FAUST’S SHADOW: A Twice-Told Tale

by John Fast

Aster was staring into her coffee cup when I returned to the table. She looked up at me and jumped right back into the conversation.

  “And do quantum phenomena seem exotic to us only because we’re so deeply invested in the Newtonian logic of classical physics? Or, do we actually manufacture the exotic in our laboratories? Do we actually create the exotic phenomena of quantum indeterminacy, for example, when we pursue our scientific methods of freezing and framing, isolating and analyzing to the point of reductio ad absurdum?”

  She took another sip of coffee and I waited for her to finish her thought.

  “You told Michael that a single isolated atom seems very quirky, but does a single isolated atom exist anywhere in our universe? What if, instead of isolated atoms, we talked about fibers spun into threads of time and woven into patterns of space? What if we re-imagined our cosmology in the terms of fibers, threads, patterns?”

  “Like String Theory?” I asked.

  “Yes. A myth of an integrative science, an integrative cosmology, adapted from the very old tradition of spinning and weaving–women’s work, mostly.”

  Aster stared at me intently while I thought about the weaving loom as a model of the cosmic computer: the warp and weft of quantum strings forming the intricate patterns of our universe. Then I realized that, along with an integrated cosmology, Aster was also offering me an integrated anthropology, another way to view my relations with Takla and Alexa. Instead of feeling isolated and conflicted, I could feel connected and entwined. I heard an echo of Jena’s voice in Aster’s words and felt grateful for her concern, although I wouldn’t admit it. So I just nodded my head and gave her a warm smile.

  “In fact, the metaphors of science interest me so much,” Aster continued, “that I’ve decided to write my dissertation on them. I’m going to analyze the effects of metaphor on psychiatric theory.”

  “Like what?” I asked, eager now to hear her out.

  “Since no one really knows what the conscious, or unconscious, mind is, you might say that the entire field of psychiatry floats on a cloud of invisible metaphors.”

  “Why invisible?”

  “Because we don’t see them as metaphors. They disappear into the rhetorical background, along with all our other presuppositions. So much so that we even forget that empiricism itself is a metaphor.”

  “That’s old news,” I objected. “In the post-Kantian, post-Heisenberg, post-Wittgenstein age every scientist knows there aren’t any pure empirical facts. The limits of mind, the indeterminacy of quanta, the diffraction of language force us to recognize the relativity of truth.”

  “We recognize it and fail to recognize it,” Aster replied. “Every week another professor declares the death of theory and the resurrection of finely grained empirical studies. As if, somehow, all we really need to do is get a tighter grip on reality. As if we shouldn’t even bother with all those messy questions of representation and interpretation. In other words, we’re still freezing and framing, reducing and analyzing every phenomenon we study. Years ago, in your infamous conference paper on genometric complexity, you said that too many people still think that the only legitimate science is the empirical science which reduces the integrated whole to the individual parts. And why do we think that? Because while we recognize the metaphor of empiricism, we don’t recognize the myth. We still equate science with that spatializing, reductive myth. And that’s why the scientists of the future need new strategic metaphors, new legitimating myths, and a new awareness to go with them.”

  Aster sat back in her chair again and I recalled how we had worked through earlier versions of this argument at the dinner table with Jena and André. It was a recurring subroutine of our family’s collective neural net.

  “Can you give me a specific example of the new kinds of metaphors you’re talking about?” I asked.

  “Sure. Some neuro-scientists have argued that the mind is a quantum computer and that consciousness is a quantum dynamic. And what are the effects of this argument? First, it reminds me that we always turn our latest technologies into our latest metaphors and that we always project these metaphors onto the blank screen of the mind. Second, it helps me recognize the previous functional, structural and post-structural metaphors. Third, it challenges our empirical arrogance and suggests that we’ve barely begun to understand the complexity of consciousness, let alone the unconscious. And fourth, it begs the question as to the relationship between the quantum mind and the quantum universe which, of course, brings us from psychiatry to cosmology and back again, and leads us straight to your work on the universe of code.”

  “That is what I’ve been working on,” I said quietly. “Finding the connections between the genius of nature and the nature of genius. You know, Aster, you would’ve been a great choice as a Third Linear Thirty.”

  “Thanks, John,” she said, her face glowing with pleasure. “But I’m still glad you were chosen.”

  I shook my head and smiled at the way Aster combined self-assurance with selflessness. We were both lost in thought for a moment, then she picked up the argument.

  “Imagine if all our introductory and advanced science courses surveyed the invisible metaphors which reveal and conceal our unasked questions. Imagine the breakthroughs we could make if we worked through the hazy, lazy metaphors we use every day.”

  “Yes!” I exclaimed. “Like what Dad calls the, ‘stopgap metaphors.’ The ancient gods were the greatest stopgap metaphors of all time. Lightning? The work of the gods! Life? Gods! Fate? Gods again! Of course, we have our own stopgap metaphors, like, ‘junk DNA,’ ‘genetic drift,’ ‘dark matter,’ ‘dark energy.’

  “And ‘cosmic Kama Sutra,’” Aster interjected, giving me another smile.

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “And now I see why you’re so interested in my bad jokes.”

  Aster beamed because we were completely in sync again.

  “But let’s back up a second,” I insisted. “Instead of a masculine, reductive science you want a feminine, integrative science. Instead of isolated atoms and molecules, you want integrated fibers and threads woven into complex patterns. So aren’t you still locked into the same binary logic, the same gender stereo … types?”

  I cut the air in two with my hand as I cut the word in two.

  “Exactly,” Aster acknowledged. “As Levi-Strauss suggested, we’re all structuralists. We all think with the binary logic of west/east; rational/irrational; masculine/feminine. And as Derrida suggested, we’re all post-structuralists. We all deconstruct these binary metaphors every day. Although, as you’re suggesting, we often just reverse their order. So if I start talking about feminist approaches to psychiatry without first asking how feminist rhetoric itself has already been constructed in opposition to masculine logic, then, in some ways, I’m just reinforcing the same old binary logic. In fact, that’s a problem I’m having right now with one of my professors at the Med School.”

  “Is someone giving you a hard time?” I asked, recalling the years of criticism I’d endured for my paper on dynamic integrated complexity.

  “Naturally,” Aster replied without concern. “Do you think only sane people go into psychiatry? It’s almost as bad as philosophy, but I think I’m coping well.”

  “I think you’re coping brilliantly, although next time warn me that my bad jokes are going to be on the dissecting table. And next time we can dissect your jokes.”

  “You don’t mind do you?” She asked, still seeking my approval. “You know I can’t help being a smart aleck.”

  Standing in the glare of Aster’s gaze was always worth the discomfort, and I was more than happy to give her my approval.

  “No one should apologize for their intelligence,” I declared. “Especially you. We live in a ridiculously anti-intellectual culture, so the more smart alecks the merrier, I say.”

  “You’re just saying that because you want me to pay the bill,” Aster purred.

  And, after she payed, we left the café and stood on the sidewalk.
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br />   “Any news from the surrogate moms?” Aster asked.

  “Everything’s on schedule.”

  “Great!” She enthused. “I can’t wait to see your pretty babies.”

  I nodded, lost in thought.

  “Sweet brother, adieu, for I must attend my charges,” Aster announced, performing a double air kiss.

  “Sweet sister, buzz off, get lost, see you soon,” I replied, waving away her kisses.

  Aster headed uptown, toward the hospital. I headed downtown, to catch the next train back to Princeton. And as I walked along the street and observed the intensity of city life, I wondered how my children would make sense of all the invisible metaphors swirling in the air.

  CHAPTER 38.

  Chinese Ideograms

  I graduated from the PhD Program in Quantum Computing three years later. After the ceremony, I stood between Jena and André on the great lawn of the Turing Institute. Jena wore an elegant pale green suit, I wore a somber cap and gown, André wore a spiffy light gray suit. We stopped fidgeting and smiled as Isabel took our picture. It was late May, 2043, and I was twenty-three years old.

  “I’m so proud of you, John,” Jena said when Isabel was done.

  At that moment Aryat Krishnapur, Director of the Q-Lab, walked up to me.

  “Congratulations, Doctor Fast,” he said with his impeccable Indian-British accent. “I am very pleased you have decided to stay on with us.”

  “It’s an honor to work with you, Doctor Krishnapur,” I replied. “You know my parents? And my sister, Isabel?”

  “Of course,” he said, shaking hands all around. “And congratulations to everyone. What are your vacation plans, John?”

  I glanced over at Takla. She was chatting with Aster and Michael. And just beyond them, our four beautiful children–Anna, Lahi, Tenzi, Jack–were holding hands with the nanny, turning in a circle, and singing, “Ring Around the Rosie.”

  “I’m going to hike the Great Wall for ten days,” I said absently.

  “Very good,” Krishnapur said. “You deserve a break. Come see me when you return.”

  “Uhh … yes,” I replied, shifting my focus back to him. “I will.”

  Krishnapur said goodby to everyone, then all four of my children rushed up to me.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” They cried.

  I knelt down and embraced them in a group hug.

  Whatever ambivalence I felt about the ethics of the Highbrid Protocol, I loved my kids with all my heart–even though I hardly ever spent any time with them. My work demanded the sacrifice. And since they had Takla, and two full-time nannies, they didn’t really need me. At least, that’s what I told myself in those days.

  “Have a great vacation,” Takla said as she joined us.

  Takla had finished her PhD in Theoretical Mathematics at Princeton University the year before, while Alexa had finished her PhD in Global Economics at the London School of Economics two years earlier. Since then, Takla had become a research fellow at the Institute for Advanced Studies, and an Assistant Professor at the People’s University of Tibet. Alexa had become a staff economist at the International Development Office of the United Nations. In fact, at that very moment, Alexa was working in rural China and we were going to hike the Great Wall together.

  “Thanks, Takla,” I replied as I stood up. “I love you, and I love our children.”

  “I know,” she said, nodding solemnly. “I hope you have a wonderful time with Alexa.”

  She leaned forward and kissed me on both cheeks.

  “I’ll call you from China,” I promised.

  Takla nodded again.

  Then the entire family set off for a restaurant to celebrate my graduation.

  *************

  Four days later Alexa and I were walking on the Great Wall, in Hebei Province, about a hundred miles northwest of Beijing. The verdant hills surged all around us, making the Wall feel like a narrow stone quay jutting into a restless green ocean. When we reached the top of an exceptionally high and well preserved section of the Wall, Alexa decided to stop for a rest. She shrugged out of her backpack and set it down on the paving stones. I did the same. We were both wearing loose cotton shirts, khaki shorts, white socks and hiking boots. We stood side-by-side and took in the view. The late afternoon sunlight spilled over the hillsides, while the late afternoon shadows pooled in the valleys.

  “China needs a revolution,” Alexa stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “I think they already tried that,” I replied in the same flat tone.

  “They tried a Soviet-style dictator cult that turned into a Soviet-style party cult,” she said, her neutral tone turning bitter. “And then they squeezed a layer of state capitalism underneath that. And you know what really amazes me?”

  “What?” I asked, turning to admire her profile.

  “How much hard work it all required,” she said. “Torture, murder, starvation, imprisonment, war … tens of millions dead. And for what? So Lenin and Stalin could play Czar? So Mao could play Emperor? So the Party Leaders could play Monopoly? And, in the meanwhile, back in the U.S.A., we’re sacrificing the fundamental principles of modern democracy on the altar of finance capitalism. The corporate sphere has taken over the government sphere and the public sphere. And we’re beginning to develop our own version of authoritarian state capitalism.”

  “It is amazing,” I replied.

  “China doesn’t have a free press, or free elections,” she continued. “The police and their spies are everywhere. The party enforcers are everywhere. The 700 million plus farm workers are controlled and exploited by the agricultural bosses. The 100 million plus factory workers are controlled and exploited by the industrial bosses. The workers in this workers’ paradise aren’t even allowed to form independent unions. And every day American executives sign contracts in Beijing which make fair pay, fair work and fair trade impossible. If the Chinese factory owners paid their workers decent salaries and gave them decent working conditions, the American executives would just shift their business to other countries where labor is cheap and life is cheaper. Our international trade agreements have opened up an unregulated global labor market that puts workers, everywhere, in competition with one another for the lowest impossible wages and the worst impossible working conditions. And the flat earth cheerleaders simply ignore the fact that we’ve turned the entire planet into a Dickensian nightmare.

  “In the meanwhile, the Jasmine Revolution has been spreading throughout China. Farm laborers and factory workers have been demanding reform, and getting arrested. Intellectuals and artists have been demanding reform, and getting arrested. Ethnic minorities and religious groups have been demanding reform, and getting arrested. Do you remember Liu Xiaobo, the Nobel Peace Prize winner, and Jiang Tianyong, Teng Biao, Tang Jitian, Liu Xianbin, Gao Zhisheng, and Ai Weiwei? All of them, and thousands of others, were arrested and kept in prison, sometimes for decades. And what were their crimes? They sought basic human rights and basic democratic reforms. In other words, with these arrests, the Chinese Communist Party further de-legitimized itself as a representative government. It even canceled the Chinese International Jasmine Cultural Festival and banned jasmine from the flower markets. Can you imagine that? One of the world’s great military and police states, afraid of a flower? And the same problems continue to this day. Instead, the Party could practice what it preaches. It could recognize the dialectic of history and help to develop an open, democratic society. That’s why my team is trying to promote change on the ground level. We’re rotating through ten villages, teaching the latest organic farming techniques.”

  “Beijing is letting you do that?” I said, surprised at the thought.

  “As long as we keep a low profile. And later on I hope to set up some economic advisory offices in the factory cities, like Shenzhen, where thousands of women and children are forced and tricked into virtual slave labor. The Chinese can’t seem to free themselves from their ancient imperial bureaucracies, while we ca
n’t seem to free ourselves from our modern autocratic corporations. It’s a deadly formula for a deadly global conflict over the limited resources of the planet: Chinese State Capitalism vs. American State Capitalism.”

  She paused for a moment, then she surveyed the area where we stood.

  “This looks like a good spot for tonight,” she said.

  We set up camp and had a quick dinner: water, cheese, crackers, fruit. Then we poured the rice wine, stretched out on our sleeping mats and watched the golden sunset.

  “Alexa?” I said, looking across at her.

  “Yes, John,” she replied, staring straight ahead.

  “I love the way your mind works, and the way you see the world. I love the sound of your voice, and the color of your eyes. Will you marry me?”

  Alexa turned her golden, shining face toward me.

  “No, John,” she said. “I won’t marry you. But thank you for the offer. And I love you too.”

  “Are you against marriage altogether, or … what?”

  “I think Engels was right. Marriage is all about property rights, the man’s property rights over the woman.”

  “Then let’s live together as equal partners.”

  “I don’t want to lose our friendship.”

  “Living together would deepen our friendship.”

  “For a time. Then one of us would begin to feel stifled.”

  “You mean, you would.”

  “So would you.”

  “Would you ever consider marrying me?”

  “I already have too many partners.”

  “I’m not talking about ghosts.”

  The sun vanished and twilight settled into the hills. We were quiet for a time.

  “Don’t look so gloomy, John,” Alexa finally said. “I do love you, but you know I don’t want to be owned–not by Alpha-Gene, Inc., not by you, not by anyone. As long as you understand that then, yes, I think it’s high time we made love. So here’s my counterproposal: How do you feel about a sweet slow fuck on the two-thousand year old Great Wall of China?”