The Author
Within the Labyrinth
Two people stand in a tiny room that stretches out indefinitely in every direction without beginning or end, without cause or effect, without logic or reason . The room, white and formless, was created by the Author like its people were but unlike the room, the people are not white and formless abstractions; they have purpose and reason although that purpose and reason may not be immediately clear to them. To you, the reader, these people may just be two fictional characters; to each other they are very real, and their world is real. They may not experience time like you do, and their time may be quite unlike your own, yet to them their time is just as real as your illusion of time is to you. Their universe may not be exactly like your universe nor does it exist in your universe, but that does not mean that their universe does not exist at all. Nor does it mean that your universe does exist.
The two people stand in the white room and look at each other in nearly complete silence for a very long or short time; it is hard to say for certain, and it does not really matter. One of the two people is a man, a young man, and the other person is a woman, a human female precisely the same age as the man. From the Author’s perspective they were just created an instant ago, a mere moment in the past, but in their world they have already lived twenty years of their lives. Yet even that is meaningless since time is not the same in their universe as your’s. Twenty years for them may be one year for you or a hundred. Even so, in both worlds it is the two people’s birthday. That is something absolute and certain that can be agreed upon. Probably. Maybe. Certainly not.
These people act and think as the Author wishes, or so he believes, just as all authors believe their fictional characters act and think according to the writer’s whims. To most authors, the author is the god in the universe of the story being written, and whatever the author wills to happen in the story will happen. A single stroke of the pen can irrevocably the entire fictional dimension. Yet the characters in this story are different than characters in most fictions because they are very much aware not only of themselves but of the Author as well.
Melanie, the woman, continues to stare at Robert, the man, in silence for a few moments, and he stares right back at her. Then she says, “Hello Robert,” and he smiles with a mouth full of shiny white teeth. Melanie and Robert have never met each other or even heard of each other before this moment in time, but they know each other because the Author wills it to be so. “So here we are.” Melanie continues. “Do you know where here happens to be?”
Robert shakes his head, “No, I have no idea where we are. All I know is that the Author put us here. I do not know where we are, how we got here, or why we are here, but here we are.”
Melanie nods with an anxious expression on her face, “I don’t know what to do or whether I should do anything at all. I guess what really bothers me is the thought is that someone is controlling my destiny. At least I seem to have the knowledge that someone is controlling my future. I am terribly confused right now.”
“Yeah, lets sit down and talk a little,” Robert unhappily suggests motioning with one hand towards the two white chairs that have just appeared in the otherwise empty white room. Robert and Melanie both sit on the soft cushions of the seats, and Robert continues, “At first glance, our situation may seem bleak to us; yet I don’t think it’s so bad as all that. For one thing, we don’t know what the Author will decide to write in this story; he may very well grow fond of our characters and decide to treat us well. For another thing, we believe that we are characters in a story, but how do we know that the story is a fictional one?”
Melanie looks confused, “Don’t follow you,” she says. Melanie’s silky baby blue dress is quite wrinkled, and she is busily trying to smooth it out with her hands although the dress seems like it should be a topic of minor importance given the situation. Melanie is dressed quite elegantly in stark contrast to Robert who is wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans.
Robert poses a question, “Well, although the Author may be writing a story with us in it, does that really mean that he decides what happens next in the story?” Robert’s red shirt is just as wrinkled as Melanie’s blue dress, but he does not seem to be concerned. Nor does he seem to notice Melanie still desperately trying to smooth the dress.
“Of course it does,” Melanie responds, but Robert shakes his head, “No it doesn’t. As unlikely as it may seem, there is a chance that what happens to us happens independently of the Author’s will, and he is merely recording those events. Just because someone records an event does not make that person the cause of the event. Newton did not invent the truth of calculus; he only wrote about it.”
A gleam of understanding and hope spreads over Melanie’s face, “You mean that rather than the Author being like a god dictating our futures, he may merely be like a biographer who records our lives without having any control over them. Perhaps we exist in an entirely different universe than the author, and he is unable to change the course of events in ours, or perhaps even the events that happen in our universe dictate what must happen in the Author’s story. Is that what you mean?”
“Exactly! There is a chance that the Author does not even know about our universe, and that the Author’s story is coincidentally following the events in our universe.” Robert smiles brightly, but then the smile fades into a smile of melancholy. “Yet we both know that these hopes are merely empty dreams. We both know that we are just fictional characters in Author’s story. How else would we have knowledge of the Author at all? Watch this Melanie.” Robert closes his eyes, and an instant later a glossy white table appears in front of the two people, and on that table is a manuscript.
Melanie knows what the manuscript is without looking at it or Robert telling her. She grabs the sheets of paper fiercely and glances at the words on them. Then she flings the paper at Robert. Now she is angry, “You and your silly philosophizing. How can you give me hope then try to take it away from me? Our situation and even our existence may be confusing but more than that, it’s absurd. That document means nothing; besides it stops at this point in time. There is nothing about our future written in it. Why did you even show that to me? It means nothing.”
Robert picks up a sheet of paper from the smooth, glossy white glass floor and shows Melanie the words spontaneously appearing on it as this story progresses, “Look at this Melanie. This is all the proof we need. Clearly, we are characters in a story that the Author is writing, and the implications are obvious.”
“What do you mean the implications are obvious?” Melanie snaps or rather snarls back angrily. “This story does not even have anything about my past in it, much less my future. Are you saying that time stops for us when the Author stops writing? Are you suggesting my future is predetermined? Are you implying that I have no free will?”
Robert looks very uncomfortable; a hint of a blush shows on his slightly tanned cheeks. “I don’t know,” he stammers uncertainly. He stares at the pale face quivering with rage in front of him. What is reality to two characters in a story? Is their reality real at all? Robert remains calm, but it is obvious that Melanie is upset.
As Robert tries to think, Melanie continues to interrogate him, “Are you saying we are going to be stuck in this little white shell for the rest of our lives, or not even lives but rather a pitiful imaginary existence, if the Author wills it? Is that what you’re saying?” Now Melanie grows thoughtful, “And what about ethics? Is it ethical for the Author to keep us locked up in this cell for the rest of our lives if he does have the power to do so? We have feelings of our own. Can he neglect those? And what about our lives? Even if there are ethical implications, should they concern the Author? I
see no food or drink here nor do I see an exit; do I have to worry about the Author starving us to death? Maybe we are in an airtight chamber and will suffocate to death once we use up the oxygen in this room. Who knows if this world even follows the same laws of physics as the real world outside of this story. I don’t even want to consider how I know there is a real world outside of this story. Do you think the Author wants us to live forever? Are we even alive? We have consciousness, but what if we are merely figments of the Author’s imagination?”
“Well,” Robert answers speaking very slowly but calmly while he reflects, “I suppose that if this is a fictional universe that the Author is creating then whatever the Author writes down becomes our reality. If he writes that we are immortal then we are immortal, and if he writes that we die then we die.”
“Hmm,” the girl with long flowing brown hair and hazel eyes looks up at the endless white ceiling an indefinite distance above her head as if she is trying to look through it at the invisible Author looming ominously above her like a storm cloud, “would it be unethical for the Author to kill us? Would that make him a murderer? We are innocent people causing him no harm; he has no reason or right to kill us.”
“That’s a good question,” Robert ponders, “I guess it depends,” he states after a few moments. Then apparently to no one in particular Robert mumbles, “I wonder what it’s like outside. I hope the weather is nice. Am I sane?”
“It depends! It depends on what?” Melanie asks indignantly. Her pale face is flushed. Robert notices for the first time that a gold watch is on her wrist. He wonders if it was there before. He looks at his own wrist, but it is bare.
“I suppose it depends on what reality really is, and what happens to us. I suppose it also depends on the point of view.” Now Robert notices that Melanie’s watch is silver. However he is not certain whether it really changed or if the light was just reflecting off of it differently before making it appear to be gold. Somehow it seems more likely to Robert that the atomic composition of the watch was altered. The light in the white room seems to be uniform and consistent; he wonders where the light is coming from. Perhaps the room is so white that there is no room left for darkness.
“Oh, so murder has suddenly become a point of view has it?” Melanie mutters half questioningly, half sarcastically. “Perhaps it is murder from our point of view, but killing us is just fine from the Author’s point of view. Is that what you mean?” Melanie smirks, “I can’t believe we are even having this conversation. In a way it is almost amusing.” Robert considers mentioning the watch to Melanie but decides this is probably not a good time.
It is clear that Melanie is quite upset, but Robert is still completely calm and seems unperturbed by Melanie’s sarcasm and foul mood, “Yes, I’d say that’s pretty much right. From the Author’s point of view, I guess whether killing us is unethical or not depends on if he believes we really exist or not. There is some doubt in our minds as to whether the Author is controlling the course of events in our lives and as to whether he exists at all; there is a chance that the Author is merely a figment of our imaginations, nothing more than a dream or a nightmare. Now imagine the Author’s point of view. To him there is far less uncertainty and doubt; to him we are certainly nothing more than a creation of his imagination. He believes we are just two people he thought up out of the thin air at a moment’s notice and assigned arbitrary names to. I am sure he does not think we exist. The fact that I am even saying these things shows that what I am saying is probably true. Thus, by killing us, the Author would not actually be killing us at all, but merely terminating a little daydream he had. He would just be bringing a little blip in his imagination to an end. Countless authors have killed characters in their books, and nobody judges them for it. There can be little doubt that the Author would not find it unethical to kill us, or to put it more accurately, terminate our existence in his story.”
Melanie stares at Robert dumbfounded, “So is that all we are now, Robert? Merely, what was it again? Little blips in the Author’s train of thought? Do you realize you are in this with me? Whose side are you on? The Author’s? Are you fine with him just knocking you off? Does this life mean nothing to you?” Robert absently notices the waviness of Melanie’s hair. It occurs to him that she is very pretty.
“Well, I don’t want to just be terminated just like a character from someone’s dream,” Robert admits, “but yes, at least from the Author’s point of view that’s probably all we are. Just little blips formed from his imagination on a whim. Killing us would mean nothing to anyone.” Robert does not mention it aloud, but he reflects that if he and Melanie are just blips from the Author’s imagination, then it should be in the Author’s power to make the story a happy one. Robert secretly says a prayer that the story does not end tragically.
“But that’s not right,” Melanie insists almost crying, “I do exist. I have feelings. I think therefore I am as Descartes said. The Author can’t just kill me; that would be murder. This isn’t like other books. The Author made us aware that we are characters in his book. He gave us life, or at least it seems that way. How can he just take away our lives so soon? That isn’t right. This is all wrong.” Then, “How do we know that we are alive at all? We have consciousness, but does that really mean that we exist? What if we really are just figments of the Author’s imagination?” A little tear escapes from the corner of Melanie’s eye and begins to work its way down her right cheek. Robert wonders if it’s wrong that he thinks crying makes Melanie look even prettier. Meanwhile Melanie wonders what Robert is thinking; she wonders what the Author is thinking, and she secretly curses the Author.
Robert goes into a reverie for a long time. It almost seems to Melanie like he has fallen asleep, and she begins to worry that perhaps the Author has just killed him. Perhaps the Author has grown angry and killed Robert for what they have been saying. “Robert?” she whispers quietly and anxiously. She cannot help thinking that Robert is quite unattractive; although he is quite handsome, she somehow feels an unnatural repulsion towards him. Even so, Robert is her only companion in the story for the moment, and she does not want to lose him. “Robert?” she repeats a little louder.
Startled, Robert looks around him wildly, “Oh, I’m sorry Melanie. I was just reflecting on our situation a little bit.” The brown-eyed, black haired young man with a short black beard gazes thoughtfully at Melanie. “Our lives are a bit of a paradox. If the Author kills us, will we really die? After all, we are just characters in his story, or at least that is how it seems at the moment.” Robert notes to himself that Melanie’s watch is gone now. He wonders if she took it off or if he just imagined the watch. Both options seem improbable to him.
Melanie stares into the brown eyes blankly, “Don’t follow you.” She studies the walls of the room around her. The walls seem insubstantial, and she finds herself wondering if she can just run right through them. She desperately wants out of the room yet is terrified of the notion. She knows that nothing is in the room, but she has no idea what is outside of it. She decides to save that consideration for later.
“Well,” Robert suggests, “assuming that we are just characters in the Author’s book, then as long as the book exists perhaps we will exist as well. What if we are actually physical entities inside the story?” Now Robert too is studying the walls. He does not realize that Melanie was thinking about them just a second earlier. Robert notes that the walls appear very sturdy and that there is little chance of him and Melanie ever breaking out by force.
It only takes Melanie a moment to think over the concept that Robert proposed, “No. This time you are wrong Robert. Even if the Author did create us, there is no way our existence could depend on the mere existence of the story.” It occurs to Melanie that Robert is a fool.
“And why is that?” Robert queries, “It seems reasonable to me. This story is our universe, and as long as it exists we do. The Author may write that we die, but since we are characters in this story, as long as it exists s
o do we.” Robert realizes what Melanie is going to respond even before she says it. In fact, he has already thought the same thing.
“Perhaps your argument could be applied to people’s memory of us, but it is absurd to think our survival depends on the survival of the story. For one thing, even if the Author does dictate the events of our universe, I would argue that once it is written those events our set in stone so to speak. It’s not like we are stuck in a perpetual time loop that will repeat these events over and over again as long as a copy of this story still exists in the Author’s universe. To have our existence depend solely on the existence of this story would mean that if every copy of the manuscript was destroyed then we would have never existed at all. That is like saying if a biography of a person is lost, then that person never lived. The very thought is preposterous!” Robert whimsically notices that Melanie’s silver watch is back. He finds it amusing.
Robert gives Melanie a smile that infuriates her. It is the smile one gives when they feel sorry for a person’s ignorance. A smile that seems to say, “You are stupid; it’s alright, I understand.” But that is not what Robert says. Instead, “Are you sure it is so preposterous? Are you so sure that we exist at all as it is?” Robert puts his hands in his pockets and feels money in them. Maybe they can bribe the Author; that’s another amusing idea.
A long silence ensues. “Maybe we have no actual physical existence, and we only exist in this story? This story is our universe, and if it is destroyed then so are we?” Melanie half asks and half thinks her words aloud. Robert already knows that Melanie despises this concept with all her heart; yet it is important for him to bring it up.
The Author: Within the Labyrinth Page 1
