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Further Conversations

I spent much of my ninth (and last) month on Watatu gleaning as much as I could from Diotima’s considerable store of wisdom. At first, I asked only clarifying questions about the school and the island. Soon, however, I was able to coax her into sharing her keen insights into the problems of my own society.

My favorite conversation took place on my last full day on the island. I had been waiting in Diotima’s garden for several hours. Such delays were common on Watatu, and I amused myself by examining the many strange artifacts which decorated the space. My fancy was especially taken by a tiny machine at one end of the ornamental stream. Like something from the Swiss Family Robinson, it was made entirely from natural materials, and powered only by the force of the current. I had often admired the graceful motion of its many parts, but I had never pondered the delicate and advanced underlying mechanism. By the time Diotima arrived, I was ready with a question.

“Why is your technology so beautiful,” I asked, “and ours is so ugly?”

“Why do you hate technology so much,” countered Diotima. “And always speak badly of it?”

“I don’t hate technology...” I said, as I launched into a well-rehearsed rant about the modern world and the silicone chip.

Diotima listened with admirable patience. When I was done, she summarized my half-hour monologue in a few brief sentences.

“It is not that you hate technology,” she said, “but that you hate the effect it has upon you. You find it makes you less human. And you find it unattractive. But surely none of this is technology’s fault. You are the creators of your own technology.”

“With all your talk about spirits,” I said. “I felt sure that you would see technology as some sort of living being, with its own unstoppable volition.”

“Technology is most certainly a living entity,” said Diotima, “but it is under your control, or should be. If I visit the home of a young child, and he begins to bite and kick me, I immediately suspect some fault in the parents, even if they insist he is the tyrant of the household.”

“I understand,” I said. “You imply that we have designed our technology to be ugly and inhuman. But why would we do such a thing?”

“The inhuman aspect,” said Diotima, “is easy to explain. Your society has a very weak conception of what it is to be human, and a strong conception of the joys of machinery. Therefore you create technology that forces you to behave like machines.”

“Please elaborate,” I said.

“From what you tell me,” she replied, “your society views technology as an all-powerful entity which solves problems. Your society sees the technological movement as possessing a vital spark. Your society also has a view of the universe that is very mechanistic. If you combine these three aspects, what does it create?”

Nine months on Watatu enabled me to grasp her implication. “It creates an illusion of divinity,” I said. “The computer as false god.”

“Given that,” said Diotima, “naturally your society seeks to remake itself in the machine’s own image.”

“Frightening, yet plausible,” I replied. “But how is such a thing accomplished?”

“Machines are devices to harness force,” she replied. “And the main purpose your society uses them for is to break limitations placed on the human race. In doing so, however, you discard part of the stable portion of human identity. This creates a deficiency in the stative force, which you then fill by adopting stable elements that are characteristic of machines --straight lines, rigid time schedules, impersonal standards and the like.”

“Is this an inevitable result of technology?”

“Of course not,” said Diotima. “It is merely a consequence of your desire to become superhuman, rather than fully human. If you had a stronger sense of your own humanity, you would feel no need to pursue mechanized divinity.”

“Let me play devil’s advocate,” I said. “Why shouldn’t we seek to become machine-like?”

“Any one of you could be an exemplary human,” she said. “But the best of you could never be a third-rate machine. Do you really wish your children to pursue a goal that dooms them to failure and inferiority?”

“Point taken,” I said. “We should be human because it suits us. And if we do so, we can free technology from the burden of neutralizing our humanity...”

“...and create nobler, less anti-human machines. Very good. You are finally beginning to use your mind.”

I ignored Diotima’s last comment, and pressed her on an earlier issue.

“You never told me why your technology is more beautiful than ours.”

Diotima gave a slight shrug.

“Beauty is a higher priority in our culture than yours. To us, beauty is something necessary and functional, and technology is an amusing indulgence. In your society, it is just the opposite.”

I was used to the Watatu finding utility in odd things, but this stretched my credulity.

“How could beauty possibly be more functional than technology?” I asked. “Beauty isn’t consistent --two observers often disagree completely about the beauty of a given object. Beauty can’t broken down into smaller parts, which would at least enable it to be analyzed and understood. And beauty appears in so many distinctly different things that it probably doesn’t represent anything real at all.”

“Beauty is quite real,” said Diotima. “And there is a very good reason for each of those characteristics. Beauty is a perception, which is why it is subject to disagreements. It is a perception of relationships, not absolutes, which is why it can appear in many different contexts. Finally, it is the perception of transcendent relationships, which is why it cannot be reduced to smaller elements.”

“Transcendent relationships?” I said. “Like transcendentalism?”

“No,” said Diotima. “Our word ‘transcendence,’ is a technical term meaning ‘the harmonious combination of two or more distinct patterns or entities, without diminution of either.’”

“I still don’t understand,” I grumbled.

“Picture it this way,” she said. “A person and a group are two distinct entities. If the person wants one thing, and the group wants another, that is conflict. If the person and the group both want the same thing, that is harmony. If the person’s freely chosen actions always align naturally with the best interests of the group, that is transcendence.”

“It sounds improbable,” I said.

“It is,” said Diotima, “and we never reach perfection in it, but it is our ideal for relationships.

“Beauty, then, is the perception of transcendence. If you see something, and you think it unites two or more distinct patterns harmoniously, without diminution, it will seem beautiful to you.”

“That explains the way it is,” I said. “But what makes it functional?”

“Three things,” said Diotima. “In objects that are already functional, transcendence is the most efficient relationship, because it retains all facets of the original elements, and the most stable, because it suppresses no conflicts. Thus, beauty is a mark of stability and efficiency. A good example is found in architecture, where graceful beauty of the arch shape signals its effectiveness in creating support.

“Second, the beauty of nonfunctional objects, such as artwork, can serve as a model for the creation of transcendence elsewhere. This is possible because beauty is relational, and the same kind of beauty can appear in many different contexts. For example, hearing a beautiful piece of music might help you understand your relationship to society, decorate your house, or solve a math problem.

“Third, any beautiful object is a potential window onto a pattern that is too distant, hidden, or vast to be observed directly. Because so much of human life involves apprehending and exploiting patterns, the perception of new patterns is always valuable. This is why beautiful objects hold a lasting fascination for us. Transcendence tends to bring together not just two, but many different patterns, and it is often possible to thus discover a new pattern never glimpsed before.

“This explains why we value our artists as you value your highly-trained engineers. They are commissioned by the society to bring unusual or conflictual patterns into beautiful relationship, and we study the results intently, for our edification and instruction.”

“One final question,” I said. “You often speak of something being characteristically human, or characteristically inhuman. How do you make such an assessment?”

“There are three human characteristics,” said Diotima. “First, that each human being is an unique and irreplicable individual. Second, that each human being is inseparable from his or her context. Third, that each individual is an integral part of the universe as a whole.

“It is wrong to believe that any human being can be completely known, and reduced to predictability. But it is also wrong to believe that there are no commonalities between individuals. It is wrong to believe that any human being can be severed from his or her context, and understood in isolation, but it is also wrong to believe that the context completely determines the actions of any human being. It is wrong to believe that every human being is not connected, in some fashion, to all parts of the universe, but it is also wrong to believe that any of us contains the universe.”

I sat for a moment, and tried to digest these statements. Soon, however, Diotima broke the silence.

“The evening is getting late,” she said, “and you are leaving in the morning.”

I nodded my head in confirmation.

“During the time you have been here, we have opened our hearts and homes to you,” she said, “and held little back. In return, you have embraced the mission which is the true repository of our identity.

“If you carry only one message with you, then let it be this: The human spirit is a living thing of great strength, and surprising fragility. When it is not nurtured, it suffers, when it is neglected, it dies; and should it truly perish, so too would a light that could illuminate the universe.

“Go in peace, and may the threefold blessings of God travel with you. I bid you good night.”

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