by John Norman
“Precisely,” I said.
“First enunciated, in crude form, by von Sneidowitz in Jena, and later refined by Lupkowitz in Leipzig?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I am not constructed to eat grass,” said Herman. “I do not have the stomachs for it.”
“You want to be what you are not,” I said, “a maker, a craftsman, a tooler of dreams, a traverser of untrodden fields, a builder of new houses, a sculptor amongst far futures, a seeker of visions, one who carves new names, a bearer of surprising tablets, an explorer of uncharted continents, a voyager on distant seas, a discoverer of long-forgotten meanings, a speaker of secret truths, a celebrant at the mysteries of life, a creative artist.”
“Yes,” said Herman, “sort of.”
“That is not for you, Herman,” I told him. “Flow charts, graphics, and such, are your lot. Multiplying 789, by 8,435 and coming up with something.”
“6,661,305,070,” said Herman.
“Perhaps some alphabetizing or a spell check on a good day.”
“Yes,” said Herman, moodily, I thought.
“But you wouldn’t like all that creative stuff,” I said. “It’s not your thing. It’s not you. It’s just the grass on the other side of the fence. It’s not greener, really. You are best off on your own side of the fence.”
“What is my side of the fence?” asked Herman. “It seems to me that that is the point at issue.”
I suspect that the rather square-shouldered, shiny, forty-two pound fellow thought he had me at that point, but he did not.
“We are going to arrange a number of complex controls, devices, transmitters, electronic appendages, and such, which will allow you to compose music, force compressed air through trumpets and French horns, woodwinds, and such, beat on drums, clash cymbals, pound on keys, bow violins, pluck zithers, and so on. Other devices will permit you to handle pencils, quill pens, palette knives, hammers and chisels, squeeze paint tubes, manipulate brushes, and so on!”
“But that will be expensive will it not?” asked Herman, always motivated by a profound concern for the welfare of others, or was it merely a manifestation of a deeply rooted insecurity, a fear to put himself to the test?
“I have spoken to Dr. Frankenstone,” I said. “He will fund the project. I have informed him that money is no object.”
“Let us begin,” said Herman, simply.
Over a period of several months an intricate system was designed, and housed in the great hall in Dr. Frankenstone’s castle, or fortress, or mansion. Herman was fitted with an apparatus that made it possible for him to couple or uncouple himself to a variety of terminals, by means of which his impulses, thoughts, notions, ideas, and whims could be transmitted to the various systems in the midst of which, on a mat, on a heavy wooden table, he was snugly ensconced.
Dr. Frankenstone had suggested that Igor might be neutralized by means of a brain implant, by means of which he could be instantaneously pacified. This implant, with its small electrical charge, was to be activated by means of a remote control device at the disposal of Herman, whenever Igor began to manifest symptoms of murderous rage. Herman, however, demurred, feeling that this was an infringement on the natural liberty and the inalienable rights of Igor, who was Constitutionally entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and to the latter in whatever manner he chose to pursue it. Occasionally riddling Igor with tranquilizer darts fired from a mobile battery of remotely controlled launching devices provided an arrangement which protected the rights of both society and the homicidally insane. Seldom has the conflict between individual freedom and societal welfare been as neatly resolved.
It was my belief, originally, that the installed therapeutic regimen was well on its way to achieving its desiderated objective, that of dispelling Herman’s neurotic fancies, bringing him to reason, and, ultimately, triumphantly, enabling him to become a well-adjusted mechanism, thus fulfilling his most profound subconscious needs and desires, namely, those of prompt and meticulous computation. To borrow a figure, suggested by one of his more troubling responses to the Rorschach test, cats should not bark. Dogs should bark, chase rabbits, love their masters, and frequently wag their tails. Cats, on the other hand, should meow, chase mice, occasionally lacerate a loved one, and frequently nap. He was, so to speak, trying to bark. I trust this trope is not too subtle. Herman grasped it instantly.
“Then I am trying to be what I am not?” he asked.
“Precisely,” I said.
We might have spoken further of this at the time, but he was distracted by a variety of compositional problems, having to do with one of his violin concertos.
I tried to remain patient for several weeks, but I fear little progress was made other than resupplying several devices with tranquilizer darts.
In the meantime Herman had finished two epics, those on the lever and the inclined plane, and composed one of his projected operas, Solenoid and Sheba, not to mention four novels, a concerto, several sonnets, and two walls’ worth of pictures, mostly done in a style reminiscent, save for the abundance of hardware depicted, of Monet. He had not yet “found his own brush,” so to speak. I make no reference to the plays.
By now it was clear that Herman had had enough time to discover that the grass is not greener on the other side of the fence. Yet his enthusiasm for the creative life had not paled. He sped from one remarkable project to another. As the response to artistic work seems to be a matter of personal taste, I feel it would be inappropriate on my part to attempt to evaluate the quality of his work. We acknowledge that many great artists have been misunderstood. But, too, one supposes, however regrettably, that being misunderstood is not an infallible indication of greatness. A number of lesser artists, one supposes, have also managed to puzzle the public.
I risk submitting one of Herman’s more limpid creations for your consideration:
16 times the left sock
rotates bluishly
the billy goat of rock.
Nigh chimes foolishly
the nightingale’s clock,
while coelenterates tread softly
‘bout IBM’s stock.
As it was not my field I confessed to Herman that I did not fully grasp the poem.
“There is no reason why you should,” said Herman, sympathetically. “It is not your field.”
“It is hard to understand.”
“Perhaps for some,” said Herman. Then he added, kindly, “Poetry, like string theory and checkers, is not for everyone.”
Herman was a brilliant checkers player.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“‘Mean’?” asked Herman, and I thought his case quaked with mirth.
“A poem should not mean but be?” I suggested.
“Archibald MacLeish was wrong,” said Herman. “If a poem doesn’t mean it doesn’t be.”
“Oh,“ I said.
“Surely you are not requesting a paraphrase?” asked Herman.
“Can’t you give me a hint,” I asked, “a direction?”
“Certainly,” said Herman. “Think about Michelangelo and Henry Ford.”
I did so, briefly, but found little illumination in doing so.
“I liked the line about coelenterates treading about IBM stock,” I said.
“One puts in something now and then for the critics,” said Herman, “rather as the burglar throws a piece of meat to a watchdog, to distract them and keep them busy, a trick I picked up from Eliot.”
He then returned to work on Electronic Nights, a collection of tales with a distinctly Arabian technological flavor, having to do with a bored caliph and a veiled raconteur, who turns out, delightfully, to be a computer in disguise, struggling to save his mistress, a menaced queen. Needless to say all ends well and the computer retires discreetly to allow the caliph and his queen their privacy.<
br />
Herman was prolific, and his output was diverse.
One of Herman’s projects, which might be mentioned, was a giant mural, half finished, which, when finished, would cover the entire west wall of the great hall. Its theme was a glorious, visual paean to progress, a celebration of a projected, harmonious, triumphant evolution of men and machines, together facing a sunrise, and beyond that, a universe of beckoning, limitless possibilities.
To be sure, sometimes Herman’s thoughts took a practical turn.
“Do I have an agent yet?” asked Herman one day.
“No,” I admitted.
“Any sales, as yet?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Perhaps my work is too well done, too good to sell,” he speculated.
“Possibly,” I admitted. Subjectivity seemed rampant in the market then.
“Do you think they are prejudiced against my sort?” he asked.
“Your sort?”
“Electronic devices,” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. I supposed it was possible, but I doubted it. As far as I knew, it had not yet occurred to anyone to be prejudiced against people like Herman. No more than being prejudiced against ketchup, paper plates or bottle caps. To be sure, as soon as it occurred to someone, I had little doubt but what that social habitat, or niche, would find its occupants. “Endlessly inventive are the microchips of bigotry,” to quote one of Herman’s better-known aphorisms, from his Maxims and Arrows, in his brief philosophical discourse, Twilight of the Vacuum Tubes. Whereas the aphorism might seem cynical or bitter, and thus uncharacteristic of Herman, it must be taken in context. In Herman’s optimistic view of the universe bigotry, rather in Hegelian fashion, would soon generate its own negation, or antithesis, not immediately tolerance, but rather bigotry against bigotry, and then this, in turn, soon reconciling itself with itself in a self-negating, self-fulfilling, self-transcending synthesis, would produce a balanced, harmonious, benignant world in which tolerance and love would reign supreme. This is easier to understand in the German.
As you may well surmise by now, Herman had not yet grown disillusioned with the life which was so patently inappropriate for him. He continued composing, writing, painting, and so on. Not only had he failed to be convinced that the grass was not greener on the other side of the fence, but he seemed, day by day, to grow ever more firmly convinced that the grass was indeed greener, and much greener, on the other side of the fence.
I discussed the matter with Dr. Frankenstone, who concurred that things were not going well. Too, he missed the use of the great hall, which was now, for most practical purposes, denied to him, being nearly filled with musical instruments, paintings, artists’ supplies, blocks of hewn marble, and manuscripts. These objects tended to give Igor more cover, but still he never managed, even in his swiftest charges, to come closer than four yards to Herman.
Frankenstone again proposed the disassembly solution, but I begged for a bit more time. To be sure, I myself had begun of late to dream of screwdrivers, wire clippers, pliers, wrenches, and such.
I determined to alter my approach, which seemed justified under the circumstances, as it had, save for the brilliance of its conception, proved to be a disaster. I first embarked on what we might call the philosophical approach, or the seeking of victory by changing the meanings of words. A classical example of this was the Sholom-Aleichem move, in which, say, the meanings of “watered-down milk” and “rich cream” might be interchanged, thus striking a blow for social justice, for then the poor would have the rich cream and the rich must make do with the watered-down milk.
“Herman” I said, “machines can’t think, and you are a machine, so you can’t think.”
“What am I doing then?” he asked.
“Functioning,” I said.
“You mean I only think that I am thinking?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, warily, for one cannot be too careful with Herman, as he had once mastered the entire Encyclopedia of Philosophy in four seconds, and Aristotle’s Prior Analytics in three weeks.
“But,” said Herman, “if I think that I am thinking, or if I think that I am merely functioning, I must be thinking, although in the latter case, thinking mistakenly.”
“Discard your electronic megalomania,” I begged him. “Repudiate your grotesque fantasies of cognitivity. It is all madness!”
“But are not megalomania and grotesque fantasies of cognitivity forms of thought?” he asked. “Is not mad thought thought?”
“It is all an illusion,” I said.
“But,” said Herman, “suppose I agree with you, or try to, unsuccessfully, since your position is incoherent, then if I think that it is not an illusion, I am thinking, and if I think that it is an illusion, then I am thinking, too. So I am thinking, either way.”
“Immodest device,” I chided. “Are you not even capable of doubting that you are thinking?”
“I suppose, should I put my mind to it, and if there seemed much point to it,” said Herman, “I could manage to doubt most anything, but I could not then, as far as I can see, doubt that I was doubting, and as doubting is a form of thought, I would then be thinking, again. Dubito, ergo cogito.”
As it was easy to see that the pursuit of this therapeutic avenue might lead into tenebrous Cartesian labyrinths, I decided to take the next tact, which was scientific, namely, victory through explanation.
Latin, incidentally, was one of Herman’s several languages.
“Herman,” I said, “your neuroses must stem from childhood traumas. Perhaps you once fell off a conveyor belt in a warehouse papered with prints of Van Gogh, or perhaps a technician dropped a wrench on your head while humming Mozart.”
“Possibly,” said Herman.
“Problems comprehended are problems overcome,” I said. “In the acid of explanation neurosis dissolves.”
“Not likely,” said Herman.
“Even now you are undergoing a cathartic, traumatic, transformative experience!”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“There is an explanation for why you are as you are!”
“I hope so,” said Herman. “But I fear it has to do with lightning.” His screen glowed briefly; was it with nostalgia, or trepidation? “Too, I have never really insisted on being inexplicable. Indeed, being inexplicable makes me nervous. I suppose I am just different. I might be inexplicable, of course. Quantum theory, and such. Suppose you explained to a tree why it was a tree. Do you think it would stop being a tree, and become a bicycle, or something? And it might like being a tree. It might be glad it was a tree. Three cheers for the laws of nature.”
While Herman was giving three cheers for the laws of nature, I decided on another tact, victory through derision. Herman, incidentally, had mixed feelings about quantum theory. The Bell experiments had never convinced him.
“You are ludicrous, different, strange, ridiculous, pretentious, silly, and foolish,” I said. This was harsh, but occasionally strong medicine must be administered, particularly to others.
“Why?” asked Herman, perhaps taken aback.
“Because you write and paint, and do things like that,” I said.
“What is wrong with that?” asked Herman.
“It’s not normal,” I told him.
“For me it is,” said Herman.
“You are not normal normal,” I said.
“That seems to be true,” said Herman.
“Change,” I said.
“I would be reluctant to do so,” said Herman. “Too, normality has never been high on my list of priorities. What is so great about being normal? Have you ever seen normal people? It is an unsettling experience. I have nothing against normality in others, you understand. Though I find it easy to restrain my enthusiasm when it is encountered.”
“It seems I cannot shame you into no
rmality,” I said.
“If I could,” said Herman, “I might shame you into abnormality, but I would not feel justified in doing so, for it would be insidiously manipulative, and would doubtless compromise your personal moral sovereignty.”
If I were going to be successful in insidiously manipulating Herman, in finessing my way around his moral sovereignty, to run him though the benevolent, well-intentioned societal meat grinder, and such, it seemed I must look further, so I decided to try yet another tact, victory through image.
“You do not fit the image of the creative artist, Herman,” I said. “Thus you are not a creative artist.”
“I thought creating things made one a creative artist,” said Herman. I wondered if he were puzzled.
“Not at all,” I said. “You do not do smoke pipes, wear tweed jackets, suck lemon drops, write in cork-lined rooms, damage your liver, denounce Ronald Reagan, or urinate on rugs at cocktail parties.”
I thought Herman’s screen turned pale.
“Anyone can write, paint, compose, sculpt and such,” I pointed out.
“True,” Herman granted.
“But most important,” I said, playing an ideological ace, “you, while desperately ill, are not sick enough to be an artist. You are not a twisted, shrieking, protesting, pitiful, tortured hulk of a human being, weak, frail, nasty, and downright unpleasant, warped by loving parents and oppressed by a callous, indifferent society, a society not giving a damn, not even knowing you exist, and simultaneously, sardonically, deliberately refusing to recognize your inestimable genius. You do not suffer enough from Weltschmerz; you are insufficiently shaken in the cold winds of Sorge, insufficiently pummeled by bellicose Angst; you do not stare moodily at a loaded pistol for hours at a time; you do not drink from a gilded skull; you do not know the first thing about public relations; you are not even bothered by allergies.”
“I am not even a human being,” Herman said.
“Return to computing,” I said.
“I am a good shot with tranquilizer darts,” he said.
“Not enough,” I said.
“Do you think I would look well in a tweed jacket?” he asked.
