Tag Archives: Books

An upcoming book of Western short stories

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I am a great fan of the short story. Short stories have great potential for exploring the human condition, especially when placed in a setting a step or two away from the here-and-now – in the future, in the past, or in a fantasy universe. Of course, the challenge in that case is to adequately describe the setting without too much exposition. In science-fiction settings, Cordwainer Smith and Ursula K. Le Guin were two authors who did this extremely well. However, there are advantages in using a historical setting that the average reader will have some knowledge of. In particular, the American West, familiar from hundreds of books and films, makes a great candidate for a short story setting (even outside the US, directors like Sergio Leone have introduced moviegoers to the American West). “The best-kept secret of American literature is the brilliance of the Western short story,” according to author Richard S. Wheeler.

Elisabeth Grace Foley has a particular talent for exploring the American West in fiction. Sometimes she makes her readers laugh; sometimes she makes them weep. Among her published work are the short story collections Wanderlust Creek and Other Stories and Outlaw Fever – the latter including my favourite Western short story, “The Bird of Dawning.”

I am therefore happy to see that she is releasing a new volume of short stories on May 10th this year, entitled The Smoking Iron and Other Stories (newly revealed cover above; click to zoom). The seven stories in the collection star, inter alia, a minister, a new bride, a “spunky ranch girl,” and a war veteran. Most of the stories are new, but one of them (“Dakota Clothesline”) was previously a finalist in the 11th annual Peacemaker Awards.

The Blood Miles: a book review

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The Blood Miles by Andrew Moody (382 pages, published 2023)

I’m a sucker for post-apocalyptic science fiction, and I recently read, with great enjoyment, the recent novel The Blood Miles by Andrew Moody – a self-described lay theologian and graphic designer from Melbourne, Australia. This is a YA novel, in the sense of a blog post I read once:

  • The protagonist should … be aged between 15 to 18 years old (Chris Walker, the protagonist here, is 18)
  • … be autonomous from his or her parents (Chris Walker has lost his parents)
  • … embark on a journey which has to do with coming of age or some sort of rite of passage (Yes, he does)
  • … learn something about who he or she is (Yes, in the deepest possible way)
  • … have a ‘voice’ that readers can relate to (Yes, especially for male readers)

The gunfire, violence, torture, and human experimentation in this book mean that it is probably not suitable for younger readers, however.

As a post-apocalyptic YA novel with an edge-of-your-seat exciting eastward journey, The Blood Miles is reminiscent of e.g. John Christopher’s The White Mountains (1967) although, given that it is set in a desertified Australia, Lotus Blue (2017) might be a better comparison. There are also similarities with the 2010 film The Book of Eli.

Along with the desertification and bands of roving killers, everybody in this novel seems to be suffering from a mysterious “Tox” with no known cure, except for the promise of a treatment outpost at Crux, located across the mountains to the east.

The world of the novel is cleverly invented and described very well. The image above is my personal take on a description from an early chapter: “The south gate was a big metal frame made of I-beams and trench mesh that ran on wheels between concrete walls. As it slid back and we went forward, I could see the van with its battered panels, and red-X silhouette made of crossed syringes.”

The plot is loosely based on that of John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress – the author calls it “a homage” to that work – with elements from C.S. Lewis’s The Pilgrim’s Regress and all kinds of other literature. For example, the character corresponding to Bunyan’s Evangelist is a somewhat grittier character called Evangeline Veracis: “She was middle-aged with short grey hair and a long grey overcoat that parted to reveal a ceramic breastplate and loose combat pants. Over all of it, she wore a diagonal leather strap that supported a sword from her left shoulder.”

Given that the author is an Anglican lay theologian with an interest in the Trinity, it is not surprising that there is a great deal of Christian symbolism in the novel. Some of the symbolism is very subtle (for example, the number sequence 3–7–12–1–12 might, or might not, be a reference to Malachi 1:12), while at other times it is more overt. It turns out, for example, that the red X symbolises the “Envoy,” who is named Tobias (i.e. “Yah is good”), and is “the Pantarch’s special representative,” killed by the villainous “Homeland Reaction and Defence,” but no longer dead – and, in fact, “running all the ops for the Pantarch.” The symbolism also shows up in place names like Gaia, Ockham, and Horeb. Several scenes unrelated to The Pilgrim’s Progress are clearly parables addressing issues in modern Christianity. I particularly enjoyed the sections exploring issues of truth, responsibility, and grace. Indeed, the extensive symbolism would make this novel a great candidate for a book club, as was also the case with the novel Piranesi (2020).

This is one of the best post-apocalyptic science fiction novels I have read, right up there with A Canticle for Leibowitz (1959), and I am giving it 5 stars. See also:

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The Blood Miles by Andrew Moody: 5 stars

Fiction and the Cardinal Virtues

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A reflection today on fiction based on the four cardinal virtues: Prudence, Temperance, Justice, and Fortitude. Where indicated, star ratings are out of 5 are from GoodReads (for books) and RottenTomatoes (for films).

Prudence

Prudence is the virtue of making the right decision. It therefore produces puzzle stories, like “The Fascinating Problem of Uncle Meleager’s Will” (in Lord Peter Views the Body by Dorothy L. Sayers, 1928, ★★★★). There are also science fiction examples from last century, like the story “The Three-Cornered Wheel” (Poul Anderson, 1963, in The Trouble Twisters, 1966, ★★★☆). Puzzle stories are fun, though perhaps not great literature. Detective stories also fall into this category (as well as in the category of Justice, below), but the puzzle being solved need not involve a crime of any kind.

Stories based on Prudence fall on a spectrum of intensity, depending on how much we care about the problem being solved. At the low-intensity end are enjoyable “cozy mysteries,” such as the Mrs. Meade Mysteries (★★★★) from Western writer Elisabeth Grace Foley. At the high-intensity end are life-and-death edge-of-your-seat novels that leave you feeling shattered. An example of the latter would be
Passage by Connie Willis (2001), which I previously reviewed and gave five stars.

Temperance

Temperance is the virtue of restraining (or not having) undesirable or excessive impulses. It makes for a more interesting story if it’s combined with other themes, of course. One of the great examples is Sense and Sensibility (Jane Austen, 1811) with its multiple movie adaptations.

Justice

Apart from rare gems like Fyodor Dostoevsky’s 1866 novel Crime and Punishment, many of the best examples of fiction based on Justice are detective stories. In Thrones, Dominations (1998, ★★★★), which was started by Dorothy L. Sayers and finished by Jill Paton Walsh, detective Lord Peter Wimsey explains:

“Detective stories contain a dream of justice. They project a vision of a world in which wrongs are righted, and villains are betrayed by clues that they did not know they were leaving. A world in which murderers are caught and hanged, and innocent victims are avenged, and future murder is deterred. … Detective stories keep alive a view of the world which ought to be true. Of course people read them for fun, for diversion, as they do crossword puzzles. But underneath they feed a hunger for justice, and heaven help us if ordinary people cease to feel that.”

No matter how well-hidden the secret crime, Hercule Poirot, Lord Peter Wimsey, or a grey-haired lady who knits will eventually reveal it.

There is a darker genre of fiction based on Justice, though. The Bible has a lot to say about the blood of the innocent and the cries of the oppressed. For example, “And the Lᴏʀᴅ said, ‘What have you done? The voice of your brother’s blood is crying to me from the ground’” (Genesis 4:10) or “the Lᴏʀᴅ … who executes justice for the oppressed” (Psalm 146:5–7). If earthly justice is not forthcoming, then God might send some other kind of justice, by means of an avenging angel. This need not be a literal angel. Indeed, the Greek word angelos (ἄγγελος) just means “messenger.” But such a messenger is likely to be terrifying.

My favourite example of this genre is the classic 1985 Clint Eastwood film Pale Rider (★★★★, rated R). One of the oppressed, a young girl named Megan Wheeler, prays in desperation (“Please? Just one miracle?”), and her prayer is answered in the form of a preacher played by Clint Eastwood (who also directed the film). Although the movie itself is ambiguous, it is clear from interviews with Clint Eastwood that this preacher is the ghost of a man who had been killed by the villains, and has been returned to earth to deliver justice. Which he does: “Well, there’s a lot of sinners hereabouts. You wouldn’t want me to leave before I finish my work, would you?”

In movies of this kind, the avenging angel is often more explicitly supernatural, however.

Fortitude

Fortitude, says C.S. Lewis in Mere Christianity, “includes both kinds of courage—the kind that faces danger as well as the kind that ‘sticks it’ under pain. ‘Guts’ is perhaps the nearest modern English.” In fiction, that involves a hero and/or heroine struggling through obstacles that get worse, and worse, and worse, so that you constantly ask yourself “how can they possibly survive?”

C.S. Lewis tells us that “you cannot practise any of the other virtues very long without bringing this one into play,” and likewise one cannot write about any of the other virtues very long or very well without equipping the characters with this virtue.

The most recent novel of this kind that I have read is To Ride Hell’s Chasm (Janny Wurts, 2002, ★★★★), but of course the greatest classic is The Lord of the Rings (J. R. R. Tolkien, 1954–1955).

Would my readers like to share their favourite fictional examples of Prudence, Temperance, Justice, and Fortitude?

Portals in fantasy and science fiction

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In both fantasy and science fiction, magical or seemingly magical “portals” often make for an interesting story. Readers like to imagine such a thing, and it provides a mechanism to get the characters rapidly into the thick of the action. The wardrobe in C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950, ★★★★) is a classic example (the book’s star rating is from Goodreads).

James Davis Nicoll at Tor.com suggests that we can subdivide “portal” narratives according to whether the destination is Known or Unknown, and whether travel is Voluntary or Involuntary. Thus K/V, U/V, K/I, and U/I; with U/V (unknown & voluntary) applying to The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

In many stories, the “portal” is unique, or there are a limited number of “portals.” Like Lewis’s wardrobe, the mirror in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass (U/V, 1871, ★★★★) is an example of a unique portal. In Julian May’s The Many-Colored Land (K/VI, 1981, ★★★★), the “portal” is a time travel machine that goes only to the Pliocene epoch, and only at one specific location in France. It is annotated VI because some time-travellers choose to go through it, while others are transported as a penalty for crime.

Hub and Spoke Portals

Another approach to “portals” is for multiple alternate worlds to connect to a unique “hub” location. For example, the Wood between the Worlds in C.S. Lewis’s The Magician’s Nephew (U/VI, 1955, ★★★★) serves this purpose. Any trip between alternate worlds is possible if you can both enter and leave the Wood. Of course, if everybody did that, traffic in the Wood would be unbearable, so some kind of restriction on travel needs to be introduced in the story. In Genevieve Cogman’s The Invisible Library (K/V, 2015, ★★★☆) and its sequels, a mysterious library acts as the “hub” (although alternative mechanisms also exist), and few are able to travel through its doors.


The Wood between the Worlds, as depicted by Felt-heart (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0)

Linear Systems of Portals

Alternatively, the “hub” may be a linear structure, with alternate worlds branching off to either side, like the Hall of Worlds in Raymond E. Feist’s A Darkness at Sethanon (KU/V, 1986, ★★★★). This topology makes navigation easier, and it becomes possible to assign (not necessarily integer) numbers to the alternate worlds. Unlike an arbitrary network, it is possible to effectively control or police at least parts of the structure.

In a science fiction context, Greg Bear’s Eon (U/V, 1985, ★★★★) contains an engineered version of the Hall. In Roger Zelazny’s fantasy novel Roadmarks (K/V, 1979, ★★★★), the structure is a highway that runs between times – hence the sign on the book cover: “Last Exit to Babylon.”

Arbitrary Networks of Portals

Generalising the linear structure, the “portals” may form an arbitrary network. In a science fiction context, this includes a network of “wormholes” between star systems, as in the “Alderson tramlines” of the classic novel The Mote in God’s Eye by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle (K/V, 1974, ★★★★).

In several science fiction novels by Peter F. Hamilton, including Salvation (K/VI, 2018, ★★★★), portals become so ubiquitous as to replace other forms of transportation. In N.D. Wilson’s children’s fantasy novel The Door Before (KU/VI,2017, ★★★★☆), the portals are physical wooden doorways between alternate worlds. In Ursula K. Le Guin’s short story collection Changing Planes (U/I, 2003, ★★★★), the stress of waiting in an airport causes one to cross to alternate worlds. This is possible from any airport, and the destination might be anywhere.

What is your favourite portal story, dear reader?

Thoughts on The Institute by Stephen King

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The Institute by Stephen King

This isn’t actually a book review, although I will say that The Institute by Stephen King is a very readable horror story in the style of Firestarter – though not as good as King’s earlier work. Goodreads rates it 4.2, while I give it a less generous 3.

I want to focus this post on the child-prodigy main character, who is at a school for the gifted and is intending to study engineering at MIT and English at Emerson College in Boston. The boy’s parents would prefer that he studies at the University of Minnesota (UMN):

“‘What about the University of Minnesota?’ she asked … Greer sighed. ‘You might as well consider taking him out of the Brod and putting him in an ordinary high school. We’re talking about a boy for whom the IQ scale is useless. He knows where he wants to go. He knows what he needs.’”

Now Times Higher Education ranks MIT as #4 in the world for engineering, and UMN only at #95. And it is true that MIT has considerable prestige. But really! There is not that much difference between undergraduate engineering degrees in the US (at least in good institutions), since high school standards determine the entry point, and professional societies determine the graduation standards.

For a very bright student, extracurricular activities that go beyond the formal coursework become important (like the UMN Solar Vehicle Project and the MIT Solar Electric Vehicle Team). I have met students from both those teams, and they were all bright.

 
Solar racing cars built by students from MIT (left, credit) and UMN (right, credit). Click images to zoom.

For a genius-level student, like the child in this novel, flexibility is perhaps most important, along with professors that have the time and inclination to mentor unusually gifted students. Those things are not necessarily more likely at a more famous institution, and Stephen King seems to be recycling some unjustified prejudice here.

Some of the mathematics and science in the book is also a little dubious, but I do not have the time to discuss that.

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The Institute by Stephen King: 3 stars

Modal logic, ethics, and obligation

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Recently, I posted about necessary truth, the logic of belief, and epistemic logic. I would like to follow up on that one more time by discussing deontic logic, the logic of obligation and moral action. We can capture this concept using the 4 rules of D4 modal logic. The first 3 of these are the same as those I used for belief. I am replacing the previous modal operators with  Ⓞ  which is intended to be read as “it is obligatory that” (hence the O in the circle):

  • if P is any tautology, then  Ⓞ P
  • if  Ⓞ P  and  Ⓞ (P ⇒ Q)  then  Ⓞ Q
  • if  Ⓞ P  then  Ⓞ Ⓞ P
  • if  Ⓞ P  then  ~ Ⓞ ~P

where  ~ Ⓞ ~P  is read as “~ P is not obligatory,” i.e. “P is permissible.” For those who prefer words rather than symbols:

  • if P is any tautology, then P is obligatory
  • if P and (P implies Q) are both obligatory, then Q is obligatory
  • if P is obligatory, then it is obligatory that P is obligatory
  • if P is obligatory, then P is permissible

For these rules as they stand, the only things that are obligatory are necessary truths like 2 + 2 = 4. This is because you can’t get an “ought” from an “is.” Apart from the first rule, there is no way of introducing a  Ⓞ  symbol out of nowhere. Consequently, if we are to reason about ethics and morality, we must begin with some deontic axioms that already contain the  Ⓞ   symbol. For people of faith, these deontic axioms may be given by God, as in the 10 Comandments, which include:

Ⓞ  you do not murder.
Ⓞ  you do not commit adultery.
Ⓞ  you do not steal.
Ⓞ  you do not bear false witness against your neighbor.

Immanuel Kant famously introduced the categorical imperative, a deontic axiom which Kant thought implied all the other moral rules, and thus provided the smallest possible set of deontic axioms:

Ⓞ  [you] act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.

Others have suggested the greatest happiness of the greatest number as a principle. Fyodor Dostoevsky, William James, and Ursula Le Guin are among those who have explained the problem with this:

“Tell me yourself, I challenge your answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death only one tiny creature – that baby beating its breast with its fist, for instance – and to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you consent to be the architect on those conditions?” (Fyodor Dostoevsky, “The Grand Inquisitor,” in The Brothers Karamazov, 1880; 4.35 on Goodreads)

“Or if the hypothesis were offered us of a world in which Messrs. Fourier’s and Bellamy’s and Morris’s Utopias should all be outdone and millions kept permanently happy on the one simple condition that a certain lost soul on the far-off edge of things should lead a life of lonely torture, what except a specifical and independent sort of emotion can it be which would make us immediately feel, even though an impulse arose within us to clutch at the happiness so offered, how hideous a thing would be its enjoyment when deliberately accepted as the fruit of such a bargain?” (William James, “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” 1891)

“Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.” (Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” 1973; reprinted in The Wind’s Twelve Quarters, 1975; 4.05 on Goodreads)

The meaning of deontic statements can be described using Kripke semantics, which exploits the idea of possible worlds (i.e. alternate universes). To say that some statement is obligatory is to say that the statement would be true in better possible worlds (we write w1 → w2 to mean that w2 is a better possible world than w1).

In any given world v, the statement  Ⓞ P  is equivalent to :

  • P  is true in all better worlds wi (i.e. all those with v → wi)

Likewise, in any given world v, the statement  ~ Ⓞ ~P  (P is permissible) is equivalent to:

  • P  is true in at least one better world wi (i.e. one with v → wi)

The rules of deontic logic imply two conditions on these arrows between possible worlds:

  • if  w1 → w2 → w3  then  w1 → w3  (i.e. chains of arrows are treated like arrows too)
  • in every world v there is at least one arrow  v → w  (i.e. chains of arrows don’t stop; this includes the case of  v → v)

A number of philosophers have suggested that deontic logic leads to paradoxes. In all cases that I have seen, these “paradoxes” have involved simple errors in the use of deontic logic – errors that become obvious when the deontic statements are translated into statements about possible worlds.

There are limitations to deontic logic, however. For example, if we say that it is obligatory not to steal, this means that, in all better possible worlds, nobody steals. If we also say that it is obligatory to punish thieves, this means that, in all better possible worlds, thieves are punished. However, if it is obligatory not to steal, better possible worlds have no thieves, so the two statements do not combine well.

Some people would, no doubt, suggest that fiction like that of Dostoevsky is a better tool than logic for exploring such issues. In cases where the writer is a genius, they are probably right.

In this post series: logic of necessary truth, logic of belief, logic of knowledge, logic of obligation

Modal logic, necessity, and science fiction

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A necessary truth is one that is true in all possible universes. We can capture the concept of necessary truth with the 4 rules of S4 modal logic (where □ is read “necessarily”):

  • if P is any tautology, then  □ P
  • if  □ P  and  □ (P ⇒ Q)  then  □ Q
  • if  □ P  then  □ □ P
  • if  □ P  then  P

For those who prefer words rather than symbols:

  • if P is any tautology, then P is necessarily true
  • if P and (P implies Q) are both necessarily true, then Q is necessarily true
  • if P is necessarily true, then it is necessarily true that P is necessarily true
  • if P is necessarily true, then P is true (in our universe, among others)

The first rule implies that the truths of mathematics and logic (□ 2 + 2 = 4, etc.) are necessary truths (they must obviously be so, since one cannot consistently imagine an alternate universe where they are false). The second rule implies that the necessary truths include all logical consequences of necessary truths. The last two rules imply that  □ P  is equivalent to  □ □ P,  □ □ □ P,  etc. In other words, there is only one level of “necessary” that needs to be considered.

As it stands, these rules only allow us to infer the truths of mathematics and logic (such as  □ 2 + 2 = 4). One must add other necessary axioms to get more necessary truths than that. A Christian or Muslim might, for example, add “Necessarily, God exists,” and spend time exploring the logical consequences of that.

Countless things that are true in our universe are not necessarily true, such as “Water freezes at 0°C” or “Trees are green” or “Bill Clinton was President of the United States in the year 2000.”

For historical truths like the latter, it’s obvious that they are contingent on events, rather than being necessary. There is a substantial body of “alternate history” fiction which explores alternatives for such contingent truths, such as these four novels (pictured above):

  • Fatherland (Robert Harris, 1992): a detective story set in a universe where Hitler won the war; it is the week leading up to his 75th birthday (3.99 on Goodreads)
  • The Peshawar Lancers (S.M. Stirling, 2002): European civilisation is destroyed by the impact of comet fragments in 1878; a new Kiplingesque Anglo-Indian steampunk civilisation arises (3.86 on Goodreads)
  • SS-GB (Len Deighton, 1978): Hitler defeats Britain in 1941; British police face moral dilemmas cooperating with the SS (3.74 on Goodreads)
  • Romanitas (Sophia McDougall, 2005): the Roman Empire is alive and well in present-day London; slaves are still crucified (3.24 on Goodreads; first of a trilogy)

Three plant pigments: green beech, brown kelp, and red gracilaria algae (cropped from photographs by Simon Burchell, Stef Maruch, and Eric Moody)

The truths of biology are just as contingent as the truths of history. Trees are (mostly) green, but even on our own planet, brown and red are viable alternative colours for plants. From an evolutionary perspective, Stephen Jay Gould expresses the contingency this way:

“any replay of the tape [of life] would lead evolution down a pathway radically different from the road actually taken.” (Stephen Jay Gould, Wonderful Life: The Burgess Shale and the Nature of History, 1989)

(some of his colleagues would take issue with the word “radically,” but still accept the word “different”). From a Christian point of view, the contingency of biology follows from the doctrine of the “Free Creation” of God, independently of any beliefs about evolution. To quote Protestant theologian Louis Berkhof:

“God determines voluntarily what and whom He will create, and the times, places, and circumstances, of their lives.” (Louis Berkhof, Systematic Theology, Part I, VII, D.1.c)

The Catholic Church shares the same view, as none other than Thomas Aquinas makes clear (using the terminology of necessary truth):

“It seems that whatever God wills He wills necessarily. For everything eternal is necessary. But whatever God wills, He wills from eternity, for otherwise His will would be mutable. Therefore whatever He wills, He wills necessarily. … On the contrary, The Apostle says (Ephesians 1:11): ‘Who works all things according to the counsel of His will.’ Now, what we work according to the counsel of the will, we do not will necessarily. Therefore God does not will necessarily whatever He wills.” (Summa Theologiae, Part I, 19.3)

Having taken this line, one might ask why mathematical truths are necessary rather than contingent. The astronomer Johannes Kepler resolves this problem this by telling us that they are not created:

“Geometry existed before the Creation, is co-eternal with the mind of God.” (Johannes Kepler, Harmonices Mundi)

In fiction, alternative biologies are normally explored in the context of some other planet, because alternate earths are pretty much logically equivalent to other planets. Here are four examples of fictional biology:

  • Out of the Silent Planet (C.S. Lewis, 1938): written from a Christian perspective, this novel has three intelligent humanoid alien species living on the planet Mars (3.92 on Goodreads; see also my book review)
  • The Mote in God’s Eye (Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, 1974): this novel is one of the best alien-contact novels ever written (4.07 on Goodreads)
  • the xenomorph from the film Aliens (1986)
  • the Klingon character Worf from the TV series Star Trek: The Next Generation (1987–1994)

The truths of physics are contingent as well; our universe could have been set up to run on different rules. Science fiction authors often tweak the laws of physics slightly in order to make the plot work (most frequently, to allow interstellar travel). Fantasy authors invent alternate universes which differ from ours far more dramatically:

  • Dune (Frank Herbert, 1965): faster-than-light travel is a feature of the plot; it follows that interstellar navigation requires looking into the future (4.25 on Goodreads; see also my book review)
  • Great North Road (Peter F. Hamilton, 2012): “Stargate” style portals are a key feature of this novel (4.07 on Goodreads)
  • The Many-Coloured Land (Julian May, 1981): a science fiction incorporating psychic powers (4.07 on Goodreads; first of a series)
  • Magician (Raymond E. Feist, 1982): a classic fantasy novel which explores some of the internal logic of magic along the way (4.31 on Goodreads; first of a series)

Because mathematical truths are necessary truths, they are potentially common ground with intelligent aliens. This is one theme in the book (later film) Contact:

“‘No, look at it this way,’ she said smiling. ‘This is a beacon. It’s an announcement signal. It’s designed to attract our attention. We get strange patterns of pulses from quasars and pulsars and radio galaxies and God-knows-what. But prime numbers are very specific, very artificial. No even number is prime, for example. It’s hard to imagine some radiating plasma or exploding galaxy sending out a regular set of mathematical signals like this. The prime numbers are to attract our attention.’” (Carl Sagan, Contact, 1985; 4.14 on Goodreads)

Of course, Carl Sagan or his editor should have realised that 2 is prime. Even intelligent beings can make mistakes.

In this post series: logic of necessary truth, logic of belief, logic of knowledge, logic of obligation

Planetary Intelligences

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In a book review of Out of the Silent Planet, I mentioned last year that C. S. Lewis had pioneered the science fiction sub-genre of a planetary intelligence or sentient planet which resists outsiders. A planetary intelligence provides a way of exploring colonisation and other issues, while still having a positive ending to the story.

The chart above (click to zoom) shows a timeline of the concept. Although there are many other stories based on the idea, these six seemed particularly noteworthy (star ratings out of 5 are from GoodReads and RottenTomatoes):

Solaris was filmed in 1968, 1972 (★★★★☆), and 2002 (★★★☆). Here are trailers for the last two films:

Readers, how do you feel the various books and films compare?

Fictional Scientists and Mathematicians

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I have been reflecting on fictional mathematicians and scientists. The image above shows four:

None of these are terribly good role models, it seems to me. Literature and cinema have some better examples, but on the whole, mathematicians and scientists are not treated well by fiction authors.

Milton Millhauser, in “Dr. Newton and Mr. Hyde: Scientists in Fiction from Swift to Stevenson” (Nineteenth-Century Fiction, 1973, Vol. 28, No. 3, pp. 287–304) notes that, in literature, “broadly speaking the scientist is either disregarded or held up to contempt and ridicule.” But perhaps that is because some writers (Michael Crichton is a notable example) see dangers and dilemmas that demand exploration.

However, female scientists and mathematicians seem to be portrayed somewhat more positively. For example:

  • Eleanor Arroway from Contact by Carl Sagan.
  • Sarah Harding from The Lost World by Michael Crichton.
  • Catherine Llewellyn from the play (and later film) Proof by David Auburn.
  • Grace Augustine from the film Avatar by James Cameron.

Looking back: 2001

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The 1968 film 2001: A Space Odyssey suggested that we would have extensive space flight in 2001. That turned out not to be the case. What we did get was the September 11 attacks on the USA and the military conflicts which followed. Nevertheless, NASA commemorated the film with the 2001 Mars Odyssey orbiter.

Films of 2000 included the superb The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, several good animated films (including Monsters, Inc., Shrek, and Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away), the wonderful French film Amélie, some war movies (Enemy at the Gates was good, but Black Hawk Down distorted the book too much for my taste), the first Harry Potter movie, and an award-winning biographical film about the mathematician John Nash.

In books, Connie Willis published Passage, one of my favourite science fiction novels, while Ian Stewart explained some sophisticated mathematics simply in Flatterland.

Saul Kripke (belatedly) received the Rolf Schock Prize in Logic and Philosophy for his work on Kripke semantics, while Ole-Johan Dahl and Kristen Nygaard (also belatedly) received the Turing Award for their work on object-oriented programming languages (both these pioneers of computing died the following year).

The year 2001 also saw the completion of the Cathedral of Saint Gregory the Illuminator in Armenia, which I have sadly never visited.

In this series: 1978, 1980, 1982, 1984, 1987, 1989, 1991, 1994, 2000, 2001, 2004, 2006, 2009.