I discovered James Lovelock’s work by accident. Hunting for environmental books one day in a secondhand bookshop, I saw one called Gaia. The blurb on the back was intriguing…
It was some time between the mid 1980s and 1988 when I picked up that book and bought it, little knowing what an impact it would have on me. When in 1988 I wrote the first draft of a novel that eight years later would become my debut Memory Seed, the notion of a self-regulating planet fired my imagination to new heights. I knew little of the controversy created by the Gaia Hypothesis at the time – all I knew was what an amazing idea it was, and how well supported by the evidence James Lovelock presented in his book. To me, Gaia’s existence was self-evidently true.
That was rather a naive view, I think, borne on sheer enthusiasm for the concept. Lovelock sophisticated his ideas throughout his later life, supporting it with better and more expansive evidence, so that many of the scientists who rejected the hypothesis when it was first proposed became convinced of its value. And indeed, Gaia Theory, as it is now, has made several predictions all tested in the real world and shown to be true.
My novel Memory Seed however did take a bit of a liberty with Lovelock’s idea. In 1992, when I wrote the second draft of the novel, all the main elements of the published book were present, including the concept of our planet “fighting back” against a humanity which has harmed it. That concept was meant to have both metaphorical weight and real weight. I regret this a little now, since of all people Lovelock found annoying, hippie types who misinterpreted his theory were the worst. However, I did not myself imagine Gaia to be a conscious entity taking deliberate decisions, my science background making the ideas of positive and negative feedback in self-regulating systems perfectly acceptable – and anyway, I had encountered them in my thinking about consciousness and AI. But I did take the metaphorical side of Gaia Theory a bit far in Memory Seed, allowing literary motives to outweigh scientific. I know it’s only fiction, but I do feel a bit bad about it all now.
In Urbis Morpheos I tried to reset the imbalance by conceiving of a scenario where an apparently active Gaia and an apparently active Agaiah, the former Gaia and the latter a construct of the manufacturing ecosystem, fight for control of planet Earth. I’m not entirely sure I succeeded, but, hey, it was SF set a million years in the future…
But back to James Lovelock. This was a man who had a life of extraordinary achievement. We shall not see his like again. Quite apart from the brilliance of the central idea of Gaia Theory, he also invented the electron capture device which allowed us to realise the danger of the ozone hole years before it otherwise would have become apparent, and invented numerous other amazing devices. He wrote superb, thought-provoking books of truth, of science, of deep knowledge. Perhaps above all he was a truly independent scientist, scorning and spurning the way science is done these days within vast, impersonal corporations in hock to capitalist masters. He had the opportunity to allow his mind to range widely, as almost no scientist these days does. He was one of a kind: a genius, an inspiration. I strongly suspect the main reason he survived to be 103 was that for all his days he had a profound meaning to his life: the advancement of humanity’s ideas about the planet we live on. I think David Attenborough also benefits from this attitude to life. Lovelock never stopped thinking, writing, working. His was a life of deep meaning, of wonder at the incredible planet we live upon. He will be missed, yet he will live on through his legacy; and that legacy, being scientific ideas proven to have universal truth, will be a part of humanity all the way into the far future.
He gave us a gift, wisdom, which is the greatest gift of all.
Before the two century exclusion of foreigners in Japan which ended in the mid-1800s, a remarkable Englishman called William Adams spent many years there on behalf of his countrymen, eventually “going native” and becoming a friend of the de facto ruler of the country. Milton’s book tells the amazing tale of that event, using never before published first hand sources.
In the early 1600s it took around two years to reach Japan, a country hardly known to Europeans, and on the way disease, piracy and lack of a common language were not the only problems. The book tells many stories, not just that of the remarkable Samurai William, presenting the reader with a rich tapestry of tales.
What comes across most is the culture shock between English and Japanese, and the extreme sadism and brutality of the Japanese. Milton uses his first hand sources with enthusiasm, telling a superb tale.
Very enjoyable, impeccably researched and well written, this is a book for lay historians and readers of Elizabethan derring-do. Recommended.
Mythos and Cosmos by John Knight Lundwall
This is one of the best books I’ve read this year, and the best on its subject for a long time. I bought it after searching for something on oral, prehistoric cultures, hoping that it would be insightful. Well, it’s more than just insightful, it’s fascinating and very thought provoking.
The author is an intriguing person, a man of the stars in his native country (where he does star tours and photographs the heavens), as well as an expert on comparative myth. This is his only book, and it reads like a distillation of decades of observation and wisdom.
The book covers several main areas: how we in the literate world greatly misinterpret oral myth-making because of our structural biasses, most of which are due to our use of the written word; how we can reconstruct comparatively little of those oral myths; how life in an oral culture profoundly effects our use of memory; how nature and above all the starry skies act as metaphors, memory aids, calendars and much more; and how specific myths can be shown to cover the same basic themes over and over again as the millennia pass.
The author uses both his knowledge and insight in his endeavour, but is not afraid to speculate where appropriate. There is not much speculation however as the rest of the material is so well sourced and presented, but what is there is pretty convincing, with the author never straying into the horrors of Graham Hancock territory. I especially liked his thoughts on the music of the spheres and the number 50, i.e. 49+1, which crops up everywhere in the ancient world.
The book concludes by offering three examples to bolster the author’s case, namely Gilgamesh, the Labours of Herakles, and parts of the bible’s old testament. Compelling stuff!
For those fascinated by how the natural world affects our collective story telling, especially the star-filled heavens which we see so little of these days, this is an essential read. I recommend it highly.
Following the sad news that Klaus Schulze had died, I decided that, since I hadn’t revisited his music for a few years, it was time to assess the great man’s work – and in chronological order of my CD collection. This numbers getting on for a couple of dozen disks, so I was looking forward to an enjoyable time.
I began with Irrlicht, which I played with some trepidation given that all I could remember of the album was its abstract, “primitive” sound. The first piece still does little for me, and is basically the sound of an inspired, resourceful man experimenting. The second piece however really grabbed me, with its wonderfully eerie atmosphere. Cyborg I still found to be remarkable, especially the rhythmic quality of the synths and the overall atmosphere of cybernetics. However I had forgotten how comparatively poor Picture Music is, with its simplistic, laboured style and poor soloing. Blackdance was better than I remembered, a cleverly composed set with much to recommend it. This album is perhaps the first indication of what Schulze would go on to do.
Timewind is generally thought to be one of his greatest achievements, and it is pretty good, but I suspect a lot of its legend rests upon how well it was received at the time. The sequenced side is okay, the other side pleasant enough, verging on interesting. But it is with Moondawn that Schulze’s works of brilliance begin – a leap from being good to stunning, and groundbreaking with it. Moondawn was the second Schulze LP that I bought as a university student, some time around 1981, and it blew my mind. It still does – an exceptional work.
I’m no great fan of the two Body Love soundtracks, which stand on interesting but well-trodden ground, so after them I played one of his all-time classics, Mirage. This really is a visionary album, its intense musicality matching its originality of concept; another stunner which stands up to its legend, 45 years after being released. Yet the album which followed, “X”, is in my view his masterpiece, an extraordinary melding of synths, orchestra, drumming and percussion, with the lead track still a breathless, head-spinning tour de force.
Dune followed. I can’t listen to the vocal side, but the cello side is really lovely. I used to have the 1980 live album on vinyl, but haven’t got it on CD, yet I remember well the terrific opening track, with its oscillating, fast-paced sequences.
1980 proved for Schulze to be something of a crossing into new territory – digital territory. Dig It was the first Schulze LP I bought, not long after it was released, and it stands up to scrutiny more than ever. The first side especially is another run through amazing sounds and textures, given their futuristic sheen by Schulze’s new digital mode. I still love this album, but I love Trancefer even more – another work of genius, I feel. The beauty of the compositions is matched by the playing and the gorgeous synths, especially the strings. This is in fact the Schulze album I’ve played most often; I never get tired of it. Afterwards, I played his last truly great work, Audentity, which still sounds fantastic; all four wonderful sides of it.
1983 for me began a Schulze decline. Angst is not bad, but replaying it now, it does sound somewhat empty, even for film music. I like Inter*Face a lot however. This is a really good album, with much to enjoy, especially on the first side.
Next up in my collection is En=Trance. I don’t think this has aged well, though the first track is a bit of an earworm, for which respect is due! The rest of it however is forgettable. Miditerranean Pads though is better than I remembered, its sound world uniquely Schulze.
Back in the 1990s I did have other Schulze LPs and CDs, but not any more. Beyond Recall in particular was a message to me that Schulze had gone somewhere I didn’t want to follow. I really disliked that album, which to my ears sounded trite and lazy. Nor did I bother with any of the collaborations, what I heard of them lacking originality and style.
So the next CD in my collection is Moonlake from 2005. This was a superb return to form, which playing for the first time in years I much enjoyed. I think though that Kontinuum is his late period highlight, all three tracks beautifully composed, played and arranged. This is an album I could play a lot, like Trancefer. I have to say though that Shadowlands is very much a work of two halves, the sprawling first track dull and pointless after ten minutes, the latter two tracks, especially the third, beautifully composed.
I have heard excerpts from Deus Arrakis, and they sound pretty good, so I will be buying the album. This trip down Schulze memory lane has really made me think about the great man’s approach to music. I think several factors made him brilliant and unique, the first being that he was a drummer; he once said all electronic musicians should spend some time with drums and percussion. But he undoubtedly had that special, unique quality which often can’t be analysed in the truly great musicians – his style, his ability to blaze trails with the rapidly evolving world of synths, his commitment to progression and exploration. He was a vital part of my youth and my own musical development, and he will be much missed… but what a legacy!
Today I’m talking with author Toby Frost about the themes behind his new novel The Imposters, recently reviewed here…
Toby: We’ve both written about robots and intelligent computers, but I don’t think either of us is solely trying to predict the future of artificial intelligence. Are stories about robots and AI always really about people?
Steve: I think that in the great majority of cases they are about people, for the same reason that stories about aliens are almost always really about people. I only got into writing AI novels because of my background in the field of consciousness and the evolution of the human mind, and because SF has dealt so badly in the past with the subject of AI. I had a particular reason for writing Beautiful Intelligence and No Grave For A Fox, which is that every AI novel and film I’ve ever read or seen assumes the separable existence of “something” inside our brains, which by implication can be subject to all sorts of speculative transformations in fiction. Uploading minds, uploading memories, downloading minds, and so on and so on… Peter Godfrey-Smith’s new book Metazoa has a few paragraphs specifically berating genre authors for their crap AI speculations, something I was so pleased to read I emailed him my congratulations. How do you approach speculation and tales about AIs in your novel? Are you teasing out interesting parts of the human psyche through the use of such concepts?
Toby: I should start by saying that I know absolutely nothing about computers, and less than that about AI. I think instead of looking at how AI would realistically work, I was interested in the way that robots and androids are portrayed in stories, and in trying to do something new with that. Many stories about androids are stories about slavery, and I wanted to talk about what might happen when you’ve accepted that these machines are people and have rights of their own. What happens next? Likewise, female androids often exist to make some kind of satirical point about male sexuality (or for straight-out titillation) but what if you take that element out, and just let them do their own (strange) thing?
I think that once you take out the idea that humans are “special” in some mystical way, more interesting options appear. For one thing, why would any robot want to be human? I can imagine Pinocchio thinking “Hey, I’m made of wood! I’m immortal! Why the heck would I want to be a real boy?” It also makes it harder to indicate a tipping point where the AI becomes “one of us.” William Gibson has some interesting AIs in the Sprawl novels: they can think and even have citizenship, but they’re very alien.
(Just as an aside, I wonder if people in science fiction stories ever read science fiction. They might learn something…)
Steve: I also know nothing about computers, which is why I only use Apple Macs! But seriously… I agree that it is presumed by most, if not all genre authors and film directors that a “human” android is the ultimate end goal. I think this relates a lot to the standard human delusion of becoming a deity by creating a human being. It’s a bog-standard cliché mostly rooted in religious dogma. I wrote my last AI novel The Autist partly in an attempt to portray an AI future in which human-ness was not a goal, or, in one case, even a plausible option. You are so right to ask the question: why would any robot want to be human? A lot of what we are, including mentally, is based in our physical form, and that form does not have to be mimicked by androids. I have to state my different position on the question of human-ness however. I think human beings are special, just not in a mystical way but in a way that is perfectly (and easily) explicable. This in itself however leads to some very interesting paths of genre speculation, which I think authors have hardly touched.
William Gibson, brilliant though he was and is, he got it massively wrong when presenting two AIs becoming “conscious” just because of conjoined computing power. Thinking and having citizenship: yes. Consciousness: no. But, to be fair, portrayal of AI in fiction is not easy. We SF authors have the right to speculate, but in doing so we should in my opinion stay within reason as currently agreed. Anything else counts as fantasy. (I’m aware that this is not a terribly popular view these days, not least because of Clarke’s Third Law.) For me, it is useful and desirable in portraying AI to distinguish between speculation based in current knowledge and that based elsewhere.
I’ve finished reading The Impostors now, and I noted that your take on this is rooted in identity. Would that be a correct reading?
Toby: That’s an interesting idea, that robot SF is anchored to ideas of a deity. Presumably, by that logic, the closer one gets to human, the closer one gets to divine… And of course you’ve got Frankenstein usurping God in creating life. I wonder if, like the whole “female robot as male fantasy” angle, it’s one of those concept that you need to jettison before you can start approaching the idea from a new angle. Helen says at one point that her personality is purely a construct, placed on top of a powerful computer to make it easier for her to fit in with humans. I’m not sure she’s truly conscious – but then, how do you prove it, and does it really matter?
For me, sometimes the SF serves the entertainment – although it’s still got to feel right. Helen, the android in The Imposters, is the way she is partly to provide an amusing and entertaining character, but I think she works within the criteria of the story. I don’t think for a moment that we’d get anything like her in the future.
“Identity” is a wide term, especially now, but I agree with you. Both lead characters don’t quite fit in: Helen is synthetic, and Richard has gaps in his memory. I find something appealing and vaguely eerie about that. They’re both “faking it” in a way. I find it quite hard to sum it all up in a sentence, but it’s about the balance of being yourself and being someone who functions smoothly within society – which feels a bit pretentious given that it’s an action comedy. Do you write to explore an idea, like AI, or is it more a case of coming up with the story and then realising what it’s really about in the editing stage?
Steve: Proving Helen’s status as conscious or otherwise is impossible, but it would be possible to make an educated guess, given knowledge of the circumstances of her creation.
Helen works very well in your story, and actually I think that kind of character in the future is possible. We humans are so easy to confuse and delude, especially when it comes to anthropomorphism, at which we are painfully good. You could read The Imposters on the presumption that Helen is faking human behaviour really well. Alas, I think we will come up with such machines (or programmes) quite soon – deep personality fakes, you could say. It will be exceptionally difficult to interact with such programmes and not fall into the trap of believing they are human. Richard does tell himself a few times what Helen is, but does he really believe his own conclusion? I’m not so sure…
My AI novels always have a strong theme first, then the characters and a few basic ideas arrive, then the story based on those characters. In Beautiful Intelligence & No Grave For A Fox it was about the possibility of AC (Artificial Consciousness), while The Autist takes the opposite view and posits a non-conscious AI dystopia.
Toby: One of the things this conversation keeps reminding me is how difficult it is to work out what an AI would actually want. The film Ex Machina is largely about a robot trying to escape from a room – but it would have to be programmed to want that, or else to have developed the wish to do so, perhaps by extrapolating the existing data. If I remember rightly, Skynet from the Terminator films had decided that it wasn’t safe while humans could shut it down, and the only way to be really sure was to destroy all humans. Drastic, but logical.
I’m glad that Helen works: even a story that’s tongue-in-cheek has to ring true in some way, or to work within its own rules. I think comedy becomes weaker when it misses that. Helen is sincere, but she is also faking being human. Richard definitely does think of Helen as human at points. His feelings towards her are probably rather a mess! I suspect this humanising of AI is the opposite of the uncanny valley principle: if it looks like a person, it surely must be, right? I wonder if that’s linked to the instinct many people have to give others the benefit of the doubt, and to try to explain away what looks like madness or outright villainy. A sort of false optimism.
I think you write in a different way to me. The characters, story and underlying ideas are very intermeshed in my mind. During 2020, I wrote a novel to take my mind off the heatwave, the pandemic and politics. It ended up with a mob trying to storm the planet’s parliament! That seemed like the natural end of the story (and it was) but I’m sure it was a response to the American election, too. I think I probably start with a gut feeling that something would be fun to write about, and it spirals off from there. I do find the creative process both very interesting and hard to explain!
Steve: Yes, I think it’s easy for us humans to forget that in most cases we’re not using reason, let alone logic, at all, though we do convince ourselves that we are being reasonable… We have this sometimes cute, sometimes fatal urge to anthropomorphise everything, and that applies to genre work as much as anything else, usually to the detriment of the novels in question. Of course, the problem with being realistic about AI is the same problem as being realistic about aliens. Where do you draw the line between readable/understandable and accurate/true? An AI could in theory be impossible to understand. The famous question, “What is it like to be a bat?” could be replaced with, “What is it like to be an AI?”
Your novel is absolutely consistent, which is admirable, and works well. The Uncanny Valley is a strange phenomenon, one people are still trying to understand. In a way it is the antidote to anthropomorphism, in that it shows us that when something is on the border between definitely human and definitely not human there is something exceedingly peculiar waiting for us. I recently wrote a novel based on the Uncanny Valley which perhaps illustrates how I approach writing. One thing to take into account is that I almost never read fiction, it’s 99% non-fiction. But I’ve always been like this. Theme first, then people in that theme, then all the rest; and they do intermesh later on in development. I’ve read a lot about the Uncanny Valley and human evolution, so it was a natural theme for me. Only later did the three main characters come along, with their respective viewpoints, flaws and idiosyncrasies. My writing style could be summarised as plotter and pantser, in that my plots are pretty tight right from the beginning, but within that there is room for pantsing – the details. Even my crazy novel Hairy London, which I wrote off the top of my head without self-editing, had a basic theme underlying the surreality.
Have you got anything else coming up in your Helen/Richard milieu?
Toby: I think there’s a line in The Imposters where Helen says that the question she always wonders is “What’s it like to be you?”, which really can’t be answered. But I suppose that’s what fiction tries to do: to see what other people would do. There’s something about the uncanny valley that I find fascinating, which feeds back into that idea of robots as imitation people and the difficulty of passing yourself off as normal.
I read quite a lot of non-fiction, too. Part of it is time and lifestyle: I used to read a lot on the train to work, but I don’t use the train half as much now. I agree that I’ve never quite figured out that whole plotter/pantser thing: it’s never felt very relevant to how I write. I turn ideas over in my mind in quite a lot of detail, but I often don’t know exactly how they’re going to fit together until I start writing.
I would love to write more about Richard and Helen. I think a second book would be less about being a robot and more about different aspects of their setting: I’d quite like to write a story about how you end a war and start a peace, for instance. I think a war story can be quite clean-cut, with clear heroes and villains, but a spy story is often more nuanced and “grey”. But I’ve got a lot of other things going on right now, not least the third book of my Renaissance fantasy trilogy, which I’m hoping to release later this year. Lots to do! What have you got planned next?
Steve: At the moment, very little. I planned to have a lengthy writing break in 2020, but then Covid struck… Last year was a bit of a nightmare for me, and this year is about personal consolidation. In all honesty I’m not sure what comes next. Thanks ever so much for this conversation, it’s been really interesting. I especially like your line about humans presuming that an AI would want to be like them. An excellent point!
Touted as the best-written journey back into the evolutionary past of life for some time, this is indeed a superbly evocative trip into the mists of time. It’s the debut book of a new author, the young biologist Thomas Halliday: the start of a promising career, hopefully.
The book is split into sixteen sections, each of them a vivid description of a particular environment at a particular time, beginning with the Pleistocene a mere 20,000 years ago and concluding with the Ediacaran, 555 million years ago. Halliday focuses on the animals and plants of the time, but includes much by way of geology and environment too, each section with a theme. This structure makes for a fascinating read.
The writing is deliberately poetic, and in the main it works, with very few slip-ups owing to excess purple. This dedication to lyrical prose isn’t forced however, and overall the tone is superb.
I particularly liked the Eocene, Chixulub and end-Permian sections, also the last three or four, where all the action turns to the seas and life becomes increasingly strange. The last section in particular evokes a seascape part way between animal life and other almost-animal lifeforms very well.
Overall, a very good book indeed, deserving of the praise placed upon it. Great cover too!
Well known for his Space Captain Smith novels, in this engaging and very readable caper (using that word in a positive sense) our very own Toby Frost presents a different, more refined genre comedy, which has plenty of laughs but even more by way of wit.
Helen Frampton is a former childcare android souped up into a government owned agent with more skills than a Swiss Army knife. Richard Cleaver is… well, let’s not go there just yet.
This is indeed a refined and witty caper, a tale of two mismatched characters getting to know one another as they try to find out the location of a vault of treasure. On their tails are the scary Sally Anne and her posse of not quite so scary accomplices. The action is swift where it needs to be and slower where it can be. Pacing is excellent in this book.
As the climax approaches we’re presented with a plot twist and then a massive battle. I won’t spoil the ending except to say I absolutely did not see it coming!
There’s a little bit of philosophy here also to underpin the tale, mostly on the relationship between individuals, memory and identity. Overall the novel has a bit of a pulp feel to it, again, using that term in a positive, knowing kind of way. All in all, an enjoyable read by an author well along the road of comic writing. Definitely recommended.
Yesterday’s news of the death of Klaus Schulze has made me think on why he was so different to his peers. Really, only Edgar Froese equalled him for trailblazing imagination. That series of albums from 1976 to 1982 is matched only by the equivalent series by Tangerine Dream.
I think the reason those two stand out and have remained beloved and inspirational is their ability to explore. Both were lucky: in the right place at the right time. But luck isn’t everything; you have to have protean talent also. Yet there is a third ingredient necessary to understand the importance of Schulze to the world of music. He was exploring music through the ’70s and early ’80s, delighting in it, fearless and fascinated, and as a consequence creating an extraordinary catalogue of recordings. When listening to Moondawn, Mirage, “X,” Dune, Dig It, Trancefer and Audentity we are hearing a man forging a path through unknown territory, delighting in his own creativity and delighting us too.
Part of the reason those albums are so remarkable is that they weren’t easy to make. Froese and Schulze had to struggle to do what they did. They fought their way through that unknown territory, they demanded the energy and vision of themselves, and as a consequence they created music which still resonates today, fifty years later.
I recognise true artists by this ability to explore and progress. You see it in Schulze and Froese, but also in Kate Bush, David Bowie and Bjork. These are creative people who cannot sit on their laurels, who have to be progressing into new territory. It is a mark of greatness. In literature, I see it in Gene Wolfe and Kim Stanley Robinson, both of whom cut a broad swathe through the norms of their time. In art, I see it in Ernst, Picasso and Turner.
True artists don’t need a pre-existing path; they make their own. They are artistic explorers, pioneers, blazing trails and breaking new ground. Schulze was the perfect example of this: compelled to explore, always wanting to move on, taking his fans with him. It did not last forever, of course, for by the mid-1980s he had lost a lot of his strength and nerve. I think the advent of digital synthesisers made everything a bit too easy; certainly that was true for Tangerine Dream. But a work of musical brilliance like “X” remains brilliant for all time. Once set, it endures, because it says something of universal relevance and importance.
Never stand still. Always seek new ground. Make music for your listeners, not for your fans. Write novels for your readers, not for your fans. True artists only move forwards. A true artist leads.