Rhinocrisy

Lately I’ve been playing a lot of video games. Actually, I’ve been playing a lot of video game: Halo 2, the $600 million-selling sequel to Halo: Combat Evolved. Halo is a sprawling space epic (or at least it tries to be - the format of first-person shooter is obviously somewhat restrictive). This is my first encounter with Bungie Software, which it seems has a long history of intricate games with detailed backstories and overstuffed plots. I can’t say it’s particularly inventive, since Halo is an agglomeration of hundreds of ideas pilfered from some of science fiction’s best writers.^* But there’s neat work in that assemblage itself, which I think earns it a place in the annals of worthy science fiction.

This leads me to ruminate on the central appeal of all good (non-dystopian) science fiction, which I think boils down to “narrative”. Not the internal narrative of, e.g., the Halo trilogy, which is compelling in its own right, but the implied, grand narrative for human history. The idea that we have some kind of future at all that doesn’t suck. Or rather, that’s still tense and full of conflict and purpose, that offers new vistas and directions.

Hungering for this sort of narrative is arguably a pretty juvenile impulse, one which might prompt more sober individuals to tell you to “grow up”, and possibly to “get a job”. But I’ve never been afraid of juvenile impulses; I’m probably dangerously attracted to them.^† In this instance, I think the impulse has extraordinary merit.

True, we’re hardly in a position to be thinking about such things. It’s absurd to even conceive of historical trajectories for humanity when we’re parching the ground beneath our feet, and the majority of humanity refuses to acknowledge the humanity of the rest of humanity. But you’re never going to cure myopia by staring at the end of your nose. Grand ideas are what’s needed, to draw the gazes of us ants away from the dirt and towards the sky. Where, after all, we want to end up, right? We don’t want to stay in the dirt.

The grander, the better; preferably, they should be so massive they have their own gravity. So that, even while we’re distracted by the idiocy of our lives - our nationalities, our property, our families, our jobs - the individual vectors of our trajectories will tend towards a single direction, and, eventually, hopefully, form a tide.

I realize this is somewhat of a discredited notion, and we’re supposed to be living in the end of history where nothing at all happens except possibly the purchase of a new pair of Manolo Blahniks, but I’m tired of postmodernism shitting on the mere idea of imagination. We NEED to imagine something, even if it’s false, unattainable, or hopelessly stupid. If we don’t imagine something, we’re listless and boring. (You may have observed this in your own life. When you cannot imagine your own future, you become unspeakably dull.)

All of which is to bring me around to my fucking point, which is: where do you think we’re going? Where do you want us to end up?

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^* It piqued my interest at first because it’s set on a ringworld (the eponymous “Halo”), first conceived by Larry Niven in the book of the same name.

^† As Lao Tse said, “I don’t grow up, I throw up. And when I look at you, I shut up.” Insofar as “growing up” means calcification and death, it should be avoided.