Authors: John Norman
Psychologists let us know that the choice between an alternative which is perceived as abysmally horrible and one which is perceived as attractive, even desirable, is usually not difficult to make. When faced, for example, to allude to a well known story, of a choice between a tiger and a lady, and the choice is yours, and not that of an insanely jealous queen, you would probably choose the lady, if healthy, nonsuicidal, gifted with normal vision, and so on, though, to be sure, it might depend on the lady and perhaps, in unusual cases, on the tiger. For example the choice between, say, Clytemnestra or Medea, and an affectionate, well-fed tiger, one genetically engineered to thrive on breakfast cereal, might be less clear.
Now we come, in our perusal of the literature, to the choices between goods and between bads.
Here the researchers tell us that it is easier to choose between goods than to choose between bads. As one oscillates between goods, eventually, rather sooner than later, the closer one comes to A the better it is likely to look, and then one tends to slide toward it, rather than toward a similarly desirable B. In many situations the important thing is to make a decision, rather than not make a decision, even if you are not sure that the decision is the absolutely best decision possible. Often the routes to the same destination are not that different, but if you want to get there before dark, you had better take one of them. The Japanese supposedly have a theory of postponing decisions as long as possible while accumulating more and more data, or whatever, until the better decision of its own weight, so to speak, topples into your lap. This is not a bad way of going about things but if you want to get there before dark, you may not have time for it. People tend to admire, and follow, people who make decisions. The trick is to make a decision as if you knew what you were doing. People like that and as things are still mysterious to them, as they probably still are to you, too, actually, they will give you credit for leadership, probably correctly. Also, you can usually live with any decision, and a decision made is a decision likely to be subconsciously commended. Once made it usually seems right. Also, if it is a good decision, even if not the best decision, it should look better and better to you as you work it out.
Now the hardest decision, according to the studies, is the decision between two bads, between, say, bad A and bad B, between, say, Lucrezia Borgia or Charlotte Corday. Would you prefer to be poisoned or stabbed in the bathtub? The closer you approach one alternative the worse it looks, and this impels you toward the other which, predictably, the more closely approached, looks worse and worse, and so on. As a result many will prefer to choose neither alternative. If one is obliged to choose one or the other, of course, the dilemma grows desperate. Should one satisfy the distribution requirement by hazarding mathematical logic or mathematical mathematics?
At this point one might consider recourse to a random-selection device, say, a fair coin, an item frequently encountered in probability theory but scarce in most actual economies. Dice or cards will do, too, but not much better. Certain shamans use charred reindeer bones to direct hunters. That seems to work pretty well. It keeps the reindeer guessing. But sometimes the bones are unreliable. But then, so, too, sometimes are the coins, the dice, the cards.
This brings us to Buridan's ass.
For those of you who might be unfamiliar with medieval animal husbandry Buridan's ass was placed equidistant between two bales of hay, and accordingly starved to death. This is fictional of course, for an undergraduate animal-rights activist at the University of Paris stealthily made his way into the barn and nudged one of the bales a bit closer to the imperiled beast.
The point that Buridan, who was a professor, of course, for professors sometimes concern themselves with such things, was making had less to do with animal abuse than free will. A decision in his view, it seems, was purely dependent on the intellect and so, if the alternatives presented were intellectually equivalent, the will could not act. Remember that Buridan was a professor. They do things like this. An analogy would be if a fellow was poised between two equally delicious young ladies, each clamoring to bear his children, and be his abject and eternally devoted spouse, he would remain celibate, as, we suppose, did Buridan.
In the case of an ass, which is a donkey, which I hope is clear to everyone, or even a chipmunk, this sort of dilemma seems unrealistic, for both practical and theoretical reasons. Imagine the difficulty of placing bales of hay equidistant from a donkey. Consider the precision of measurement required. And what if a slight movement of the air might stir a random straw a bit closer? Or what if the donkey, fainting from hunger, could not manage to fall precisely equidistant between the bales of hay. But there are theoretical questions here, as well. Is protoplasm, or DNA, or whatever, actually all this smart, or intellectual? Do not emotional elements, accidental elements, biographical elements, historical elements, social elements, and such things, often figure in decisions? What if one of the young ladies in our previous example should wink at the fellow stranded between them? It seems unlikely he would remain stranded for long.
Now you must have begun to wonder if there is a point in all this.
There is, a most important point.
You see, there was once this amazing engineer who was bored, and decided to make himself some toys. After experimenting with teddy bears, dolls, toy soldiers, balls, blocks, prototype hula hoops, and such, he was still discontented. He was not a happy engineer. And unhappy engineers, as we know from the history of technology, are capable of just about anything. In any event this engineer who was lonely as well as unhappy decided to produce some more interesting, more complex toys, to while away the time, of which he had plenty, rather in the line of wind-up toys, though much more complicated. This was not as good as having a girl friend, one supposes, but we may certainly suppose it was better than nothing, at least from his point of view. Now, as he was an engineer, he did not want to produce sloppy artifacts, but things he could be proud of, objects well-tooled, shipshape, reliable, precise, and smoothly functioning.
Accordingly our engineer designed and manufactured some phenomenal little thingamajigs, dohickeys, whatchamaycallits, and so on. These little toys were on the whole active and complex. They were also responsive to their environment in a variety of ways, for example, if one tumbled off a cliff or was struck repeatedly with sledgehammers, its functions were often impaired, sometimes seriously, sometimes irremediably. The engineer became fascinated with his hobby, and constructed ever more fascinating and intricate toys. Eventually he had built a set of remarkably sophisticated machines programmed with simple rules of the sort from which surprisingly complex behavior can emerge. Some of these models worked better than others and the ones that worked less well were scrapped.
Finally, our engineer produced something which he hoped would endlessly delight and amuse him, a set of complex mobile computers. For a time the engineer was quite pleased with these toys, and rightfully so, for they were in their way masterpieces of the toy maker's art, sophisticated, impressive wonderworks of unprecedented design. Nothing quite like them had been seen before. The engineer played with them for a time, and sat back and watched them running about. He varied their programming so they would not all be doing the same thing. But they were mechanisms, of course, and it soon seemed to the engineer that, in a way, they had been built too well. After a time, they were not that much fun to watch. The engineer had built them and so he always knew what they would do. Once again the engineer began to be bored.
Things came to a head one day when he noted one of these mechanisms poised precisely between two goals, both of which it had been programmed to seek. The machine, interestingly, was immobile, unable to function.
We do not know what the goals were, perhaps it was something as simple as being poised between calculating the sum of five plus six as opposed to calculating the sum of six plus five. One does not know. Or, perhaps it was as simple as finding itself between two equally attractive wedges of Jarlsberg cheese, or two bales of hay.
The engineer watched the machine in its predicament, until it perished, from rust, or whatever.
At this point it seemed to the engineer that he was hoist on his own petard, so to speak, that his own expertise had done him in. Not only was he bored with his toys, for he knew their every move in advance, after all, he had built them, but he now also realized that the astounding and impeccable precision of their programming bore within itself the concealed liability of cybernetic paralysis. They would, in certain situations, be inevitably doomed by the very perfection of their design.
Perfection bore inevitably within itself its own demise.
The engineer had discovered the problem of Buridan's ass.
At this point perhaps many of us might have contemplated suicide but not the engineer, as it was not in his nature. For him this was not a viable option.
Then, with one of those strokes of inspiration which so frequently characterize the juggernaut of progress, it occurred to the engineer that if perfection necessitated imperfection, why should not imperfection necessitate perfection.
Perhaps the most perfect mechanism would be that which was imperfect!
Accordingly the engineer gathered together his toys and put in some random elements.
He had now produced machines that worked, but you couldn't know for sure how they would work.
You never knew for sure.
They could surprise you.
Now the engineer was never bored with his toys.
And thus, too, was the problem of Buridan's ass solved. Some random jostle or jiggle, inclination or trepidation, sooner or later, would save the beast.
The engineer was so pleased with his new toys that he thought he should give them a name.
He called them human beings.
We will leave open the question as to whether gods have gods. That, it seems, is their concern, not ours.
We will leave open the question, as well, as to whether gods could, or should, commit suicide.
If they are necessary beings in some sense then one supposes they are stuck with themselves. Perhaps they deserve themselves.
One wonders if they are satisfied with the worlds they create.
Not all gods bother creating worlds, of course. Most have other things to do, perhaps better things to do, cutting out paper dolls, collecting stamps, origami, such things.
They can always visit worlds created by other gods, or trespass on such worlds, or meddle with them, and so on. That saves creating your own world. This is not particularly dangerous as most creating gods are not territorial, for they may, at any time they wish, create new territories.
Creating worlds, we gather, for those gods who are interested in such things, is easy enough, but it is not easy to create one that works, a good one, so to speak. Many worlds are simple failures, simply botched up, with lousy laws, eccentric planetary orbits, autistic, nonaggregating molecules, shortages of dark matter, stars that sputter out prematurely, life forms that spend their time attacking and eating one another, and so on.
Many gods have given too little attention to their hobbies. They are careless. Others, even conscientious ones, often take a long time to become good at world making. The better worlds receive prizes, awards, blue ribbons, and other distinctions. That may be why some gods keep on making worlds.
Most worlds, of course, are discarded, when one tires of them, or they are rendered obsolete by new technologies, or styles.
Too, what sort of world you are trying to create should be taken into consideration. If you are out to create the most purple world possible, or the smallest world possible, or the largest world possible, or the squarest world possible, or the worst world possible, then the criteria of evaluation must in all fairness be adjusted to the intention involved. To be sure, the intention must be first filed with us. It would not do at all for a god to claim he wanted to create just the world he ended up creating, trying to take credit for the exact nature of its flaws, and such, as they were intended to be perfect flaws, and so on. That would be tantamount to cheating.
Sometimes gods try to mar or spoil the worlds other gods have created. Perhaps you live in such a disfigured, defaced world. This sort of cosmological vandalism seems deplorable to many of us, but as gods, being gods, cannot be subject to external constraints, such as moral principles, but in effect have the privilege of defining morality as they wish, we shall effect nothing critical on this score.
I am supposing that most of what we have hitherto stated is familiar to the reader.
On the other hand, it has come to our attention that not everyone is aware of the charge and activities of the office of registration.
I work there.
When a god goes to work and creates a world, if he regards it as worthy of registration, and cares to expend the fee, he is likely to bring his world to our attention. Gods, as is well known, are often jealous, which would be a character flaw, except in a god, for reasons already noted. Some worlds are, so to speak, pirated. Others, or substantial parts of others, have been clearly plagiarized. Hard feelings and denunciations, even cosmic strifes, worlds being used as cannonballs, and such, abounded. It was scandals and abuses of this nature, piratings and plagiarizations, and allegations of piratings and plagiarizations, and cosmic hostilities, which first made clear the need for our office. It was accordingly founded, though in the midst of continuing controversy. Many were the gods who insisted on a variety of rights, those of theft, of piracy, of cosmological plagiarization, and so on.. Should reality not be free to all, like space, where it was created. The roads were to be open. What was the point of being a god if one could not do as one wished? The commons were not to be fenced in. One of the most adamant foes of the registration office was a feathered god who had created several worlds of ducks, each created in his own image.
Eventually, however, as a gesture of good will, and to minimize the possibility of civil war, most gods accepted, pointedly of their own free will, the existence of the office. Thus some order and discipline was at last introduced into an arena which had hitherto resembled at best a void of reckless and rampaging chaos. To be sure, there is still many a cosmos, in one dimension or another, which remains outside our jurisdiction, and refuses to sign the appropriate conventions.
For those of you who have created one or more worlds you might consider availing yourself of the protection of registration. Whereas there is no doubt that a world you have made is your world, whether it should be or not, it is one thing to make a world, and quite another to be able to prove that it is your world. What if your world is stolen and brought to public view by another, he claiming it as his own? What can you do about this? Have you no recourse? You do, you can register your world, thereby establishing your indisputable proprietorship. To be sure, this may do you no good, unless you are outrageously affluent and in the pursuit of your proprietary rights are prepared to compulsively enrich successions of incompetent and greedy attorney gods, but it will, at least, render secure, and certify, your entitlement to righteous indignation.
So register your worlds.
The policies, practices, fees, and such, of the office are a matter of public record. Forms with instructions are available at many libraries, and from the office, upon request. Please fill out the forms carefully, according to the instructions. Fees are subject to change without notice.
Do not forget to submit two copies of your world with your application. A failure to fill out the form, or forms, properly, or to submit the proper fees, or the required two copies of your world, will result in a delay in the processing of your application.
Some gods, of course, see no point in the registration office.
I think there is some point to the registration office, seeing that gods do go about creating worlds.
Some people may wonder why gods bother creating worlds. I myself have given it some thought, possibly because of my working in the office. There are so many worlds created, and so many gods. Sometimes I am amazed. There are probably many reasons. Some, one supposes, have nothing better to do; others may feel a need to do so; some may just like to keep busy; some may be lonely; some may want to do nice things, or bad things; some, insecure sorts, one supposes, perhaps with few internal resources, may relish courtiers and sycophants, hanging about, praising, and such, looking forward to rewards. There are probably many reasons. And, some, as suggested, may be interested in getting recognition, having their eye on prizes, and such. Gods come in various shapes and sizes, moral and otherwise. Some are congenial, friendly, decent fellows; others would just as soon be left alone; some construct their worlds and then abandon them to their own devices; they desert their worlds; others may have an artistic streak and be interested in dramatic spectacles, hurricanes, floods, wars, famines, pestilences, slaughters, plagues, crashing airplanes, sinking ships, collapsing bridges, avalanches, cruelty, horror, insanity, and such. Some gods enjoy roasted human sacrifices and the feeding of infants to sacred crocodiles, and so on; on the other hand, some gods, cousins even, would just as soon their creations were nice to one another, and even, here and there, that they might like one another. There are all sorts of gods. That is to be expected. I suppose it is not surprising. And if there are all sorts of gods, why not all sorts of worlds? That, too, I suppose, is only to be expected.
The registration office exists largely to protect worlds from being illegitimately copied, plagiarized, and so on.
Not all gods, however, as you may have gathered, choose to avail themselves of this protection.
In particular I can think of one outlaw god, in his way, a sort of rogue god. He comes to mind because his motivation for refusing to avail himself of the protection of our office is an unusual one.
He desires his world to be copied, to be pirated, to be stolen, to be plagiarized.
Let us consider his world, briefly. It is a pretty average world in many ways, although it seems to contain more than its share of grief, misery, pain, cruelty, suffering, and hardship. In many respects it is not much of a world, and one supposes that there would be little interest in copying it in any event. It is probably safe from plagiarization. It is not very purple, or square, or large, even. It does contain something rare among worlds, however. It contains something which appears only now and then, and it doesn't last long. It is called joy. The god in question, and some of his creatures, seem to feel that this episodic phenomenon, little more than an occasional, brief flicker against a wall of solitude and darkness, is redemptive. Redemption, you see, for them, at any rate, is not a matter of pain and suffering, but of joy. It is that which makes things worthwhile. This little bit of joy, now and then, you see, or as they see it, overcomes the night and the pain. It justifies the world; it redeems it; it makes it all worthwhile. How puzzling all this is. Strange that such a cosmological eccentricity, one so transient and rare, which so few have experienced, should be ascribed such value.
The god in question refuses to register his world.
Surely he knows it could be stolen, or copied.
But, interestingly, that is precisely what he has in mind. He wants to give such a world away, not because it is worthless, but because it is so precious, so valuable.
In any event, do not forget to submit two copies of your world with your application. A failure to fill out the form, or forms, properly, or to submit the proper fees, or the required two copies of your world, will result in a delay in the processing of your application.