Sophie's World_ A Novel About The History Of Philosophy Part 53

"Charlatan!" exclaimed Alberto.

"Was that the major?"

"I'm not even going to answer that."

They walked across the park in front of the church and came out onto another main street. Alberto seemed slightly irritable. They stopped in front of LIBRIS, the biggest bookstore in town.

"Let's go in," said Alberto.

Inside the -store he pointed to the longest wall. It had three sections: NEW AGE, ALTERNATIVE LIFESTYLES, and MYSTICISM.

The books had intriguing t.i.tles such as Life after Death?, The Secrets of Spiritism, Tarot, The UFO Phenomenon, Healing, The Return of the G.o.ds, You Have Been Here Before, and What Is Astrology? There were hundreds of books. Under the shelves even more books were stacked up.

"This is also the twentieth century, Sophie. This is the temple of our age."

"You don't believe in any of this stuff?"

"Much of it is humbug. But it sells as well as p.o.r.nography. A lot of it is a kind of p.o.r.nography. Young people can come here and purchase the ideas that fascinate them most. But the difference between real philosophy and these books is more or less the same as the difference between real love and p.o.r.nography."

"Aren't you being rather cra.s.s?"

"Let's go and sit in the park."

They marched out of the store and found a vacant bench in front of the church. Pigeons were strutting around under the trees, the odd overeager sparrow hopping about amongst them.

"It's called ESP or parapsychology," said Alberto. "Or it's called telepathy, clairvoyance, and psychokinetics. It's called spiritism, astrology, and urology."

"But quite honestly, do you really think it's all hum-bug?"

"Obviously it would not be very appropriate for a real philosopher to say they are all equally bad. But I don't mind saying that all these subjects together possibly chart a fairly detailed map of a landscape that does not exist. And there are many 'figments of the imagination' here that Hume would have committed to the flames. Many of those books do not contain so much as one iota of genuine experience."

"Why are there such incredible numbers of books on such subjects?"

"Publishing such books is a big commercial enterprise. It's what most people want."

"Why, do you think?"

"They obviously desire something mystical, something different to break the dreary monotony of everyday life. But it is like carrying coals to Newcastle."

"How do you mean?"

"Here we are, wandering around in a wonderful adventure. A work of creation is emerging in front of our very eyes. In broad daylight, Sophie! Isn't it marvelous!"

"I guess so."

"Why should we enter the fortune-teller's tent or the backyards of academe in search of something exciting or transcendental?"

"Are you saying that the people who write these books are just phonies and liars?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. But here, too, we are talking about a Darwinian system."

"You'll have to explain that."

"Think of all the different things that can happen in a single day. You can even take a day in your own life. Think of all the things you see and experience."

"Yes?"

"Now and then you experience a strange coincidence. You might go into a store and buy something for 28 crowns. Later on that day Joanna comes along and gives you the 28 crowns she owes you. You both decide to go to the movies-and you get seat number 28."

"Yes, that would be a mysterious coincidence."

"It would be a coincidence, anyway. The point is, people collect coincidences like these. They collect strange- or inexplicable-experiences When such experiences- taken from the lives of billions of people-are a.s.sembled into books, it begins to look like genuine data. And the amount of it increases all the time. But once again we are looking at a lottery in which only the winning numbers are visible."

"But there are clairvoyants and mediums, aren't there, who are constantly experiencing things like that?"

"Indeed there are, and if we exclude the phonies, we find another explanation for these so-called mysterious experiences."

"And that is?"

"You remember we talked about Freud's theory of the unconscious . . ."

"Of course."

"Freud showed that we can often serve as 'mediums' for our own unconscious. We might suddenly find ourselves thinking or doing something without really knowing why. The reason is that we have a whole lot of experiences, thoughts, and memories inside us that we are not aware of."

"So?"

"People sometimes talk or walk in their sleep. We could call this a sort of 'mental automatism.' Also under hypnosis, people can say and do things 'not of their own volition.' And remember the surrealists trying to produce so-called automatic writing. They were just trying to serve as mediums for their own unconscious."

"I remember."

"From time to time during this century there have been what are called 'spiritualist revivals,' the idea being that a medium could get into contact with a deceased person. Either by speaking in the voice of the deceased, or by using automatic writing, the medium would receive a message from someone who had lived five or fifty or many hundreds of years ago. This has been taken as evidence either that there is life after death or that we live many lives."

"Yes, I know."

"I'm not saying that all mediums have been fakes. Some have clearly been in good faith. They really have been mediums, but they have only been mediums for their own unconscious. There have been several cases of mediums being closely studied while in a trance, and revealing knowledge and abilities that neither they nor others understand how they can have acquired. In one case, a woman who had no knowledge of Hebrew pa.s.sed on messages in that language. So she must have either lived before or been in contact with a deceased spirit."

"Which do you think?"

"It turned out that she had had a Jewish nanny when she was little."

"Ah."

"Does that disappoint you? It just shows what an incredible capacity some people have to store experience in their unconscious."

"I see what you mean."

"A lot of curious everyday happenings can be explained by Freud's theory of the unconscious. I might suddenly get a call from a friend I haven't heard from for many years just as I had begun to look for his telephone number "

"It gives me goose b.u.mps."

"But the explanation could be that we both heard the same old song on the radio, a song we heard the last time we were together. The point is, we are not aware of the underlying connection."

"So it's either humbug, or the winning number effect, or else it's the unconscious. Right?"

"Well, in any case, it's healthier to approach such books with a decent portion of skepticism. Not least if one is a philosopher. There is an a.s.sociation in England for skeptics. Many years ago they offered a large reward to the first person who could provide even the slightest proof of something supernatural. It didn't need to be a great miracle, a tiny example of telepathy would do. So far, n.o.body has come forward "

"Hmm."

"On the other hand, there is a lot we humans don't understand. Maybe we don't understand the laws of nature either. During the last century there were a lot of people who thought that phenomena such as magnetism and electricity were a kind of magic. I'll bet my own great-grandmother would have been wide-eyed with amazement if I told her about TV or computers."

"So you don't believe in anything supernatural then."

"We've already talked about that. Even the term 'supernatural' is a curious one. No, I suppose I believe that there is only one nature. But that, on the other hand, is absolutely astonishing."

"But the sort of mysterious things in those books you just showed me?"

"All true philosophers should keep their eyes open. Even if we have never seen a white crow, we should never stop looking for it. And one day, even a skeptic like me could be obliged to accept a phenomenon I did not believe in before. If I did not keep this possibility open I would be dogmatic, and not a true philosopher."

Alberto and Sophie remained seated on the bench without saying anything. The pigeons craned their necks and cooed, now and then being startled by a bicycle or a sudden movement.

"I have to go home and prepare for the party," said Sophie at last.

"But before we part, I'll show you a white crow. It is nearer than we think, you see."

Alberto got up and led the way back into the bookstore. This time they walked past all the books on supernatural phenomena and stopped by a flimsy shelf at the very back of the store. Above the shelf hung a very small card. PHILOSOPHY, it read.

Alberto pointed down at a particular book, and Sophie gasped as she read the t.i.tle: Sophie's World.

"Would you like me to buy it for you?"

"I don't know if I dare."

Shortly afterward, however, she was on her way home with the book in one hand and a little bag of things for the garden party in the other.

The Garden Party

... a white crow...

Hilde sat on the bed, transfixed. She felt her arms and her hands tremble, as they gripped the heavy ring binder.

It was almost eleven o'clock. She had been reading for over two hours. From time to time she had raised her eyes from the text and laughed aloud, but she had also turned over on her side and gasped. It was a good thing she was alone in the house.

And what she had been through these last two hours! It started with Sophie trying to attract the major's attention on the way home from the cabin in the woods. She had finally climbed a tree and been rescued by Morten Goose, who had arrived like a guardian angel from Lebanon.

Although it was a long, long time ago, Hilde had never forgotten how her father had read The Wonderful Adventures of Nils to her. For many years after that, she and her father had had a secret language together that was connected with the book. Now he had dragged the old goose out again.

Then Sophie had her first experience as a lone customer in a cafe. Hilde had been especially taken with what Alberto said about Sartre and existentialism. He had almost managed to convert her-although he had done that many times before in the ring binder too.

Once, about a year ago, Hilde had bought a book on astrology. Another time she had come home with a set of tarot cards. Next time it was a book on spiritualism. Each time, her father had lectured her about "superst.i.tion" and her "critical faculty," but he had waited until now for the final blow. His counterattack was deadly accurate. Clearly, his daughter would not be allowed to grow up without a thorough warning against that kind of thing. To be absolutely sure, he had waved to her from a TV screen in a radio store. He could have saved himself the trouble ...

What she wondered about most of all was Sophie. Sophie-who are you? Where do you come from? Why have you come into my life?

Finally Sophie had been given a book about herself. Was it the same book that Hilde now had in her hands? This was only a ring binder. But even so-how could one find a book about oneself in a book about oneself? What would happen if Sophie began to read that book?

What was going to happen now? What could happen now? There were only a few pages left in her ring binder.

Sophie met her mother on the bus on her way home from town. Oh, no! What would her mother say when she saw the book in Sophie's hand?

Sophie tried to put it in the bag with all the streamers and balloons she had bought for the party but she didn't quite make it.

"Hi, Sophie! We caught the same bus! How nice!"

"Hi, Mom!"

"You bought a book?"

"No, not exactly."

"Sophie's World ... how curious."

Sophie knew she didn't have the slightest chance of lying to her mother.

"I got it from Alberto."

"Yes, I'm sure you did. As I said, I'm looking forward to meeting this man. May I see?"

"Would you mind very much waiting till we get home, at least. It is my book, Mom."

"Of course it's your book. I just want to take a peek at the first page, okay? ... 'Sophie Amundsen was on her way home from school. She had walked the first part of the way with Joanna. They had been discussing robots . . .'"

"Does it really say that?"

"Yes, it does, Sophie. It's written by someone called Albert Knag. He must be a newcomer. What's your Al-berto's name, by the way?"

"Knox."