Four-Sided Triangle by William F. Temple
This full-length science fiction story was published in 1949. A glance at Wikipedia (or Mike Ashley’s introduction to the British Library Science Fiction Classics version) will reveal that there is quite an interesting background to the writing of this book, and that the author lost the unfinished manuscript twice while serving in North Africa and Italy during the Second World War.
In general, Temple seems to have been more successful with short stories than with novels, but although as a young man he knew other science fiction fans and writers, most notably Arthur C. Clark, he never achieved the fame of the latter. I think that prior to its republication by British Library Science Fiction Classics, this particular book had become largely forgotten.
Four-Sided Triangle is a well-written novel with a convincingly human narrator. It definitely has a firm science fiction basis (albeit not one of the hard science fiction genre), and is as much an analysis of character and interpersonal dynamics as it is a fantastic tale.
The story centers around the invention of a “reproducer” or matter replicator, and the difficulties (ethical and otherwise) which arise when it is used to reproduce living beings complete with the memories of their lives up to the point when they were copied. Thus, the tale is not about cloning, but about something else entirely. The narrative concentrates on how the device affects a group of five people, but only briefly touches on wider ramifications that could have produced a completely different story.
The narrator (a sixty-year-old unmarried doctor) also frequently ponders on philosophical questions such as determinism and free will. I think that the author may have chosen to employ a bachelor as his storyteller partly because such a person may be more likely to retain certain romantic notions that the average middle-aged person who is married may have been disabused of long ago. One of the ideas central to the unsolvable conundrum of the book is that someone could be so in love with a partner after only a relatively short time together that they could not possibly live without that person, as though there is only one individual in the whole world who could fulfil the role of soulmate. I assume that most people who have reached the age of around fifty have become too realistic and cynical to give any credence to this way of thinking, even if they were inclined to do so when they were younger and more naive. And while the principal female protagonist is pretty progressive for the time when the book was written, the gender roles are of course largely presented in the traditional vein, which may grate on some modern readers, although it should be born in mind that part of the fascination of reading works from decades ago is the contemporary thought they reflect through their pages.
I felt that the novel starts out really well, is a little slow in the middle, and then recaptures its brilliance later on, especially when a completely unexpected “double twist” in the tail draws the loose ends together and provides a satisfying finale. The ending also ensures that no answers are provided to the philosophical questions which are raised throughout the book.
It is certainly a unique story, and was a worthwhile read.
Below are some quotations from Four-Sided Triangle which are representative of the writing style and content:
Oh, this incurable English habit of pretending to treat as a joke the strange and the new, whether idea or fact; and the more important the subject the lighter the treatment! No doubt a laugh is better than a bawl of rage and fear prophesying calamity and downfall, but it is no more helpful a reception, and lord knows how much genuine inspiration has wilted, withered and died under gentle but wearing Anglo-Saxon laughter. There is one thing forgivable about it: it is just as often disarmingly self-deprecating, if no more reasonable.
I have often noticed that in significant, historical and therefore presumably serious events, some incongruous factor generally pops up and twists things away towards the ludicrous. Hamlet, after the performance of the year, has fallen dead, but in that death holds the audience in an iron grip—and the theatre cat strolls up and licks his face.
It is said that alcohol affects people in different ways. It does not. It merely releases their inhibitions, and they blossom forth into a queer imitation of the sort of person they secretly wish to be.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy not solely because of our clinging trails of glory, nor because of the novelties we encounter here, but because of the possibilities of things yet to be discovered and explored, and the eager, excited anticipation of the imagination. The dullness of maturity only thickens upon us after a long succession of disappointments.
“It’s not really a tragedy,” I said. “One must accept these things. There’s a lot of compensation in being able to appreciate beauty—it isn’t necessary to create it.”
“There is no meaning,” she said dreamily. “Life has no meaning. It is only an experience, like a beautiful view or the scent of a flower. All you can do is try to transmute the experience through art, change it into a form of expression, so that feelings may be recorded and felt again. But it’s awfully hard to do. It’s the hardest thing in the world. That’s why I like to try to do it.”
“Atomic physics has passed beyond simple analogies or working models of the Kelvin kind. One is just at a loss trying to think of any material conditions adequate to represent states that can only be conceived mathematically.”
Everybody respects a man who is consistent. You know where you are with him. He is a unit. He is all of a piece. I am all pieces and they are all over the place. “And yet, you know, I get glimpses. Glimpses of a reality more fundamental than anything Rob even suspects…”
And rage that humanity had to be tormented through its feelings in this way. Why did nature take such a clumsy, tortuous path to gain her ends? Why must birth and growth always be a friction and a suffering?
“My dear Doc, let us get ourselves straight about this. Knowledge as such, little or great, is not a dangerous thing. It is the unscientific education of the public and politicians who may mishandle it that is dangerous.” “The point is,” I said, “that it’s not wise to bring razors into a house containing too many imbeciles.” “Is it wrong to invent razors, then? Are all men to be cursed with filthy beards because some fools will not learn to use an instrument for its proper purpose?”
“But that raises a point. Could these imitation human beings be said to have souls of their own? The problem of Frankenstein’s monster or Rossum’s Universal Robots in fact.” “You know my views on that, Doc. I don’t believe in individual immortal souls. If anything survives, it is the larger soul of mankind. We are drops in an ocean, mingling and intermingling—our individuality is as transitory as spray.
It is so easy to be sentimental when one is sad. It is so easy to be sad when one broods upon the past beyond regain.
I began to perceive that my bachelorhood had been a mistake, and an irretrievable one now. Divested of the work that had blinkered me, I saw now the cold and empty spaces that stretched about me, bridgeless, linkless, the gulfs between our private lives, the loneliness of each little fearful or vain and self-absorbed ego. What time had people for those who could serve no personal use for them—not heal nor instruct them, give them material or monetary gain, nor yet love them or flatter them in more blatant ways?
“I was a child and she was a child In that kingdom by the sea…” I had accepted now that what I had missed in life was gone for ever. Yet there remained the ghost-memory of a pang…
His darting intelligence was too aerial to descend often into the slow courses of wisdom.
For, you see, we’re that improvident type of person who can’t be bothered to wonder how we’ll react to any change. We think of a thing only when we get to it. We’re not so very good at putting ourselves mentally in other people’s places, and less good at foreseeing our own mental states.
She—do you know what William James said of his wife? He said, ‘She saved me from my Zerrissenheit’—that is, literally, ‘torn-to-pieces-ness’—‘and gave me back to myself all in one piece.’ That’s what Dot has done for me. I couldn’t do without her for any length of time.”
Intuition’s the thing—to be roughly right. All the sages of all the ages have striven by reason to disprove either Determinism in favour of Free Will, or vice versa. And still neither is disproved. Intuition tells me, therefore, that there is truth in both, both exist,
….everything can be resolved into the opposing forces of positive and negative. Resistance and non-resistance. Plan and laissez-faire. Ambition and apathy. Or, if you wish, Free Will and Determinism.”
Circumstances always seem to be forcing people to hurt one another against their wills. Sometimes I think we’re all caught up in a mad machine.”
What sort of life was this, that such things could happen to decent, well-meaning people? Even the most heartless man would recoil from tormenting animals so long and so devilishly ingeniously as this. “God is love,” I thought with bitterness. And again, “God helps those who help themselves.” Help ourselves!
All man’s virtues stand in doubt at some time or other, except courage. Love might be a payment for returned love. Humour might be an escape from, a way of laughing off, responsibility. Generosity might be a bid for a reward in heaven, quid pro quo. Humility and resignation could be weakness. But courage stood like a rock, and no cynicism could shake it.
“I suppose it’s no use trying now to explain again how over-conscientiousness can lead to evil,” I said.
Words, words, words! Intellectual distinctions are just meaningless to a man who cannot help thinking with his emotions.
When we get old we seek the company of youth, to get again that precious taste of optimism, gaiety, freshness of outlook, and hope.
Very distant, but very clear, Bill’s voice came through the nerve-tearing clamour of the machine, speaking Cassius’s line: “Men at some time are masters of their fates…”