A Thought Experiment
* * *
Let us imagine a future world. Life on earth has, for whatever complex of reasons, become unfeasible. A small group of children (between ages ten and thirteen) deemed fit enough, owing to a fortuitous genetic mutation, has been sent to another planet to carry on the species. Anyone older than thirteen, it had been calculated, would perish during the voyage, for by that age the mutation would not be of any help.
On this new planet, the children grow up with an artificial intelligence infrastructure, a kind of training wheels to assist in establishing a stable existence. It is programmed to give assistance solely in practical domains. The program ceases to function, however, and the children have only themselves to rely on.
It must be said that although some had learned to read reasonably well prior to the journey, many did not, and there are no books. Rather, the books they brought have been lost. Nor are there any other media. It is the stories, songs, and ideas kept alive in their memories which, through repeated misremembering, are adapted to their new way of life.
Five years, ten years, fifteen… Some of our pioneers have died. Burials for the dead call for ritual and ceremony. A little of what was done on Earth is remembered, though it is remarkable how much has been developed anew.
Certainly there is much anxiety about the future, sadness about the past. Each understands that the ones back home are no longer alive to think of them. This is partly a relief, since they had felt guilt and worry on their behalf. But it also makes them very sad. Myths and speculations begin to develop. More and more these young people believe that their families may exist, somewhere, somehow, if not in the flesh then in another form. Hope develops into a religion of sorts; some even claim to receive frequent messages from the ones “back home,” who begin to take on the characteristics of gods. The more spiritually energetic among them have dreams which they recount over meals. What they reveal of their visions and dreams seems credible, partly because it is so very moving, contributing to the sense that one day they shall reunite with their families.
By now everyone is grown, and the spiritual adepts—priests—lead ceremonies when all are gathered about the fire. There is dancing, storytelling, and feasting. The leaders have recorded what they recall of life on Earth, alongside their dream visions, wishing to make permanent all they had seen before, all they have learned since embarking on this new way of life. Writing, an ability the priests have managed to retain, reminds them of their early years, on Earth—their Eden. The act of writing is for this reason invested with an even greater importance, beyond the practical.
The scriptures are treated by all as thoroughly divine. They are quite interesting for their peculiarities of style. The priests will insist, perhaps even to themselves, that—aside from the hymns, which are prayers for the propitiation of gods—they authored none of it. For they are just messengers, interpreters of the symbols and images revealed to them.
Let us suspend our skepticism for the moment, and believe them when they tell us that their bible—composed of miscellaneous teachings for use during funerals, marriages, births, feasts; mythical histories; idealized memories of the previous life; dream visions; prophecies; laws, proscriptions—all of it has been “transcribed” as faithfully as possible from the sacred sources. While the archaism of the ritual speech, to our ears, may sound a touch stilted, a bad imitation of half-remembered Earth-religion—or if the use of rhetorical devices seems a little heavy-handed—nonetheless the superb play of sound, rhythm, and repetition is hypnotic, truly transportive.
We should bear in mind, finally, that the authors did not have schooling beyond the age of thirteen. If that is so, then how could it be that the writing contains what anybody would quickly recognize as genuine poetic thought: metaphor, inspired imagery, imaginative brilliance? As the priests themselves are apt to maintain, no one could have written it; no one is capable of making this stuff up. It all came from elsewhere, from the divine place.
We may think, on hearing this, that they are extremely modest. But are they? Would we feel that they are if we found out that they did not think much about creativity or imagination? Or rather, if we found out that such things did not matter nearly as much as the ability to perceive the spiritual Truth, a thing at once solid and objective—real? We should try perhaps to understand that it is in the ability to commune with the world of the gods that they have based their entire identity.
. . .
Let us imagine a future world. Life on earth has, for whatever complex of reasons, become unfeasible. A small group of children (between ages ten and thirteen) deemed fit enough, owing to a fortuitous genetic mutation, has been sent to another planet to carry on the species. Anyone older than thirteen, it had been calculated, would perish during the voyage, for by that age the mutation would not be of any help.
On this new planet, the children grow up with an artificial intelligence infrastructure, a kind of training wheels to assist in establishing a stable existence. It is programmed to give assistance solely in practical domains. The program ceases to function, however, and the children have only themselves to rely on.
It must be said that although some had learned to read reasonably well prior to the journey, many did not, and there are no books. Rather, the books they brought have been lost. Nor are there any other media. It is the stories, songs, and ideas kept alive in their memories which, through repeated misremembering, are adapted to their new way of life.
Five years, ten years, fifteen… Some of our pioneers have died. Burials for the dead call for ritual and ceremony. A little of what was done on Earth is remembered, though it is remarkable how much has been developed anew.
Certainly there is much anxiety about the future, sadness about the past. Each understands that the ones back home are no longer alive to think of them. This is partly a relief, since they had felt guilt and worry on their behalf. But it also makes them very sad. Myths and speculations begin to develop. More and more these young people believe that their families may exist, somewhere, somehow, if not in the flesh then in another form. Hope develops into a religion of sorts; some even claim to receive frequent messages from the ones “back home,” who begin to take on the characteristics of gods. The more spiritually energetic among them have dreams which they recount over meals. What they reveal of their visions and dreams seems credible, partly because it is so very moving, contributing to the sense that one day they shall reunite with their families.
By now everyone is grown, and the spiritual adepts—priests—lead ceremonies when all are gathered about the fire. There is dancing, storytelling, and feasting. The leaders have recorded what they recall of life on Earth, alongside their dream visions, wishing to make permanent all they had seen before, all they have learned since embarking on this new way of life. Writing, an ability the priests have managed to retain, reminds them of their early years, on Earth—their Eden. The act of writing is for this reason invested with an even greater importance, beyond the practical.
The scriptures are treated by all as thoroughly divine. They are quite interesting for their peculiarities of style. The priests will insist, perhaps even to themselves, that—aside from the hymns, which are prayers for the propitiation of gods—they authored none of it. For they are just messengers, interpreters of the symbols and images revealed to them.
Let us suspend our skepticism for the moment, and believe them when they tell us that their bible—composed of miscellaneous teachings for use during funerals, marriages, births, feasts; mythical histories; idealized memories of the previous life; dream visions; prophecies; laws, proscriptions—all of it has been “transcribed” as faithfully as possible from the sacred sources. While the archaism of the ritual speech, to our ears, may sound a touch stilted, a bad imitation of half-remembered Earth-religion—or if the use of rhetorical devices seems a little heavy-handed—nonetheless the superb play of sound, rhythm, and repetition is hypnotic, truly transportive.
We should bear in mind, finally, that the authors did not have schooling beyond the age of thirteen. If that is so, then how could it be that the writing contains what anybody would quickly recognize as genuine poetic thought: metaphor, inspired imagery, imaginative brilliance? As the priests themselves are apt to maintain, no one could have written it; no one is capable of making this stuff up. It all came from elsewhere, from the divine place.
We may think, on hearing this, that they are extremely modest. But are they? Would we feel that they are if we found out that they did not think much about creativity or imagination? Or rather, if we found out that such things did not matter nearly as much as the ability to perceive the spiritual Truth, a thing at once solid and objective—real? We should try perhaps to understand that it is in the ability to commune with the world of the gods that they have based their entire identity.
. . .
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