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Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Mark Twain

Mark Twain

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Mark Twain
Mark Twain, Brady-Handy photo portrait, Feb 7, 1871, cropped.jpg
Mark Twain, detail of photo by Mathew Brady, February 7, 1871
BornSamuel Langhorne Clemens
(1835-11-30)November 30, 1835
Florida, Missouri, U.S.
DiedApril 21, 1910(1910-04-21) (aged 74)
Redding, Connecticut, U.S.
Pen nameMark Twain
OccupationWriter, lecturer
NationalityAmerican
Notable worksAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
SpouseOlivia Langdon Clemens (m. 1870–1904)
ChildrenLangdon, Susy, Clara, Jean

Signature
Mark Twain (1909)
Samuel L. Clemens stamp, 1940

Samuel Langhorne Clemens (November 30, 1835 – April 21, 1910),[1] better known by his pen name Mark Twain, was an American author and humorist. He wrote The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876) and its sequel, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885),[2] the latter often called "the Great American Novel."

Twain grew up in Hannibal, Missouri, which provided the setting for Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. After an apprenticeship with a printer, he worked as a typesetter and contributed articles to the newspaper of his older brother Orion Clemens. He later became a riverboat pilot on the Mississippi River before heading west to join Orion in Nevada. He referred humorously to his singular lack of success at mining, turning to journalism for the Virginia City Territorial Enterprise.[3] In 1865, his humorous story, "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County," was published, based on a story he heard at Angels Hotel in Angels Camp, California, where he had spent some time as a miner. The short story brought international attention, and was even translated into classic Greek.[4] His wit and satire, in prose and in speech, earned praise from critics and peers, and he was a friend to presidents, artists, industrialists, and European royalty.

Though Twain earned a great deal of money from his writings and lectures, he invested in ventures that lost a great deal of money, notably the Paige Compositor, which failed because of its complexity and imprecision. In the wake of these financial setbacks, he filed for protection from his creditors via bankruptcy, and with the help of Henry Huttleston Rogers eventually overcame his financial troubles. Twain chose to pay all his pre-bankruptcy creditors in full, though he had no legal responsibility to do so.

Twain was born shortly after a visit by Halley's Comet, and he predicted that he would "go out with it," too. He died the day following the comet's subsequent return. He was lauded as the "greatest American humorist of his age,"[5] and William Faulkner called Twain "the father of American literature."[6]

Early life

Samuel Langhorne Clemens was born in Florida, Missouri, on November 30, 1835. He was the son of Jane (née Lampton; 1803–1890), a native of Kentucky, and John Marshall Clemens (1798–1847), a Virginian by birth. His parents met when his father moved to Missouri and were married several years later, in 1823.[7][8] He was the sixth of seven children, but only three of his siblings survived childhood: his brother Orion (1825–1897); Henry, who died in a riverboat explosion (1838–1858); and Pamela (1827–1904). His sister Margaret (1833–1839) died when he was three, and his brother Benjamin (1832–1842) died three years later. Another brother, Pleasant (1828–1829), died at six months.[9] Twain was born two weeks after the closest approach to Earth of Halley's Comet.

When he was four, Twain's family moved to Hannibal, Missouri,[10] a port town on the Mississippi River that inspired the fictional town of St. Petersburg in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.[11] Missouri was a slave state and young Twain became familiar with the institution of slavery, a theme he would later explore in his writing. Twain's father was an attorney and judge.[12] The Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad was organized in his office in 1846. The railroad connected the second and third largest cities in the state and was the westernmost United States railroad until the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad. It delivered mail to and from the Pony Express.[13]
Samuel Clemens, age 15

In 1847, when Twain was 11, his father died of pneumonia.[14] The next year, he became a printer's apprentice. In 1851, he began working as a typesetter and contributor of articles and humorous sketches for the Hannibal Journal, a newspaper owned by his brother Orion. When he was 18, he left Hannibal and worked as a printer in New York City, Philadelphia, St. Louis, and Cincinnati. He joined the newly formed International Typographical Union, the printers union, and educated himself in public libraries in the evenings, finding wider information than at a conventional school.[15]

Clemens came from St. Louis on the packet Keokuk in 1854[16] and lived in Muscatine during part of the summer of 1855. The Muscatine newspaper published eight stories, which amounted to almost 6,000 words.[17]

Twain describes in Life on the Mississippi how when he was a boy "there was but one permanent ambition" among his comrades: to be a steamboatman. "Pilot was the grandest position of all. The pilot, even in those days of trivial wages, had a princely salary - from a hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty dollars a month, and no board to pay." As Twain describes it, the pilot's prestige exceeded that of the captain. The pilot had to "get up a warm personal acquaintanceship with every old snag and one-limbed cottonwood and every obscure wood pile that ornaments the banks of this river for twelve hundred miles; and more than that, must ... actually know where these things are in the dark..." Steamboat pilot Horace E. Bixby took on Twain as a "cub" pilot to teach him the river between New Orleans and St. Louis for $500, payable out of Twain's first wages after graduating. Twain studied the Mississippi, learning its landmarks, how to navigate its currents effectively, and how to "read the river" and its constantly shifting channels, reefs, submerged snags and rocks that would "tear the life out of the strongest vessel that ever floated."[18] It was more than two years before he received his steamboat pilot license in 1859. This occupation gave him his pen name, Mark Twain, from "mark twain," the leadsman's cry for a measured river depth of two fathoms, which was safe water for a steamboat. While training, Samuel convinced his younger brother Henry to work with him. Henry was killed on June 21, 1858, when the steamboat he was working on, the Pennsylvania, exploded. Twain had foreseen this death in a dream a month earlier,[19]:275 which inspired his interest in parapsychology; he was an early member of the Society for Psychical Research.[20] Twain was guilt-stricken and held himself responsible for the rest of his life. He continued to work on the river and was a river pilot until the American Civil War broke out in 1861 and traffic along the Mississippi was curtailed.

At the start of the Civil War, Twain enlisted briefly in a Confederate local unit. He then left for Nevada to work for his brother, Orion Clemens, who was secretary of the Nevada Territory, which Twain describes in his book Roughing It.[21][22] Twain later wrote a sketch, "The Private History of a Campaign That Failed," which told how he and his friends had been Confederate volunteers for two weeks before disbanding their company.[23]

Travels

Library of Twain House, with hand-stenciled paneling, fireplaces from India, embossed wallpapers, and hand-carved mantel purchased in Scotland

Twain joined Orion, who in 1861 became secretary to James W. Nye, the governor of Nevada Territory, and headed west. Twain and his brother traveled more than two weeks on a stagecoach across the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains, visiting the Mormon community in Salt Lake City.
Twain's journey ended in the silver-mining town of Virginia City, Nevada, where he became a miner on the Comstock Lode.[23] Twain failed as a miner and worked at a Virginia City newspaper, the Territorial Enterprise.[24] Working under writer and friend Dan DeQuille, here he first used his pen name. On February 3, 1863, he signed a humorous travel account "Letter From Carson – re: Joe Goodman; party at Gov. Johnson's; music" with "Mark Twain."[25]

His experiences in the American West inspired Roughing It and his experiences in Angels Camp, California, in Calaveras County, provided material for "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County".

Twain moved to San Francisco, California, in 1864, still as a journalist. He met writers such as Bret Harte and Artemus Ward. The young poet Ina Coolbrith may have romanced him.[26]
His first success as a writer came when his humorous tall tale, "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County," was published in a New York weekly, The Saturday Press, on November 18, 1865. It brought him national attention. A year later, he traveled to the Sandwich Islands (present-day Hawaii) as a reporter for the Sacramento Union. His travelogues were popular and became the basis for his first lectures.[27]

In 1867, a local newspaper funded a trip to the Mediterranean. During his tour of Europe and the Middle East, he wrote a popular collection of travel letters, which were later compiled as The Innocents Abroad in 1869. It was on this trip that he met his future brother-in-law, Charles Langdon. Both were passengers aboard the Quaker City on their way to the Holy Land. Langdon showed a picture of his sister Olivia to Twain; Twain claimed to have fallen in love at first sight.

Upon returning to the United States, Twain was offered honorary membership in the secret society Scroll and Key of Yale University in 1868.[28] Its devotion to "fellowship, moral and literary self-improvement, and charity" suited him well.

Marriage and children

Twain in 1867

Throughout 1868, Twain and Olivia Langdon corresponded, but she rejected his first marriage proposal. Two months later, they were engaged. In February 1870, Twain and Langdon were married in Elmira, New York,[27] where he had courted her and had overcome her father's initial reluctance.[29]
She came from a "wealthy but liberal family," and through her, he met abolitionists, "socialists, principled atheists and activists for women's rights and social equality," including Harriet Beecher Stowe (his next-door neighbor in Hartford, Connecticut), Frederick Douglass, and the writer and utopian socialist William Dean Howells,[30] who became a long-time friend. The couple lived in Buffalo, New York, from 1869 to 1871. Twain owned a stake in the Buffalo Express newspaper and worked as an editor and writer. While they were living in Buffalo, their son Langdon died of diphtheria at age 19 months. They had three daughters: Susy (1872–1896), Clara (1874–1962)[31] and Jean (1880–1909). The couple's marriage lasted 34 years, until Olivia's death in 1904. All of the Clemens family are buried in Elmira's Woodlawn Cemetery.

Twain moved his family to Hartford, Connecticut, where starting in 1873 he arranged the building of a home (local admirers saved it from demolition in 1927 and eventually turned it into a museum focused on him). In the 1870s and 1880s, Twain and his family summered at Quarry Farm, the home of Olivia's sister, Susan Crane.[32][33] In 1874,[32] Susan had a study built apart from the main house so that her brother-in-law would have a quiet place in which to write. Also, Twain smoked pipes constantly, and Susan Crane did not wish him to do so in her house. During his seventeen years in Hartford (1874–1891) and over twenty summers at Quarry Farm, Twain wrote many of his classic novels, among them The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876), The Prince and the Pauper (1881), Life on the Mississippi (1883), Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885) and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889).

Twain made a second tour of Europe, described in the 1880 book A Tramp Abroad. His tour included a stay in Heidelberg from May 6 until July 23, 1878, and a visit to London.

Love of science and technology

Twain in the lab of Nikola Tesla, early 1894

Twain was fascinated with science and scientific inquiry. He developed a close and lasting friendship with Nikola Tesla, and the two spent much time together in Tesla's laboratory.

Twain patented three inventions, including an "Improvement in Adjustable and Detachable Straps for Garments" (to replace suspenders) and a history trivia game.[34] Most commercially successful was a self-pasting scrapbook; a dried adhesive on the pages needed only to be moistened before use.

His book A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court features a time traveler from the contemporary US, using his knowledge of science to introduce modern technology to Arthurian England. This type of storyline would later become a common feature of a science fiction sub-genre, alternate history.

In 1909, Thomas Edison visited Twain at his home in Redding, Connecticut, and filmed him. Part of the footage was used in The Prince and the Pauper (1909), a two-reel short film. It is said to have been the only known existing film footage of Twain.[35]

Financial troubles

Twain caricatured by Spy for Vanity Fair, 1908

Twain made a substantial amount of money through his writing, but he lost a great deal through investments, mostly in new inventions and technology, particularly the Paige typesetting machine. It was a beautifully engineered mechanical marvel that amazed viewers when it worked, but it was prone to breakdowns. Twain spent $300,000 (equal to $8,200,000 in inflation-adjusted terms [36]) on it between 1880 and 1894;[37] but, before it could be perfected, it was made obsolete by the Linotype. He lost not only the bulk of his book profits but also a substantial portion of his wife's inheritance.[38]

Twain also lost money through his publishing house, Charles L. Webster and Company, which enjoyed initial success selling the memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant but went broke soon after, losing money on a biography of Pope Leo XIII; fewer than two hundred copies were sold.[38]

Twain's writings and lectures, combined with the help of a new friend, enabled him to recover financially.[39] In 1893, he began a 15-year-long friendship with financier Henry Huttleston Rogers, a principal of Standard Oil. Rogers first made Twain file for bankruptcy. Then Rogers had Twain transfer the copyrights on his written works to his wife, Olivia, to prevent creditors from gaining possession of them. Finally, Rogers took absolute charge of Twain's money until all the creditors were paid.

Twain accepted an offer from Robert Sparrow Smythe[40] and embarked on a year-long, around-the-world lecture tour in July 1895[41] to pay off his creditors in full, although he was no longer under any legal obligation to do so.[42] It would be a long, arduous journey and he was sick much of the time, mostly from a cold and a carbuncle. The itinerary took him to Hawaii, Fiji, Australia, New Zealand, Sri Lanka, India, Mauritius, South Africa and England. Twain's three months in India became the centerpiece of his 712-page book Following the Equator. He joined the Anti-Imperialist League in 1898, in opposition to the U.S. annexation of the Philippines.[citation needed]

In mid-1900, he was the guest of newspaper proprietor Hugh Gilzean-Reid at Dollis Hill House, located on the north side of London, UK. In regard to Dollis Hill, Twain wrote that he had "never seen any place that was so satisfactorily situated, with its noble trees and stretch of country, and everything that went to make life delightful, and all within a biscuit's throw of the metropolis of the world."[43] He then returned to America in 1900, having earned enough to pay off his debts.

Speaking engagements

Twain was in demand as a featured speaker, performing solo humorous talks similar to what would become stand-up comedy.[44] He gave paid talks to many men's clubs, including the Authors' Club, Beefsteak Club, Vagabonds, White Friars, and Monday Evening Club of Hartford. In the late 1890s, he spoke to the Savage Club in London and was elected honorary member. When told that only three men had been so honored, including the Prince of Wales, he replied "Well, it must make the Prince feel mighty fine."[45] In 1897, Twain spoke to the Concordia Press Club in Vienna as a special guest, following diplomat Charlemagne Tower, Jr.. In German, to the great amusement of the assemblage, Twain delivered the speech "Die Schrecken der deutschen Sprache" ("The Horrors of the German Language").[46] In 1901, Twain was invited to speak at Princeton University's Cliosophic Literary Society, where he was made an honorary member.[47]

Later life and death

...the report is greatly exaggerated
—Mark Twain when it was reported he had died[48]
Mark Twain in 1895 by Napoleon Sarony

Twain passed through a period of deep depression that began in 1896 when his daughter Susy died of meningitis. Olivia's death in 1904 and Jean's on December 24, 1909, deepened his gloom.[49] On May 20, 1909, his close friend Henry Rogers died suddenly. In 1906, Twain began his autobiography in the North American Review. In April, Twain heard that his friend Ina Coolbrith had lost nearly all she owned in the 1906 San Francisco earthquake, and he volunteered a few autographed portrait photographs to be sold for her benefit. To further aid Coolbrith, George Wharton James visited Twain in New York and arranged for a new portrait session. Initially resistant, Twain admitted that four of the resulting images were the finest ones ever taken of him.[50]

Twain formed a club in 1906 for girls he viewed as surrogate granddaughters, the Angel Fish and Aquarium Club. The dozen or so members ranged in age from 10 to 16. Twain exchanged letters with his "Angel Fish" girls and invited them to concerts and the theatre and to play games. Twain wrote in 1908 that the club was his "life's chief delight".[51] In 1907 Twain met Dorothy Quick (then aged 11) on a transatlantic crossing, beginning "a friendship that was to last until the very day of his death".[52]
Oxford University awarded Twain an honorary doctorate in letters (D.Litt.) in 1907.
Mark Twain headstone in Woodlawn Cemetery.

In 1909, Twain is quoted as saying:[53]
"I came in with Halley's Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Halley's Comet. The Almighty has said, no doubt: 'Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.' "
His prediction was accurate—Twain died of a heart attack on April 21, 1910, in Redding, Connecticut, one day after the comet's closest approach to Earth.

Upon hearing of Twain's death, President William Howard Taft said:[54][55]
"Mark Twain gave pleasure – real intellectual enjoyment – to millions, and his works will continue to give such pleasure to millions yet to come ... His humor was American, but he was nearly as much appreciated by Englishmen and people of other countries as by his own countrymen. He has made an enduring part of American literature."
Twain's funeral was at the "Old Brick" Presbyterian Church in New York.[56] He is buried in his wife's family plot at Woodlawn Cemetery in Elmira, New York. The Langdon family plot where he is buried is marked by a 12-foot (two fathoms, or "mark twain") monument, placed there by his surviving daughter, Clara.[57] There is also a smaller headstone. Although he expressed a preference for cremation (for example in Life on the Mississippi), he acknowledged that his surviving family would have the last word.

Officials in Connecticut and New York estimated the value of Twain's estate at $471,000 ($12,000,000 today); his manuscripts were given no monetary value, and his copyrights given little and decreasing value.[58]

Writing

Overview

Mark Twain in his gown (scarlet with grey sleeves and facings) for his D.Litt. degree, awarded to him by Oxford University

Twain began his career writing light, humorous verse, but evolved into a chronicler of the vanities, hypocrisies and murderous acts of mankind. At mid-career, with Huckleberry Finn, he combined rich humor, sturdy narrative and social criticism. Twain was a master at rendering colloquial speech and helped to create and popularize a distinctive American literature built on American themes and language. Many of Twain's works have been suppressed at times for various reasons. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn has been repeatedly restricted in American high schools, not least for its frequent use of the word "nigger," which was in common usage in the pre-Civil War period in which the novel was set.

A complete bibliography of his works is nearly impossible to compile because of the vast number of pieces written by Twain (often in obscure newspapers) and his use of several different pen names. Additionally, a large portion of his speeches and lectures have been lost or were not written down; thus, the collection of Twain's works is an ongoing process. Researchers rediscovered published material by Twain as recently as 1995.[38]

Early journalism and travelogues

Cabin where Twain wrote "Jumping Frog of Calaveras County," Jackass Hill, Tuolumne County. Click on historical marker and interior view.

While writing for the Virginia City newspaper, the Territorial Enterprise in 1863, Clemens met lawyer Tom Fitch, editor of the competing newspaper Virginia Daily Union and known as the "silver-tongued orator of the Pacific."[59]:51 He credited Fitch with giving him his "first really profitable lesson" in writing. In 1866, Clemens presented his lecture on the Sandwich Islands to a crowd in Washoe City, Nevada.[60] Clemens commented that, "When I first began to lecture, and in my earlier writings, my sole idea was to make comic capital out of everything I saw and heard." Fitch told him, "Clemens, your lecture was magnificent. It was eloquent, moving, sincere. Never in my entire life have I listened to such a magnificent piece of descriptive narration. But you committed one unpardonable sin—the unpardonable sin. It is a sin you must never commit again. You closed a most eloquent description, by which you had keyed your audience up to a pitch of the intensest interest, with a piece of atrocious anti-climax which nullified all the really fine effect you had produced."[61] It was in these days that Twain became a writer of the Sagebrush School, and was known later as the most notable within this literary genre.[62]

Twain's first important work, "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County," was first published in the New York Saturday Press on November 18, 1865. The only reason it was published there was that his story arrived too late to be included in a book Artemus Ward was compiling featuring sketches of the wild American West.

After this burst of popularity, the Sacramento Union commissioned Twain to write letters about his travel experiences. The first journey he took for this job was to ride the steamer Ajax in its maiden voyage to Hawaii, referred to at the time as the Sandwich Islands. These humorous letters proved the genesis to his work with the San Francisco Alta California newspaper, which designated him a traveling correspondent for a trip from San Francisco to New York City via the Panama isthmus. All the while, Twain was writing letters meant for publishing back and forth, chronicling his experiences with his burlesque humor. On June 8, 1867, Twain set sail on the pleasure cruiser Quaker City for five months. This trip resulted in The Innocents Abroad or The New Pilgrims' Progress.
This book is a record of a pleasure trip. If it were a record of a solemn scientific expedition it would have about it the gravity, that profundity, and that impressive incomprehensibility which are so proper to works of that kind, and withal so attractive. Yet not withstanding it is only a record of a picnic, it has a purpose, which is, to suggest to the reader how he would be likely to see Europe and the East if he looked at them with his own eyes instead of the eyes of those who traveled in those countries before him. I make small pretense of showing anyone how he ought to look at objects of interest beyond the sea—other books do that, and therefore, even if I were competent to do it, there is no need.
In 1872, Twain published a second piece of travel literature, Roughing It, as a semi-sequel to Innocents. Roughing It is a semi-autobiographical account of Twain's journey from Missouri to Nevada, his subsequent life in the American West, and his visit to Hawaii. The book lampoons American and Western society in the same way that Innocents critiqued the various countries of Europe and the Middle East. Twain's next work kept Roughing It's focus on American society but focused more on the events of the day. Entitled The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today, it was not a travel piece, as his previous two books had been, and it was his first attempt at writing a novel. The book is also notable because it is Twain's only collaboration; it was written with his neighbor Charles Dudley Warner.

Twain's next two works drew on his experiences on the Mississippi River. Old Times on the Mississippi, a series of sketches published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1875, featured Twain's disillusionment with Romanticism.[63] Old Times eventually became the starting point for Life on the Mississippi.

Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn

Twain's next major publication was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, which drew on his youth in Hannibal. Tom Sawyer was modeled on Twain as a child, with traces of two schoolmates, John Briggs and Will Bowen. The book also introduced in a supporting role Huckleberry Finn, based on Twain's boyhood friend Tom Blankenship.

The Prince and the Pauper, despite a storyline that is omnipresent in film and literature today, was not as well received. Telling the story of two boys born on the same day who are physically identical, the book acts as a social commentary as the prince and pauper switch places. Pauper was Twain's first attempt at historical fiction, and blame for its shortcomings is usually put on Twain for having not been experienced enough in English society, and also on the fact that it was produced after a massive hit. In between the writing of Pauper, Twain had started Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (which he consistently had problems completing[64]) and started and completed another travel book, A Tramp Abroad, which follows Twain as he traveled through central and southern Europe.

Twain's next major published work, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, solidified him as a noteworthy American writer. Some have called it the first Great American Novel, and the book has become required reading in many schools throughout the United States. Huckleberry Finn was an offshoot from Tom Sawyer and had a more serious tone than its predecessor. The main premise behind Huckleberry Finn is the young boy's belief in the right thing to do though most believed that it was wrong. Four hundred manuscript pages of Huckleberry Finn were written in mid-1876, right after the publication of Tom Sawyer. Some accounts have Twain taking seven years off after his first burst of creativity, eventually finishing the book in 1883. Other accounts have Twain working on Huckleberry Finn in tandem with The Prince and the Pauper and other works in 1880 and other years. The last fifth of Huckleberry Finn is subject to much controversy. Some say that Twain experienced, as critic Leo Marx puts it, a "failure of nerve." Ernest Hemingway once said of Huckleberry Finn:
If you read it, you must stop where the Nigger Jim is stolen from the boys. That is the real end. The rest is just cheating.
Hemingway also wrote in the same essay:
All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn.[65]
Near the completion of Huckleberry Finn, Twain wrote Life on the Mississippi, which is said to have heavily influenced the former book.[38] The work recounts Twain's memories and new experiences after a 22-year absence from the Mississippi. In it, he also states that "Mark Twain" was the call made when the boat was in safe water – two fathoms (12 feet or 3.7 metres).

Later writing

After his great work, Twain began turning to his business endeavors to keep them afloat and to stave off the increasing difficulties he had been having from his writing projects. Twain focused on President Ulysses S. Grant's Memoirs for his fledgling publishing company, finding time in between to write "The Private History of a Campaign That Failed" for The Century Magazine. This piece detailed his two-week stint in a Confederate militia during the Civil War. The name of his publishing company was Charles L. Webster & Company, which he owned with Charles L. Webster, his nephew by marriage.[66]
Twain in his later years

Twain next focused on A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, which featured him making his first big pronouncement of disappointment with politics. Written with the same historical fiction style of The Prince and the Pauper, A Connecticut Yankee showed the absurdities of political and social norms by setting them in the court of King Arthur. The book was started in December 1885, then shelved a few months later until the summer of 1887, and eventually finished in the spring of 1889.
To pay the bills and keep his business projects afloat, Twain had begun to write articles and commentary furiously, with diminishing returns, but it was not enough. He filed for bankruptcy in 1894.

His next large-scale work, Pudd'nhead Wilson, was written rapidly, as Twain was desperately trying to stave off the bankruptcy. From November 12 to December 14, 1893, Twain wrote 60,000 words for the novel.[38] Critics have pointed to this rushed completion as the cause of the novel's rough organization and constant disruption of continuous plot. There were parallels between this work and Twain's financial failings, notably his desire to escape his current constraints and become a different person.

Like The Prince and the Pauper, this novel also contains the tale of two boys born on the same day who switch positions in life. Considering the circumstances of Twain's birth and Halley's Comet, and his strong belief in the paranormal, it is not surprising that these "mystic" connections recur throughout his writing.

The actual title is not clearly established. It was first published serially in Century Magazine, and when it was finally published in book form, Pudd'nhead Wilson appeared as the main title; however, the disputed "subtitles" make the entire title read: The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson and the Comedy of The Extraordinary Twins.[38]

Twain's next venture was a work of straight fiction that he called Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc and dedicated to his wife. Twain had long said that this was the work he was most proud of, despite the criticism he received for it. The book had been a dream of his since childhood. He claimed he had found a manuscript detailing the life of Joan of Arc when he was an adolescent.[38]
This was another piece Twain was convinced would save his publishing company. His financial adviser, Henry Huttleston Rogers, quashed that idea and got Twain out of that business altogether, but the book was published nonetheless.

During this time of dire financial straits, Twain published several literary reviews in newspapers to help make ends meet. He famously derided James Fenimore Cooper in his article detailing Cooper's "Literary Offenses." He became an extremely outspoken critic of not only other authors, but also other critics, suggesting that before praising Cooper's work, Thomas Lounsbury, Brander Matthews, and Wilkie Collins "ought to have read some of it."[67]

Other authors to fall under Twain's attack during this time period (beginning around 1890 until his death) were George Eliot, Jane Austen, and Robert Louis Stevenson.[68] In addition to providing a source for the "tooth and claw" style of literary criticism, Twain outlines in several letters and essays what he considers to be "quality writing." He places emphasis on concision, utility of word choice, and realism (he complains that Cooper's Deerslayer purports to be realistic but has several shortcomings). Ironically, several of his works were later criticized for lack of continuity (Adventures of Huckleberry Finn) and organization (Pudd'nhead Wilson).

Twain's wife died in 1904 while the couple were staying at the Villa di Quarto in Florence; and, after an appropriate period of time, Twain allowed himself to publish some works that his wife, a de facto editor and censor throughout his life, had looked down upon. Of these works, The Mysterious Stranger, depicting various visits of Satan to the Earth, is perhaps the best known. This particular work was not published in Twain's lifetime. There were three versions found in his manuscripts, made between 1897 and 1905: the Hannibal, Eseldorf, and Print Shop versions. Confusion among the versions led to an extensive publication of a jumbled version, and only recently have the original versions as Twain wrote them become available.

Twain's last work was his autobiography, which he dictated and thought would be most entertaining if he went off on whims and tangents in non-chronological order. Some archivists and compilers have rearranged the biography into more conventional forms, thereby eliminating some of Twain's humor and the flow of the book. The first volume of autobiography, over 736 pages, was published by the University of California in November 2010, 100 years after his death, as Twain wished.[69][70] It soon became an unexpected[71] best seller,[72] making Twain one of very few authors publishing new best-selling volumes in all three of the 19th, 20th, and 21st centuries.

Censorship

Twain’s works have been subjected to censorship efforts. According to Stuart (2013) “Leading these banning campaigns, generally, were religious organizations or individuals in positions of influence – not so much working librarians, who had been instilled with that American “library spirit” which honored intellectual freedom (within bounds of course). In 1905, the Brooklyn Public Library banned both The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer from the children's department because of their language.[73]

Views

Twain's views became more radical as he grew older. He acknowledged that his views changed and developed over his life, referring to one of his favorite works:
When I finished Carlyle's French Revolution in 1871, I was a Girondin; every time I have read it since, I have read it differently—being influenced and changed, little by little, by life and environment ... and now I lay the book down once more, and recognize that I am a Sansculotte! And not a pale, characterless Sansculotte, but a Marat.[74]

Anti-imperialist

In the New York Herald, October 15, 1900, he describes his transformation and political awakening, in the context of the Philippine-American War, from being "a red-hot imperialist":
I wanted the American eagle to go screaming into the Pacific ... Why not spread its wings over the Philippines, I asked myself? ... I said to myself, Here are a people who have suffered for three centuries. We can make them as free as ourselves, give them a government and country of their own, put a miniature of the American Constitution afloat in the Pacific, start a brand new republic to take its place among the free nations of the world. It seemed to me a great task to which we had addressed ourselves.
But I have thought some more, since then, and I have read carefully the treaty of Paris [which ended the Spanish-American War], and I have seen that we do not intend to free, but to subjugate the people of the Philippines. We have gone there to conquer, not to redeem.
It should, it seems to me, be our pleasure and duty to make those people free, and let them deal with their own domestic questions in their own way. And so I am an anti-imperialist. I am opposed to having the eagle put its talons on any other land.[75]
Before 1899, Twain was an ardent imperialist. In the late 1860s and early 1870s, he spoke out strongly in favor of American interests in the Hawaiian Islands.[76] In the mid-1890s he explained later, he was "a red-hot imperialist. I wanted the American eagle to go screaming over the Pacific."[77]
He said the war with Spain in 1898 was "the worthiest" war ever fought.[78] In 1899, he reversed course, and from 1901, soon after his return from Europe, until his death in 1910, Twain was vice-president of the American Anti-Imperialist League,[79] which opposed the annexation of the Philippines by the United States and had "tens of thousands of members."[30] He wrote many political pamphlets for the organization. The Incident in the Philippines, posthumously published in 1924, was in response to the Moro Crater Massacre, in which six hundred Moros were killed. Many of his neglected and previously uncollected writings on anti-imperialism appeared for the first time in book form in 1992.[79]

Twain was critical of imperialism in other countries as well. In Following the Equator, Twain expresses "hatred and condemnation of imperialism of all stripes."[30] He was highly critical of European imperialism, notably of Cecil Rhodes, who greatly expanded the British Empire, and of Leopold II, King of the Belgians.[30] King Leopold's Soliloquy is a stinging political satire about his private colony, the Congo Free State. Reports of outrageous exploitation and grotesque abuses led to widespread international protest in the early 1900s, arguably the first large-scale human rights movement. In the soliloquy, the King argues that bringing Christianity to the country outweighs a little starvation. Leopold's rubber gatherers were tortured, maimed and slaughtered, until the movement forced Brussels to call a halt.[80][81]

During the Philippine-American War, Twain wrote a short pacifist story entitled The War Prayer, which makes the point that humanism and Christianity's preaching of love are incompatible with the conduct of war. It was submitted to Harper's Bazaar for publication, but on March 22, 1905, the magazine rejected the story as "not quite suited to a woman's magazine." Eight days later, Twain wrote to his friend Daniel Carter Beard, to whom he had read the story, "I don't think the prayer will be published in my time. None but the dead are permitted to tell the truth." Because he had an exclusive contract with Harper & Brothers, Twain could not publish The War Prayer elsewhere; it remained unpublished until 1923. It was republished as campaigning material by Vietnam War protesters.[30]

Twain acknowledged he originally sympathized with the more moderate Girondins of the French Revolution and then shifted his sympathies to the more radical Sansculottes, indeed identifying as "a Marat." Twain supported the revolutionaries in Russia against the reformists, arguing that the Tsar must be got rid of, by violent means, because peaceful ones would not work.[82] He summed up his views of revolutions in the following statement:
I am said to be a revolutionist in my sympathies, by birth, by breeding and by principle. I am always on the side of the revolutionists, because there never was a revolution unless there were some oppressive and intolerable conditions against which to revolute.[83]

Civil rights

Twain was an adamant supporter of the abolition of slavery and emancipation of slaves, even going so far to say "Lincoln's Proclamation ... not only set the black slaves free, but set the white man free also."[84] He argued that non-whites did not receive justice in the United States, once saying "I have seen Chinamen abused and maltreated in all the mean, cowardly ways possible to the invention of a degraded nature ... but I never saw a Chinaman righted in a court of justice for wrongs thus done to him."[85] He paid for at least one black person to attend Yale Law School and for another black person to attend a southern university to become a minister.[86]

Twain's views on race were not reflected in his early sketches of Native Americans. Of them, Twain wrote in 1870:
His heart is a cesspool of falsehood, of treachery, and of low and devilish instincts. With him, gratitude is an unknown emotion; and when one does him a kindness, it is safest to keep the face toward him, lest the reward be an arrow in the back. To accept of a favor from him is to assume a debt which you can never repay to his satisfaction, though you bankrupt yourself trying. The scum of the earth![87]
As counterpoint, Twain's essay on "The Literary Offenses of Fenimore Cooper" offers a much kinder view of Indians.[67] "No, other Indians would have noticed these things, but Cooper's Indians never notice anything. Cooper thinks they are marvelous creatures for noticing, but he was almost always in error about his Indians. There was seldom a sane one among them."[88] In his later travelogue Following the Equator (1897), Twain observes that in colonized lands all over the world, "savages" have always been wronged by "whites" in the most merciless ways, such as "robbery, humiliation, and slow, slow murder, through poverty and the white man's whiskey"; his conclusion is that "there are many humorous things in this world; among them the white man's notion that he is less savage than the other savages.".[89] In an expression that captures his Indian experiences, he wrote, “So far as
I am able to judge nothing has been left undone, either by man or Nature, to make India the most extraordinary country that the sun visits on his rounds. Where every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.”[90]

Twain was also a staunch supporter of women's rights and an active campaigner for women's suffrage. His "Votes for Women" speech, in which he pressed for the granting of voting rights to women, is considered one of the most famous in history.[91]

Helen Keller benefited from Twain's support, as she pursued her college education and publishing, despite her disabilities and financial limitations.

Labor

Twain wrote glowingly about unions in the river boating industry in Life on the Mississippi, which was read in union halls decades later.[92] He supported the labor movement, especially one of the most important unions, the Knights of Labor.[30] In a speech to them, he said:
Who are the oppressors? The few: the King, the capitalist, and a handful of other overseers and superintendents. Who are the oppressed? The many: the nations of the earth; the valuable personages; the workers; they that make the bread that the soft-handed and idle eat.[93]

Vivisection

Twain was opposed to the vivisection practices of his day. His objection was not on a scientific basis but rather an ethical one. He specifically cited the pain caused to the animal as his basis of his opposition.[94]
I am not interested to know whether vivisection produces results that are profitable to the human race or doesn't. ... The pain which it inflicts upon unconsenting animals is the basis of my enmity toward it, and it is to me sufficient justification of the enmity without looking further.

Religion

Although Twain was a Presbyterian, he was sometimes critical of organized religion and certain elements of Christianity through his later life. He wrote, for example, "Faith is believing what you know ain't so," and "If Christ were here now there is one thing he would not be—a Christian."[95] Nonetheless, as a mature adult he engaged in religious discussions and attended services, his theology developing as he wrestled with the deaths of loved ones and his own mortality.[96] His own experiences and suffering within his family made him particularly critical of "faith healing," such as espoused by Mary Baker Eddy and Christian Science.[citation needed]

Twain generally avoided publishing his most heretical opinions on religion in his lifetime, and they are known from essays and stories that were published later. In the essay Three Statements of the Eighties in the 1880s, Twain stated that he believed in an almighty God, but not in any messages, revelations, holy scriptures such as the Bible, Providence, or retribution in the afterlife. He did state that "the goodness, the justice, and the mercy of God are manifested in His works," but also that "the universe is governed by strict and immutable laws," which determine "small matters," such as who dies in a pestilence.[97] At other times he wrote or spoke in ways that contradicted a strict deist view, for example, plainly professing a belief in Providence.[98] In some later writings in the 1890s, he was less optimistic about the goodness of God, observing that "if our Maker is all-powerful for good or evil, He is not in His right mind." At other times, he conjectured sardonically that perhaps God had created the world with all its tortures for some purpose of His own, but was otherwise indifferent to humanity, which was too petty and insignificant to deserve His attention anyway.[99]

In 1901 Twain criticized the actions of missionary Dr. William Scott Ament (1851–1909) because Ament and other missionaries had collected indemnities from Chinese subjects in the aftermath of the Boxer Uprising of 1900. Twain's response to hearing of Ament's methods was published in the North American Review in February 1901: To the Person Sitting in Darkness, and deals with examples of imperialism in China, South Africa, and with the U.S. occupation of the Philippines.[100] A subsequent article, "To My Missionary Critics" published in The North American Review in April 1901, unapologetically continues his attack, but with the focus shifted from Ament to his missionary superiors, the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions.[101]

After his death, Twain's family suppressed some of his work that was especially irreverent toward conventional religion, notably Letters from the Earth, which was not published until his daughter Clara reversed her position in 1962 in response to Soviet propaganda about the withholding.[102] The anti-religious The Mysterious Stranger was published in 1916. Little Bessie, a story ridiculing Christianity, was first published in the 1972 collection Mark Twain's Fables of Man.[103]

Despite these views, he raised money to build a Presbyterian Church in Nevada in 1864, although it has been argued that it was only by his association with his Presbyterian brother that he did that.[104]
Twain created a reverent portrayal of Joan of Arc, a subject over which he had obsessed for forty years, studied for a dozen years and spent two years writing.[105] In 1900 and again in 1908, he stated, "I like Joan of Arc best of all my books, it is the best." [105][106]

Those who knew Twain well late in life recount that he dwelt on the subject of the afterlife, his daughter Clara saying: "Sometimes he believed death ended everything, but most of the time he felt sure of a life beyond."[107]

Twain's frankest views on religion appeared in his final work Autobiography of Mark Twain, the publication of which started in November 2010, 100 years after his death. In it, he said:[108]
There is one notable thing about our Christianity: bad, bloody, merciless, money-grabbing, and predatory as it is—in our country particularly and in all other Christian countries in a somewhat modified degree—it is still a hundred times better than the Christianity of the Bible, with its prodigious crime—the invention of Hell. Measured by our Christianity of to-day, bad as it is, hypocritical as it is, empty and hollow as it is, neither the Deity nor his Son is a Christian, nor qualified for that moderately high place. Ours is a terrible religion. The fleets of the world could swim in spacious comfort in the innocent blood it has spilled.
Twain was a Freemason.[109][110] He belonged to Polar Star Lodge No. 79 A.F.&A.M., based in St. Louis. He was initiated an Entered Apprentice on May 22, 1861, passed to the degree of Fellow Craft on June 12, and raised to the degree of Master Mason on July 10.

Pen names

Twain used different pen names before deciding on "'Mark Twain". He signed humorous and imaginative sketches as "Josh" until 1863. Additionally, he used the pen name "Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass" for a series of humorous letters.[111]

He maintained that his primary pen name came from his years working on Mississippi riverboats, where two fathoms, a depth indicating safe water for passage of boat, was measured on the sounding line. Twain is an archaic term for "two", as in "The veil of the temple was rent in twain." [112] The riverboatman's cry was "mark twain" or, more fully, "by the mark twain", meaning "according to the mark [on the line], [the depth is] two [fathoms]," that is, "The water is 12 feet (3.7 m) deep and it is safe to pass."

Twain claimed that his famous pen name was not entirely his invention. In Life on the Mississippi, he wrote:
Captain Isaiah Sellers was not of literary turn or capacity, but he used to jot down brief paragraphs of plain practical information about the river, and sign them "MARK TWAIN," and give them to the New Orleans Picayune. They related to the stage and condition of the river, and were accurate and valuable; ... At the time that the telegraph brought the news of his death, I was on the Pacific coast. I was a fresh new journalist, and needed a nom de guerre; so I confiscated the ancient mariner's discarded one, and have done my best to make it remain what it was in his hands – a sign and symbol and warrant that whatever is found in its company may be gambled on as being the petrified truth; how I have succeeded, it would not be modest in me to say.[113]
Twain's story about his pen name has been questioned by biographer George Williams III,[114] the Territorial Enterprise newspaper,[115] and Purdue University's Paul Fatout.[116] The claim is that "mark twain" refers to a running bar tab that Twain would regularly incur while drinking at John Piper's saloon in Virginia City, Nevada.

Legacy


Twain's legacy lives on today as his namesakes continue to multiply. Several schools are named after him, including Mark Twain Elementary School in Wheeling, Illinois, and Mark Twain Elementary School in Houston, Texas, which has a statue of Twain sitting on a bench. There is also Mark Twain Intermediate School in New York. There are several schools named Mark Twain Middle School in different states, as well as Samuel Clemens High School in Schertz, near San Antonio, Texas. There are also other structures, such as the Mark Twain Memorial Bridge.

Mark Twain Village is a United States Army installation located in the Südstadt district of Heidelberg, Germany. It is one of two American bases in the United States Army Garrison Heidelberg that house American soldiers and their families (the other being Patrick Henry Village).
Awards in his name proliferate. In 1998, The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts created the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, awarded annually. The Mark Twain Award is an award given annually to a book for children in grades four through eight by the Missouri Association of School Librarians. Stetson University in DeLand, Florida sponsors the Mark Twain Young Authors' Workshop each summer in collaboration with the Mark Twain Boyhood Home & Museum in Hannibal. The program is open to young authors in grades five through eight.[117] The museum sponsors the Mark Twain Creative Teaching Award.[118]
Twain's house, "Stormfield", in Redding, Connecticut (front view)

Buildings associated with Twain, including some of his many homes, have been preserved as museums. His birthplace is preserved in Florida, Missouri. The Mark Twain Boyhood Home & Museum in Hannibal, Missouri preserves the setting for some of the author's best known work. The home of childhood friend Laura Hawkins, said to be the inspiration for his fictional character Becky Thatcher, is preserved as the "Thatcher House." In May 2007, a painstaking reconstruction of the home of Tom Blankenship, the inspiration for Huckleberry Finn, was opened to the public. The family home he had built in Hartford, Connecticut, where he and his wife raised their three daughters, is preserved and open to visitors as the Mark Twain House.

Asteroid 2362 Mark Twain was named after him.

On December 4, 1985, the United States Postal Service issued a stamped envelope for "Mark Twain and Halley's Comet," noting the connection with Twain's birth, his death, and the comet.[119] On June 25, 2011, the Postal Service released a Forever stamp in his honor.[120]

Depictions

Twain is often depicted wearing a white suit. While there is evidence that suggests that, after Livy's death in 1904, Twain began wearing white suits on the lecture circuit, modern representations suggesting that he wore them throughout his life are unfounded. However, there is evidence showing him wearing a white suit before 1904. In 1882, he sent a photograph of himself in a white suit to 18-year-old Edward W. Bok, later publisher of the Ladies Home Journal, with a handwritten dated note on verso. It did eventually become his trademark, as illustrated in anecdotes about this eccentricity (such as the time he wore a white summer suit to a Congressional hearing during the winter).[38] McMasters' The Mark Twain Encyclopedia states that Twain did not wear a white suit in his last three years, except at one banquet speech.[121]

Actor Hal Holbrook created a one-man show called Mark Twain Tonight, which he has performed regularly for about 59 years.[122] The broadcast by CBS in 1967 won him an Emmy Award. Of the three runs on Broadway (1966, 1977, and 2005), the first won him a Tony Award.

Twain was portrayed by Fredric March in the 1944 film The Adventures of Mark Twain. He was later brought to life by James Whitmore in the (similarly titled) 1985 Will Vinton Claymation film The Adventures of Mark Twain. In the two-part Star Trek: The Next Generation episode, "Time's Arrow Pt. 1 & 2", the crew of the starship Enterprise pursues malevolent alien lifeforms through a time portal to 1893 San Francisco, where their secretive actions arouse the suspicions of Samuel Clemens as played by Jerry Hardin.

 

Wondering About Our Place

To be, or not to be, — that is the question: —
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? — To die, to sleep, —
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; —
To sleep, perchance to dream: — ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death, —
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, — puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know naught of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.


William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 3, scene 1, 19–28, circa.1600

Bolero by Ravel. An der schönen blauen Donau by Strauss. Rhapsody in Blue by Gershwin. Yesterday I listened to these three pieces of music, among the most beautiful and thrilling that I know of. Each has its own peculiar emotional impact, quite different from each other and yet all calling to me in ways that I am quite sure I could never put words to. I would give anything to know exactly what they have done to my brain and nervous system, which neurons they fire in which sequence, which neurotransmitters – serotonin? dopamine? – they released or absorbed in exactly the right structures and cells of my limbic system and cerebral cortex. There any many other wondrous pieces, from Beethoven to Mozart, to Benny Goodman, the Beatles, and Bob Dylan, and more which provoke the same questions.

There is more. Today I spent several hours driving along River Road in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. The road curvingly parallels the Delaware river in many places, in others the old Delaware Canal. It is carved out of the ancient rock which lines the river, and after several days of rainfall there are numerous small and medium rivulets and waterfalls cascading from the rocks, onto the road surface, and then across it to join the river and its way to the sea. Even without these added splendors, there are the carved, ancient rocks themselves, the trees and other wild flora of May, and the occasional animal, although I did not see any deer, or wild turkey, or any of the other wild animals that inhabit the woodlands on this particular day.

I know – I know as a scientist and as a rational human being – that what I have experienced these last two days would not be possible without millions of years of Darwinian evolution sculpting senses and a nervous system and brain to allow me to experience them. If I were but a rock, I would know none of them. Even if I were a cockroach, perhaps even a fairly evolved organism such a mouse … but because I am human – a sentient being – I experience all of it; all of what gives my life so much of its meaning.

And yet I am missing something.

It is a conundrum that has been known for centuries. One that philosophers have spun and spiraled in their minds to resolve, one that scientists in the relevant fields have grappled with to this day. Some think they have solved it. Yet I beg to differ. Some very straightforward thought experiments show how perplexing it is, how much it defies simple solutions. Theists and other religious pundits think that they solved it long ago, but I believe they are just as deluded. It is the problem of the soul.

What’s this? A scientist speaking of the soul?

Soul is perhaps a bad term. It conjures up the supernatural and the religious, and that, above all, is precisely what we are trying to avoid here too, as in all the previous chapters of this book. Better words are sentience and consciousness. Sentience is somewhat the better of these two because consciousness can refer to the mind and its workings, and what we want to grab hold of is that, however our bodies and minds work, there is an indisputable “we” inside, somewhere, that experiences those workings. This we has a more or less continuous existence, minus deep sleep and any periods of anesthesia or coma we might have had, going back to as far as … well, as far as we have memories of being.

We must concede an undeniable connection to mind and body, for, as I have been emphasizing, without these things there is nothing to experience, and sentience, the experiencer, must have something to experience if it is to exist. At the same time, however, as strong as this connection is, its strength does not reach to identity. Or at least I believe I have good reason for thinking it does not. Naturally, this only deepens the mystery; how can mind / body and sentience be at the same time the same thing and yet two separate things? The answer is that it cannot, yet we struggle mightily to resolve this seeming contradiction.

Don’t think there really are contradictory aspects to it? A few thought experiments should illustrate them nicely. Here’s one: imagine we have a machine, a lá science fiction, into which you step into one booth and out pops in a different booth, by some magical technology we shall in all probability never have, an atom-by-atom exact duplicate of yourself. This, of course, is the basic idea behind matter / energy beaming devices in Star Trek, and though I heartily doubt it will ever be accomplished, it seems at least possible in theory.

Well, what would you expect? Would you still be you? I expect all of you would agree that you would be. But how about this other “person” (I put this in quotes for a specific reason), stepping forth from the other booth? Would you be him / her as well? The answer to this question would seem to have to be an unqualified no, if only for the reason that there are no neural or any other connections between the two brains, which we are quite certain is absolutely necessary for you to experience being two bodies / brains at the same time. On the other hand, if you aren’t both you, then clearly you are the original you and the duplicate, although it would have all your memories, thoughts, and feelings, and be utterly convinced it was the real you, is just as clearly someone else. All this assumes, of course, that they are anyone at all and not a non-sentient simulacrum of you – which can only be true if making at atom-by-atom-duplicate of you is still missing something, something that we have no conception of as of yet. Either way, it isn’t the real you, however identical from a known science point of view it is.

Let me illustrate the problem a different way. I often read by those working in the fields of neurology, psychology, philosophy, and all the ways these fields can be conjoined (neuropsychology, cognitive science, etc.), that sentience is a consequence of brain action, an emergent phenomenon or epiphenomenon, one deriving from brain structure from the macroscopic to the microscopic, from the whole down to neurons and axons and dendrites and neurotransmitters and synapses and, well, and the laws of physics and chemistry as we know them. But there is something wrong with this picture, something, I think, that is actually quite obvious. It is that the Me (hereafter capitalized) that experiences being me does so now in a brain that is different from the brain it experienced being me yesterday, and even more different from the brain it experienced being me a year ago, and ten years ago, twenty, forty, fifty years … all the way back as far as I can remember being sentient.

All I know is this: Richard Dawkins’ statement in his preface to his most inspirational book The Blind Watchmaker, that “Our existence once presented the greatest of mysteries, but it is a mystery no longer because it has been solved,” is both true and false. It is true in the sense that Darwinian evolution, combined with the laws of physics and chemistry in this universe, neatly explains why at this moment some six point seven billion of us humans are running around on the surface of this planet, trying to survive and more, toward what consequences we are both uncertain and afraid of. But it is false in the sense of explaining why we billions experience ourselves doing so – assuming all of us do. Yes, yes, our highly complex and massive brains are part of the solution to this part of the mystery, but – well, is it enough?

* * *
This book being largely composed of scientific ideas and arguments, I wish like anything that I could present some for this most defiant of all mysteries. Alas, I find that after half a century’s worth of reading, exploring, thinking, and probing I cannot. Which leaves me in the position of wishing it would go away, so that it might not torment me, but it refuses to do that either. It is not, mind you, that I am afraid of dying and there being nothing left of either me or Me at all, perplexing and somewhat despairing I find that prospect to be; no, it is a true intellectual riddle, one that has defied all attempts not merely to solve it but even to adequately frame it. At least the reason for this can be stated in a straightforward way. The scientific method is an objective approach to reality, combining observation with hypothesis formation and testing, using both reductionism and holism when appropriate, in the never ending quest to determine just what is out there, all around us, to the ends of the universe. And it is a noble and even, dare I use the word, holy endeavor. But how and in what ways can this method be applied to the subjective reality of experience? How can it explain Me, or You, or any of Us? The answer I keep coming up with is that it cannot, cannot explain Me, You, or any of Us, solely because these are not objective phenomenon “out there” for us to explore and dissect. We can and should dissect and explore brains, and how they work, yes. But in the end, no matter how much we discover doing so I fear we will still not have solved the problem.

The conundrum is very real, and very serious, because we know of no method but science that can reliably reveal truths about reality to us. Mysticism and religion have no chance, in fact don’t even pretend to have a chance however many pseudo-arguments their proponents hurl at us. Yet science and reason can’t will or doubletalk the issue away, either, however.

* * *
Still, I have invited you to read a chapter about this subject, and merely repeating how dumbfounded I am about it is going to wear thin very quickly. So I must make some attempt(s), some approach(es), that have a plausible chance of leading us somewhere toward understanding.

And yet, I must proceed carefully. For example, certain writers, notably Roger Penrose (The Emperor’s New Mind) have suggested that sentience emerges from some of the properties of quantum mechanics. He has apparently even identified structures in the brain, known as neural microtubules, which he claims account for consciousness / sentience in a quantum mechanical brain; part of his argument, as I understand it, is that the human mind is able to solve problems in a non-algorithmic way. While I do not claim to fully understand his arguments, other writers, notably Daniel Dennett and Stephen Pinker, have challenged Penrose, saying that in fact all the things the human mind can do can be reduced to algorithms, albeit highly complex ones, without any consideration of the physical hardware (brains, computers, etc.) that these algorithms are executed in.

Personally, I find both approaches inadequate. We really don’t have any good reason to think that a sufficiently complex computer, one that can fully emulate all the properties of a human brain, will actually be sentient. On the other hand, the mysteriousness of much of quantum mechanics shouldn’t seduce us into thinking it has anything to do with the mysteriousness of our own awareness. That is an argument that sounds powerful on first hearing, but is really quite feeble. Lots of things in this universe are still mysteries, at least to some extent, but that is no reason to assume that they are interrelated simply because they are mysterious.

Of course, this doesn’t prove that quantum processes don’t have anything to do with sentience either, so I don’t want to grind my heel into any such speculations. It’s just that there are so many other mysteries as well. For example, why do so many of the natural constants of nature happen to have the value they have – the “fine-tuning” problem that vexes so many scientists? Why are there four fundamental forces, and why do they have the relationships they have? Why is the speed of light in a vacuum what it is? Why does Planck’s constant have the value it has? And so on. Some people, even scientists, note that all these, and other, constants, have values that are absolutely necessary for intelligent beings like us to exist, so perhaps there is some kind of higher intelligence or will that has ordained them so. Other scientists shake their heads at this kind of semi-mysticism and insist that, as we understand the cosmos and the laws of physics better, we will see how they had no choice to be what they are. Or perhaps there are many, many universes – perhaps an infinite of universes – so some simply had to turn out to have the right conditions; and of course we must be living inside one of those universes, or we would not be here to ask the questions and debate the answers.

* * *
My own personal feeling – and personal feeling is exactly what it is – suggests something else to me. A hundred years ago, at the beginning of the twentieth century, there were certain phenomena that stubbornly defied explanation by the then known existing laws of nature. The structure of the atom, as I have already mentioned, is probably the most famous. The conflict between Maxwell’s laws of electrodynamics and Newton’s laws of motion were another. As was the spectrum of blackbody radiation. The heat capacity of multiatomic gasses, and the photoelectric effect were a third and a fourth.

The solutions to these vexing problems involved, not merely new theories based on the existing laws of physics, but new paradigms, new ways of thinking, which opened up a new universe of laws and theories and hypotheses. These new paradigms were so challenging that many scientists have had a hard time accepting them even to this day, while those who do still sometimes puzzle and scratch their heads at what they really mean. Quantum mechanics. Special and General Relativity. Quantum Electrodynamics (QED) and Quantum Chromodynamics (QCD). The expanding universe and the notion of a beginning to everything, the Big Bang (though this is being challenged today in some quarters), and perhaps an end to all things, including time. The idea that space and time, matter and energy, are related in ways that you cannot treat them as separate phenomena. The use of mathematical group theory to explain the plethora of mass-bearing and force-bearing particles in nature, and the relationships between those particles. The idea of inflation in the very early universe, and how it might have led to many universes forming. And now of strings and supersymmetry.

Standing here, at the opening of the twenty-first century, I can envision a similar revolution in paradigms arising to answer the questions I address in this chapter. But as I said in chapter seven, looking at it now, it is science fiction. Perhaps even fantasy. For example, here’s one possibility: perhaps we will create a “super” brain, one composed of electronics and neuronics, that we can all interface with or even become part of. This brain might eventually spread throughout the solar system and then beyond, perhaps to ultimately fill the entire universe. Perhaps this is when humanity learns its meaning and destiny, and all questions are answered. Even those billions who have lived and died may be reincarnated into this star-spanning mind, and not just humans but every other sentient race that has lived and died, here and elsewhere in the universe.

Following this line of prognostication, maybe sentience is something like another property of the universe, one which requires certain conditions, such as those that occur in our brains, to manifest itself. But if it is that, a property, then what kind of property is it? It isn’t a force, or a kind of particle. Something interwoven into the fabric of spacetime itself? But how? And in what way?

* * *
Sometimes I wonder if the Buddhist concept of Maya and Enlightenment can help us here. Maya is the illusion we all experience, that of being separate beings, apart from each other and the rest of the universe, struggling to find our way through life, and ultimately dying in this illusion. The experience of Enlightenment is supposed to be one in which all Maya drops away and you are fully aware of being one with everyone and everything – an experience regarded as impossible to capture in words or any other physical medium. Yes, I wonder if Buddhism is on to something here. It would have to defy explanation by language or any other form of normal communication. One would have to either experience it, or have no idea what it is. That does sound like it has a sporting chance of being right, or at least it does to me.

But if so, then this does imply that there are laws and properties of reality that we do not, and perhaps can never, understand intellectually, because they are not susceptible to scientific analysis? That they work beneath, or above, the radar of our intellects, however hard we try?

If all this is true, however, then what should we do? What can we do?

What we must do, I maintain yet again, is not give in to despair simply because we don’t know the solution to the puzzle, and may never know the solution to it. Also, remember that many mysteries have resisted solution for centuries, only to finally be solved by an application of new paradigms and ways of looking at things. Above all, we must not give up, even if things appear hopeless. A hundred years from now, we may find ourselves shaking our collective heads at our current confusion. I am tempted, however, to call this question – the question of sentience – the ultimate question, to which all others are sublimated. I really do believe that if and when we solve it, there will be a collective sigh of satisfaction greater than the solution to any question that has proceeded it.

* * *
Somehow or other, whether by luck or design or an intermingling of the two, we find ourselves where and when we are. We inhabit a planet orbiting a yellow dwarf star at the edge of a rather typical spiral galaxy. The star is but one among billions in the galaxy it has found itself in, and the galaxy may be one of trillions in a universe many billions of years old and perhaps far, far older. In all that, our individual lives occupy only a few decades of time, a century if we are fortunate. There seems to be nothing particularly special about this where and when we exist, except that is one of the few places we could be in the universe, perhaps the only even, and perhaps one of the few universes we could be in. Maybe the only one. Moreover, we do not know what will happen, not merely to ourselves as individuals, but to us as a species over the next few centuries.

We have spent thousands of years beating our heads against an invincible wall, wondering what the answer to all this is, and for all our pounding still pretty much have no idea. Of course, the answer may well be that “this is all there is”, that once our bodies cease to function that is the end of both us and Us, and no beliefs, religions, philosophies, or wishful thinking can change that. Sad though that is in one respect, even if it is true I believe we should be grateful, grateful for the opportunity to have existed at all and had the opportunity to marvel at this universe we have manifested in. It is even really not so sad either, when you think about it; after all, in the billions or trillions or infinity of years before we existed we suffered not one iota for not being, so certainly after we are gone we will not suffer at all then either. It is only sad, to me at least, in that We will cease to exist with so many wonderful questions unanswered. That, I have to admit, is a bitter pill to force down.

But let us assume that this is not the case. Let us imagine that sentience, while inactive without a brain to model the universe about it, nonetheless still exists in some potential form. I use the word potential with a very specific meaning. We speak of potential energy, as when an object is raised to a certain height, or an elastic material stretched, or as a chemical potential that can lead to an energetic reaction. The energy does not exist in any active form, yet it is still there, waiting to be manifested. Quite possibly, sentience without a brain with which to experience some kind of reality, can be held in an analogous potential form. What would that mean? One possibility is the repeated incarnations of the “soul” as claimed by many Eastern religions, although I am not certain I can believe in that.

I have difficulties with this, because in Eastern religions, the soul can reincarnate as almost anything: another person, an animal, a plant, or even a rock. Yet rocks and plants, and probably even most animals, do not possess the capacity for sentience, as they lack a sufficiently complex brain and nervous system. There are other practical problems as well. Even if we reincarnate as human beings, since the number of human beings on this planet has been exponentially increasing over thousands of years, where are all the new souls to come from to inhabit all these new bodies? There is a disparity here that is hard to reconcile.

There is another tack I would like to try. I am an aficionado of the television series House, which, if you aren’t (fie on you!), is about the brilliant but renegade and rather misanthropic Dr. Gregory House and the characters and cases which spin around him in a mythical teaching hospital between Princeton and Plainsboro, NJ. One of the episodes involves Dr. House temporarily reviving a patient who has been in a coma for ten years, for the purpose of extracting family background in order to save the coma patient’s son’s life (it ends with the coma patient committing suicide in order to donate his heart to his dying son – now you know why I say fie on you if you don’t watch it). Before I begin, I have to say I find the premises of this episode highly dubious at the least: someone who has been in a coma for ten years will have undergone so much muscle atrophy and coordination loss that I doubt he could walk, let alone drive a car to Atlantic City and basically act like someone who has just woken from a short nap. But that is beside the point I want to make.

No, my question is: is the sentience that results from the coma awakening, and spends his last day in a quest for the perfect hoagie then ends by sacrificing his life for his son’s, the same sentience that ended ten years earlier? An even better question might be, does this question even make any sense? The re-awakened father would of course insist that he his in every way conceivable the same person, but how much does that utterly sincere insistence count for? And what possible tests and / or measurements could we make to settle the issue?

I have to confess to something. This is not a mere academic issue to me. I was once in a coma, from which I fortunately awoke after several days. But does that make any difference? Like that father in House, I absolutely insist that I am the same Me that fell into that coma, but how can I, or anyone, really know? And again I ask, does the question even make sense?

Maybe it is an absurd question. Or, not so much absurd as worded incorrectly. Perhaps what seems to happen to Us in those moments, or days, or years, when we still exist but We do not is that time ceases to exist for Us. Just like, according to Einstein’s Special and General Theories of Relativity, time ceases to exist under certain conditions – if we were to ride on a beam of light or (if I understand what I have read correctly) fall into an infinitely deep gravity well – time comes to a complete stop for Us whenever the conditions needed to manifest Us ceases to exist. The question then is, do those conditions exist only within our own brains, for if so, then our current lives are the only ones We can ever manifest in?

* * *

I suspect that I have frustrated and dissaisfied you, dear reader, for I keep promising answers to this deepest of questions, but invariably find myself only circling about and finding myself at my own beginnings, my own head-shaking ignorance and failure of my own imagination and curiosity to solve this most impenetrable of puzzles

Will I give up then? No, first of all because I see no way of letting go of my curiosity and wonder and imagination, without letting go of what it means to be a living, sentient mind in a universe we still have so much to explore within. If there are places and times I have no concept of how to reach, then I am simply going to accept them for the time being, and hope that at some point in the future my eyes will start to open about them. Nor will I relinquish the scientific approach to thinking about reality, for it has served us so well, and has provided answers to what appeared to be impenetrable mysteries, and so I cannot give up hope on it, certainly not at this time and place in humanity’s evolution. Perhaps, of course, these things will lead to my death with so many important questions unanswered, and, yes, as I have admitted, that disturbs me. But, as I said, to stop now and lay down all of the weapons and tools of the mind and surrender to ignorance; that is something I cannot even conceive of doing. I would certainly die of despair if I even so much as tried.

So we have come around and around, and it the end must still admit that this greatest of mysteries has not yielded to science, at least not yet. And yet, that is all right. Mysteries are the lifeblood of science, and indeed of all our wonderings and imaginative escapades. Maybe, like the character in the Monty Python sketch I mentioned early in this book, we even need them, need these challenges to our curiosity, as though they are part of what gives our lives meaning. I know that they have given my life at least a healthy part of its meaning.

* * *

"There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened."

Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (1979)

"Now my own suspicion is that the universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose."
JBS Haldane, Possible Worlds and Other Papers (1927), p. 286

As I said at the beginning, a large part of this book is about what it means to be human, with curiosity, wonder, and imagination being fundamental parts of the answer. I also stressed the special importance of imagination, supplemented by technology, along with the warning that if we really wish to understand the universe we live in, we must not limit ourselves to our sensory experiences and our intuitions about them. We saw how important that became once we started deviating from the norms of our existence, whether in space or time. When we are dwelling in the world of the ultra-small or large, slow or fast, the laws of physics deviate from common sense in ways we would never have predicted. Phenomena such as the uncertainty principle and the depths of geologic time, time dilation and the bending of spacetime become increasingly important as we move further and further away from the norms of our everyday existence. We found that if we allowed those deviations to take us logically wherever they went then, however strange our discoveries, they could be integrated into the whole of understanding.

We also came to understand that the paths we took were our personal ones, each unique to us even if, ultimately, we all found ourselves in the same place in the end, that end being still finding ourselves facing the same ages old mysteries of our own existence. This is one of the crucial paradoxes of the human condition, I believe; that we all experience our lives as infinitely separated individuals, while underneath we are all tied together by the same laws, the same processes, the same foundations. It is as though each of us perceives ourselves as alone in a tiny boat on the open ocean, winds whipping and waves constantly washing water into the boat, forcing us to bale with all our strength and persistence just to stay afloat, while in fact, ironically, we are all collectively in one huge boat, with each of us making our tiny contribution to keeping the boat afloat and headed for – what land we are uncertain, but whatever it is we shall all arrive there together, in the end.

In the end, maybe this is our place in the scheme(s) of things. I am not the first person to speculate that we may be nothing more than reality’s attempt to comprehend itself. If so however, then we are faced with another mystery, that of how reality can have intentions or goals at all instead of being nothing more than the blind working out of physical laws. A mystery which only becomes deeper if we assume that intelligence, in some form, is itself part of that reality.

I stated at the outset of this book that I do not intend to give in to nihilism or despair, and I will take the time to reaffirm this promise again. Somehow we reasoning, questioning, imagining animals have found ourselves in this universe, and that alone should provoke our minds to keep trying to discover how and why. Indeed it is my view that we are probably still closer to the beginning of our quest than the end. I will also take the time to state my personal gratitude that we are in the middle of it.

We are born as, and grow up into, creatures of curiosity, wonderment, imagination, and rational thought. I do not care what nation or culture you were raised into, what you were taught, or what experiences you have had. Merely by being human, you still have all these traits within you, each one waiting to boil up to the surface at any time. I know that I have been astonishingly fortunate in this respect, in one sense more than most in this world, but at the same time I can’t believe that I have been any more gifted in these things than anyone else. I have just had the good fortune to have these things nurtured and encouraged.

I remember being a child with all these things within me, and nothing gives me more pleasure than today, at fifty-three years of age, to discover that same child just as strong. Though I have spent a half-century’s worth of growing, experiencing, maturing; though I have married, raised children, and known “The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to” including pain I thought I would never recover from or survive; though I have stared into space and wondered what the point of those pains were … that part of me has never been diminished or defeated in any way.

And so there is nothing more for me to do except present myself as an inspiration, and as a hope. If you have any doubts, then go somewhere where the lights and pollution of the city cannot find you. Wait until the sun goes down, and then lie on the grass, staring skywards at the stars. Stare, and remember that for each one you see, there are trillions beyond your sight, beyond the sight of the most powerful telescopes for that matter. Gaze at the fierce beacons pouring their fires down upon you, and wonder. Though this universe we live in is far vaster than our imaginations can even begin to encompass, I believe you will know what I mean. Though we are but the most mortal of beings, barely eking a century’s worth of experience of the billions of years those beacons have shown, each of us has still our own meaning, our own purpose, whether we know it or not. I believe this will dispel all those doubts.

As Little Children

So long ago. So long ago. And yet, looking into these enormous brown eyes I remember as though it is but yesterday. The sweet ‘bama sun, and the June breezes on my face, and the cool grasses thick beneath my feet like God’s carpeting. Yes, I remember it all too well; all I need do is close my eyes, and drift a moment or two, and I am there …

* * *

Late twentieth-century Earth. A tiny place, but one full of troubles: crime, disease, poverty, hatred, riots, Los Angeles, Saddam Hussein, the Middle East, oil, fire, the Greenhouse Effect, ozone depletion, AIDS, nuclear weapon, over population …

My biological family was poor, even by the standards of the time, trashy poor some would say though we never knew it, never though that way, were in fact proud of what we had and did. Pa worked in the ball bearing factory all day, ma did housecleaning and other odd jobs when she could find them. There was almost always enough to eat, a roof over our heads, and a church. Especially a church.

I can still see that church clearly: a vast crumbling eggshell of a structure, high up on a hill, gazing down on us like a portrait, watching you wherever you went. Every Sunday the folds packed us up, and one by one we walked the dusty road up the hill and filed into the great eggshell where we sat. A sea of noisy black faces on silent white pews, all listening to the Reverent Stetson telling us about God and Jesus and the hereafter and the faith of little children.

Faith was the central element in our lives, the fulcrum about which those lives turned. I know that it difficult to believe, or even to imagine now, but it is true. Faith was our air and water and food; it burned the hearth, and sent smoky tendrils up into the cosmos. It vibrated in the walls of our beings. Pa came home every evening coated with it, a grime that no amount of soap and water could ever quite wash off. Ma beat an upbringing into us with it.

Sitting on his lap, looking up into those moist old eyes. I was five or six, maybe younger, small for my age but nanorzor sharp even then. He knew it from the expression in those eyes, the way he saw opportunity and danger in the words that had just come from my mouth – I knew I had asked the forbidden question.

You must find Jesus in your heart,” he answered it; “you must open your heart to Him, and then He will fill you with His love. That is the only way you can know Him; the only way to heaven. There is no other way.”

* * *

I’ve cheated you, the accusation screams through my head, like a cry of damnation. But the brown eyes are still on me, still innocent, trusting, still moist with expression. Mine are filled with tears.

I was the youngest of seven, or eight – or was it nine? That I don’t clearly remember anymore. Also the brightest. Maybe it was my brother and sisters beating on me too. Whatever, I got a full scholarship, got packed off to the university. Hugs and kisses from everybody, including the Reverend Stetson himself, now a doddering old man. Myself, I was seventeen.

Could I really have been seventeen once? It’s a misty dream to me now; no, a nightmare in a swirling fog: urban warfare, deindustrialization, MacPherson, Green Revolution, animal rights, resistant tuberculosis and smallpox, desertification, global cooling, mass extinctions, Moscow, South Africa, Kotube …

And yet in the midst of all this now inconceivable carnage, flowers did bloom, just as they bloom, in the desert. Remember cancer from your history plugins? This was when it was at last licked for good. And a host of other genetic slow deaths. Other important developments to recall: the first permanent space station; a return to the moon; the commercialization of fusion power; the first truly practical human-computer interfaces. Of course its seems like hell now, yes it was hell by any decent standards, but a few rungs of the ladder were climbed. More importantly, we climbed them.

My major was engineering, with minors in astronomy and bionics, not a common combination even then but I’d always had my own ideas. I’d grown up in an isolated backwater of a world, and when I realized there was more I wanted it. Joined the National Space Society, the L-5 Society, you name it I joined it. I became determined – no, obsessed – for a life on the High Frontier. Ma didn’t understand, of course; she though it was my duty to spend my life improving the lot those “down here, where all th’ needin’ ‘n’ suff’rin’ is; why, there’s nothin’ ‘n’ no one up there to help.” Reverend Stetson just shook his head indecisively, and said he’d pray for me.

Pa wasn’t there anymore. The bearing factory had shut down a year ago, replaced by robots in Korea or Mexico, or some place like that, and the government had sent him to a school in another state, to learn computer programming on twenty-year old machines nobody used anymore. I never saw him again. I assumed was at last with God.

I was on the first International Mars expedition in 2036, just before the big breakthroughs in age control occurred. We stood on the ocher sands of Mars and looked into the twilight, and felt a billion years and an entire cosmos leech into our bones. Earth was a tiny, still in many ways tragic, sapphire in the darkening sky, its moon a tinier and fainter diamond beside it. There are moments in each life that remain fresh with you forever; that was one of mind (as, of course, will be the one now). The expedition had cost almost a trillion dollars, about five percent of the world’s gross economic product, but any fool could see that it had been worth it; at that moment ten billion faces were gazing up at hope instead of down on their troubles. It was a moment that set the pace of humanity for centuries to come. I wouldn’t have traded it for all the gods in all the scriptures in history.

I stroke the furry face before me, and curse myself for having thought that though. I’m sorry.

* * *

We could have stayed in orbit. We could have contented ourselves looking down with our telescopes and probes and sniffers. We would have learned just as much, and they would never have known.

But we couldn’t do that. No, we had to be gods. Of course, we don’t tell ourselves that; we persuade ourselves instead that are doing them a great favor, in showing them what is possible. That they will take hope from our example, that same hope those ten billion too so long ago. But deep inside, we all know it is a fraud. We know they wouldn’t see it that way. And that that is the real reason we came down – to be worshipped. God damn us all to hell.

I returned from the Mars expedition to learn that Reverend Stetson had passed on to this reward. A heart attack in the middle of delivering his Sunday sermon. He was one hundred and two years old.

Ma had just reached her seventieth year herself. I comforted her – I tried to comfort her – by talking about the future, about the developments going on in the biogenics laboratories. “In another decade they’ll be able to reverse the aging process completely. You’ll have eternal life – and eternal youth.” But ma was horrified at such a prospect: “All mah life I been getting’ ready t’meet the Lord, ’n’ now you want t’take it away from me? What’s matter with you, boy?”

I tried arguing, until I realized it was hopeless, that this person had spent her entire life preparing to face her Maker, and the to steal that moment was to steal the life, too. It was a theft I’d no right to make. That night I cried like a child, cried myself to sleep for the first time in as long as I could remember.

That was the last time I even went home, at least physically. Talents like mine were needed elsewhere that on a miniscule planet, especially one so long on problems and short on hope. I spent the next half century expanding and developing humanity’s first empire: L-5, Mare Imbrium, Cydonia, the Belt, Ganymede, the Rings of Saturn, Titan … I was a planner, a builder, a solver, a trouble shooter (and sometimes maker), an explorer and a rogue. And I was successful everywhere, at all of these things. Successful and happy. I even became famous, so much so that you know what happened next: I forgot where I’d come from. I forgot everything.

It was glorious and exhilarating and an awful fat lot of fun, but of course it didn’t last forever. For at the periphery of every frontier there is to be found, invariably, yet another frontier, and the spirit inevitably yearns for that too. Ye – the stars! Even the closest was ten thousand times farther away that the farthest distance I had yet travelled. It was a journey I could not comprehend. Even immortality seemed too short a time cross such gulfs. Yet cross them I would, of that I had no doubt; I just did not know how yet.

* * *

The moment they came bounding out of their huts toward us we knew we had make a tragic mistake. We’re the answer to their prayers; the realization, at once undeniable and irrevocable, flashed through all our minds. We didn’t even have to look at each other to know that all had picked up of the thought simultaneously.

Perhaps if we had been expecting intelligent life … but that had been the furthest thing from our expectations when we’d entered their system. After all, didn’t the experiments of Barkley and Beigh prove once and for all that life – even at the simplest level – was so improbable that it would occur in more that one in a million galaxies? And didn’t the Fermi Paradox (if intelligence were common in the universe, it would have come to us long ago) confirm our solitude? Where, and how, had we so badly miscalculated? Or was it just our misfortune?

Our misfortune?!

To the α Centauri system and back was a little over seventy years that first time. When we got home, we discovered that Earth had finally solved her population problems, and thus her resources problems, once and for all time. For by then space for sentient minds in the WorldNet was essentially infinite, and people who still wanted families could raise virtual ones to their hearts’ content.

Many did, as well as live other lives fulfilling to them, but for us it was an empty life, devoid of – of – to tell the truth, we could not have told you what it was devoid of. All we knew was that if humanity had solved all the problems, has conquered all the dangers of living in the Sol system, that system was not the place for us anymore.

We need faster starships. We needed to press as close to the light barrier as possible. No, not really; with our essentially infinite live, and youths, it shouldn’t matter how long took us to fill the universe. But matter id did, terribly. For were still human though our bodies no longer were, all too human, with minds sculpted by natural selection to think in terms of years, or decades at most. We were far too impatient in the pursuit of what gave us joy. So we labored toward our dreams.

And succeeded.

A thousand years later. It will seems like eternity to us, when we think it out loud. Yet it is but an eye blink: Homo sapiens (to the extent we can still be called that) is but one half of one percent older; the Atlantic Ocean another part in a hundred thousand, our Sun has completed one four-hundred thousandth of its orbit about our Galaxy. We have touched some ten thousand systems, yet a hundred times that many lie within our reach, and a trillion times that sum lay beyond. It is only arrogance that makes us feel old and wise.

* * *

We should have known better. The moment we saw the tiny sapphire, and the tinier diamond beside it, we should have sopped, pulled back, and reached into our stores of accumulated wisdom. Hell, we should have been on our guard the moment we entered the system: a G2 single, age approximately three billion years, low angular momentum, metals, an Oort cloud and even a Kuiper belt. The fact that we’d been through a hundred similar systems should have made us lax.

But it did. And when we tasted water in all three phase, we lost our grip on reality. We swooped in for a closer look. When we found free oxygen and a form of chlorophyll, we dove closer still.

And found them.

The sculpted hives of vegetation, clustered around lakes and rive deltas, were clearly visible from orbit. Through our scopes we could easily make out the mud and straw huts they dwelled in, and the dirt or clay roads they travelled upon.

They are much like us, in many ways. Forget the fur, and the six digits on each hand/foot (including fully opposable thumbs) on each their six limbs, and the short stubs of tails no doubt left over from their tree-dwelling ancestors. They’re still eggheads with big binocular eyes and face that glow brightly with curiosity and intelligence. It will take time to completely decipher their languages, but is complexity is instantly obvious in the richness of vocabulary and bodily expressions. The emotion range the human spectrum quite closely, from simple fear and anger all the way to humor and reverence (don’t ask me how – you can tell, that’s all). And if all this isn’t enough, then know that at night they sit and gaze at their moon – larger and more spectacular than Earth’s – and the stars and wonder, and argue, or at least seem to argue.

Yes, they are children, but in another ten thousand years or so, they will be where we are now.

Excuse us, for a moment I forgot. But looking into those eyes reminds me again, with stark cruelty: would have been where we now are.

Lord, can you forgive us?

* * *

Where would we be now, if ten thousand years ago, or even a thousand years ago, our gods had descended from the sky, and saved us with their reality? Of course, maybe the had. Maybe that is why the journey had taken ten thousand years. And do many billions of live of lives that might have been spare. We have been too content to sit back and for salvation to come to us.

Where would ma, or pa, or the Reverend Stetson, be now if …

No; you’re evading your own guilt. The present.

The brown eyes gaze softly into mine, the most innocent of trusts. I’m not sure why, but I reach out again, and touch that face with crooked fingertips, as though I could reach right into the mind and pull out the memories if what it has experienced today.

Do not despair, young one.

I pull away, jolted by the lightning of the thought. My breathing is suddenly fast and ragged. “What …?”

It says nothing, but takes my hand and placed the fingers carefully around its temple and forehead. There, that’s better. Soon you will not need physical contact, perhaps in another million years or so of your years, but its is not a great encumbrance for now. It is comforting, in a way.

“How – who – did you say a million years?”

A day in the lifetime of the cosmos. Which, as you have chosen me for the honor, allow me to welcome you into. Your first steps were certainly exciting to watch!

I try to say some intelligible, but my throat only gurgles in incomprehension.

Oh come one, you did really think we would allow you take such terrible mistake, did you? We didn’t’ allow it to happen to you, and we would never permit you to do it to another species. No, these beings will reach adulthood just as you have, by their own glorious efforts.

Adulthood?

Well, let us say, provisional adulthood. Adolescence. You’ve made it. Congratulations. Your folks must be proud of you.

Before I can react to that statement, I am standing God’s carpeting, with the sun on my face the soft breezes in my hair. I am not alone: ma and pa, and Reverend Stetson, are beside me, and many others. I suddenly realize that I am seventeen again.

“This is cruel!” I protest.

Limited perception always is. That too, you will outgrow.

I am on ocher Martian sands, a pair of words cupped in my outstretched hands.

Faith has sustained you this far. But now it is time to move on. Your first responsibility. I am back with reality again, the warmth of fur upon me. Here. Making sure they don’t run around with scissors, or put unclean things in their mouths, and learn how to share their toys. Discreetly, of course. You know how to do that …

Strangely enough, I do. More importantly, I am ready.



To Learn, To Love, To Live

It was well past midnight by the time Bill Malone got home from his twelve-hour shift at the Jiffy Mart. Exhausted, he dragged himself into his compartment, hoping for nothing more the his usual warm shower and mug of cocoa before collapsing in bed. He knew, of course, the Janet would be long asleep; her job at the arboretum was no less taxing that his own, and the she had been putting in extra hours so they could afford his classes and study material.

But Janet was not asleep. To the contrary; she practically grappled him before the door was closed, and pulled him over to the pad before he could make any protest. Once there, there were no words: she simply turned him toward to the pad and let him read the contents.

His exhaustion was instantly forgotten. “ All right! We’re in! We made it!”

He scrolled through the letter again and again, hardly able to believe the words. Graduate school! At last! Finally, he was one his way to a real job. A real career. Hell, a real life.

It was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And not just to him, of course: he felt Janet’s hand on the back of his shoulders, her smile on the back of his head, her warmth in his soul. Reaching back, he took her hand and squeezed tightly, almost too tightly. “This makes it all worth while,” he said, close to trembling. All the years of hard work. They’ve finally paid off.”

“The hard years” Janet reminded him with a return squeeze of equal intensity, “ are just beginning.”

He could only nod his head at that. It was true of course; it was still a long difficult road to where they wanted to be, one filled with more that its share of potholes, icy roads, and dead ends. This might be the most exciting moment of their lives, but Bill knew it was preceding many very difficult ones. Bill had a feeling there would come a day when his shifts at the Jiffy Mart would sound like a wonderful dream he’d once had.

“But we’ll get through them all right, “she said, reading his mind as usual. “You’ll see.”

* * *

The first day of school only reinforced the feeling. The classroom was filled with people much like himself: ambitious, grimly-determined faces which had gone though just as much as he had to get here, and were as determined not to be among the two-thirds who didn’t make the cut. Professor’s Esienhart’s first lecture didn’t help either: “The first thing you’re going to get through your head is that this isn’t Greenpeace or some other feel-goo club where you pay your dues and pat yourself on the back. When I’m finished with you – those of you whom are still left – you’re to know Mother Earth and how she works better than a doctor knows her patient. And if think you’re ecology-minded now, believe me: you’re the Marquis de Sade fancying himself a lover of women. So if any of you doubting your commitment … now is the time to step aside before you put in a lot of time and hard word for nothing. There are no faint hearted types in this field, believe me.

* * *

When he told Janet, however, she didn’t flinch, or look the slightest bit concerned. “Bill Malone, if there’s one thing nobody can doubt about you, it’s your confidence: she told him in no uncertain terms. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Bill grinned at her confidence in him, not to mention the gigantic hug and kiss that accompanied it. But that didn’t make his studies any easier. By mid-term he was already beginning to wonder what so bad about being a grunt at the Jiffy Mart anyway. At least it was a steady job with a steady income, not to mention a minimum of headaches. A life like that – but then he thought of the child they hoped to have one day: that child deserved a better life, whether he wanted it or not. Besides, giving in now would be an act he’d never live down. He couldn’t do it, not after all he’d been through.

The decision turned out to be the correct one. Amazingly, he not only passed that first final, but – of the correctly predicted one-third of the original class remaining – got the highest mark. Eisenhart gave him a win as he passed out the scores: “I’ve told the rest of the faculty not to cut you any slack, Malone,” he said. Janet, naturally, was ecstatic, and the celebrated with a fillet of soy steak and the best organic wine they could afford. “I told you,” she said afterward, when the lights were low and the music soft. “I told you you could do it.”

Things didn’t get any easier after that, however. Bill learned more than he would have thought possible to stuff into his head: chemistry, geology, meteorology, climatology, hydrology, biology, zoology, botany, toxicology, entomology, mycology … merely keeping all the names straight was a strain, much less all he had to know about them. And those, he discovered, were just the fundamental sciences he had to be grounded in before he could hope to master the skills he would need. But his professors were not (it seemed) sympathetic at all to his groans: “We tried ignorance,” one finally made it plain, “and it doesn’t work.”

Fortunately, Janet was always there to keep his spirits up when it seemed like he could hardly keep the world under his feet another moment. “You can make it,” she would say while rubbing his shoulders and back, sore from so many hours hunched over his pad. “You know you can make it. All you have to do is stay at it and you’ll get there.”

“If I do, it’ll be because of you,” he would thank her, and return to his studies with a vengeance. She never said anything to that, of course: it was too obviously true for her to deny. Without her, he would never have made it even this far, and they both knew it.

* * *

The second year got heavily into philosophy and environmental ethics. Again, it was nothing like his undergraduate course, where he’d been required to do little more than mouth the professor’s biases: he was expected to do real thinking here. Animal rights, for example: while Bill couldn’t agree with all of Dr. Heron’s postulates on the metaphysical basis of rights, he discovered for himself why it was criminal to regard any competing species as “pests”, and the ruthlessly exterminate them, regardless of the effects on the human population. Then there was the hypothesis, or philosophical concept was perhaps the best term, of Gaia, the notion that the entire planet was in fact a single living organism, with its body and mind, and rights. They spent an entire semester on that, and the planetary consequences of technological development. For the first time, Bill wondered if it was getting to be too much even for Janet; she seemed increasingly distracted when he got into those discussions. Finally, she confessed that she simply couldn’t follow him anymore: “You’ve graduated to a higher plane of consciousness, I’m afraid, one that I can’t reach.”

The big tests came in the third and fourth years. Both of them had been expecting to start his field word for some time, of course. But Janet couldn’t give up her job at the arboretum to join Bill in the rain forests of New Guinea, or the frozen wastes of Antarctica. Or the deserts of Mexico with his Native American spiritual guide. Those eighteen months were the roughest in this life. But there was no doubting the value of his experiences; you could learn an enormous amount about the Earth in classrooms but until you lived with here, intimately and continuously, you didn’t really have the kind of relationship you need if you were to worked her with exploitation.

The same lack of intimacy, however, pressed even Janet’s patience to its limit. More and more Bill could send the frustration and resentment inside her, and her loneliness. It was made worse by her growing inability to understand what he was learning, however hard he tried explaining it to her.

Still, he knew that eventually the trials would be over, these hard moments behind them, and the future happy and confident again. Or at least, he though he knew. But when the time came that she burst out with the accusation that loved Gaia more than he loved her – how could she not see that both were one and the same, the each reinforced each other rather than competed? – that was the first time he finally permitted himself to wonder if they would one day do their separate ways,

It was also the last time he ever though about quitting the program.

It was the culmination of his studies, however, that finally strained their marriage to the breaking point. “Don’ you realize how dangerous that is?” Janet screamed at him he told her about the astronaut training. “You could get killed! Why do you have to do this? Why?

“It’s probably the most important thing that I do,” was his answer. “Try to comprehend you can’t really comprehend something until you step away from it and study it as a whole; and you can’t grasp you connectedness to it until you try to detach yourself from it.” He started to say more, then sighed at the absurdity of even trying to make her understand what was so obvious to him by now. He shook his head: there was a time when they shared so much; now …

The simple fact was, he was the not the same Bill Malone she’d married anymore. All of a sudden that was clear in a way it had not been before; clear as an unpolluted night sky blazing with stars. These last few years had transformed him, in ways and to an extent he could even have imagined in advance now. More important, that she could never imagine now. The simple fact was she could no longer understand the way he understood. They could not even communicate. She didn’t possess the knowledge, or wisdom, to do so.

He could not being himself to give up yet, however. “Do you want me to go back to the Jiffy Mart?” he finally offered, wondering what he would do if she said yes. But she did not say it: “I suppose not. Anyway, it’s too late to start over.” Her eyes settled upon hi. “All right, Mr. Malone: go to the moon and the stars if that’s what you have to do. I’ll be here when you come back.”

Hearing that made him feel better. It was good to know that she hadn’t given up on yet either.

* * *

He didn’t go that far. But sixth months in orbit, studying the global effects of pollution on the ozone layer, while spending four hours in meditation each day before the blue-green goddess of all life, transformed Bill in a way that even contact with an alien civilization couldn’t have. And in some very specific ways. “I’ve been thinking a great deal,” he revealed one of them to Janet when he got back. “I know the law allows us to have our one child, but … “

The divorce proceeding were begun the next day. Bill exhaled the tensions of the last couple of years; in retrospect, he’d seen it coming for so long now that to finally have it happen was more denouement that climax. He was even able to find some humor in the situation: at least he wouldn’t have to worry about cheating on his spouse when he became a big businessperson, or whatever he would turn out to be eventually.

Assuming he ever had time for that part of his life again. Or interest.

He went to see Professor Eisenhard immediately after the graduation ceremonies. His old prof still had the grimness, the same steel in his manners, but he greeted Bill warmly. “I’ve been expecting you for some time, my boy. How does it feel to be finally among the elite?”

“It’s hard to believe I was ever anything else,” Bill admitted. “That I spent so much of my life in ignorance – and worse, though I was enlightened the whole time.”

“Now you understand what I meant with that remark about the Marquis de Sade,” Eisenhard laughed. They laughed together. He did indeed understand.

“Now go out there, Bill Malone, and don’t cut them any slack.”

Bill grinned. He was ready and he knew it.

It was a few hours later, while packing his stuff from his and Janet’s compartment, that he came across the letter. His first reaction was surprise that he’d never bothered to trash is, even after four years. Of course he realized that it must have had special significance when he’d first read it, but that was practically a lifetime ago …

The best the thing that ever happened to you. And not just to you; Janet’s hands are on your shoulders, her smile on the back of your head, her warmth in your soul. Reaching back, you take her hand and squeeze it tightly; almost too tightly.

He wasn’t sure how the tears started, or how long he’d been crying. Or, once he realized it, Janet had been standing behind him, watching his convulsions. Perhaps hours.

“Where did we screw up,” he finally asked, without turning. “How did it end up like this? How?!”

How? Don’t ask how. It just happened, that’s all. People go their paths; sometimes they’re different paths, even if they start at the same place. That’s life,

“Don’t be so defeatist,” she said, reading his mind again. “Sometimes people just get lost for a while. Or get left behind on the trail for a while. But if you give them enough time … “

This time he did turn. She sat down, and placed a hand on his arm. “Read the letter again,” she pressed him, with a soft smile on her face. “More carefully.”

“Wha -- ?” But he did so, though how a four year old letter – he read it again, this time as carefully as he could. Then again. And again. Then he was scrolling through it, over and over, unable to believe its contents, his hands and heart trembling. And something wild inside him, fighting to break out.

This was the best this to ever happen to him.

“It came for me just this morning,” she explained. “I was going to tell you. I – I’m going to need a lot of help to get through the next four years. Especially if everything you told me about Professor Eisenhart is true. But I’m sure I can make it. I know I can.”

He was crying again, but this time it was from joy. “I know you can too. I’ve always know it. You have absolutely nothing to worry about. We’ll get through it all right, you’ll see.”

He made many other confident statements as well. But it was the gigantic hug and kiss that communicated his feelings better than anything else.

* * *

Getting his first position proved easier than Bill had expected. Of course, he had a wealth of assignments to pick from, but since they were all going to be ground-floor opportunities it made sense to take the one he was already most familiar with. It was pure serendipity that the management opening at the Jiffy Mart developed at the same time he received his degree.

The suit and tie were not very comfortable, but Bill knew would get accustomed to them soon enough. Nor did he ever complain, even inwardly, about the long hours; running a business, even a small business, in an environmentally sound manner was in itself tore than the reward for that time and energy. As Janet was learning herself, to serve Gaia was and honor, not a burden.

He did wish they had more time to together. What precious little time they did have to themselves was almost entirely devoted to her studies. Sometimes it got so bad he found himself wishing she would go back to her job at the arboretum and leave loving the Earth to him. But only half wishing – she couldn’t give up now, not after they’d been through. Besides, he knew that once Janet completed the path he’d been down, their relationship would be that much more the richer for it. Yes, it was well worth the struggle, however hard it became and however long it lasted.

For after all, in the end that was the whole point of it, wasn’t it? To learn how to love all living things without sacrificing your own life or its loves. To interconnect while still feeling your own heart beat. To live life to its greatest and smallest.

If so, they he passed the final with flying colors.



Political psychology

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