[74호] THE IMPROBABLE MADE POSSIBLE / 스티븐 샤비로 『탈인지』 한국어판 출간 기념 강연 원고

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2022-12-20 13:43
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THE IMPROBABLE MADE POSSIBLE:


Remarks for the Korean translation of Discognition


Steven Shaviro


I am honored to have my book Discognition translated into Korean. This is the second book of mine that has been translated and published by Galmuri Press. I thank the Press for its efforts on my behalf, and I hope that Korean readers will find my book relevant and interesting. Translation is always a difficult process; and I myself do not speak or read Korean. It is always a reason for celebration when meanings and feelings are carried from one language to another, just as it is a reason for celebration when meanings and feelings are communicated from one brain and body to another, through acts of speaking and listening, or writing and reading. We tend to take translation for granted, because we could not easily get things accomplished otherwise. But it is worth remembering that every successful transmission, every act of communication, and indeed every thought, is a small miracle. There is always a gap, whether between one neuron and another, or between one language and another, or between one body and another, or between the mouth and the ear, or between the page and the eye. In the broadest sense, translation is the act of crossing over these gaps.


The title of my book, Discognition, is a made-up word that does not really exist in English. It combines the word ‘cognition’, which means (to cite a standard definition) “the mental action or process of acquiring knowledge and understanding through thought, experience, and the senses”, with the prefix ‘dis-’, which implies negation or undoing. With this made-up word, I seek to designate the processes that both enable and limit cognition, and to describe how such processes work in a number of science fiction texts, plus a body of philosophical writing (in the first chapter) and a series of biological research papers (in the last chapter).


My starting point is the observation that not everything can be totally understood. There is always something more, something that is left out, something that escapes my comprehension. Although this ‘more’ or ‘extra’ is lost in translation, it still matters, and indeed it makes a substantial difference. As the poet says, “so much depends/ upon” it. When I try to describe an object – like a peach that I am about to eat, or a ball that I am about to throw – I always fall short; there are always aspects, or qualities, of the object that I have not managed to capture in words. For that matter, there are also aspects, or qualities, of the peach that are not entirely included in my delightful experience of eating it. And there are aspects, or qualities, of the ball that are not entirely included in the experience of throwing it and catching it. The American philosopher Graham Harman (some of whose books have also, I believe, been translated into Korean by Galmuri Press) has written extensively about this.


But I take my cues here mostly from the great German philosopher G. W. Leibniz (1646-1716), an early Enlightenment polymath whose interests were both detailed and universal. I will not attempt anything like a comprehensive discussion of Leibniz here; indeed, I will go so far as to silently alter some of his ideas, when doing so is useful for my own purposes. Leibniz is important to me, because he maintains three principle, and proposes three concepts, that are crucial to my understanding of science fiction. The three principles are:


1. Identity of Indiscernibles
2. Sufficient Reason
3. Non-contradiction.


And the three concepts are:


1. Multiple perspectives
2. Possible worlds
3. Unity in diversity.


In the first place, Leibniz insists on multiple perspectives. He maintains that each of us is what he calls a monad: a vital center of will and feeling, rooted in the world, and yet self-enclosed and separate from the rest of the world. Modern biology tells us that all cells, and all living things more generally, are bounded by membranes, which separate the inside from the outside, and also selectively allow certain things, but not others, to pass between the inside and the outside. Leibniz knew little of what we now understand about biological cells; but he took a keen interest on the biology of his day, and especially in the work of his contemporary Antonie van Leeuwenhoek, the first person to observe unicellular organisms through a microscope. Leibniz anticipates later scientific findings in the way that he sees the cellular structure that he calls a monad as the basic unit of life, and indeed of the world as a whole.


For Leibniz, I am both an active part of the world, and a detached spectator standing apart from the rest of the world. I occupy a specific location in the world, which can be called my perspective or point of view. And I experience everything around me, everything that I encounter, from my own particular point of view. I see, hear, smell, touch, and taste various elements of the world; indeed, I feel the world, and all the things in the world. My cognition – my knowledge of the world – is secondary to, and dependent upon, these ongoing processes of feeling or experiencing.


Because of its dependence upon feeling, cognition is always finite, partial, and incomplete. My experiences go well beyond what I am directly cognizant of, or what I can explain to myself. Indeed, my feelings and experiences are not necessarily immediate and conscious at all. Leibniz says that I mostly encounter the world in the form of “small perceptions” (petites perceptions) that fall beneath the threshold of conscious awareness. I do not experience these perceptions individually; I only notice their sum, or their subsequent consequences. For instance, as Leibniz says, “the confused murmur that people hear when nearing the sea shore comes from the putting together of the reverberations of countless waves.” I only hear the pounding of the waves as an overall sound, an aggregate. I do not hear, in isolation, any of the individual sounds made by each particular droplet of water. And yet, Leibniz assures us that the aggregate sound that I hear is by no means uniform. For each individual drop of water is ever-so-subtly different from every other. This is the basis of Leibniz’s Principle of the Identity of Indiscerninbles, which states that no two separate and distinct things can be entirely alike.


Let me give another example, this time from one of Leibniz’s successors, the modern British-American philosopher Alfred North Whitehead (1861-1949). When I stand in the Sun, I see the visible spectrum of its light, and I can feel the warmth of its rays on my skin. But I cannot see, and I cannot immediately feel, the ultraviolet radiation that is also emitted by the Sun, and that also impinges upon my body. As Whitehead puts it, “the human body is causally affected by the ultra-violet rays of the solar spectrum in ways which do not issue in any sensation of colour.” Nevertheless, Whitehead continues, “such rays produce a decided emotional effect.” Indeed, I largely experience this sort of radiation in retrospect, on the following day, when I wake up and discover that I have been sunburned. Even worse, if the Sun’s ultraviolet radiation has caused mutations in one or more of my skin cells, I may not sense it, or know about it, until years later, when a cancerous tumor develops in my skin. In an article that has been appended to the Korean translation of Discognition, I argue that we do not experience the world only by perceiving it. Rather, perception is itself a subset of a broader category: that of the ways that my mind and my body are affected, or influenced, by things that exist outside me – regardless of whether I am aware of them.


In addition to all this – or as a result of all this – my feelings and experiences of the world outside me are never complete. There are always aspects of the people and things I encounter that I do not actually discover or reach, let alone understand. Leibniz says that the soul is like a mirror. The whole world is mirrored in me, and thereby represented to me. The entire universe affects each monad, and thereby is reflected in each monad. But Leibniz tells us that most of these reflections are obscure and confused. I can only apprehend a tiny portion of the world clearly; everything else appears to me in a form that is murky, fragmentary, and scrambled. Whitehead makes a similar point. I can properly trace how a few particular things in the world affect me, through the workings of what Whitehead calls presentational immediacy. But most of the time, my experience rather takes the form of what Whitehead calls causal efficacy. In this mode, Whitehead writes, experience is “vague, haunting, unmanageable… heavy with the contact of the things gone by, which lay their grip on our immediate selves.”


For Leibniz, only God (if he exists) has a clear and distinct perception of the entire universe. Whitehead goes further, and suggests that even God’s understanding is belated, and only comes after the fact. Both thinkers warn us that we can never attain such clarity and completeness for ourselves. Whatever the case may be with God, everyone else and everything else is finite. As finite, self-enclosed, and self-delimited monads, we can only imperfectly grasp the infinitude of the universe. Every particular point of view is partial: I use this word in the double sense it has in English. To be partial means to be incomplete, fragmentary rather than whole or integral. But to be partial also means to be biased or prejudiced, to take sides, to be partisan rather than evenhanded and neutral. Our cognition is inevitably partial, in both of these senses. No finite being is able to attain either a divine view from everywhere, or an objective, scientific “view from nowhere” (as the philosopher Thomas Nagel calls it). There are always multiple perspectives on the world, and all of them are incomplete. As finite beings, we have no way to get beyond this situation.


Such perspectivism is one of my major concerns in Discognition. In each chapter, I take up texts that explore how one or another entity might see the world, and how their perspective might be different from ours. What might happen, for instance, if a computational “expert system,” a sort of domain-specific artificial intelligence, were to develop some form of sentience? How might intelligent aliens experience the world, if they were strategically smarter, and technologically more sophisticated, than we are, but without the burden of what we call consciousness? How far could human consciousness be manipulated by invasive technological means? How do the organisms known as plasmodial slime molds (in scientific terminology, Myxogastrea or Myxomycetes) perceive and respond to the world? In all these cases, we are faced with perspectives that are different from the baseline human ones that we take for granted. The authors of these texts endeavor to translate such unfamiliar perspectives into terms that we are able to grasp.


The second concept that I am taking from Leibniz is the idea of possible worlds. Just as many perspectives on the actual world necessarily co-exist, so too the actual world is not the only conceivable one; it can be compared with other possible worlds. These are worlds that do not actually exist, but that could exist. Not only are such other worlds logically possible, we can also imagine scenarios through which they might come into existence. This is something that Leibniz and other philosophers do, but it is also something that science fiction writers do. Science fiction does not claim to actually predict the future. Instead, it explores what complexity theorists would call the possibility space of futurity. Science fiction looks at various ways in which our actual world situation might be transformed over the course of time. Science fiction is not about what will happen, but about what could happen. It posits alternative worlds that postdate, extend beyond, and depart from — but are at least potentially capable of arising out of — the actual world in which it is written and read.


There is one stumbling block in Leibniz’s doctrine of possible worlds. According to Leibniz, God chose one particular world – the actual world that we live in – from a multitude of possible ones. He made this particular choice, Leibniz insists, because the world we live in, here and now, is in fact “the best of all possible worlds.” God would not have chosen it otherwise. Already in his own time, and all the way to today, Leibniz has been criticized, and indeed mocked, for this hyperbolic claim. Most notably, the French Enlightenment writer Voltaire, in his novel Candide (1759), ridicules Leibniz in the figure of Professor Pangloss, who repeatedly claims, in the face of the most horrific catastrophes, that “all is for the best, in this best of all possible worlds.” More judiciously, but still disapprovingly, Whitehead characterizes Leibniz’s claim that the actual worold is the best as “an audacious fudge produced in order to save the face of a Creator constructed by contemporary, and antecedent, theologians.” If we do not have the ulterior motive of saving God from blame, Whitehead says, then we must recognize that the course of events “presents itself with the character of being merely ‘given.’ It does not disclose any peculiar character of ‘perfection.’” That is to say, we never start out with a clean slate. Possibility is always constrained by what has come before, what is already “given.” Not everything is possible. Even God himself cannot escape this limitation. This means, according to Whitehead, that


this function of God is analogous to the remorseless working of things in Greek and in Buddhist thought. The initial aim is the best for that impasse. But if the best be bad, then the ruthlessness of God can be personified as Atè, the goddess of mischief. The chaff is burnt.


For Whitehead, Leibniz’s “best” has no moral connotations; it rather means something like what physicists call the principle of least action. To give a simple example, when water is trickling down a hill, it will follow the most efficient path to do so. It is only in this sense that the world finds the “best” path out of an impasse. As for Leibniz, although he does also have moral considerations in mind, his primary meaning for “the best of all possible worlds” is the one that is the most complex, and the most aesthetically rewarding. Leibniz lived during the Baroque period of art and architecture in Western Europe; and his aesthetic sense is very much a Baroque one, as numerous commentators (most famously Gilles Deleuze) have pointed out. One standard definition of the Baroque aesthetic says that it is “characterized by its melodramatic tableaus, lavish ornamentation, use of deep colors, chiaroscuro, and asymmetry.” Another standard definition describes it as using “contrast, movement, exuberant detail, deep colour, grandeur, and surprise to achieve a sense of awe.” When Leibniz claims that ours is “the best of all possible worlds,” he means that our world is the most colorful, convoluted, and grandiose one that could possibly exist. In twenty-first century terms, Leibniz’s claim is much like that of a physicist who finds a theory of subatomic particles to be beautiful and elegant, and sees these qualities as evidence for its truth.


Nonetheless, in order to avoid misunderstandings, I am happy to say – against Leibniz – that the world we live in today is self-evidently not the best. Rather, we must retain our faith that, as the alterglobalization people like to say, “another world is possible.” We want a world in which everyone is guaranteed a basic level of material well-being, comfort and self-determination. Beauty and excitement would come along with that. And we know that building such a world is entirely within our present capabilities – except for the fact that it is resisted by the wealthy and the powerful, which may well be an insurmountable obstacle. But in any case, I do not think that my concern for a better world is at odds with Leibniz’s thought. For even my sense that “another world is possible” relies upon Leibniz’s basic insight about the multiplicity of possible worlds. Leibniz allows us to consider which sorts of alternative world arrangements are achievable, and which are not.


Leibniz’s notion of possible worlds rejects the two extremes of strict determinism on the one hand, and sheer indetermination on the other. Strict determinism is the idea that everything necessarily happens according to strict physical laws. If this were the case, then everything that happens was predetermined right from the beginning; circumstances have to be precisely the way they are now. As the physicist Sean Carroll states this doctrine, “each moment in the progression of time follows from the previous moment according to clear, impersonal, quantitative rules.” If this were the case, then the only possible world would be the actual one. Rigid chains of cause and effect would both lead up to the present moment, and proceed from it for all eternity. It would then be entirely empty and idle to imagine anything that did not follow precisely from what already exists.


The opposite extreme, however, is just as dubious. The French philosopher Quentin Meillassoux argues for what he calls hyperchaos, a situation in which “any cause may actually produce any effect whatsoever,” and in which “the same cause may actually bring about ’a hundred different events’ (and even many more).” For Meillassoux, our world is ultimately one of surrealistic randomness, in which at any moment elephants might fly in defiance of all we know about aerodynamics, and the salt water of the oceans of the world might be transformed into delicious lemonade. Indeed, the former of these scenarios is dramatized in Dr. Seuss’ delightful children’s book Horton Hatches the Egg (1940), and the latter is envisioned by the utopian philosopher Charles Fourier in his Theory of the Four Movements (1808). Both of these authors, however, provide causal explanations for such happenings. Even if these explanations are entirely fictional, and not scientifically valid according to our current understanding, they still lay claim to some sort of consistent imaginative and narrative logic – in sharp contrast to Meillassoux’s assertion that anything can happen, “without there being either a cause or a reason for this behavior.” Meillassoux rejects narrative causality, in the same way and for the same reasons that he rejects scientific or physical causality. Imagination is therefore as idle and empty for Meillassoux as it is for a strict determinist. It is not surprising that Meillassoux explicitly rejects science fiction, preferring fictional worlds in which the laws of nature are “purely and simply abolished,” and in which “events take place that no real or imaginary ‘logic’ can explain.” But Meillassoux himself concedes that such a form of narrative is quite uncommon, and that even at best it would be well-nigh unreadable.


The idea of possible worlds is useful for science fiction, because it equally rejects the opposed extremes of strict determinism and radical indeterminism. Another world is possible, but not just any other world. There are many circumstances that are possible in the abstract – in the sense that they do not involve a logical contradiction – but that nonetheless will never actually happen. Meillassoux, like the American analytic philosopher David Lewis, maintains that the world is radically contingent, and that anything not excluded on the grounds of logical contradiction might well happen. But this seems at odds with nearly all human experience, past and present. Leibniz, like Meillassoux and Lewis, upholds the Principle of Non-contradiction, which asserts that a statement and its denial cannot both be true at the same time. But Leibniz adds to this what he calls the Principle of Sufficient Reason: “we can find no true or existent fact, no true assertion, without there being a sufficient reason why it is thus and not otherwise.” That is to say, even if nothing is entirely predetermined, then once something does take place, it has happened for a particular reason. This must necessarily be the case, even if “most of the time these reasons cannot be known to us.”


This means that not everything that is logically possible is thereby existentially possible. Things do not always fit together. For Leibniz, it is not enough that any particular thing is possible in and of itself. It must also be able to coexist in the same world with other things. Different circumstances also need to be compossible with one another. This extension of the Principle of Non-contradiction from abstract logic to actual worldly situations is another one of Leibniz’s philosophical innovations. In insisting upon compossibility, Leibniz gives us the beginnings of what today we call an environmental or ecological mode of understanding.


For Leibniz, compossibility is is due to what he calls a “pre-established harmony” between the monads, imposed by God. But modern thinkers like Whitehead argue that such harmony can arise immanently, in real time, simply through “the mutual adaptation of the several factors in an occasion of experience.” Things persist in being by accommodating themselves to one another, and by exchanging elements without merging. Evolution in real time is enough to account for compossibility, without the need for God to arrange everything in advance.


Here is an example of compossibility, or actual non-contradiction. All life on Earth is water- and carbon-based. Life as we know it requires water in liquid form, and this constrains the physical conditions in which it can exist:


The highest known temperature at which metabolism and growth can still occur in water is 122 degrees Celsius (252 degrees Fahrenheit), for example at high-pressure hydrothermal vents. The lowest temperature seems to be about -18 degrees Celsius (about 0 degrees Fahrenheit). (A New Classification System for Water-Based Life)


In contrast to this, we must presume that water-based life does not exist on the surface of Venus, where the temperature is 464° Celsius and the atmospheric pressure is 92 times that on the Earth’s surface. In other words, life as we know it and Venusian climate conditions are not mutually compossible. If there is life on the surface of Venus, it must have an entirely different composition and organization than that of terrestrial life. Two scientists, Jan Špaček and Steven Brenner, have recently proposed a scenario in which Venusian life could exist in the form of self-organizing and self-replicating droplets of red oil, bathed in sulfuric acid. Such a sort of life would at least be compossible with Venusian conditions.


The scientists who wrote this paper about potential life on Venus intended it as a thought experiment: they do not claim that such life forms actually exist. It is not wrong to regard such a paper as a work of science fiction. There are many ways to define science fiction; but I would like to suggest that, among other things, it is the art of articulating compossible situations in order to compose possible worlds. This is what distinguishes science fiction from other, closely related genres such as fantasy. Science fiction and fantasy are alike in that they both present worlds that are radically different from the real world that we inhabit. But the possible worlds of science fiction can be distinguished, at least in principle, from fantasy worlds, for which the question of possibility is not in the forefront. As the American TV producer Rod Serling once explained the difference, “fantasy is the impossible made probable,” while “science Fiction is the improbable made possible.”


In this way, Leibniz’s doctrine of possible worlds – worlds that are not only logically non-contradictory, but also situationally non-contradictory, or composed of compossible elements – is at the root of how I write about problems of cognition and consciousness in Discognition. Each of the narratives I discuss not only projects a particular form and style of sentience, but also evokes a possible world, or environment, in which such sentience might be able to evolve and flourish. This world might be a corporate mainframe, or a computer gaming network. Or it might be a high-technology human world in which government intelligence services work to control and manipulate people in horrific ways. Or it might be a world, circling another star, in which evolution took a radically different course than it did on Earth. Or, finally, it might be a water- and carbon-based life form native to Earth, but whose particular physical environment requires modes of feeling and cognition that are barely comprehensible to us.


This brings me to the third Leibniz concept that I mentioned: unity in diversity. The claim that Leibniz is deeply relevant to science fiction is not original with me. The American critic Richard Halpern suggests that “Leibniz is not only a philosopher but an early science fiction writer,” and adds that Leibniz’s philosophical writing “has the kind of dense intellectual beauty that characterizes the writings of a Stanislav Lem or a Philip K. Dick or a Cixin Liu.” Independently of Halpern, the French philosopher Guy Lardreau wrote an entire book, Fictions philosophiques et science-fiction (Philosophical fictions and science fiction), tracing what he calls the “astonishing homology” between the fictions deployed by Leibniz in order to explain his ideas about possible worlds, and the way that science fiction imagines its own parallel worlds. Of course, this parallelism is not a strictly historical one. Nothing that we now call science fiction existed in the literature of Leibniz’s own time. There were fantastical stories, to be sure; but they were closer to what we now call fantasy, or else to farce and satire, than to anything that we call science fiction today.


Leibniz, however, was one of the most forward thinkers of his own time. He already has a deep grasp of what we now call thought experiments, even though this concept did not properly exist in his time. The German terms Gedankenexperiment and Gedankenversuch are first attested nearly a whole century after Leibniz’s death. But the concept is already present in Leibniz’s practice, even if it is not overtly theorized. Often we must deploy fictional assertions, and trace out their consequences, in order to develop ideas of scientific and philosophical import. Today, philosophers themselves do this – as I discuss in the first chapter of Discognition, where I look at what philosophers of mind call ‘the story of Mary.’ But science fiction writing engages in this sort of activity too; and often on a broader and bolder scale than is the case with strictly philosophical writing. In any case, philosophical thought experiments, and science fictional fabulation, are able to address non-fictional questions, because they adhere to the Leibnizian principle of unity in diversity. However odd and unprecedented the circumstances we find in a philosophical fiction or a science fictional narrative, they are intelligible to the extent that the circumstances they depict are compossible with those that we are already familiar with.


A number of scholars have traced Leibniz’s fascination with the fantastic literature of his own time. Lardreau, Halpern, and Justin E. H. Smith all note how Leibniz especially likes to cite the commedia dell’arte figure of Harlequin, as he is presented in the French farce Arlequin, Empereur dans la Lune (Harlequin, Emperor of the Moon), by Nolant de Fatouville, first performed in 1684. In this stage play, Harlequin as Emperor of the Moon describes at great length what life on the Moon is like. His descriptions are all satirical, making fun of targets that would have been familiar to the original Parisian audience. Within the play, the other characters remark, in response to every description given by Harlequin, “c’est tout comme ici” (“it’s all as it is here”). Leibniz refers to this play when he writes: “my great principle of natural things is that of Harlequin, Emperor of the Moon… that it is always and everywhere in all things just as it is here.” In other words, even on the moon, and even when a ridiculous clown is Emperor, the way that things work – in order to hang together and to make sense – is no different from what we are accustomed to in everyday life. The unity of the logic of connections brings together the widest imaginable diversity of things, events, and manners of being. This is why fictions can inform us about reality. Satire only hits its target if it both resembles, and estranges, the situation being satirized. A plausible, or even simply legible, fictional world must follow the same logic, or the same principles of connection and variation, as the actual world we live in does. This is perhaps why science fiction follows traditional canons of representation in its texts, even though the content being thus represented is imaginary or counterfactual.


To conclude, all this is why I say, in Discognition, that science fiction “embodies [philosophical] issues in characters and narratives”, endeavoring “to work through the weirdest and most extreme ramifications of these scenarios, and to imagine what it would be like if they were true.” Science fiction is a way, not of predicting the future, but precisely of taking up, and exploring, a futurity whose contents we cnanot know, and which may include exceedingly strange situations. Traditional philosophy scrutinizes the grounds of social and metaphysical hypotheses, probing for flaws in their underlying premises. In contrast, science fiction looks at the consequences of such hypotheses, tracking their potential developments over the course of time. This is what science fiction at its best does; and this is what I am trying to do, as I draw out the implications of science fiction texts.


『탈인지』 화상강연 영상
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