Pygmalion's Spectacles

G. Weinbaum Stanley

Description

Sci-fi luminary Stanley G. Weinbaum first broke through with the hugely influential story "A Martian Odyssey," one of the first to depict an alien being in a somewhat sympathetic light. Written in 1935, the short tale "Pygmalion's Spectacles" is no less innovative: it centers around the implications of a technology that's surprisingly close to what we now call virtual reality.

Sujets

• Science fiction

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775562986
• Langue: English

Extrait

PYGMALION'S SPECTACLES
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STANLEY G. WEINBAUM
 
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Pygmalion's Spectacles From a 1949 edition ISBN 978-1-77556-298-6 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Pygmalion's Spectacles
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"But what is reality?" asked the gnomelike man. He gestured at the tallbanks of buildings that loomed around Central Park, with their countlesswindows glowing like the cave fires of a city of Cro-Magnon people. "Allis dream, all is illusion; I am your vision as you are mine."
Dan Burke, struggling for clarity of thought through the fumes ofliquor, stared without comprehension at the tiny figure of hiscompanion. He began to regret the impulse that had driven him to leavethe party to seek fresh air in the park, and to fall by chance into thecompany of this diminutive old madman. But he had needed escape; thiswas one party too many, and not even the presence of Claire with hertrim ankles could hold him there. He felt an angry desire to gohome—not to his hotel, but home to Chicago and to the comparative peaceof the Board of Trade. But he was leaving tomorrow anyway.
"You drink," said the elfin, bearded face, "to make real a dream. Is itnot so? Either to dream that what you seek is yours, or else to dreamthat what you hate is conquered. You drink to escape reality, and theirony is that even reality is a dream."
"Cracked!" thought Dan again.
"Or so," concluded the other, "says the philosopher Berkeley."
"Berkeley?" echoed Dan. His head was clearing; memories of a Sophomorecourse in Elementary Philosophy drifted back. "Bishop Berkeley, eh?"
"You know him, then? The philosopher of Idealism—no?—the one whoargues that we do not see, feel, hear, taste the object, but that wehave only the sensation of seeing, feeling, hearing, tasting."
"I—sort of recall it."
"Hah! But sensations are mental phenomena. They exist in our minds.How, then, do we know that the objects themselves do not exist only inour minds?" He waved again at the light-flecked buildings. "You do notsee that wall of masonry; you perceive only a sensation , a feeling ofsight. The rest you interpret."
"You see the same thing," retorted Dan.
"How do you know I do? Even if you knew that what I call red would notbe green could you see through my eyes—even if you knew that, how doyou know that I too am not a dream of yours?"
Dan laughed. "Of course nobody knows anything. You just get whatinformation you can through the windows of your five senses, and thenmake your guesses. When they're wrong, you pay the penalty." His mindwas clear now save for a mild headache. "Listen," he said suddenly. "Youcan argue a reality away to an illusion; that's easy. But if your friendBerkeley is right, why can't you take a dream and make it real? If itworks one way, it must work the other."
The beard waggled; elf-bright eyes glittered queerly at him. "Allartists do that," said the old man softly. Dan felt that something morequivered on the verge of utterance.
"That's an evasion," he grunted. "Anybody can tell the differencebetween a picture and the real thing, or between a movie and life."
"But," whispered the other, "the realer the better, no? And if one couldmake a—a movie— very real indeed, what would you say then?"
"Nobody can, though."
The eyes glittered strangely again. "I can!" he whispered. "I did !"
"Did what?"
"Made real a dream." The voice turned angry. "Fools! I bring it here tosell to Westman, the camera people, and what do they say?