FAUST’S SHADOW: A Twice-Told Tale

by John Fast

  I submitted an abstract of my paper to the Genetic Institute’s Conference Committee later that week, and, even though I had missed the deadline, they accepted it. I titled the abstract, “Dynamic Integrated Complexity.” A month later fifty professors from all across the globe gathered in Mendel Hall. When it was my turn to speak, I walked to the podium on my jittery seventeen-year-old legs and glanced at my father, in the sixth row back. He gave me an encouraging nod and I plunged ahead.

  “We’re all familiar with the three main variables of evolution: 1.) Population Growth; 2.) Genetic Variation; 3.) Natural Selection. I’d like to propose a fourth variable: 4.) Complexity. We must consider all four variables if we hope to understand the process.”

  A murmur of disapproval rippled through the audience. I took a deep breath and pretended not to notice.

  “Complexity has been studied for many years now,” I continued. ”In his classic book, From Being to Becoming, for example, Prigogine summarized his work on autocatalytic sets and self-organizing structures. Similarly, Holland, Gell-Mann, Kaufmann, Arrow, Wolfram and many other computer scientists, physicists, economists, chemists and biologists associated with the Santa Fe Institute, the University of Michigan and MIT have analyzed complex adaptive systems. I’m here as another advocate of this idea, and yet I want to take it a step further. I want to argue for complexity as the fourth variable of evolution, as the variable of variables.”

  I heard another murmur of dissent and my confidence wavered.

  “According to Prigogine’s theory,” I said, rushing ahead, “complex systems emerge through autocatalytic processes of self-organization and self-reinforcement when fueled by sufficient energy. So, for example, the complex system of the ribo-organism emerges from a series of molecular-chemical interactions; the complex system of the multi-celled organism emerges from a series of molecular-genetic interactions; the complex system of the neural net emerges from a series of molecular-synaptic interactions. However, I’d like to suggest that these so called autocatalytic interactions are, in fact, expressions of the nonlinear flows of previously unrecognized evolutionary algarithms. That is, they’re the contingent expressions of dynamic integrated complexity.”

  I felt the ground quaking beneath my legs, so I quickly summarized the argument.

  “As an evolutionary force, dynamic integrated complexity is nothing more or less than the unfolding realization of the protean permutations of code. It isn’t some mysterious external power, rather it’s the fuse that lit the universe, that’s still burning through the world, and that’s still burning through us. And so, with reference to the science of genetics, I wish to propose the study of the evolutionary algarithm. I wish to propose the study of the genius of nature.”

  I waxed and waned for ten minutes. I defined and redefined my key terms, especially the distinction between algo-rithms and alga-rithms. Then a question and answer period followed.

  “As you say,” a tall, thin professor began, “the argument about organization and complexity has been made before, but where is the evidence that complexity is an actual force of evolution, a distinct variable of variables? Why isn’t this so called force just a nominalist error, a name without substance? It seems as if you’re trying to stand Chaos Theory on its head, giving the idea of patterns in the chaos a substantive name. A name, I would add, proposed by a very young man who seems to know very little about genetic theory, a field not even his own.”

  Even though I had expected my youth to be an issue, his last remark rankled me. And it also made me realize that I had nothing to lose. So, with my teenage bravado restored, I took on all challengers.

  “All the names we assign to our concepts represent a bundle of ideas and interpretations,” I said. “And yet these names enable us to articulate and evaluate our concepts. So the question is, What is in a name? I think that what I’ve called the, ‘algarithms of complexity,’ represent as real and substantive a force as the calculus of gravity. But let’s be clear: I’m not arguing that the algarithms of complexity somehow precede and direct the evolution of life, anymore than I’m arguing that the calculus of gravity somehow precedes and directs the evolution of matter. Instead, I’m suggesting that these algarithms articulate an intrinsic unfolding process and that they cannot be understood apart from it. As I’ve suggested, complexity is the variable of variables. It isn’t a separate, external force.

  “And the evidence for this dynamic is so overwhelmingly present that we usually don’t think about it, just as a fish doesn’t think about water. We don’t have to evoke any primary cause, any theory of intelligent design, any essentialist teleology simply to note that the processes of evolution here on earth, and in the universe at large, have gone from simpler systems to more complex systems. And that they continue to do so. Therefore we must ask the fundamental questions, Why is there something rather than nothing? Why is there dynamic integrated complexity? And we must pursue the fundamental answers wherever they lead.”

  A second professor, a burly, bearded man, stood up to question me.

  “A better case can be made,” he declared, “for the exact opposite of what you are saying. A better case can be made using Occam’s Razor. Instead of dynamic complexity, I’d argue for dynamic simplicity. The process of evolution develops the simplest solutions to the problems of survival. And the simplest solutions last the longest: the large teeth of predators, the quick feet of prey. I think you’re dazzled by the variety of simple solutions, and you’re calling that variety, complexity. And within that fantasy of complexity you’re hallucinating the illusion of your so called evolutionary algarithms. Instead, as a philosopher of science once argued a long time ago, we might think of evolution as the universal acid which dissolves all the theories of logic, cause, purpose, goal, direction, design, progress which your theory implies. ‘Dynamic Integrated Complexity’ is just another fancy name for the old Deist argument, except instead of Divine Intelligence, you’ve evoked Divine Complexity, the Genius of the Algarithm, as the dominant force of evolution.”

  Since my father had warned me about this argument I was ready with a response.

  “To say that the theory of evolution is the universal acid which burns through every other scientific, philosophical and aesthetic theory,” I replied, “is simply a rhetorical grab for power. For the last six hundred years the authority of science has rested on the analytic ability of scientists to reduce the whole to its parts. The ratio of size to power is significant: the smaller the reduction, the greater the explanatory power. And so, today, the mathematicians, physicists and chemists who work on the smallest quantum phenomena have the greatest intellectual clout. Ironically, this is an inversion of the ratio of size to power in the pre-scientific era.

  “In the ancient world, the oracles, poets and priests who evoked the titanic immensity of the gods were the most powerful intellectuals. But the shift in emphasis from the study of cosmic to microcosmic force is also a result of the shift in our understanding of power: not lightning bolts, but nuclear fission; not global floods, but plasma physics; not whirlwind tornadoes, but black holes. We are intoxicated by the power of reductionism. And rightly so. All the great scientific discoveries have relied on reductive analyses of phenomena. We’ve gone from studying the circulation of blood to the chemistry of blood to the genetics of blood. And we’ve made tremendous strides forward.

  “Of course we perform these reductive analyses precisely in order to understand larger complex systems. And yet how many of us continue to build linear, additive, deterministic chains from the part to the whole? So that while we are concerned with the complexity of the whole, nevertheless we continue to reduce it to the simplicity of the part. In other words, the legitimation strategies of modern science still demand reductive analyses on every level. And many scientists and philosophers continue to use this legitimation strategy as a billy club to pummel any other way of thinking. In short, I’d suggest that it’s a particular, scientistic, utilitarian reductionism
that’s been rhetorically employed as a so called universal acid, not the theory of evolution. And I’d also suggest that some researchers have appropriated the theory of evolution as a cover for this neo-conservative eighteenth-century ideology.”

  A buzz of anger filled the room. I took a sip of water and resisted the temptation to look at my father. I figured I’d gotten him into enough trouble as it was.

  CHAPTER 29.

  The Mysterious Forces of Nature, Continued

  The drink of water helped settle me down. Then I tried to quell the rising anger of the audience.

  “We sometimes forget there are other ways that scientists work. Along with our reductive analyses, we also pursue integrative syntheses. We also look for patterns and connections, processes and flows. Consider, for example, how the brain is so much more than the additive sum of its parts; how the brain interacts with other brains; how mind and consciousness form; how genius flows. And in this context we must ask, Is it possible that dynamic integrated complexity hasn’t been given its due, and that the various sets of evolutionary algarithms haven’t been recognized as yet, precisely because the unquestioned authority of analytic reductionism underwrites the social status of the modern scientist, while the questionable authority of synthetic integrationism undermines it?

  “And why is that the case? A Marxist friend of mine would argue that analytic reductionism is analogous to commodity fetishism. We tend to isolate the part from the whole, the commodity from production, because that’s the way our modern capitalist culture has taught us to focus our attention as scientists. It’s taught us what we can see, and what we cannot see. It’s taught us how to be insightfully blind. Just as we often fail to see the invisible hand of labor in the commodity, so too we often fail to see the invisible dynamic of complexity in nature.

  “But let’s be clear. When I evoke the various sets of evolutionary algarithms, I’m evoking a logic that’s nonlinear, contingent, emergent. And the new levels of complexity that arise from this logic are greater than the sum of their parts, greater than the simple iteration of code. So instead of a theory of Intelligent Design, I’m arguing for a theory of dynamic integrated complexity, and a science to match it.”

  I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips, trying to release the accumulated tension.

  “An eloquent response,” the burly, bearded professor replied, “but you’ve changed the subject once again from the facts of science to the poetics of science. I want to focus on the evidence, which your response has completely failed to provide. We have no evidence for dynamic integrated complexity, for your so called genometric algarithms, as a force, factor or process. In fact, you haven’t given us a single example of anything you’ve been talking about. You haven’t shown us a single algarithm. All you’ve given us is a fancy philosophical theory. In contrast, Darwin demonstrated that simple, straightforward, natural processes can explain the evolution of species. And Watson and Crick finally destroyed the idea that there’s anything more to life than a series of chemical interactions. In short, it’s the elegance of simplicity which underwrites the variety of complexity, and that kind of elegance is the fundamental concern of science.”

  This statement was met with a burst of applause and before I could respond another questioner rose in the audience. He was a tall, distinguished looking man who spoke with an acquired British accent.

  “The Second Law of Thermodynamics,” he said, “puts a crimp in your universal theory of dynamic integrated complexity.”

  Then a third speaker stood up. I recognized her from the Institute for Advanced Studies.

  “You have tried to subsume the fact of contingency beneath the myth of complexity,” she argued in a heavy German accent. “That is why you have slipped into metaphysics. The contingency of nature generates varied complex forms, but complexity, as a separate force or drive, does not exist.”

  Her statement was greeted with more applause.

  “I agree with the first speaker,” I replied, trying to stave off the assault, “that we seek the elegance of simplicity as a means of understanding the variety of complexity. And yet when we reduce complexity to simplicity we lose all kinds of critical information. Is there really nothing more to the nature of life, for example, than a few, basic, chemical interactions? If so, why have we failed to discover the formula? Why have we failed to generate life in our laboratories? I would suggest that we’ve barely begun to understand the algarithmic complexity of life.

  “And I agree with the second speaker that, without doubt, entropy always increases in a closed system. The processes of dynamic integrated complexity require continuous flows of organized energy, like here on earth where the sun pours its light and warmth over the planet. And yet the sun is just one star among billions of others and the organized energy flows in our neighborhood are inseparable from the organized energy flows streaming across the universe.

  “And I agree with the third speaker that the relation of contingency and complexity is extremely complex. However, I don’t think we can make contingency into a metaphysical first principle anymore than we can make complexity into a metaphysical first principle. That’s precisely my point: to sustain the contradictions of orderly chaos and chaotic orderliness in our minds and to try to see if they express some kind of algarithmic logic. And precisely not as a separate force, but as the fuse that lit the universe.”

  The burly, bearded professor stood again and asked, “And what does that poetic phrase mean?”

  “I’m using it to evoke the genius of nature,” I replied, hoping he might understand me.

  “In other words,” the burly, bearded professor continued, “you’re using one metaphor to define another. And so I’d submit that you, sir, are the reductionist. You want to reduce 13.73 billion years of circumstance, variation and accident, as well as all the fields of science, to the poetically nominalist phrase, ‘dynamic integrated complexity.’”

  This statement was greeted by hoots and applause. And, in truth, all the questioners gave voice to my own doubts. I felt as if we were recreating my inner debate, like a group of quarrelsome actors in a psychomachian drama. I risked a second glance at my father and we shared a smile. I looked forward to the day when I could prove his theory about the probabilities of genetic difference. Then I grabbed my papers and walked back to my seat.

  CHAPTER 30.

  A Summoning

  Three years later, on a warm afternoon in April, 2040, Aster, Isabel, Michael and I were sitting in the living room of the graduate student apartment I shared with Xi Zhu. We lived on the campus of the Turing Institute, just a five minute drive from downtown Princeton. A chocolate birthday cake and four plates were set out on the coffee table. A bouquet of helium balloons, tethered to the table, read, “Happy 20th!” We each held a torn envelope in our hands, and a letter.

  “We would’ve chosen you too, Johnny,” Isabel said, as if she were consoling me. “You’re the logical choice for the Third Linear Thirty.”

  “Thanks, Isabel,” I replied, wondering what Alexa was going to say.

  “Yeah,” Michael added. “The Highbrid Stream can always use the genes for high-powered quantum computing. It’s almost as if you were bred for the job.”

  “I wish everyone who wanted to participate, could,” I said, concerned that Michael might be jealous, or angry, or both.

  “But the Protocol says we can’t,” Michael replied coolly, stating the obvious. “And the Protocol makes sense: keep the group small; keep it focused; keep it going.”

  “Someone from another family might refuse to participate,” I suggested. “Then the Selection Committee might come back to one of you.”

  “Anyone can refuse to participate at any time,” Isabel noted. “That’s the number one rule. But how many people have refused since the beginning of the experiment? Three? Four? So I’m not holding my breath.”

  “This is about the long term development of the Highbrid Stream,” Aster reminded me. “It isn’t about individua
ls. And we can still have our own baby geniuses, so stop feeling guilty.”

  I smiled at the amazing generosity of my siblings.

  “Oddly enough,” Isabel said, “I don’t think the Committee chose you because of your work in quantum computing. I think it was your paper on evolutionary algarithms and dynamic integrated complexity. You made everybody so angry, they had to select you.”

  “But that was three years ago!” I protested. “And the Highbrid Stream also needs your genius genes for creativity and insight.”

  “Too, too, true,” Isabel replied, fluttering her eyelashes. ”But you always were the obvious choice, Johnny, despite our dazzling brilliance. So does your letter say anything about your Non-Linear partner?”

  “Yes,” I said, scanning the relevant paragraph again. “Her name is Takla Lahmpo. She’s a Tibetan math theorist. She’s arriving in Princeton next week.”

  “Just think!” Isabel exclaimed. “I’ll be an Auntie next year!”

  “S’trooth!” Michael swore, using his fake, and always confused, Cockney-Scottish-Irish accent. “Cut tha cake mon, a’fore tha wimin stert talkin ’boot nappies.”

  I laughed out loud and cut the cake.

  That night the flashnews headline read, “THIRTY NEW HIGHBRIDS SELECTED … PAIRED WITH THIRTY NEW OUTSIDERS … TO START NEXT GENERATION.”

  CHAPTER 31.

  Tibetan Wisdom

  Takla and I were editing my algarithms in the Quantum Computing Lab at the Turing Institute. She had short black hair, gleaming black eyes and a flat, round, perfectly sculpted face. She yawned and I glanced at the time display in the lower right hand corner of my data screen. It read, “11:07 PM.” That wasn’t very late by Institute standards, but everyone else in the Lab had gone home for the evening.

  “Sorry, Takla,” I apologized. “I lost track of the time.”