Although science has improved to such an extent that life could be simplified into such a ratio, it is somewhat of a shame to see life's trials and tribulations in a mathematical way. Doesn't it seem a little too linear and two-dimensional? Maybe it isn't at all like that, but the philosophy of science is indeed evolving at an impressive rate.
Bio-technology is also stretching the boundaries to such an extent, that DNA/genome sequencing is fast becoming not only scientifically possible, but commercially viable. The perception 'to be' will inevitably change; perhaps philosophy based on the 'individual' will move on in Western intellectual thought to recognize this new frontier of identity. While it is drummed into our heads that choices, convictions and beliefs make up what one is, the cold logic of science threatens our happy irrationality which we are so comfortable with in postmodern times.
In literature, we see many examples of writers trying to grapple with the most sensitive issues of identity and purpose in different ways. Here are just two examples:
Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go - when a whole life is compressed into 30 years, strange things can happen as the characters experience the various stages of life in double-quick time. While simultaneously they remain young. The reflection back to their idyllic school days haunts them as memory, naivety, and denial, distort their perceptions of how their lives have unfolded since then. But ultimately, this story is about the fragility of life, a recognition of the precarious nature of being and the beautiful vulnerability of the world in which we occupy. The writer evokes a poignant sense of a past life; where fond recollections of idiosyncrasies intertwine with doubts and apprehension. Conviction in this book is noticeable by its absence.
Orhan Pamuk's The New Life - "I read a book and it changed my life" goes the opening line. We never find out what the said book is but we are reminded time and time again about its power and pervasiveness. Light pours out of the book, seemingly from within. This leads to the main character going on a journey through rocky mountain terrains in the backwaters of Turkey, arriving at one bus station but only to leave on another bus a few hours later. A journey without a planned destination. The process of riding endless bus journeys, drinking cold teas in dilapidated bus shelters, scrutinizing the snoring man curled up in the seat in front of you with his hair falling roughly on the curtain by the window. The journey is important but he is looking for something to remind himself to cultivate a new life. He visits scenes of traffic accidents, wondering among the debris of the dead. He looks into their eyes, and it gives him a push into that new life. All from a book and a conviction that being so physically close to death will jolt you into living. It is not the poetry or peace of death which is so appealing, but the anonymous, random nature of death in this book which often comes too early and in a form that is not so easy to understand. Not everyone is bequeathed an obituary; death for many is merely being anonymous amongst a statistic.
Two books, two different readings about the fragility and resilience of life. It would be a little too Chekhovian to discuss the relative merits of the arts and sciences, but in their own ways, it does remind oneself to be happy 75% of the time and sad for 25% of it.
See relevant links:
Dr. Happy at Fora.TV
Guardian Review of Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go
Pamuk's The New Life at goodreads.com
Chekhov's Ward No. 6 - A Short Story
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