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God's
Debris: A Thought Experiment, by Scott
Adams (Digital Owl, 99 e-pp., $4.95)
 f
you're a literary critic, keep in mind that I hate you too and I
said it first."
Not exactly
the best way to go fishing for free publicity, but there it is,
right smack dab in the introduction to Scott Adams's first non-Dilbert
book, God's
Debris. The intro functions almost as a warning label: The
ideas expressed herein are "inappropriate for young minds";
Old people should likewise bow out; Those likely to be offended
are invited to take a pass.
All this plus
the restrictive e-book format whose printing function was enabled
only after massive reader protest and the e-book-only release
would lead most reasonable people to conclude that Scott Adams does
not want you to read this book.
But why? What's
the point in writing a book and then making people navigate a minefield
in order to be able to read it?
Close readers
of Adams's Dilbert prose books could sense something like this coming.
After a manuscript chock full of gags to satisfy the "induhviduals"
who might be reading, we came to anticipate the last section where
he put away the exploding bananas and office humor and let us know
what was on his mind. In The
Dilbert Principle, he told us of his ideas to really make
business work better. The
Dilbert Future put the question of whether what is explained
by gravity couldn't be better understood in terms of a universe
that is expanding at a much more rapid clip than previously thought.
And now, in
God's Debris, Adams animates the well-worn genre of the Socratic
dialogue with his musings on weighty issues: God, religion, community,
free will, morality, the mind. The upshot is, among other things,
a modern Gnostic fantasy and a skeptical argument for belief. The
two players are an anonymous UPS driver stand-in for Adams and a
mysterious ancient "man" named Avatar who "knows
literally everything" and who, by explanation, upends most
of the deliveryman's assumptions.
Though Avatar
occasionally mouths vapid vaguely Eastern-sounding sayings ("the
answer is that the question has no why"), for the most part,
he succeeds in accomplishing what Adams intended: spinning the readers'
brains around in our skulls. In so doing, he constructs a theology
that is simultaneously so foreign and so familiar to the Western
mind that readers will be just as likely as the UPS driver to be
shocked by the ideas espoused.
Congruent with
monotheism, Avater's "God" is infinite. But, unlike the
major Western streams of thought, he senses a conflict between an
infinite God and a creator God. "Humans are driven by all of
our animal passions plus loftier-sounding things like self actualization
and freedom and love," Avatar explains. "But God would
care nothing for those things, or if he cared he would already have
them in unlimited quantities. None of them would be motivating."
None would lead to Genesis. But what, he poses, if God was all knowing
with only one exception: He didn't know what would happen if he
blew himself up.
According to
this theory, we are God's debris; the bits attempting to come back
together. The emergence of life and its increasing complexity that
ultimately led to man, he correctly notes, scaled walls that would
normally be insurmountable without an organizing principle. The
human mania for connectivity he uses this to describe the recent
unbridled enthusiasm for all things Internet and the stubborn religious
impulse are both driven by this attraction. They reflect a complex
underlying truth of which skeptics are willfully
unaware.
What an odd
idea. It reminds of the popular moniker that some theologians used
to refer to God a century ago: "the universal mind." It
also bears more than a little resemblance to the Gnostic idea of
a fragmented God waiting to be reassembled through knowledge ("gnosis").
Though a brief review can't begin to do this strange book justice,
Adams's own denouement seems to explain it: "The description
of reality in God's
Debris isn't true, as far as I know, but it's oddly compelling."
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