Dispatch from the Razor's Edge, the Blog of Michael Stephen Fuchs
Have We Made Things Too Hard?
"Come, eat your food with joy and drink your wine with a glad heart … enjoy life with the woman you love, through all the fleeting life which God has given you in this world, for this is what you are meant to get out of your life of toil under the sun. Throw yourself into any pursuit that may appeal to you, for there is no pursuit, no plan, no knowledge or intelligence, within the grave where you are going."
                 - Ecclesiastes 9:7-10

Specifically, what I mean to ponder is: Has all our scientific and technological progress - in particular, the foundation-rocking understanding of the universe and ourselves that's been granted us by cosmology, astrophysics, geology, evolutionary biology, evolutionary psychology, cognitive neuroscience, etc. - has all of that grand accumulated wisdom left us without a psychic pot to piss in? Without a single mote of solacing dust floating amidst the vast storms of cosmic dust and gamma rays? Bereft of the least psychological comfort blanket to pull up to our chins against the endless, and encroaching, darkness of the void?

Have we simply made it impossible just to get through the frick'n day?

I think we may have. Consider:

News of his demise has been slow to get around, but it's pretty incontravertible. (Nietzche maybe didn't holler loudly enough.) Sure, we may yet stumble upon a supreme architect of the universe out there somewhere, but Ladbrokes is offering about 140 billion to one against and you'd be a sucker to take it. We have a very strong sense that our Father is not in His Heaven because we've actually sent some guys up there to look. Then we pointed telescopes - at pretty much every point on the EM spectrum - out there at all angles, and took a long leisurely gander, and, still, no God. Just void. Sorry. Quaint creation myths and the 21st century are going to have to go their separate ways. It's time to turn Vatican City into a Laser Tag Arena.

(First corollary to GOD IS DEAD)
Whatsoever. We have not been dropped here (or, rather, sprouted here) to fulfill any role of any sort, and nothing whatever is expected of us. There's no Handbook for Using the Universe, nor any Human Being User's Guide (even notional or theoretical ones). Your imprecations to the heavens echo forever; nothing comes back. The universe cares so little about us you can taste it all coppery in your mouth. YOU'RE JUST HERE.

(Second corollary to GOD IS DEAD)
This is the one shot, all you've got. Leukemia? Tough luck, motherfucker. Hacked to death by Hutus? Sucks to be you. You are going the way of all flesh, which is oblivion, and have a nice trip.

(First corollary to THERE IS NO AFTERLIFE)
Lived a noble life and never caught a single break? Sucker. Lied, cheated, stole, and betrayed at every opportunity? You can get away with exactly what you can get away with. There's no karma, either, instant or otherwise (as John Lennon discovered). Virtue is its own reward, or it's not rewarded. Sin is punished, and evil acts avenged, by Delta Force and SEAL Team 6 or not at all. (And don't get me wrong - I for one ardently hope those guys are all in blacked-out helicoptors, all over the world, swooping down on where the mass murderers of Beslan, Madrid, and New York are asleep in their beds.)

(Second corollary to THERE IS NO AFTERLIFE)
The universe created spiders that lay their eggs on trussed-up insects, that later hatch and feed on the living flesh; the universe created cuddly kitties that "play with" (ie recreationally torture) mice before devouring them. Everything in the universe outside of our tenuous cultural playpen is a big "Fuck You" to all our comfortable ideas about morality; and I think perhaps it behooves us to say to the universe, at least on some level, "Fuck you right back. Fuck you, Universe; right in the ear."

There is no divine instruction book for proscribed, permitted, or prescribed behaviour. You have to roll your own. We're making it up as we go along. We're trying to avoid unfaithful marriages, planes crashing into buildings, and Nazi death camps - and we're completely jolly-well winging it. There does seem to be both a moral framework (albeit arbitrary and culturally negotiated) and a common-ish moral sense (based on a variant of the golden rule, likely evolved because of the inherent illogic of claiming for yourself rights you would deny to others); but I say we're taking cover behind rice paper walls in a balls-out firefight with large-caliber weapons.

We are not little replicas of God our Father in Heaven (as noted, we've established that He isn't there). Rather, we are bags of meat. We are dying bags of meat. As Scott "EWAV" Christensen has deathlessly put it, "The difference between you, the cow, the fish, the roach, and the bacterium, is one of complexity and not much more. You're made up of the same basic amino acids. You're what you are because of the slaughter of trillions of living things before you in a contest to see which version happens to be better at reproducing in a particular environment. We are all a test to see if we will work well and if we don't we're tossed aside like piles of worthless chemicals we are. The only difference humans have is that they know this and it sucks." I cannot improve upon that.

(first corollary to HUMANITY IS NOT DIVINE)
We also happen to be dying bags of meat that have had what on balance I'd call the misfortune of developing exquisitely sensitive sparks of consciousness in our distended craniums. But even in those sparks, we are simply protein computers. Ryan Canolty now has neurosurgeon
buddies who can crack your skull, start poking around with little electrodes, and make you raise your arm, see a patch of blue, laugh out loud. Thusly is over-amply demonstrated that you have no soul - rather, you are simply the physical activity, chemical and electrical, of your brain. All we think of as our sacred selves, our unique snowflakes of individual consciousness, is simply three and a half pounds of spongy meat. BZZTTT, BZZTTT!!! Ha, ha, motherfuckers!

Nothing to speak of, at any rate. Literally unimaginable stretches of empty freeezing vacuum - occasionally punctuated by huge burning balls of hydrogen. The universe is a billion times lonelier than the loneliest place you can reasonably imagine. We are - simply and irretrievably - riding a wet mossy boulder through the endless cosmos. Take a look at the night sky sometime and try to appreciate what you are actually looking at, where you are. You're on a tiny little dust speck in the middle of nearly infinite nothingness. And you can't get off, because there's nowhere to go.

(First corollary to THERE'S NOTHING OUT THERE)
At any rate, there are no places remotely worth going to that any of us could ever get to in the span of a human lifetime. There may be habitable worlds, but we haven't remotely found any yet and (trust me) you're not going there if we happen to.

The debate about the possibility of other intelligent life in the universe is slightly outside the scope of this rant. But, suffice it to say: A) of 50 million or so species on this planet, exactly 1 has evolved intelligence to speak of, or technology of any sort; B) It mainly uses that technology to try to wipe one another out; C) We've never found extraterrestrial life of any sort; and D) never mind the intelligent, technology-using sort; E) we have no real idea about how life started on this planet, so it's a little tough to handicap the odds of it happening elsewhere. Moreoever: however you reckon the odds of the existence of intelligent extra-terrestrial life, you might want to pause before betting the ranch that out there somewhere is a species that - in the whole 12-billion year history of the universe - is going to have evolved to the point of having inter-stellar communications technology, but not so far as to have stupidly wiped itself out, or been taken out by a killer asteroid - in the next, oh, 100 years or so of your likely lifespan. In other words, there may be other people out there, but not as far as you're concerned. Forget it, bub. For every practical purpose, we're alone.

We now know we could get wiped out at virtually any moment by a global killer virus, a container-ship-sized asteroid, or nuclear- or bio-terrorism. If none of that happens, we know exactly when the sun's going to go out. Pardon me while I wind my watch.

Knowing now as we do that we are dying bags of meat, with freakish, self-referential, mechanical meat computers onboard that we've come to think of as our "immortal souls"; riding a moist boulder around an empty, depopulated, and Godless cosmos; trying to come to some agreement, completely arbitrary, about how to share the boulder without bashing one another's brains in all the time, and knowing that no one is watching or keeping score or rewarding or punishing anyone for anything; having been put here for no reason, with nothing expected of us, and going nowhere; and with only oblivion waiting . . . just exactly how is it we still manage to get up every morning and take a shower?

Or, to put it another way, it seems to me that perhaps our radically improving understanding of ourselves and the universe has pretty much taken out all the (now evidently illusory) legs that have traditionally allowed us to stand up and keep chugging along.

But, you know, don't get me wrong – I'm not actually a nihilist at all and emphatically don't want you to be one. Moreover, I happen to think life in the world is a blast. I just fancied going off on a hearty (existential) rant.

  science     philosophy     existentialism  
close photo of Michael Stephen Fuchs

Fuchs is the author of the novels The Manuscript and Pandora's Sisters, both published worldwide by Macmillan in hardback, paperback and all e-book formats (and in translation); the D-Boys series of high-tech, high-concept, spec-ops military adventure novels – D-Boys, Counter-Assault, and Close Quarters Battle (coming in 2016); and is co-author, with Glynn James, of the bestselling Arisen series of special-operations military ZA novels. The second nicest thing anyone has ever said about his work was: "Fuchs seems to operate on the narrative principle of 'when in doubt put in a firefight'." (Kirkus Reviews, more here.)

Fuchs was born in New York; schooled in Virginia (UVa); and later emigrated to the San Francisco Bay Area, where he lived through the dot-com boom. Subsequently he decamped for an extended period of tramping before finally rocking up in London, where he now makes his home. He does a lot of travel blogging, most recently of some very  long  walks around the British Isles. He's been writing and developing for the web since 1994 and shows no particularly hopeful signs of stopping.

You can reach him on .

THE MANUSCRIPT by Michael Stephen Fuchs
PANDORA'S SISTERS by Michael Stephen Fuchs
D-BOYS by Michael Stephen Fuchs
COUNTER-ASSAULT by Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN, Book One - Fortress Britain, by Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN, Book Two - Mogadishu of the Dead, by Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN : Genesis, by Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN Book Three - Three Parts Dead, by Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN Book Four - Maximum Violence, by Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN Book Five - EXODUS, by Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN Book Six - The Horizon, by Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN, Book Seven - Death of Empires, by Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN, Book Eight - Empire of the Dead by Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN : NEMESIS by Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN, Book Nine - Cataclysm by Michael Stephen Fuchs

ARISEN, Book Ten - The Flood by Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN, Book Eleven - Deathmatch by Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage by Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN, Book Thirteen - The Siege by Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN, Book Fourteen - Endgame by Michael Stephen Fuchs
ARISEN : Fickisms
ARISEN : Odyssey
ARISEN : Last Stand
ARISEN : Raiders, Volume 1 - The Collapse
ARISEN : Raiders, Volume 2 - Tribes
Black Squadron
ARISEN : Raiders, Volume 3 - Dead Men Walking
ARISEN : Raiders, Volume 4 - Duty
ARISEN : Raiders, Volume 5 - The Last Raid
ARISEN : Fickisms ][ – This Time, It's Personal
ARISEN : Operators, Volume I - The Fall of the Third Temple
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