested reading:
– Larry’s review of the book, because he did this time a so much better work than me, whereas I always try to be spoiler free that my own end up being so generic and bland.
– This on Tor site, because it’s a newcomer perspective (even if plagued by way excessive retconning to familiar canons, which doesn’t help at all understanding Malazan) and because I like “The Silmarillion as told in the style of A Song of Ice and Fire”, only that Erikson ends up writing better than both of those writers ;)

Why Fringe finale *MAY* make sense (or may not)

For me the show lost steam and interesting things to say with the end of Season 3. The end of a great show. The rest is watchable, but average TV that wouldn’t really deserve attention if it wasn’t for what came before (and Season 1 only is good because how it fits on the bigger picture revealed in Season 2/3).

So I kept watching until the end knowing it would disappoint. The finale did really nothing for me. The plot moved EXACTLY as it was described, with zero surprises or interesting development. The “emotional” moments seem well received from the internet, but they also were repetitions of everything the show already said before, and better.

Now SPOILERS.

Pretty much everyone who saw the finale thought it didn’t really make sense. A twit summarizes what I think was the common reaction. The problem everyone noticed is the following:

– How it is possible that Observers only get erased with the invasion, and not instead through the whole timeline, so preventing September to distract Walternate from the cure, causing Walter to cross universes, kidnap Peter, September again saving Walter & Peter from the lake, and then all the cascading of effects? Everything that happens in seasons 1/2/3 happens as direct consequence of the Observers’ intervention. If you erase the Observers then you remove the WHOLE story. So why is it only from the scene in the park onward that the timeline is affected? Why that arbitrary point? It is a good excuse to give the show the Happy End scene everyone wanted, but it is otherwise a huge plot hole that makes zero sense.

That’s the big problem. I saw the finale and I thought the writers just went with a something the public would enjoy, without giving much thought to the fact it made no sense. It may work for TV, but it’s actually even less consistent than what we got with LOST.

But after a while I realized that my memories of the show aren’t accurate about what ACTUALLY happened, and that with a little bit of hammerin’ one could manage to square this round peg into the square hole, maybe:

– Remember season 3 finale? Peter steps in the machine, ends up being erased. With the beginning of season 4 we got a rebooted universe. Peter only exists in phantom form, Walter lives in the lab and so on. The universe in seasons 1/2/3 was ALREADY erased. What happens then is that Peter is brought back by the Power of Love. It’s a horrible plot point, but it’s what we’ve got. The old universe is NOT restored, and only continues to exist for three people:

1) Peter. Because after he’s back he still has his memories of all that happened.
2) Olivia. Due to drugs and Peter she starts to have mixed memories and finally becomes the Olivia Peter remembered (this was a big plot in season 4, if you remember).
3) Walter. He’s touched by the Observer kid who gives him back all the memories he lost due to the reboot.

Those three, and all of us who watched the show, “witnessed” and remember those events. No one else. It’s a way the show has to tell us we got something somewhat private and exclusive to share with those characters.

When we deal with the erasure of the Observers from the timeline then we only deal with this rebooted universe in seasons 4/5, NOT the universe we got used to in previous seasons, which now continues to exist in memories only. So whatever effect the erasure of Observers will have, it will have in THIS new context.

I don’t have a good memory of how this reboot worked, but as far as I remember the Observers didn’t play a big role in season 4, and only seemed to actually affect the timeline with the invasion itself. So it *may* be possible that the total erasure of the Observers in this timeline doesn’t have other consequences, beside the invasion itself. Filling that plot hole that everyone noticed.

(Late edit: it seems I was wrong and there’s some deep involvement of Observers even in season 4. See episode 14. What I explain below could also give an excuse to why everything went as it should, but I have to admit it’s quite a LEAP. So thee finale may not make sense, after all.)

There are a few things left to explain, though. How was Walter able to send the white tulip to Peter? Well, do you really think that Walter would live happily and quietly in the future? It’s actually a powerful device, if you think about it. It’s an omnipotent Deus Ex Machina that’s entirely plausible in the logic of the show:

I’m being told that there’s a part of my explanation that does not work. They tell me in the reboot universe September STILL distracts Walternate from the cure. The only divergence is that Peter dies in the lake. I actually am not so sure about this, because I remember there was lots of speculation during season 4, so I’m thinking that this may be more a byproduct of speculative deduction than something the show has *shown* explicitly. In any case, the “logical” Deus Ex Machina I was talking about would fix both the problem of the White Tulip AND the problem of the necessity of Walternate being distracted so that things would work the way they worked. How? Do you really think that Walter goes in the future to start a luddite movement and abhor science? The “plan” was NOT to go in the future to obliterate current Observers, but to create BETTER observers. The kid Observer was needed to demonstrate how to achieve that betterment, not simply stop Observers as a destructive evolutionary trend and be done with it. Which means that what we got this: far future technology + Walter at their disposal = UTTER OMNIPOTENCE. Including time travel.

Hence, it would be in the realm of possibilities that Walter and the future at large have plenty of handy tools to make sure that everything that needed to happen would happen, minus the Observers invasion. Handcrafting the past so that Peter & Olivia would have the best life possible.

The White Tulip: the sign that God/Father (Walter) sends his child (Peter). To tell him he’s being taken care of:

When I take his hand
and I lead him…

he’ll know that I love him.

The Brain is blind but it doesn’t matter

A quick summary of my two main objections to Bakker’s Blind Brain Theory. That’s essentially all I was repeating this past two months on comments on his blog. There are lots of implications, but I think these two points are at the origin. Besides, I largely accept the theory, and what I’m actually arguing are the consequences and implications of that theory.

1) Formal error. I think this is evident to Bakker already, but he may underestimate it. His intent with the Blind Brain Theory is to reverse the approach to how we can explain consciousness. Inverting the frame of reference. So he believes that if we posit that “consciousness” is a perceptive fraud/illusion, then you could explain consciousness from the “outside”. Starting from the natural world. That way, in his intention, the consequence is that consciousness should be “explained away”. In the sense that he should be able to describe how consciousness comes to be, how it works, and why it is perceived in the way it is (and why this is only a sort of hallucination).

The formal error, I think, is evident. We know the concept of “turtles all the way down”. The problem is that, even more specifically when you deal with consciousness, we know exactly the “origin”. It’s the brain/mind. The postulate is that everything begins in the brain, and so every consequent observation and description need to start from the brain. The switch Bakker makes from an internal self-description, to a “scientific” description from the outside is a formal violation. It’s like in a book switching from first person into third. So this is why I called it a literary trick. It’s a magical handwaving, and so negates exactly the possibility of what you were doing (that is: the possibility to have a description from the outside, looking in).

2) The second objection has roots in the first. I wrote this on Bakker’s blog:

I’m going to ask all of you a question.

We could postulate that all characters in fiction live deterministic stories. There is a god who supposedly knows everything and creates every small bits that becomes material substance in that story. If it’s a book, then a writer writes every single word, then is then made into thought and then projected as a world.

Have these characters free will? Obviously not, as consequence of living in a deterministic world. But what makes a “good story” is the fact that the system is closed to the god. The rules are clear and not continuously violated. And that the characters are true to themselves and the world, as they are set up from the beginning.

But does it matter to us? Does it matter that we know those characters have no free will? Do we stop reading simply because we already know “who did it” (the writer)? Or maybe we still feel compelled to continue, because we are trapped in that first person, and that’s all that matters?

So, knowing the first person is an illusion, does empty it of all its value?

The first point explains that you can’t transcend the limited point of view. Hence the formal violation. Even in science we could posit that there’s a god as a first mover. An entity that sits right outside the system of the world. Science, however advanced, CAN’T disprove this. It’s always possible, however improbable. Being this god “external”, it means the god has no power once the system is in place and starts. Everything moves accordingly to its rules. This system is deterministic, which is what science tells us. This means that if you knew a single moment at any point of the lifetime of this system, you could be able to deduce/reconstruct all its history, past and future. Because deterministic means a cascading of consequences, each having always the exact same outcome, like a very complex domino.

The question is: do people living within a deterministic system have free will? The answer is: no. Because deterministic system means that the choices people make are direct and sole consequence of the environment (where the person is itself undifferentiated part of it). But this leads to a false perception. A deterministic world doesn’t mean that there’s someone with a joystick outside the system that pilots us around. It simply means that we are bound to the environment, not independent from it. The “illusion” of free will is simply due to the limited capacity of our brain, that can’t remotely grasp the totality of reality (and if it did it would break the system, because would break the inside/outside rule, and so automatically make it non-deterministic since the system wouldn’t properly “close”, and closure being the necessary condition of a deterministic system), and so is limited to know one perspective. And that’s the key to solve this riddle.

This is a problem of relativity. A deterministic system can both have free will, and then deny it. If you had the capacity to exit the system, and looking in from the outside, then the system is made deterministic, and so free will vanishes. But if instead you are caged in one perspective, bound to it, then this makes free will something true. Whether free will exists or not depends on who’s asking. This is not just a philosophical abstraction, but a concrete thing. The discovery that the system is deterministic (if such a discovery was possible) can have no effect on the first person point of view (neither in abstract nor in concrete, since “effect” implies choice and so free will). It makes a difference if you were able to exit the system completely. But that would mean changing the perspective. It’s the perspective itself that gives or takes free will.

So my conclusion is that it makes no difference no matter how you spin the paradox. Observations are only “legal” if they don’t violate your perspective, and at the same time you know that having one perspective means that this perspective has “authority”, which means it defines what is true for you. In this case, free will is true. As long we have an identity, we have free will. Breaching the system, would still mean we have free will. Free will would be denied only if we were able to depart from ourselves, and then see us in a picture, but losing entirely the possibility to return.

Tolkien and the Kabbalah

This post will be short. I seem to see the Kabbalah everywhere, but it must be because those patterns are quite powerful and universal, that they they end up being reused in some form no matter the mythology you’re dealing with.

Yet I was still surprised that at the core Tolkien’s mythology is a redress of Kabbalah fundamental idea. There are reflections here and there, but what is unmistakable is the concept of “desire” that evolves with the evolution of civilization. Creating a need for “more”. In Kabbalah this need is transcendental, the need for spirituality, while in Tolkien’s mythology it becomes a need for “Art”. But these two are intimately similar, because in Kabbalah the ultimate desire, stimulated by spirituality, is about “becoming like god”. Equivalence of form. And the idea of Art in Tolkien’s mythology is also intimately the love for Creation, or sub-creation through art. So it’s the Creation made manifest, which, as explained in the story of Númenór, can even become blasphemy and a threat.

But that’s not all. Even more, Tolkien’s “excuse” for why mortality is a “gift”, and his explanation of its purpose, coincide perfectly with the reasons given by Kabbalah:

The view is taken (as clearly reappears later in the case of the Hobbits that have the Ring for a while) that each ‘Kind’ has a natural span, integral to its biological and spiritual nature. This cannot really be increased qualitatively or quantitatively; so that prolongation in time is like stretching a wire out ever tauter, or ‘spreading butter ever thinner’ – it becomes an intolerable torment.

Which corresponds exactly to how Kabbalistic “hierarchies” work.