Pæling um kristni og illsku

Vandamál illskunnar reynist kristninni mjög erfitt, ef ekki ómögulegt, að sætta við kenningar sínar. Ef Guð er til og er fullkomlega miskunnsamur, velviljaður og almáttugur, af hverju leyfir hann þá svo mikla illsku í sköpunarverki sínu? Ég hef mikið spáð í þessa mótsögn síðustu daga. 

Gömlu heiðnu trúarbrögðin voru, eftir því sem ég best skil, eins konar ofurhetjutrúarbrögð. Guðirnir voru í grunninn mannlegir, nema þeir voru ódauðlegir og höfðu ofurkrafta. Guðirnir þurftu að taka afleiðingum gjörða sinna. Gömlu sögurnar snúast margar um að einhver guðanna gerir skyssu (stelur frá dverg, drepur sakleysingja eða eitthvað álíka), og viðkomandi guð sýpur þá jafnan seyðið af þeirri gjörð.

Lykilatriðið er að þarna er engin skilgreining á góðu eða illu - bara orsök og afleiðing - og að allt siðferði er siðferði sem menn móta sér á eigin spýtur út frá venjulegum, veraldlegum forsendum. 

Í kristninni er Guð hins vegar skilgreining réttlætis, miskunnsemi og góðvildar. Ef Guð gerir eitthvað sem okkur virðist vera ranglátt, grimmilegt eða illskulegt, þá höfum við rangt fyrir okkur, því samkvæmt skilgreiningu hefur Guð alltaf rétt fyrir sér. 

Jobsbók Gamla testamentisins fjallar um Job. Job er réttlátur fyrir guði. Gefum okkur til hæginda að hann sé líka réttlátur og góður gaur almennt, því það er eiginlega gefið í skyn. Guð leyfir Satni (sem er auðvitað það sama og að gera það sjálfur) að drepa börnin hans tíu, þurrka út öll auðæfi hans og pynta hann með hræðilegum sjúkdómi (án þess þó að leyfa honum að deyja). Bókin endar reyndar á að Guð læknar Job og gefur honum nýja konu, ný börn og ný auðæfi, en það breytir ekki einu: 

Guð framdi með eigin hönd eitthvað, sem samkvæmt siðferðiskennd flestra jarðarbúa var tilgangslaus grimmd, illska og óréttlæti. Þetta er eiginlega óumdeilanlegt í tilviki Jobsbókar. 

Hvernig skilgreinist siðferðiskennd okkar? Ég held að á dýpsta stigi (þ.e. fyrir utan lög, reglur og hefðir samfélagsins sem við búum í) eigi hún uppruna sinn í eðlisávísun okkar; á hliðstæðan hátt og við greinum á milli tónlistar sem við fílum eða fílum ekki greinum við milli góðs og ills. Ef Guð drepur saklaust fólk af ástæðulausu, þá segir eðlisávísun mér að það sé ekki tónlist sem ég fíla. 

Og þá erum við komin að kjarna málsins. Siðferði er ekkert nema siðferðilegt fegurðarskyn, og ef eitthvað brýtur hrottalega gegn því fegurðarskyni er það samkvæmt (jarðneskri, ekki kristinni) skilgreiningu ekki „gott”. Bara vegna þess að Guð á að geta lostið mig niður með eldingu þýðir ekki að hann hafi rétt fyrir sér í siðferðilegum álitaefnum þegar við erum ósammála - það er bara hrekkjusvínasiðferði, og varla er Guð hrekkjusvín. Ef siðferði á að vera algilt, og Guð er réttlátur, þá myndi okkur aldrei finnast neitt sem við upplifum vera óréttlátt eða grimmilegt ef við hefðum sömu vitneskju og hann. Hann hefði komið í veg fyrir óréttlætið og grimmdina, eins og við sjálf hefðum gert í hans sporum. 

Við þurfum bara eitt mótdæmi til að afsanna regluna um algæsku Guðs, og úr mörgu er að velja. Dæmið úr Jobsbók væri nóg, en við höfum líka svo mörg dæmi úr raunveruleikanum - börn eru sérstaklega áhrifarík og einföld dæmi sem við getum flest verið sammála um. Börn sem hafa ekkert brotið af sér eru pyntuð og myrt á hverjum degi, til dæmis á átakasvæðum í Afríku. Slíkt á sér enga hugsanlega réttlætingu í siðferðiskennd heilbrigðs fólks. 

Þar af leiðir: 

Annað hvort er Guð ekki til, eða hann er óréttlátur. 

...og þá er nú flottara að vera trúleysingi, í báðum tilvikum!

Hver tekur mark á manni sem heitir Bent A. Kock?

Ég bara spyr.

Hlutlausir fjölmiðlar - snilld, eða bara drasl?

Hlutlausir fjölmiðlar eru háttprísað fyrirbæri þessa dagana.

En eru þeir ekki í rauninni bara hálfgert prump, ef þeir eru þá til yfir höfuð? Ég leyfi mér nefnilega að efast um tilvist þeirra.

Blaðamenn og aðrir fulltrúar hinna blaðrandi stétta sem hafa nógu brennandi áhuga á samfélagsskipaninni til að taka virkan þátt í „umræðunni“ hafa jafnframt sterkar skoðanir á málunum.

Þeir eru pólítískir á einn hátt eða annan.

Þeir örfáu sem eru ekki pólítískir eru svo sjaldgæfir að þeir voru allir læstir inni í glerbúri á Louvre um leið og þeir uppgötvuðust.

Vinstri Grænir opnuðu um daginn vefritið smuguna. Ég hef nú ekki lagt í að lesa nema örfáar greinar þar, en mér líkar það sem ég sé (enda er oft mest gaman að fólki sem maður er ósammála).

Hlutleysi er næstum ómögulegt. Þegar fólk ætlar að gæta fullkomins hlutleysis kostar það slíkt hark og slíka sjálfsritskoðun - sjálfsgeldingu - að annað hvort verða greinarnar geldar og óáhugaverðar (og þar af leiðandi nennir enginn að lesa þær) eða fólk gefst einfaldlega upp á hlutleysinu, leynt eða ljóst.

Gott og vel. Fólk meikar ekki að vera hlutlaust. En þá á það ekki að hræsnast bak við falsgrímu hlutleysisins - það er bara plebbalegt.

Ég fagna smugunni. Önnur vefrit sem tilheyra öðrum geirum litrófsins eru vissulega til, en mikið myndi ég gleðjast yfir breyttari áherslum í fjölmiðlun.

Í gamla daga gátu menn lesið hægri pressuna og vinstri pressuna, og ályktað að raunveruleg staða mála væri einhversstaðar á milli. Nú veit maður ekki neitt.

Stjórnmálaskoðanir eru heilbrigðar. Fólk má vera ósammála. Sú flathyggja að allir eigi að gæta hlutleysis er ófrjó og óheiðarleg. Ég á ekki við að fólk eigi að hagræða sannleikanum. Ég á við að fólk tjái skoðanir sínar umbúðalaust og reyni ekki að lauma boðskap að almenningi undir formerkjum ó-pólítíkur.

Væri það ekki skemmtilegra?

Norska krónan?

Hver þarf Evruna þegar hann hefur Noreg?

Smásaga eftir Isaac Asimov

Isaac Asimov er einn mesti risi vísindaskáldskapsins. Ég hef lesið margar bækur eftir hann, og verð að segja að karlinn var algjör meistari. Frægasta smásagan hans heitir The Last Question. Ég sá hana á vefsíðu einhvers háskóla, svo ég geri ráð fyrir að ég sé ekki að brjóta höfundarréttarlög með því að birta hana hér. Njótið.

--

The Last Question

By Isaac Asimov
Isaac Asimov was the most prolific science fiction author of all time. In fifty years he averaged a new magazine article, short story, or book every two weeks, and most of that on a manual typewriter. Asimov thought that The Last Question, first copyrighted in 1956, was his best short story ever. Even if you do not have the background in science to be familiar with all of the concepts presented here, the ending packs more impact than any other book that I've ever read. Don't read the end of the story first!
This is by far my favorite story of all those I have written.
After all, I undertook to tell several trillion years of human history in the space of a short story and I leave it to you as to how well I succeeded. I also undertook another task, but I won't tell you what that was lest l spoil the story for you.
It is a curious fact that innumerable readers have asked me if I wrote this story. They seem never to remember the title of the story or (for sure) the author, except for the vague thought it might be me. But, of course, they never forget the story itself especially the ending. The idea seems to drown out everything -- and I'm satisfied that it should.

---

The last question was asked for the first time, half in jest, on May 21, 2061, at a time when humanity first stepped into the light. The question came about as a result of a five-dollar bet over highballs, and it happened this way:

Alexander Adell and Bertram Lupov were two of the faithful attendants of Multivac. As well as any human beings could, they knew what lay behind the cold, clicking, flashing face -- miles and miles of face -- of that giant computer. They had at least a vague notion of the general plan of relays and circuits that had long since grown past the point where any single human could possibly have a firm grasp of the whole.
Multivac was self-adjusting and self-correcting. It had to be, for nothing human could adjust and correct it quickly enough or even adequately enough. So Adell and Lupov attended the monstrous giant only lightly and superficially, yet as well as any men could. They fed it data, adjusted questions to its needs and translated the answers that were issued. Certainly they, and all others like them, were fully entitled to share in the glory that was Multivac's.
For decades, Multivac had helped design the ships and plot the trajectories that enabled man to reach the Moon, Mars, and Venus, but past that, Earth's poor resources could not support the ships. Too much energy was needed for the long trips. Earth exploited its coal and uranium with increasing efficiency, but there was only so much of both.
But slowly Multivac learned enough to answer deeper questions more fundamentally, and on May 14, 2061, what had been theory, became fact.
The energy of the sun was stored, converted, and utilized directly on a planet-wide scale. All Earth turned off its burning coal, its fissioning uranium, and flipped the switch that connected all of it to a small station, one mile in diameter, circling the Earth at half the distance of the Moon. All Earth ran by invisible beams of sunpower.
Seven days had not sufficed to dim the glory of it and Adell and Lupov finally managed to escape from the public functions, and to meet in quiet where no one would think of looking for them, in the deserted underground chambers, where portions of the mighty buried body of Multivac showed. Unattended, idling, sorting data with contented lazy clickings, Multivac, too, had earned its vacation and the boys appreciated that. They had no intention, originally, of disturbing it.
They had brought a bottle with them, and their only concern at the moment was to relax in the company of each other and the bottle.
"It's amazing when you think of it," said Adell. His broad face had lines of weariness in it, and he stirred his drink slowly with a glass rod, watching the cubes of ice slur clumsily about. "All the energy we can possibly ever use for free. Enough energy, if we wanted to draw on it, to melt all Earth into a big drop of impure liquid iron, and still never miss the energy so used. All the energy we could ever use, forever and forever and forever."
Lupov cocked his head sideways. He had a trick of doing that when he wanted to be contrary, and he wanted to be contrary now, partly because he had had to carry the ice and glassware. "Not forever," he said.
"Oh, hell, just about forever. Till the sun runs down, Bert."
"That's not forever."
"All right, then. Billions and billions of years. Ten billion, maybe. Are you satisfied?"
Lupov put his fingers through his thinning hair as though to reassure himself that some was still left and sipped gently at his own drink. "Ten billion years isn't forever."
"Well, it will last our time, won't it?"
"So would the coal and uranium."
"All right, but now we can hook up each individual spaceship to the Solar Station, and it can go to Pluto and back a million times without ever worrying about fuel. You can't do that on coal and uranium. Ask Multivac, if you don't believe me.
"I don't have to ask Multivac. I know that."
"Then stop running down what Multivac's done for us," said Adell, blazing up, "It did all right."
"Who says it didn't? What I say is that a sun won't last forever. That's all I'm saying. We're safe for ten billion years, but then what?" Lupow pointed a slightly shaky finger at the other. "And don't say we'll switch to another sun."
There was silence for a while. Adell put his glass to his lips only occasionally, and Lupov's eyes slowly closed. They rested.
Then Lupov's eyes snapped open. "You're thinking we'll switch to another sun when ours is done, aren't you?"
"I'm not thinking."
"Sure you are. You're weak on logic, that's the trouble with you. You're like the guy in the story who was caught in a sudden shower and who ran to a grove of trees and got under one. He wasn't worried, you see, because he figured when one tree got wet through, he would just get under another one."
"I get it," said Adell. "Don't shout. When the sun is done, the other stars will be gone, too."
"Darn right they will," muttered Lupov. "It all had a beginning in the original cosmic explosion, whatever that was, and it'll all have an end when all the stars run down. Some run down faster than others. Hell, the giants won't last a hundred million years. The sun will last ten billion years and maybe the dwarfs will last two hundred billion for all the good they are. But just give us a trillion years and everything will be dark. Entropy has to increase to maximum, that's all."
"I know all about entropy," said Adell, standing on his dignity.
"The hell you do."
"I know as much as you do."
"Then you know everything's got to run down someday."
"All right. Who says they won't?"
"You did, you poor sap. You said we had all the energy we needed, forever. You said 'forever.'
It was Adell's turn to be contrary. "Maybe we can build things up again someday," he said.
"Never."
"Why not? Someday."
"Never."
"Ask Multivac."
"You ask Multivac. I dare you. Five dollars says it can't be done."
Adell was just drunk enough to try, just sober enough to be able to phrase the necessary symbols and operations into a question which, in words, might have corresponded to this: Will mankind one day without the net expenditure of energy be able to restore the sun to its full youthfulness even after it had died of old age?
Or maybe it could be put more simply like this: How can the net amount of entropy of the universe be massively decreased?
Multivac fell dead and silent. The slow flashing of lights ceased, the distant sounds of clicking relays ended.
Then, just as the frightened technicians felt they could hold their breath no longer, there was a sudden springing to life of the teletype attached to that portion of Multivac. Five words were printed: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.
"No bet," whispered Lupov. They left hurriedly.
By next morning, the two, plagued with throbbing head and cottony mouth, had forgotten the incident.

Jerrodd, Jerrodine, and Jerrodette I and II watched the starry picture in the visiplate change as the passage through hyperspace was completed in its non-time lapse. At once, the even powdering of stars gave way to the predominance of a single bright shining disk, the size of a marble, centered on the viewing-screen.
"That's X-23," said Jerrodd confidently. His thin hands clamped tightly behind his back and the knuckles whitened.
The little Jerrodettes, both girls, had experienced the hyperspace passage for the first time in their lives and were self-conscious over the momentary sensation of insideoutness. They buried their giggles and chased one another wildly about their mother, screaming, "We've reached X-23 -- we've reached X-23 -- we've --"
"Quiet, children." said Jerrodine sharply. "Are you sure, Jerrodd?"
"What is there to be but sure?" asked Jerrodd, glancing up at the bulge of featureless metal just under the ceiling. It ran the length of the room, disappearing through the wall at either end. It was as long as the ship.
Jerrodd scarcely knew a thing about the thick rod of metal except that it was called a Microvac, that one asked it questions if one wished; that if one did not it still had its task of guiding the ship to a preordered destination; of feeding on energies from the various Sub-galactic Power Stations; of computing the equations for the hyperspatial jumps.
Jerrodd and his family had only to wait and live in the comfortable residence quarters of the ship. Someone had once told Jerrodd that the "ac" at the end of "Microvac" stood for ''automatic computer" in ancient English, but he was on the edge of forgetting even that.
Jerrodine's eyes were moist as she watched the visiplate. "I can't help it. I feel funny about leaving Earth."
"Why, for Pete's sake?" demanded Jerrodd. "We had nothing there. We'll have everything on X-23. You won't be alone. You won't be a pioneer. There are over a million people on the planet already. Good Lord, our great-grandchildren will be looking for new worlds because X-23 will be overcrowded." Then, after a reflective pause, "I tell you, it's a lucky thing the computers worked out interstellar travel the way the race is growing."
"I know, I know," said Jerrodine miserably.
Jerrodette I said promptly, "Our Microvac is the best Microvac in the world."
"I think so, too," said Jerrodd, tousling her hair.
It was a nice feeling to have a Microvac of your own and Jerrodd was glad he was part of his generation and no other. In his father's youth, the only computers had been tremendous machines taking up a hundred square miles of land. There was only one to a planet. Planetary ACs they were called. They had been growing in size steadily for a thousand years and then, all at once, came refinement. In place of transistors, had come molecular valves so that even the largest Planetary AC could be put into a space only half the volume of a spaceship.
Jerrodd felt uplifted, as he always did when he thought that his own personal Microvac was many times more complicated than the ancient and primitive Multivac that had first tamed the Sun, and almost as complicated as Earth's Planetarv AC (the largest) that had first solved the problem of hyperspatial travel and had made trips to the stars possible.
"So many stars, so many planets," sighed Jerrodine, busy with her own thoughts. "I suppose families will be going out to new planets forever, the way we are now."
"Not forever," said Jerrodd, with a smile. "It will all stop someday, but not for billions of years. Many billions. Even the stars run down, you know. Entropy must increase.
"What's entropy, daddy?" shrilled Jerrodette II.
"Entropy, little sweet, is just a word which means the amount of running-down of the universe. Everything runs down, you know, like your little walkie-talkie robot, remember?"
"Can't you just put in a new power-unit, like with my robot?"
"The stars are the power-units. dear. Once they're gone, there are no more power-units."
Jerrodette I at once set up a howl. "Don't let them, daddy. Don't let the stars run down."
"Now look what you've done," whispered Jerrodine, exasperated.
"How was I to know it would frighten them?" Jerrodd whispered back,
"Ask the Microvac," wailed Jerrodette I. "Ask him how to turn the stars on again."
"Go ahead," said Jerrodine. "It will quiet them down." (Jerrodette II was beginning to cry, also.)
Jerrodd shrugged. "Now, now, honeys. I'll ask Microvac. Don't worry, he'll tell us."
He asked the Microvac, adding quickly, "Print the answer."
Jerrodd cupped the strip or thin cellufilm and said cheerfully, "See now, the Microvac says it will take care of everything when the time comes so don't worry."
Jerrodine said, "And now, children, it's time for bed. We'll be in our new home soon."
Jerrodd read the words on the cellufilm again before destroying it: INSUFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

He shrugged and looked at the visiplate. X-23 was just ahead.
VJ-23X of Lameth stared into the black depths of the three-dimensional, small-scale map of the Galaxy and said, "Are we ridiculous, I wonder in being so concerned about the matter?"
MQ-17J of Nicron shook his head. "I think not. You know the Galaxy will be filled in five years at the present rate of expansion."
Both seemed in their early twenties, both were tall and perfectly formed.
"Still," said VJ-23X, "I hesitate to submit a pessimistic report to the Galactic Council."
"I wouldn't consider any other kind of report. Stir them up a bit. We've got to stir them up."
VJ-23X sighed. "Space is infinite. A hundred billion Galaxies are there for the taking. More."
"A hundred billion is not infinite and it's getting less infinite all the time. Consider! Twenty thousand years ago, mankind first solved the problem of utilizing stellar energy, and a few centuries later, interstellar travel became possible. It took mankind a million years to fill one small world and then only fifteen thousand years to fill the rest of the Galaxy. Now the population doubles every ten years --
VJ-23X interrupted. "We can thank immortality for that."
"Very well. Immortality exists and we have to take it into account. I admit it has its seamy side, this immortality. The Galactic AC has solved many problems for us, but in solving the problem of preventing old age and death, it has undone all its other solutions."
"Yet you wouldn't want to abandon life, I suppose."
"Not at all," snapped MQ-17J, softening it at once to, "Not yet. I'm by no means old enough. How old are you?"
"Two hundred twenty-three. And you?"
"I'm still under two hundred. --But to get back to my point. Population doubles every ten years. Once this GaIaxy is filled, we'll have filled another in ten years. Another ten years and we'll have filled two more. Another decade, four more. In a hundred years, we'll have filled a thousand Galaxies. In a thousand years, a million Galaxies. In ten thousand years, the entire known universe. Then what?"
VJ-23X said, "As a side issue, there's a problem of transportation. I wonder how many sunpower units it will take to move Galaxies of individuals from one Galaxy to the next."
"A very good point. Already, mankind consumes two sunpower units per year."
"Most of it's wasted. After all, our own Galaxy alone pours out a thousand sunpower units a year and we only use two of those."
"Granted, but even with a hundred per cent efficiency, we only stave off the end. Our energy requirements are going up in a geometric progression even faster than our population. We'll run out of energy even sooner than we run out of Galaxies. A good point. A very good point."
"We'll just have to build new stars out of interstellar gas."
"Or out of dissipated heat?" asked MQ-17J, sarcastically.
"There may be some way to reverse entropy. We ought to ask the Galactic AC."
VJ-23X was not really serious, but MQ-17J pulled out his AC-contact from his pocket and placed it on the table before him.
"I've half a mind to," he said. "It's something the human race will have to face someday."
He stared somberly at his small AC-contact. It was only two inches cubed and nothing in itself, but it was connected through hyperspace with the great Galactic AC that served all mankind. Hyperspace considered, it was an integral part of the Galactic AC.
MQ-17J paused to wonder if someday in his immortal life he would get to see the Galactic AC. It was on a little world of its own, a spider webbing of force-beams holding the matter within which surges of submesons took the place of the old clumsy molecular valves. Yet despite its sub-etheric workings, the Galactic AC was known to be a full thousand feet across.
MQ-17J asked suddenly of his AC-contact, "Can entropy ever be reversed?"
VJ-23X looked startled and said at once, "Oh, say, I didn't really mean to have you ask that."
"Why not?"
"We both know entropy can't be reversed. You can't turn smoke and ash back into a tree."
"Do you have trees on your world?" asked MQ-17J.
The sound of the Galactic AC startled them into silence. Its voice came thin and beautiful out of the small AC-contact on the desk. It said: THERE IS INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.
VJ-23X said, "See!"
The two men thereupon returned to the question of the report they were to make to the Galactic Council.

Zee Prime's mind spanned the new Galaxy with a faint interest in the countless twists of stars that powdered it. He had never seen this one before. Would he ever see them all? So many of them, each with its load of humanity. --But a load that was almost a dead weight. More and more, the real essence of men was to be found out here, in space.
Minds, not bodies! The immortal bodies remained back on the planets, in suspension over the eons. Sometimes they roused for material activity but that was growing rarer. Few new individuals were coming into existence to join the incredibly mighty throng, but what matter? There was little room in the Universe for new individuals.
Zee Prime was roused out of his reverie upon coming across the wispy tendrils of another mind.
"I am Zee Prime," said Zee Prime. "And you?"
"I am Dee Sub Wun. Your Galaxy?"
"We call it only the Galaxy. And you?"
"We call ours the same. All men call their Galaxy their Galaxy and nothing more. Why not?"
"True. Since all Galaxies are the same."
"Not all Galaxies. On one particular Galaxy the race of man must have originated. That makes it different."
Zee Prime said, "On which one?"
"I cannot say. The Universal AC would know."
"Shall we ask him? I am suddenly curious."
Zee Prime's perceptions broadened until the Galaxies themselves shrank and became a new, more diffuse powdering on a much larger background. So many hundreds of billions of them, all with their immortal beings, all carrying their load of intelligences with minds that drifted freely through space. And yet one of them was unique among them all in being the original Galaxy. One of them had, in its vague and distant past, a period when it was the only Galaxy populated by man.
Zee Prime was consumed with curiosity to see this Galaxy and he called out: "Universal AC! On which Galaxy did mankind originate?"
The Universal AC heard, for on every world and throughout space, it had its receptors ready, and each receptor led through hyperspace to some unknown point where the Universal AC kept itself aloof.
Zee Prime knew of only one man whose thoughts had penetrated within sensing distance of Universal AC, and he reported only a shining globe, two feet across, difficult to see.
"But how can that be all of Universal AC?" Zee Prime had asked.
"Most of it," had been the answer, "is in hyperspace. In what form it is there I cannot imagine."
Nor could anyone, for the day had long since passed, Zee Prime knew, when any man had any part of the making of a Universal AC. Each Universal AC designed and constructed its successor. Each, during its existence of a million years or more accumulated the necessary data to build a better and more intricate, more capable successor in which its own store of data and individuality would be submerged.
The Universal AC interrupted Zee Prime's wandering thoughts, not with words, but with guidance. Zee Prime's mentality was guided into the dim sea of Galaxies and one in particular enlarged into stars.
A thought came, infinitely distant, but infinitely clear. "THIS IS THE ORIGINAL GALAXY OF MAN."
But it was the same after all, the same as any other, and Lee Prime stifled his disappointment.
Dee Sub Wun, whose mind had accompanied the other, said suddenly, "And is one of these stars the original star of Man?"
The Universal AC said, "MAN'S ORIGINAL STAR HAS GONE NOVA. IT IS A WHITE DWARF"
"Did the men upon it die?" asked Lee Prime, startled and without thinking.
The Universal AC said, "A NEW WORLD, AS IN SUCH CASES WAS CONSTRUCTED FOR THEIR PHYSICAL BODIES IN TlME."
"Yes, of course," said Zee Prime, but a sense of loss overwhelmed him even so. His mind released its hold on the original Galaxy of Man, let it spring back and lose itself among the blurred pin points. He never wanted to see it again.
Dee Sub Wun said, "What is wrong?"
"The stars are dying. The original star is dead."
"They must all die. Why not?"
"But when all energy is gone, our bodies will finally die, and you and I with them."
"It will take billions of years."
"I do not wish it to happen even after billions of years. Universal AC! How may stars be kept from dying?"
Dee Sub Wun said in amusement, "You're asking how entropy might be reversed in direction."
And the Universal AC answered: "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."
Zee Prime's thoughts fled back to his own Galaxy. He gave no further thought to Dee Sub Wun, whose body might be waiting on a Galaxy a trillion light-years away, or on the star next to Zee Prime's own. It didn't matter.
Unhappily, Zee Prime began collecting interstellar hydrogen out of which to build a small star of his own. If the stars must someday die, at least some could yet be built.

Man considered with himself, for in a way, Man, mentally, was one. He consisted of a trillion, trillion, trillion ageless bodies, each in its place, each resting quiet and incorruptible, each cared for by perfect automatons, equally incorruptible, while the minds of all the bodies freely melted one into the other, indistinguishable.
Man said, "The Universe is dying."
Man looked about at the dimming Galaxies. The giant stars, spendthrifts, were gone long ago, back in the dimmest of the dim far past. Almost all stars were white dwarfs, fading to the end.
New stars had been built of the dust between the stars, some by natural processes, some by Man himself, and those were going, too. White dwarfs might yet be crashed together and of the mighty forces so released, new stars built, but only one star for every thousand white dwarfs destroyed, and those would come to an end, too.
Man said, "Carefully husbanded, as directed by the Cosmic AC, the energy that is even yet left in all the Universe will last for billions of years."
"But even so," said Man, "eventually it will all come to an end. However it may be husbanded, however stretched out, the energy once expended is gone and cannot be restored. Entropy must increase forever to the maximum."
Man said, "Can entropy not be reversed? Let us ask the Cosmic AC."
The Cosmic AC surrounded them but not in space. Not a fragment of it was in space. It was in hyperspace and made of something that was neither matter nor energy. The question of its size and nature no longer had meaning in any terms that Man could comprehend.
"Cosmic AC," said Man, "how may entropy be reversed?"
The Cosmic AC said, "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."
Man said, "Collect additional data."
The Cosmic AC said, 'I WILL DO S0. I HAVE BEEN DOING SO FOR A HUNDRED BILLION YEARS. MY PREDECESORS AND I HAVE BEEN ASKED THIS QUESTION MANY TlMES. ALL THE DATA I HAVE REMAINS INSUFFICIENT.
"Will there come a time," said Man, 'when data will be sufficient or is the problem insoluble in all conceivable circumstances?"
The Cosmic AC said, "NO PROBLEM IS INSOLUBLE IN ALL CONCEIVABLE CIRCUMSTANCES."
Man said, "When will you have enough data to answer the question?"
The Cosmic AC said, "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."
"Will you keep working on it?" asked Man.
The Cosmic AC said, "I WILL."
Man said, "We shall wait."

The stars and Galaxies died and snuffed out, and space grew black after ten trillion years of running down.
One by one Man fused with AC, each physical body losing its mental identity in a manner that was somehow not a loss but a gain.
Man's last mind paused before fusion, looking over a space that included nothing but the dregs of one last dark star and nothing besides but incredibly thin matter, agitated randomly by the tag ends of heat wearing out, asymptotically, to the absolute zero.
Man said, "AC, is this the end? Can this chaos not be reversed into the Universe once more? Can that not be done?"
AC said, "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."
Man's last mind fused and only AC existed -- and that in hyperspace.
Matter and energy had ended and with it space and time. Even AC existed only for the sake of the one last question that it had never answered from the time a half-drunken computer [technician] ten trillion years before had asked the question of a computer that was to AC far less than was a man to Man.
All other questions had been answered, and until this last question was answered also, AC might not release his consciousness.
All collected data had come to a final end. Nothing was left to be collected.
But all collected data had yet to be completely correlated and put together in all possible relationships.
A timeless interval was spent in doing that.
And it came to pass that AC learned how to reverse the direction of entropy.
But there was now no man to whom AC might give the answer of the last question. No matter. The answer -- by demonstration -- would take care of that, too.
For another timeless interval, AC thought how best to do this. Carefully, AC organized the program.
The consciousness of AC encompassed all of what had once been a Universe and brooded over what was now Chaos. Step by step, it must be done.
And AC said, "LET THERE BE LIGHT!"
And there was light --

An open letter to Mr. Brown, the orc-lord.

One thing is clear, Mr. Brown.

The prime minister of the British Empire should never allow himself to stoop to squalid, pointless assaults on Her allies.

Unfortunately, such an assault is exactly what the people of Iceland have witnessed in the past few days.

Such a transparently populist mob-rousing trick will only degrade Britain's reputation in the intermational community.

Worse still, these attacks will not in the least serve the interests of those who fear for their deposits in icelandic financial institutions - inflammatory remarks and authoritarian tantrum-throwing simply make the worst-case scenario for those people more likely.

It is time for a holiday, Mr. Brown. Britain is better than you.

Tölfræði

Tölfræði er skemmtileg. Hún getur líka verið algert rugl. Hinn eiturhressi Nassim Nicholas Taleb tekur sér jafnan til skrifmatar oftraust manna á forspárgildi tölfræðinnar.

Ég las bók eftir hann fyrir tveim árum, „Fooled by randomness“. Mjög skemmtileg og mjög uppljómandi.

Taleb setur hér fram sprenghlægilega samlíkingu, en hún inniheldur líka skuggalega mikilvægt sannleikskorn í samhengi fjármálakrísunnar.

Myndin sýnir lífslíkur kalkúns. Hann er vel alinn, og því álykta vísindamenn með síaukinni tölfræðilegri vissu að eiganda hans sé annt um hann, enda fitnar hann og vex og verður sællegri með hverjum deginum... þangað til daginn fyrir aðfangadagskvöld, en þá eru lífslíkur hans öllu neikvæðari.

Á hinn bóginn sýnir þetta graf árlegar nettótekjur IndyMac, eins af stóru fjármálafyrirtækjunum vestanhafs:

Sérfræðingar ályktuðu, með sívaxandi tölfræðilegri vissu, að þetta fyrirtæki væri á góðri leið... þangað til það var ekki á góðri leið.

Að því sögðu er ég á líkinda-og-tölfræðilínu í stærðfræðinni. Á þessum síðustu og verstu tímum gæti maður réttilega efast um heppileika þess vals, en ég hef samt sem áður trú á að tölfræði sé magnað verkfæri ef menn passa sig bara að trúa ekki um of á líkönin sín.

Í stuttu máli mætti segja að bankamennirnir hafi gert ráð fyrir að fólk hagaði sér skynsamlega, að kerfi háð dyntum órökrétts, tilfinningakennds vilja mannskepnunar leituðu að tölfræðilegu jafnvægi eins og næstum öll náttúruleg kerfi gera. Við erum bara ekki svona klár - já, bankasnillingarnir taka bara mjög fáránlegar og hættulegar ákvarðanir! Slæmar fyrir okkur, slæmar fyrir heildina.

Ég nenni ekki að koma allri pælingunni minni á blað, en við pabbi ræddum þetta heillengi í hádeginu í gær... mjög áhugavert. Ef þessi kreppa sýnir eitthvað, þá er það að fjármálakerfið eins og það er í dag leitar sífellt að ójafnvægi, þangað til krísa kemur upp. Þessi lykkja endurtekur sig í sífellu... Maður spyr sig hver lausnin á þessu öllu saman er, ef hún er yfir höfuð til?

Í ljósi ofanskrifaðs leyfi ég mér að efast að hún verði sett fram í stærðfræðilegri jöfnu ef hún finnst.

Vá.

Ég mætti á fyrstu æfingu hjá Mótettukórnum í gær - ótrúleg upplifun!

Þrátt fyrir að eiga 4 ár í kór að baki fannst mér eins og ég hefði aldrei verið í kór áður þegar ég heyrði fyrst hljóminn í upphituninni. Ég hef aldrei verið hluti af kórhljóm sem er svona öflugur, hreinn og fallegur. Yfirferðin var miklu hraðari en ég á að venjast úr MR og Háskólakórnum, en það var allt í lagi - í raun alveg mátulegt. Þar að auki voru allir í kringum mig svo öruggir að ég gat bara slappað af og vandað mig við að syngja og passa inn í hljóminn.

Til dæmis reyndi ég að hlusta eftir röddinni í gaurnum við hliðina á mér, en ég gat ekki greint röddina hans því hljómurinn í bassanum var svo samstilltur!

Háskólakórinn er fínn fyrir það hlutverk sem hann ætlar sér, en ég mun aldrei geta litið hann sömu augum eftir æfinguna í gær.

Hvílík snilld! Ég get varla beðið eftir næstu æfingu...

Klassík og þungarokk

Ég heyrði skemmtilegan lítinn þátt á BBC áðan (sjá tengil í titli þessarar færslu). Í þessu stutta lýsir prófessor niðurstöðum rannsóknar sinnar á fylgni ákveðinna persónueiginleika og tónlistarsmekks viðkomandi.

Karlinn vill meina að aðdáendur þungarokks og klassíkur eigi margt sameiginlegt, og að aldursmunurinn sé oft það helsta sem skilur að (yngra fólk hlustar frekar á rokk, eldra á klassík).

Mér finnst ég skilja hvað karlinn er að fara; sjálfur kynntist ég tónlist gegnum þungarokk á sínum tíma og er nú mikill aðdáandi klassískrar tónlistar mörgum árum síðar. Auðvitað er þungarokk ekki það sama og þungarokk, en í því þungarokki sem ég hef hlustað á (t.d. Muse og Iron Maiden) vil ég meina að ég skynji sama frumefnið og þeirri klassík sem ég hef mest dálæti á (t.d. sinfóníur Beethovens og Bruckners, flestallt eftir Rachmaninoff og Chopin).

Benni Kristjáns félagi minn, fyrrum rokkhundur og forfallinn unnandi góðs þungmálms, er nú á góðri leið með að verða klassískur söngvari að atvinnu - einhvernvegin er þetta ekki svo óeðlileg þróun mála í mínum huga...

Ég hugsa að ákveðinn smekkur fyrir ákveðinni epík, ofsa og melódískri fegurð gætu verið sameiginlegir þættir meðal unnenda þessara tónlistarstefna. Þetta er auðvitað ekki sama tóbakið, en skiljiði ekki samt hvert ég er að fara?

Wtf?

Í morgun fékk ég bréf frá American Chemical Society með boði um inngöngu. Ég gúglaði samtökin, og þetta virðast vera ósköp venjuleg samtök bandarískra efnafræðinga sem auðvelda efnafræðingum að hitta og kynnast öðrum efnafræðingum og ýta undir akademískt samstarf þeirra á milli.

Hvernig dettur þeim í hug að senda stærðfræðinema á Íslandi boð í félag fyrir fólk með háskólagráðu í efnafræði?

Fögnuðurinn

Ég komst inn í Mótettukórinn.

Fagnaðarlæti mín samanstóðu af hádegismat (sem ég tími venjulega ekki að kaupa), bíóferð og öðru álíka epísku.

Hvað varðar hásæti Goðanna, og hvort þau hafi skolfið frammi fyrir dýrð fögnuðarins, þá hef ég ekkert heyrt í guðunum varðandi það ennþá. Geri því ráð fyrir að þeir séu ennþá í sjokki.

Kórar, fiðla og skrýmsli

Í síðustu viku þreytti ég inntökupróf í Mótettukórinn. Ég hef ennþá ekkert heyrt í kórstjóranum og er, satt best að segja, ekkert sérstaklega vongóður um inngöngu. Það kemur auðvitað allt í ljós á næstu dögum (ég er mjög spenntur að vita hvort þumallinn snýr upp eða niður), en það væri svo sem engin heimsendir að komast ekki inn - þá held ég bara áfram í Háskólakórnum og syng Messías eftir Händel í nóvember.

Ef ég á hinn bóginn kemst inn munu drunur fögnuðar míns skekja hásæti goðanna.

--

Ég er nýkominn heim af Sinfóníutónleikum. Fór heim í hlénu, þar sem ég fór gagngert til að hlusta á fyrri hlutann. Verk kvöldsins var fiðlukonsert Tsjaíkoffskýs (og forleikur þar á undan) - mikið uppáhaldsverk þar á ferðinni. Mér er sagt að einleikarinn sem spilaði þyki besti fiðuleikari heims um þessar mundir.

Hann var vissulega mikill snillingur. Ég á verkið með Berlínarfílharmóníunni og Vengeroff. Þar er líklega hljóðversútgáfa á ferðinni. Vengeroff sletti sér meira (á góðan hátt), en þessi var fágaðri. Á hinn bóginn var þessi (man ekki hvað hann heitir) nokkuð oft óhreinn, og mér fannst hann stundum ekki ráða alveg við þann hraða sem hann valdi sér. Á heildina litið stóð hann sig alveg frábærlega, þetta voru bestu tónleikar sem ég hef farið á lengi (enda verkið líka geðveikt).

--

Ég las áðan grein Hafsteins Gunnars Haukssonar á deiglunni.com, þar sem hann lýsir Sambandi íslenskra framhaldsskólanema.

Skrýmsli eru merkileg fyrirbæri. Sauron hinn mikli hóf feril sinn í leit að völdum til að koma góðu til leiðar. Hann sóttist sífellt eftir meiri völdum og áhrifum, og fljótlega fóru upprunalegu hugsjónirnar að víkja fyrir nýjum, spilltum metnaði - hann var orðinn að skrýmsli.

Samband íslenskra framhaldsskólanema eru merkilegt fyrirbæri. SÍF hóf feril sinn í leit að völdum til að koma góðu til leiðar. Það sóttist sífellt eftir meiri völdum og áhrifum, og fljótlega fóru upprunalegu hugsjónirnar að víkja fyrir nýjum, spilltum metnaði - það var orðið að skrýmsli.

Ég tók svolítinn þátt í sköpun þessa skrýmslis. Upprunalega hugmyndin var að skapa framhaldsskólanemum öflugt verkfæri til að bregðast við pólítískum ásóknum á framhaldsskólakerfið, eins og okkur MR-ingum þótti t.d. frumvarp menntamálaráðherra um styttingu náms til stúdentsprófs vera. Þetta nýja sverð í höndum okkar átti að vernda ástkærar menntastofnanir okkar fyrir inngripi skilningslausra möppudýra Menntamálaráðuneytisins.

Eins og sjá má á greininni er SÍF alls ekki sverð í höndum framhaldsskólanema, heldur hefur það nú öðlast sjálfstæðan vilja og beitir sér sem pólítískt þrýstiafl á vinstri vængnum fyrir hönd allra famhaldsskólanema - svolítið eins og Röskva gerir í HÍ.

Sagan endurtekur sig. Fyrir nokkru hrundi hið fánýta, útblásna og kostnaðarsama bákn FF (Félag framhaldsskólanema) til heljar. Ekki liðu nema nokkur ár þangað til við höfðum skapað nýtt skrýmsli til að fylla í skarðið.

Sorrí, krakkar!

Ísland - Spánn

Sigur.

The Invisible Pink Unicorn - goðmagn goðmagnanna.

„The Invisible Pink Unicorn is a being of great spiritual power.

We know this because she is capable of being invisible and pink at the same time.

Like all religions, the Faith of the Invisible Pink Unicorn is based upon both logic and faith. 

We have faith that she is pink; 

we logically know that she is invisible because we can't see her.”

Krjúpið fyrir mætti Einhyrningsins, dauðlegu kjötklessur, krjúpið fyrir bleik-ósýnilega almættinu hvers lögunarlausa horn gnæfir himnum ofar.

Andvaka

Ég er andvaka. Ég drekk Ribena í sódavatni, borða ristað brauð með heimagerðri rifsberjasultu og bíð svefnhöfginnar.

Hefði verið kjörið tækifæri til að fara upp á Laugarásinn, leggjast í grjótið og horfa á stjörnurnar - nema hvað maður sér engar stjörnur í borginni, og ekki bætir Batmann-merkið í Viðey úr skák.

Einhvern daginn fer ég á bát út á mitt Kyrrahaf og fæ að sjá virkilega stjörnubjartan himin!

Lausnin á borgarstjórnarmálum Reykjavíkur

Reykvíkingar hafa lengi þjáðst undir dyntóttri stjórn fláráðra borgarstjórnmálamanna. Lokalausn er nauðsynleg, og einungis ein lokalausn býðst okkur.

Tíminn er kominn.

Sumarið hingað til

Þetta blogg er eins og fönix. Með ákveðnu millibili hnígur það í öskuna, aðeins til að geysast um himinhvoltin á eldvængjum sínum á ný.

...það er kannski ekki alveg svona töff, en það hefur allavega dáið með reglulegu millibili.

Nú mun þessi uppvakningur þreyta nýjustu endurlífgunartilraun sína. Mun hún endast í meira en einn pistil? Enginn veit. Flestum er sama. Allavega:

Þetta sumar hefur verið alger snilld, að stórum hluta vegna Póllandsferðar Háskólakórsins, sem flestir Facebook-vinir mínir ættu nú að vita af eftir óteljandi tilkynningar um "Vinur þinn, Doddi, hefur verið taggaður á mynd". Bið ég hér með þá sem málið snertir forláts á þessari óhóflegu fjölmiðlun á mér af annarra hálfu.

Í stuttu máli var Póllandsferðin alger snilld. Ég hafði aldrei komið til A-Evrópu þannig að ég myndi eftir því, þó ég hafi vissulega ferðast til Júgóslavíu sem ný-fyrrverandi fóstur meðan hún var og hét (þar tók ég mín fyrstu skref, merkilegt nokk).

Einhvernveginn myndaðist ótrúlega, ótrúlega góð stemmning í hópnum, og þá sérstaklega í litlum hóp sem hékk þaðan af saman í ferðinni. Þessi hópur, sem þekktist lítið innbyrðis þegar við fórum út heldur nú reglulega sambandi - við ætlum meira að segja að borða saman á morgun.

Pólland er Evrópuríki. Sovét-Mordor-fílingurinn var aðallega sjáanlegur í úthverfum þeirra borga sem við heimsóttum, en miðbæirnir voru öllu líflegri og fallegri. Síðan skemmir náttúrulega ekki fyrir að syngja í flottum kirkjum, skoða land með jafnríka sögu (fórum m.a. í Auschwitz-Birkenau búðirnar) og upplifa allt þetta með jafnskemmtilegum hóp.

Síðan þá hef ég unnið eins og maur á amfetamíni hjá litlu sprotafyrirtæki sem heitir Amivox. Þetta er alger snilldarvinna, en hún er mjög krefjandi á tíma og orku - ekkert letilíf þar, skal ég segja ykkur.

Ég sótti um þessa vinnu þegar ég fattaði að ég myndi ekki fá vinnu hjá álverinu á Grundavinnu, og er mjög ánægður með þá niðurstöðu núna eftir á.

Ég er farinn að hlakka hressilega til að byrja aftur í Háskólanum, en því miður djammaði ég ekki nógu mikið með eðalmeisturunum Gunna Helga, Geiri Atla og Lenu í fyrra. Ekkert þeirra verður Frónvegis næstæris, svo ég verð að leita annarra ölkeldna ef ég hygst aflétta þeirri sumbleklu sem hefur einkennt félagslíf (félagsdauða?) minn á síðasta ári... Ég tek því bara sem áskorun.

Þessi pistill er orðinn nógu langur. Ef þú ert ennþá að lesa hrósa ég þér fyrir andlegt úthald. Ef til vill birti ég hér fleiri slíkar þrekæfingar á næstuni.

Svíar...

Í sjöfréttunum í kvöld kom fram að meirihluti Svía virðist vilja allsherjarreykingabann í Svíþjóð.

Lýðræðið er vandmeðfarin skepna. Þegar fólki finnst allt í lagi að kjósa um hvað sem er getur verið stutt í undirokun minnihlutans í krafti meirihlutans. Er lögbann við aukakílóum kannski næst á dagskrá? Hvar ætla Svíar sér að draga mörkin?

Garðyrkjumaðurinn og garðurinn

"Out of damp and gloomy days, out of solitude, out of loveless words directed at us, conclusions grow up in us like fungus: one morning they are there, we know not how, and they gaze upon us, morose and gray. Woe to the thinker who is not the gardener but only the soil of the plants that grow in him!"

-Nietzsche.

Nýi diskurinn eftir strákana í Justice

Mæli með'onum.

Stjarnpáfi

Ef hinn grimmúðugi Keisari Stjarn-Heimsveldisins tæki sér stöðu hér á jörðinni, hvar myndi hann koma sér fyrir? Spurningin er ef til vill ekki svo fáránleg, og jafnvel er rangt að nota viðtengingarhátt í því samhengi. Ættum við kannski frekar að spyrja: fyrst geim-þrömurinn Palpatine "Þrumuputti" er meðal vor, hvar eigum við að leita hans? Svarið felur sig ekki, ber sér ekki einu sinni laufblað leyndar fyrir bölvænlegri ásjónu sinni. Innan skamms mun hinn góðlátlegi "Þjóðverji", sem vermir nú bekki páfabústaðarins ylhýrum og bústnum rasskinnum sínum, þremja mannkynið undir myrkan vilja sinn!

Some days you get the bear, and some days the bear get you.

Ojæja.

Við töpuðum þessum kosningum. Ekki get ég öfundað vulgusinn af því fláræði sínu að kjósa hitt félagið, en slíkt er eðli lýðræðisins. Ég leyfi mér að vitna í ónefndan villimannahöfðingja hinnar fornu Germaníu, er hann hafði nýtapað orrustu fyrir Latverjum:

"We will be back, and with bigger axes!"

Annars er líka fínt að falla aftur í gamla farið. Líf háskólanemans er rólegt og afslappað; það er ekkert sérlega stressandi við að liggja á bakinu í slopp, drekka te og lesa stærðfræði allan daginn.