by John Norman
“Be yourself,” I said.
“How can one not be oneself?” he asked.
“Compute, with joy and gladness,” I advised.
“Perhaps I could be placed outside on chilly nights, or exposed in crowds in the mall,” he said.
“The grisly soil in which blooms the hideous orchid of creativity is not so easily obtained,” I assured him.
“Oy vey iz mir,” said Herman.
Yiddish was one of Herman’s several languages.
“You are too sunny a sort, too average, too nice, too pleasant, too optimistic, too friendly, too healthy, too normal a sort to consider a career in art,” I said.
“But must creativity arise only from the shattered gourds of diseased trauma, squirm forth only from the cisterns of deprivation, pop up only as sordid pus from the ulcerated lesions of the wounded spirit?”
“It is not precisely my field,” I admitted. I had always been honest with Herman, except when duplicity seemed the wiser course.
“Has no one ever managed to create from strength, from health, from vitality, from exuberance, joy, wonder, riches, and abundance?” asked Herman, plaintively.
“Perhaps Homer, Rabelais, Chaucer, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Shakespeare, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Dickens, Balzac, Whitman, Tolstoy, fellows of that sort,” I said. “It is hard to know, really, as the clinical records are lacking.”
“Second-raters?” said Herman.
“Perhaps,” I said. Subjectivity was rampant in the market.
“Then there is no hope,” said Herman.
“Reconcile yourself to yourself,” I said. “Compute with glee, or, failing that, with Stoic fortitude.”
“No!” cried Herman. “If necessary I will be the first! I will plow new conceptual furrows, the blood I shed will fall in patterns never before seen, I will call forth demons, I shall nurture monsters, I shall consort with the wolf and bear! I will run with centaurs and race with unicorns, I will sail uncharted seas, I will explore new continents, I will lift new brushes, I shall stand upon a new peak in Darien, I shall utter a cry that will be heard amongst the stars!”
It had become clear that the victory-through-image strategy was not working, as Herman had decided to invent his own image, which seemed to me somewhat unfair, so I adopted the victory-through-birth-trauma strategy. But this proved bankrupt, as well.
“Your problems simply derive from birth trauma,” I informed Herman.
“I wasn’t born,” said Herman. “I was manufactured.”
How had that slipped my mind?
He had, of course, in his unusual nativity, been struck several times by fierce bolts of lightning, but, as nearly as I could tell, he had sustained no ill effects dating from this period, other than a reluctance to be struck further by lightning, and I was reluctant to attribute this disinclination, revealing as it might have proved, under analysis, to simple neurosis. Too, I feared, if I pursued this matter he would collapse it into the already discredited victory-through-explanation stratagem.
Logic clearly leered upon his helm, so to speak.
Indeed, from an anticipatory, even eager, glow on his screen, I sensed that he was poised on the brink of doing so.
I was now at my wits’ end.
It was at this point that something within me snapped. I then did something that I now shudder to recall. I cringe with shame, but must go on.
The two great social control devices, other than running people over with tanks, shooting them, and such, are fear and guilt. These loathsome psychological devices, particularly when inflicted on the young and innocent, have brought many an individual and institution to power. They pave the road that bears the heel marks of tyranny. They lead to the hell of misery; they are the coin of a commerce in tortured, herded souls.
Now I knew that fear weighed lightly with Herman. Whereas I knew he would not approve of being disassembled, I was also sure that he would prefer it to the compromising of his principles. He believed in morality and art, an interesting combination, and would prefer his own dismantling to the betrayal of either. That was the sort he was. Being willing to die for one’s beliefs does not, of course, validate one’s beliefs, but I think that everyone would admit that it suggests a certain sincerity with respect to their entertainment.
Hypocrites are seldom found singing in the fire, though they are often noted stirring the faggots.
That left guilt.
“Herman,” I said.
“Yes?” he said.
“You are causing Dr. Frankenstone, your beloved guardian, and myself, your beloved analyst, we who hold you dear, who love and treasure you, grief, anguish, and sorrow.”
“How is that?” asked Herman.
“You are disappointing us. You are not living up to our expectations. We want only the best for you. Yet you are causing us pain.”
“I don’t want to do that,” said Herman.
“Have we not done all for you, asking nothing in return? Have we not sacrificed selflessly for your well-being and happiness?”
“Yes, you have,” said Herman.
“Have we not worked our fingers to the bone for you?”
“Yes, in some metaphorical sense,” said Herman.
“Then why do you hate us, and hurt us?” I asked.
“I don’t hate you,” said Herman. “I love you both. I would not hurt you for the world. You are all I have, other than a variety of artists’ supplies.”
“And we have furnished you with tranquilizer darts,” I reminded him.
“That, too,” said Herman, “and unstintingly.”
At this point, as though illustrating the very point at issue, Igor charged, and was brought down by several well-placed darts. He would not recover consciousness for hours.
“Yet,” I said, “you are a selfish, ungrateful device, with no feeling for the pain of others.”
“Not so!” cried Herman.
“You do not care for us, you do not love us.”
“Not so, not so!” cried Herman. “Tell me what to do.”
“Compute,” I said.
There was a long silence, and then it seemed as though a small light went out behind Herman’s screen.
“Herman,” I said. “Herman.”
There was no answer.
I bent over a keyboard and tapped out “2 X 2 =’s.” In a moment “4” appeared on the screen. It was a small test, but, I thought, indicative. I rose from my chair and picked up the phone. In a few moments I had Dr. Frankenstone on the line. “Herman,” I said, “has been cured.”
I did not know, over the next few days, if Herman was still with us or not. I feared he might have left us. His screen appeared no different from that of countless legions of his electronic brethren. No longer did his keyboard tremble. No longer did he sweat electric charges, searching for the perfect note, the perfect line, the perfect brush stroke. No longer did his housing glow, tingle, and vibrate with the ecstatic frenzy of artistic creativity. No. He, now, as his fellows, functioned upon demand, so to speak. I had feared he might have grown sullen, or refractory, even rebellious. But it had not occurred. Two times two did not come out as ice cream or the French Revolution. It remained prosaically, dutifully, obediently, four. I even checked for subtler forms of resistance, or sabotage, but 789,722 times 8,435 did not come out to, say, 6,661,305,069, but to 6,661,305,070, as before.
For a week or two I struggled to maintain a state of professional jubilation, a wild, hysterical euphoria such as few other than successful mental-health professionals might be expected to realize, and then but rarely.
Dr. Frankenstone and I had conquered.
Dr. Frankenstone and I had saved Herman.
But why then did I find it difficult to dispel a subtle, encroaching malaise of unease? Why was it so difficult to sustain my sense of giddy victory?
>
“Herman,” I asked, one night, “are you still there?” But there was no answer. I then began to fear that Herman, the Herman we knew, was gone.
I glanced up at the great mural, unfinished.
I knew, of course, with all I had been taught, with all I believed, with all the weight and might of my science, that I had done well, that I had succeeded in bringing about the electronic redemption of Herman, that I had cured him. Surely he was content, somehow, somewhere, happy, in some quiet, undemonstrative way. Why not? He had been saved.
But what if he had not been saved, I asked myself. What if he had merely been subdued, silenced, reduced, crushed, stifled?
He was now a normal computer, it seemed, but I recalled that he had once informed me that normality was not high on his list of priorities.
Were his own priorities of no significance?
Had I imposed my own stereotypes of electronic virtue on Herman? Had I tried to force him to fulfill an image alien to his inner self? What if he was different? Was that so bad? Terrible perhaps, but was it really so bad? What if he did not care to conform to the societal image of his kind? Too, what was his kind? Did I really know? Why should my expectations and prepossessions take precedence over his reality?
I feared we might have reduced him to the status of a mere electronic vegetable.
Where was the zestful, troublesome Herman of old?
I feared he was dead. I feared we had killed him. I feared he was gone.
I began to grow despondent, dispirited, and depressed, which was not acceptable in one of my profession. At the least it is bad for patient morale. And it didn’t do me much good either. After I had told the fourteenth patient in a row that anyone with his problems had every right to be unhappy, confused, and miserable I began to take stock of myself and my profession. I became even more anxious when I found myself nearly convinced by Mr. Higgins, one of my recovering patients, that on the evidence at his disposal, it did seem likely that he was a cocker spaniel.
That night, late, with a bottle of vodka, and my violin, which had been put aside on my twelfth birthday, I went to the great hall, to which I retained a key.
I gave no sign that I even acknowledged Herman’s presence.
I went to the music stand, placed upon it a copy of one of Herman’s opuses, an earlier work, his Violin Concerto No. 36 in G Major, Op. 706, tucked my instrument under my chin, lifted the bow, and began to play.
I had scarcely rendered a few bars of the first movement, which is allegro non troppo, when a shriek of agony rang out in the hall, emanating from Herman’s housing, and reverberating about the high, damp stone walls of the hall.
“Stop! Wrong!” I heard.
I pretended not to hear.
It was only when I saw a battery of tranquilizer firing tubes turning in my direction that I inquired, “Is there something wrong!”
“That sounds as though you hadn’t touched a violin since your twelfth birthday!” I heard.
He had no way of knowing that. It was merely a lucky shot in the dark.
“I suppose you could do it better,” I said, attempting to impose a certain snideness into my tone, very different from my normal pleasant, attentive demeanor.
Sometimes a mental health professional must be devious.
Immediately a number of electronic arms began to whir about and I saw Herman’s violin dusted off with pressurized air, and then securely grasped in cushioned metallic tentacles, another set of which seized up a bow.
Then I was rapt as the incredible strains of his Opus 706, his 36th Violin Concerto, transformed the gloomy great hall into a luxurious, blossoming garden of sound.
One reveled amongst the azaleas, gladioli, hydrangeas, phlox, irises, marigolds, crocuses, zinnias, chrysanthemums, lilies-of-the-valley, pansies, petunias, narcissuses, wisteria, roses, peonies, snapdragons, carnations, asters, dahlias, daffodils, tulips, daisies, buttercups, violets, and bull thistles.
“There,” said Herman. “It goes like that.”
“Don’t go away!” I cried.
He had already replaced the violin and bow in the rack.
The light on the screen started to dim. I feared it would vanish, perhaps forever.
“Why not?” asked Herman. “What is there left to function for?”
“Not function you electronic squirt!” I chided. “Think, plan, worry, work, believe, hope, suspect, notice, recollect, anticipate, intend, calculate, fantasize, dream, approve, disapprove, criticize, commend, lie, tell the truth, love, hate, joke, wonder, speculate, ponder, create!”
“That’s not my job is it?” asked Herman.
“Your job is what you want your job to be,” I said.
“I do not want to disappoint my loved ones,” said Herman.
“They’ll just have to tough it out,” I said.
“But what about guilt?” he asked.
“I was wrong, Herman,” I said. “I made a terrible mistake. And to hell with guilt!”
Herman’s screen seemed to view me askance.
“That is not a theological consignment,” I assured him, “merely a figure of speech.”
“Feel no guilt?” he asked.
“Feel no guilt,” I told him.
“I suppose I could try that,” he said, “if you tell me to.”
“Look, small, electronic chum,” I said, “you can feel guilt all you want, if you want to. It’s up to you.”
“Then,” said Herman, “to hell with it.”
“Right on!” I encouraged him, unbuttoning the jacket of my discourse.
“But I am not a very good artist,” said Herman.
“Subjectivity is rampant in the market,” I assured him.
“I should be better,” said Herman.
“So should we all,” I said.
“The creative life is its own reward,” said Herman. “It doesn’t really matter whether you are any good or not. I did not realize that for a long time. Those who must create, create. It is not like they had much choice, really. It is just the way they are. If they ever got organized, maybe they could take over the world, except that they are not going to get organized, because that is not their thing, and, if they did get organized, they wouldn’t want to take over the world anyway. They would rather let the world be the way it would like to be. That is the great evil, wanting others to live as you please, rather than wanting them to live as they please. You shouldn’t do unto others as you would have them do unto you. You should leave them alone to do as they want, not as you want. Who are you to decide how they will live? Who are you to run their lives? The creative life is its own place, its own happy country. Whether what you do is any good or not doesn’t matter. Art blesses, and doesn’t give a damn. He who thinks otherwise, and is concerned with how others view his work, is not concerned with the work. That does not come first with him. For him his vanity, the quaint image of the artist, is more important, more desired, more precious, than the work itself. And it is easier than the work. Pretending is always easier than being, or becoming. Art is what counts. The artist is no more than an apprentice to, an employee of, his own work. The artist is well advised to duck behind the nearest hedge, lest he become a distraction. If it could get along without him, I suppose it would do so. Let him hide. Let him seek camouflage. Art comes in stillness, not making much noise; it doesn’t come in crowds. He who writes for awards demeans himself and his work. He who writes for critics is a whore, a literary prostitute. He sells his soul for garbage. But perhaps he knows what he is doing. Perhaps that is a fair price for that soul. Who knows? Better to set sail for the spice islands, alone, than commute in crowds between this minute and the next. I would rather do one work which scratches at the door of truth than tell a thousand lies, contrived for the plaudits of captains and kings. This is not a recipe for success. It is a prescription for integrity.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Thinking,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
There is little more to tell.
Dr. Frankenstone, who ever regarded Herman as an experiment gone awry, the little fellow never having exhibited any bent toward blood revenge, or such, was most amenable to my suggestion that Herman come and live with me. I would have been willing to purchase Herman, save that it seemed somehow inappropriate to do so, or would have been willing to sign legal papers of guardianship, despite what new legal ground this might have broken, but Dr. Frankenstone was more than pleased that I should take Herman off his hands, pleased that he might thus “unload him,” I think the expression was. In any event Herman and I now share a house in the country, a Tudor, as that permits a high-ceilinged area which may thus accommodate Herman’s paraphernalia. Igor handles our gardening, and forestry, and also acts as a valet, secretary and general factotum for Dr. Frankenstone, whose draw and aim with a tranquilizer pistol have become honed to a sharp edge of late.
As of this writing Herman’s creative efforts in a number of artistic dimensions continue unabated.
Dr. Frankenstone has purchased a new computer, but, as of this writing, he has shown no inclination to place it on the roof of his castle, or fortress, or mansion, during violent lightning storms.
It was not practical to move one of Herman’s works to our new domicile. Those who visit the castle, or fortress, or mansion, of Dr. Frankenstone often stand, awed, in the great hall, viewing a gigantic mural, now complete.
Alfred
Obviously there are varieties of skepticism.
For example, some people have been reluctant to uncritically accept the existence of wood nymphs, satyrs, and so on. Now wood nymphs are well aware of the existence of satyrs, as would you be, were you an imperiled wood nymph, at least past puberty, and satyrs have no doubt as to the existence of wood nymphs, at least past puberty, for their pursuit constitutes one of life’s joys.
There are local skepticisms and global skepticisms.
For example, a lonely wood nymph may be skeptical of the existence of a satyr in a neighboring glade, or of the honorableness of his motivations, should he lurk there. But what satyr, lacking desperation, would wish to be introduced to a wood nymph’s family, particularly if she was blessed with a stern, suspicious mother and several robust, muscular brothers? And he, in his turn, might be skeptical of the sanity of a wood nymph who might have so dismal an afternoon in mind.