The Grand Design

I was in the Bullseye book exchange, a poorly lighted, largish alcove across from the café proper, crouching over and sorting through a stack of newly arrived paperbacks. I had just come across an ancient copy of I, the Jury and was trying to decide if I had already read the novel when I became aware of someone just behind me.

Before I could turn, warm, slim hands encircled my head and covered my eyes.

“Hello, Meg.” I struggled to rise. Having my eyes covered somehow threw off my balance, but her hands fell away as I managed to stand upright and turn to face her. “How are you today?”

“Terrible. Depressed. In crisis.” She gave me a frown that would have melted most men’s hearts and sent them off to slay dragons for her. “I’ve lost my faith.”

“I thought you were an atheist.”

“I was. I’ve lost my faith in atheism.”

“It’s probably only a stage you’re going through. Maybe you’re only a ‘lapsed atheist,’ to use C. S. Lewis’s phrase.”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. I’m afraid I’ve found the truth, and I don’t like it. It frightens and depresses me.”

“The truth about what?”

“About everything. You know, ‘life, the universe, and everything.’”

“Forty-two?”

“No. Unfortunately my answer to the ultimate question makes all too much sense . . . explains too much . . . more than I really wanted to know. What do you think the answer is?”

“Well, when I was in college I had a flippant reply to metaphysical questions. It boiled everything—the meaning and purpose of life—down to a single two-syllable vulgarity, apt for a man at that stage in his life, but not suitable for the ears of a young lady.”

“Tell me!” she demanded, throwing back her shoulders and squaring them. It’s amazing to see how imposing a five-foot-three, hundred-ten-pound blonde knockout can look.

I told her.

Red Meg’s expression might have reflected mock offense, but she recoiled slightly from me. Then her thin hand flashed out to slap my face. But it stopped just short of contact, the swift motion suddenly transformed into a tender caress as her fingers ran slowly over my cheek.

“You need a shave, Books,” she observed.

“Are you flirting with me?” I asked. It wasn’t as clever a comeback as you might think; I’ve used it on a number of occasions, usually on women who have been ignoring me. It gets their attention.

“Probably. You know, I don’t think I know anyone else who has ever applied that particular juvenile slang for an area of the female anatomy in just that way. It displays the typical wrong headedness of your gender . . . you know, men so often think with their wrong head.” Her smile teased, but didn’t acknowledge the double entendre.

“Okay, so what’s your ultimate truth?”

“If there is any obvious purpose to the universe,” she said slowly, “it’s to explore the possibilities. If anything can happen, it will happen eventually, because the universe is so big and there is so much time involved. Billions upon billions of stars and planets form, crash into each other, die, and are reborn from the rubble, all over billions of years. It’s like evolution on a cosmic scale. Evolution isn’t simply survival of the fittest. At its heart it’s trial and error—seeing what works, then building on that. It’s the process of elimination through trial and error. What works, prospers; what doesn’t work, dwindles. That’s the logic of the universe. Just as evolution works in biology, giving us antibiotic-resistant germs and poison frogs, evolution works on the cosmic scale, giving us atoms and black holes and neutron stars—and life.”

I was nodding my tentative understanding.

“Don’t you see?” she went on. “It’s a grand experiment. Someone—something! —has set up this experiment to see what is inherent in the system—what can happen. The universe is like a gigantic Petri dish. I don’t mean to imply that life is the goal. It may just be an offshoot of the process. The goal is to learn everything that is possible.”

“And like a good scientist, this Something doesn’t interfere with his experiment once it’s begun. Sounds a lot like Deism to me.”

“Yes, but there’s more. There are things in quantum physics that hint at the true scale of the experiment. You’re familiar with the Uncertainty Principle—Schrödinger's Cat—that at the quantum level things are neither one way nor the other until they’re observed? And the Many Worlds Theory? That every decision splits the universe into two, one where x happened and another where it didn’t. If that’s true, then every time a quark changes its spin—I’m just using that as an example; I don’t understand quarks—another universe is created.”

“You’re starting to make my head spin, Meg, but I’m still with you—just barely. Go on.”

“Well, you see where I’m going with this. Panpeiron, the Great Empiricist behind all this, has set up a system where everything that can possibly happen will happen, or has happened—when we figure out time, we’ll really start to understand the universe. Do you see how troubling this is? We’re going about our daily lives worrying about our little problems—will I get that job, will I be late for work, does my boyfriend still care about me. None of it really matters, because whatever we do or decide, there is another universe where we do or make the opposite choice. Every single possible permutation will be acted out. All our struggles are just vain attempts to prevent what will happen anyway, somewhere. We’re just one of a virtually infinite number of virtually identical clones. And more than that, it means that we are not unique in any meaningful way. I think that’s what really troubles me.”

“Where did you come up with the name Pan-whatever?”

“Panpeiron. I made it up. It helps me crystallize my thoughts to have names for concepts. It’s from the Greek, pan for ‘all’ and peiran for ‘try,’ ‘attempt,’ or ‘test.’ It’s the same root as empirical.”

“So why has Pan-whoever done all of this—all these inter-linked universes, differing from each other by the tiniest detail?”

“To know everything that is possible, everything that can possibly happen,” Meg said with a sigh. “But if you mean why does he want to know everything, I can’t answer that. He—or more properly It—isn’t human and certainly doesn’t think at all the way we do. For all we know he may be searching for the perfect slime smear left behind by a slug, or perhaps he’s the greatest Elvis fan of all.”

“At least that would mean that Elvis really is still alive, in some of those other universes.”

“Singing his heart out.” Her smile was bittersweet, then flashed into a lopsided grin in imitation of the King. “Thanks for listening to me, Books. ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’”

“A scientific experiment must be closely observed,” I said. “Do you think Pan-whoever is watching us?”

“A creature capable of creating such a multitude of universes would not be satisfied with casual observation. Panpeiron would want to know everything about everything, down to our most fleeting thought or emotion. He would know more about us than we can ever know about ourselves—know us inside and out, perhaps even experiencing everything with us—but as an outsider witnessing and recording our lives, not really as part of us—because when we die, he continues. Our memories would live on in him while we are snuffed out.”

“There’s a long religious tradition holding that we are all part of God. Why couldn’t we each be part of your Panpeiron?”

“That’s the comforting interpretation, but less likely, I think. When we watch a movie, we and the movie aren’t one. The movie ends and we go on. When we end, Panpeiron will go on. Frankly, the idea gives me the creeps. It’s like a consciousness parasite. It reminds me of H.G. Wells’ description of the Martian invaders: ‘intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic’ that scrutinize and study us the way we study bacteria in a drop of water—but from the inside!”

“But you aren’t really worried about this, are you?” I asked. “It’s an interesting idea, but even if you’re right, nothing in your daily life changes. And personally I’d be reassured to know that my thoughts and memories won’t die with me.”

She paused to contemplate her answer. “It does trouble me, Books. I’d rather feel like an accident of mindless nature than a lab rat. At least as an accident, my uniqueness would have some meaning. As to the survival of our memories, I don’t know.”

I put an arm around her shoulder and led her toward the restaurant area.

“You know, Meg, if I had to choose between your meaning of life and the one I arrived at in college, I think I like mine better—and its name is easier to pronounce. It gives understandable purpose to a man’s life. And you might say that it, too, is about exploring the possibilities.”

Meg managed to grimace and smile at the same time. Then her mood seemed to change on a dime. “So what cute name shall we give the female meaning of life?” she asked.

Then she did something provocative with her eyebrows, making me wonder what she and I were up to in some of those other universes.

_________________________

Wikipedia Links of Possible Interest:

I the Jury by Mickey Spillane: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_the_jury

Forty-Two: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Answer_to_Life,_the_Universe,_and_Everything#Answer_to_Life.2C_the_Universe.2C_and_Everything_.2842.29

Uncertainty Principle: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uncertainty_Principle

Schrödinger's Cat: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schr%C3%B6dinger%27s_Cat

Many World theory: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Many_worlds_theory

War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells: http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?fk_files=98461

The Literature of Delight

“Ahoy, ya swabs—ya gots some horshpitaliky for an ol’ sea dog likes me?” Van asked as he joined us. He was carrying a large bag under one arm.

“Is it Talk Like a Pirate Day?” I asked.

“Naw, Ah gots ya thar—it’s Talk Like Popeye Day. Arf! Arf!” With a flourish he pulled a huge volume from the bag and displayed it to me.

“Great! Volume Three. Have you read it yet?”

Fantagraphics Books has been issuing the complete Popeye comic strip as drawn by Popeye’s creator, E.C. Segar. The books, six volumes in all when complete, are oversized, about 150 pages each, and contain a complete reprinting of both the black-and-white daily strips and the color Sundays. Van had loaned me the first two volumes, and I’d been looking forward to the third for a year or more.

“Ah yam done, and it’s yers to enjoys.”

“How is it?”

“Just like the first two—wonderful.” He dropped the painful dialect, or whatever it is that Popeye speaks. “Except for the pretentious introduction, which I skipped.”

“Anything noteworthy?”

“Well, probably the most memorable thing is Olive Oyl doing a fan dance at the World’s Fair. Bluto shows up for the first and only time in the Segar strip, Swee’pea is introduced, and Popeye gets his own country, Popilania. Not a bad cargo for one volume.”

Red Meg was watching us with unconcealed amazement and perhaps a bit of slightly concealed scorn. Finally she said, “And here I thought you were both grown ups, even Van. Why on earth would you care about an extended commercial for spinach?”

Van and I exchanged glances, then grins, and finally turned simultaneously to stare her down.

“Meg,” Van proclaimed gravely, “you are talking about one of the great literary characters of the 20th Century. Don’t confuse the real Popeye with the cartoons you may have seen on television. Segar’s Popeye inspired those cartoons, but it’s a completely different ‘aminal.’ You have to read a fair amount of it to really appreciate it, but it’s a dark, gritty, Depression-era comic masterpiece.”

Meg looked at me. “Do you agree with that appraisal?” she asked. “Are you crazy too?”

“Pretty much.”

I passed the book to her and she started flipping through the pages.

“To understand the appeal of Popeye,” Van said “and why the character is still universally recognizable eighty years later, you have to read the original comic strip. As cartoonists go, Segar wasn’t much of an artist, but the raw quality of his drawings actually adds to the appeal in a strange sort of way. As a storyteller and humorist, though, he was inspired. Imagine the great new popular hero who took the early 1930s by storm—a crude, rowdy, virtually illiterate, physically deformed, one-eyed ne’er-do-well who cusses up a storm and gets in fights at the drop of a hat, but has a heart of gold and a curious philosophical streak. Combine this character with long, complicated, imaginative adventure stories that take Popeye and his friends on trips around the world, add a sprinkling of fantasy like the Sea Hag or the Whiffle Hen, a pinch of political or social satire, and a large serving of hilarious characterizations like J. Wellington Wimpy and Olive, and you start to have some idea of the power of the original Popeye.”

“It’s historically important, too,” I said. “As far as I know, Popeye was the first widely successful humorous adventure strip. That would make it the forerunner of Floyd Gottfredson’s Mickey Mouse strip, and through Gottfredson of Carl Bark’s Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge comic books.”

Meg was rolling her eyes in earnest now. “Donald Duck! Uncle Scrooge! I suppose you’re going to tell me those are great literature too.”

“I haven’t read much of Gottredson’s work,” I said, “though the little I have read makes me want to read more. But Carl Barks’ work is brilliant, both as art and as storytelling. Wonderfully clever, with great insight into human nature. But above all else, his stories are great fun.”

Meg let out a sigh of exasperation. “Next you’ll be telling me that the Three Stooges should have won Pulitzers. On second thought, maybe they should have—for their deep insight into the male psyche!”

Van and I looked dubiously at each other, tilted our heads as if considering that possibility, then shook our heads simultaneously, dismissing the idea.

“Meg,” Van said, reaching out and patting her hand. “You have to toss off your literary snobbery. There are brilliant works of commercial art and literature waiting to be discovered. I know that funny talking animals seem innately childish, but don’t be fooled by that. Truly great art can be created for both children and adults. In the case of Segar and Barks, it was. There are things in both that will escape most children and some adults.”

“Okay, I’ll accept that in principle,” she said, tossing her head so that her blonde hair swirled around her head enticingly. The girl flirts without trying. “I’ll even take your word that Popeye is more than the silly cartoons. But Donald Duck?”

“Yes, Donald Duck. And Uncle Scrooge,” Van insisted. “Segar’s Popeye and Barks’ Donald Duck comics are examples of the best in popular culture. Both bear sure marks of genius. Carl Barks basically created all the comic book versions of the Disney duck characters, and they’re very different from the animated versions. The animated Donald is very one dimensional—irascible with a speech impediment. Barks’ character is much more complex, with a full range of emotions. Barks didn’t scrimp on or dumb down his work for children, either. He was wonderfully inventive and clever. You can’t be a fully cultured person if you don’t know how Uncle Scrooge and Flintheart Glomgold settled their bet on who was the richest duck in the world.”

She stared at him through disbelieving eyes.

“String. It all came down to who had the largest ball of string.”

Slowly her disbelief faded to amazement as a big smile spread across her face. “I remember that story! A friend made me read it when I was a little girl!”

“No one ever forgets it. Barks was a highly talented artist and a great writer of comic book stories. He was capable of being very subtle, too. There’s one Donald Duck story—I don’t remember the title” (it was “Luck of the North”) “where Donald gets so fed up with Gladstone Gander, his insufferably lucky cousin, that he tricks him into going on a wild goose chase to the Arctic. Then Barks devotes two or three pages to the gradual evolution of Donald’s thoughts and emotions, from riotous delight to pleased self-satisfaction, to the realization of the deadly predicament he’s put Gladstone in, to concern, to guilt. Just brilliant, and this in a ‘children’s comic book.’ You really have to read this stuff. If you like, I’ll loan some to you. I have a couple of thick collections that would make a good place to start.”

“There’s something else that the Barks comics offer that I’ve found in very few traditional works of literature, if any,” I said. “It’s hard to exactly explain, but what comes closest is a sense of—delight. I find that I take delight in Popeye and Carl Barks. They somehow allow me to recapture the untroubled joy of childhood for a little while, without insulting my adult mind.”

That brought the conversation to a temporary halt. Finally I said, “You might as well tell her about Barks’ successor.”

“Barks was so good that he has inspired generations of fans who collect his stories and argue over details in them. Don Rosa is Barks’ great disciple, a sort of nerdy fan turned commercial Disney artist. He knows the Barks Duck Universe inside out and has been writing new stories that knit together different aspects of it. He did a sort of biography of Scrooge McDuck as separate stories set in different crucial periods of Scrooge’s life. He’s an excellent artist and good writer, though perhaps a little too detail obsessed. Worth reading, but only after reading Barks.”

Van moved his arm in such a way that it nudged the bag he had put on a corner of the table near him. It reminded him of something.

“And I just got this,” he said, reaching into the bag and removing a book from it, which he displayed with a flourish. “Volume One of the complete Prince Valiant.”

He passed it to me. Another oversized volume from Fantagraphics, with sumptuous color, it contains the first two years of Hal Foster’s adventure masterpiece and is the first volume of a planned series reprinting the complete Foster run.

“Foster was the greatest artist ever to grace the newspaper comics,” Van said, “and possibly the greatest storyteller, too.” He took the volume from me, turned it toward Meg, and flipped slowly through the pages so that she could view the gorgeous artwork and breathtaking layouts. “Now what do you say to that?” he demanded.

I could see by her expression that she was impressed. She pursed her lips, exhaled audibly, then grinned and said, “Well blow me down! Toot—toot!”
__________________

Links of possible interest:

Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19):
http://www.talklikeapirate.com/piratehome.html

Wikipedia entries for—
E.C. Segar: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E.C._Segar
Carl Barks: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Barks
Don Rosa: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Rosa
Harold Foster: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hal_Foster

Prince Valiant — An American Epic: “The biggest, most beautiful, most expensive comic book of all time.” For serious collectors, full color, full newspaper page size reproductions of the first three years: http://www.io.com/~norwoodr/order.html.