The Science of Discworld II - The Globe tsod-2

by Terry Pratchett

  This is our message to you. You need not be a victim of the power of story, like Vorbis the Quisitor, smitten by an earthbound tortoise, the Wrath of Om. You can be a Granny Weatherwax, sailing through story-space like a master navigator, attuned to every breath of narrative wind (and a lot of it is, mark you), tacking against the gale like a maverick, avoiding the Shoals of Dogma and the Scylla and Charybdis of Indecision ...

  Sorry, we got carried away. What we mean is: if you understand the power of story, and learn to detect abuses of it, you might actually deserve the appellation Homo sapiens.

  Blackmore's book argues that many aspects of human nature are explained much better by memetics, the mechanisms whereby memes exist and propagate, than by any existing rival theory. In our terminology, memetics illuminates the complicity between intelligence and extelligence, between the individual mind and the culture of which it is but one tiny part. Some critics counter that the memeticists can't even say what the basic unit of a meme is. For example, are the first four notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony (dah-dah-da DUM) a meme, or is the meme really the whole symphony? Both replicate successfully: the second in the minds of music-lovers, the first in a weird variety of minds.

  However, this kind of criticism never carries much weight when a new theory is being developed. Not that this stops the critics, of course. By the time a scientific theory can 'define' its concepts with complete precision, it's dead. Very few concepts can actually be defined completely: not even something like 'alive'. What, precisely, does 'tall' mean? 'Rich'? 'Wet'?

  'Convincing'? Let alone 'slood'. If it comes to the crunch, the basic unit of genetics has not been defined in any convincing way, either. Is it a DNA base? A DNA sequence that codes for proteins, a 'gene' in the most limited sense? A DNA sequence with a known function -a 'gene' in its broadest sense? A chromosome? An entire genome? Does it have to exist inside an organism?

  Most DNA in the world contributes nothing genetic to the future: there's DNA in dead skin flakes, falling leaves, rotting logs ...

  Dawkins's famous phrase 'It is raining DNA outside', applied to downy seeds of the willow tree at the start of chapter 5 of The Blind Watchmaker, is poetic. But very little of that DNA leads anywhere; it's just another molecule to be broken down as the falling seeds rot. A few seeds survive to germinate; fewer still produce plants; and most of those die or are eaten before they grow into a willow tree and produce the next rainfall of seeds. DNA has to be in the right place

  (in sexual species, eggs or sperm) at the right time (fertilisation) before it propagates itself in any genetic sense. None of this stops genetics being a real science, and a very exciting and important one. So the fuzziness of definitions is not a good stick with which to beat the memetic dog, or indeed any dog that has anything going for it.

  In his original discussion, almost as an aside, Dawkins suggested that religion is a meme, which goes something like 'If you wish to avoid the everlasting fires, you must believe this, and pass it on to your children'[76]. The popularity of religion is no doubt more complicated than that; nevertheless, there is the germ of an idea here, because that sentence does correspond rather closely to the central message of many -not all -religions. The theologian John Bowker was sufficiently disturbed by this suggestion that he wrote Is God a Virus? to shoot it down. The fact that he bothered shows that he saw it as an important (and from his viewpoint dangerous)

  question.

  Blackmore recognises that a religion, or any ideology, is too complex to be propagated by a single meme, just as an organism is too complex to be propagated by a single gene. Dawkins recognised this, too, and came up with a concept that he called 'coadapted meme complexes'.

  These are systems of memes that replicate collectively. The meme 'If you wish to avoid the everlasting fires, you must believe this, and pass it on to your children' is too simple to get very far, but if it is allied to other memes like 'The way to avoid the everlasting fires can be found in the Holy Book' and 'You must read the Holy Book or face eternal damnation', then the whole collection of memes forms a network that replicates far more effectively.

  A complexity theorist would call such a collection of memes an 'autocatalytic set': each meme is catalysed, its replication is assisted, by some or all of the others. In 1995 Hans-Cees Speel coined the term 'memeplex'. Blackmore has a whole chapter on 'Religions as memeplexes'. If this line of argument bothers you, hang on a minute. Are you saying that religion is not a collection of beliefs and instructions that can be passed very successfully from one person to another? That's what 'memeplex' means. Anyway, replace 'religion' by 'political party' if you want to -not the one you support, naturally. Those other idiots who advocate/despise (delete whichever is inapplicable) free market economics, state pensions, public ownership of industry, private ownership of public services ... And bear in mind that while the secret of the spread of your own religion may be that it is The Truth, that can't possibly be the secret of the spread of all those other false religions in the world. Why the devil do sensible people believe that kind of rubbish?

  Because it is a successful memeplex.

  The evidence for memetic transmission of ideologies is extensive. For example, every one of the world's religions (barring ancient ones whose origins are lost in the mists of time) seems to have started with a very small group of believers and a charismatic leader. They are specific to particular cultural backgrounds; the meme needs a fertile substrate on which to grow. Many cherished beliefs of Christianity, for example, seem absurd to anyone not brought up in the Christian tradition. Virgin birth? (Well, that one was actually an inspired mistranslation of the Hebrew for 'young woman', but no matter.) Restored the dead to life? Communion wine becomes blood? Communion wafers are the body of Christ -and you eat them? Really? To believers, of course, all this makes perfect sense, but to outsiders, uninfected by the meme, it's laughable[77].

  Blackmore points out that when it comes to a choice between doing good and spreading the meme, religious people tend to go for the meme. To most Catholics, and many other people, Mother Teresa was a saint (and she looks well set to become one in the fullness of time). Her work in the slums of Calcutta was selfless and altruistic. She did a lot of good, no question. But some Calcuttans feel that she diverted attention away from the real problems, and helped only those who accepted the teachings of her faith. For example, she was staunchly against birth control, the one practical thing that would have done the most good for the young women who needed her help. But the Catholic memeplex forbids birth control, and in a crunch, the meme wins. Blackmore sums up her analysis like this: These religious memes did not set out with an intention to succeed. They were just behaviours, ideas and stories that were copied from one person to another ... They were successful because they happened to come together into mutually supportive gangs that included all the right tricks to keep them safely stored in millions of brains, books and buildings, and repeatedly passed on to more.

  In Shakespeare, memes become art. And now we move up another conceptual level. In drama, genes and memes cooperate to produce a temporary construct on a stage, for other extelligences to view. Shakespeare's plays give them pleasure, and change their minds. They, and works like them, redirect human culture by attacking our own mental elvishness.

  The power of story. Don't leave home without it. And never, never, never underestimate it.

  31. A WOMAN ON STAGE

  It was the smell of the theatre Rincewind remembered. People talked about 'the smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd' but, he assumed, the word 'roar' must have been taken to mean the same as 'stink'. He also wondered why this theatre was called The Globe. It was not even completely circular. But, he supposed, the new world might happen here ...

  He'd made a big concession for the occasion. He'd unstitched the few remaining sequins from the word WIZZARD' on his hat. Given its general lack of shape, and his robe's raggedness, it now made him look far more like one of the crowd, albeit a one that k
new the meaning of the word

  'soap'.

  He worked his way back through the throng to the wizards, who had managed to get real seats.

  'How is it going?' said Ridcully. 'Remember, lad, the show must go on!'

  'Things are fine, as far as I can see,' whispered Rincewind. 'No sign of any elves at all. We did spot a fishmonger in the crowd, so the Librarian slugged him and hid him behind the theatre, just in case.'

  'You know,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who was leafing through the script, 'this chap would write much better plays if he didn't have to have actors in them. They seem to get in the way all the time.'

  'I read the Comedy of Errors last night,' said the Dean. 'And I could see the error right there.

  There wasn't any comedy. Thank gods for directors.'

  The wizards looked at the crowd. It wasn't as well behaved even as the ones back home; people were picnicking, small parties were being held, and there was a general sense that the audience looked upon the actual play as pleasant background noise to their personal social occasions.

  'How will we know when it starts?' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

  'Oh, trumpets get blown,' said Rincewind, 'and then generally two actors come on and tell one another what they already know.'

  'No sign of the elves anywhere,' said the Dean, looking around with a hand over one eye. 'I don't like it. It's too quiet.'

  'No, sir, no, sir,' said Rincewind. 'That's not the time not to like it. The time not to like it is when it's suddenly as noisy as all hell, sir.'

  'Well, you get backstage with Stibbons and the Librarian, will you?' said Ridcully. 'And try not to look conspicuous. We mustn't take any chances.'

  Rincewind worked his away around behind the stage, trying not to look conspicuous. But it was a first night, and there was an informality about the whole business that he'd never seen back home. People just seemed to wander around. Back home, there never seemed to be so much pretence; here, the actors played at being people and, down below, people played at being an audience. The overall effect was rather pleasing. The plays had a conspiratorial quality. Make it interesting enough, their audience was saying, and we'll believe anything. If you don't, we'll have a party with our friends right here and throw nuts at you.

  Rincewind sat down on a pile of boxes offstage and watched as the play began. There were raised voices and the gentle, subtle sound of an expectant audience ready to tolerate quite a lot of plot exposition provided there was a joke or a murder at the end of it.

  There was no sign of elves, no telltale shimmer in the air. The play wound on. Sometimes there was laughter, in which the deep boom of Ridcully was distinctly noticeable, especially, for some reason, when the clowns were on stage.

  The stage elves met with approval, too. Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth and Mustardseed ...

  creatures of blossom and air. Only Puck seemed to Rincewind to be anything like the elves he knew, and even he seemed more of a prankster than anything else. Of course, the elves could be pranksters, too, especially if a footpath ran beside a really dangerous ravine. And the glamour they used ... well, here it was charming ...

  ... and there was the Queen, a few feet away. She didn't flash into existence, she emerged from the scenery. A group of lines and shadows that had always been there suddenly, without actually changing, became a figure.

  She was wearing a black lace dress hung about with diamonds, so that she looked like walking night.

  She turned to Rincewind, with a smile.

  'Ah, potato man,' she said. 'We see your wizardly friends out there. But they won't be able to do anything. This show will go on, you know. Just as written.'

  '... will go on ...' murmured Rincewind. He couldn't move. She'd hit him with her full force. In desperation, he tried to fill his mind with potatoes.

  'We know you told him a garbled version,' said the Queen, walking around his quivering body.

  And a lot of nonsense it was. So I appeared to him in his room and put the whole thing in his mind. So simple.'

  Roast potatoes, thought Rincewind. Sort of gold with brown edges, and maybe almost black here and there so they're nice and crunchy ...

  'Can't you hear the applause?' said the Queen. 'They like us. They actually like us. We'll be in their paintings and stories from now on. You'll never get us out of there ...'

  Chips, thought Rincewind, straight from the deep fryer, with little bubbles of fat still spitting and popping ... but he couldn't stop his treacherous head from nodding.

  The Queen looked puzzled.

  'Don't you think about anything but potatoes?' she said.

  Butter, thought Rincewind, chopped chives, melted cheese, salt ...

  But he couldn't stop the thought. It opened up inside his head, pushing away all potato-shaped fantasies. All we have to do is nothing, and we've won!

  'What?' said the Queen.

  Mash! Huge mounds of mash! Creamed mash!

  'You're trying to hide something, wizard!' said the Queen, a few inches from his face. 'What is it?'

  Potato cakes, fried potato skins, potato croquettes ...

  ... no, not potato croquettes, no one ever did them properly ... and it was too late, the Queen was reading him like a book.

  'So ...' she said. 'You think only mysteries last? Knowledge in unbelief? Seeing is disbelieving?

  There was a creaking above them.

  'The play's not over, wizard,' said the Queen. 'But it's going to stop right now!'

  At this point, the Librarian dropped on her head.

  Winkin the glove stitcher and Coster the apple seller discussed the play on the way home.

  'The bit with the queen and the man with the asses ears was good,' said Winkin.

  'Aye, it was.'

  And the wall bit, too. When the man said "he is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference", I nearly widdled my breeches. I like a good joke, me.'

  'Aye.'

  'But I didn't understand why all those people in the fur and feathers and stuff were chased across the stage by the man in the hairy red costume, and why the fat men in the expensive seats all got up and on to the stage and why the idiot in the red dress was running around screaming about potatoes, whatever they are. While Puck was speaking at the end I definitely thought I could hear a fight going on.'

  'Experimental theatre,' said Winkin.

  'Good dialogue,' said Coster.

  'And you've got to hand it to those actors, the way they kept going,' said Winkin.

  Yeah, and I could have sworn there was another Quene up on stage,' said Coster, 'and she looked like a woman. You know, the one who was trying to strangle that man babbling about potatoes.'

  'A woman on stage? Don't be daft,' said Winkin. 'Good play, though.' 'Yeah. I think they could cut out the chase sequence, though,' said Coster. 'And frankly I don't think you could get a girdle that big.' 'Yes, it would be dreadful if special effects took over,' said Winkin.

  Wizards, like many large men, can be quite light on their feet. Rincewind was impressed. By the sound of it, they were right behind him as he sped along the path by the river.

  'Best not to wait for a curtain call, I thought,' Ridcully panted.

  'Did you see me ... wallop the Queen with a horseshoe?' wheezed the Dean.

  'Yes ... pity it was an actor,' said Ridcully. 'The other one was the elf. Still, not a complete waste of a horseshoe.'

  'But we certainly showed them, eh?' said the Dean.

  'The history is completed,' said the voice of Hex, from Ponder's bouncing pocket. 'Elves will be viewed as fairies and such they will become. Over the course of several centuries belief in them will dwindle as they are moved into the realm of art and literature, which is where the remnant of them will subsequently exist. They will become a subject suitable for the amusement of children.

  Their influence will be severely curtailed but will never die away completely.'

  'Never?' panted Ponder, who was getting winded.


  'There will always be some influence. Minds on this world are extremely susceptible.'

  'Yes, but we've pushed imagination to the next stage,' puffed Ponder. 'People can imagine that the things they imagine are imaginary. Elves are little fairies. Monsters get pushed off the map.

  You can't fear the unseen when you can see it.'

  'There will be new kinds of monsters,' said Hex, from Ponder's pocket. 'Humans are very inventive in that respect.'

  'Heads ... on ... spikes,' said Rincewind, who liked to save his breath for running.

  'Many heads,' said Hex.

  'There's always heads on spikes somewhere,' said Ridcully.

  'The Shell Midden People didn't have heads on spikes,' said Rincewind.

  'Yes, but they didn't even have spikes,' said Ridcully.

  'You know,' wheezed Ponder, 'we could have just told Hex to move us directly to the opening into L-space ...

  They landed on the wooden floor, still running.

  'Can we teach him to do that on Discworld?' said Rincewind, after they'd picked themselves up from the heap by the wall.

  'No! Otherwise what use would you be?' said Ridcully. 'Come on, let's go ...'

  Ponder hesitated by the L-space portal. It was filled with dull, greyish light, and a distant view of mountains and plains of books.

  'There's still elves here,' he said. 'They're persistent. They might find some way to—'

  'Will you come on?' snapped Ridcully. 'We can't fight every battle.'

  'Something could still go wrong, though.'

  'Whose fault will that be now? No, come on.'

  Ponder looked around, gave a little shrug, and stepped into the hole.

  After a moment a hairy red arm came through and pulled more books through the hole, piling them up until it was a wall of books.

  Brilliant light, so strong that it lanced out between the pages, flashed for a while somewhere in the heap.