Читать книгу The Expanse and Philosophy - Группа авторов - Страница 20

The dynamically sublime is an experience of infinite power, but not where our survival is threatened by it (that part is important). You are in your living room looking out at the hurricane howling outside, filled with awe at the infinite power of nature outside your window. The mind spins again and cannot gather this experience into a concept—that is the dynamically sublime. It is important that you have this experience while at a slight distance from it, as an observer.

If you were ever to actually confront the sublime directly, two issues would emerge. First, because of the danger to your life involved in a direct experience of the dynamically sublime, you might have other things to think about rather than the meaning of the event. It is hard to be reflectively aware of an experience you are having while you are fighting for your life! Second, and this is definitely related to the first problem, infinitely large natural forces have a good chance of killing you. As far as we know, the dead do not experience the sublime.

The fate of the civilian survey ship Arboghast illustrates the need for some distance from the dynamically sublime. On its mission to Venus to monitor the activity of the protomolecule, the research ship descends into the atmosphere and, in a stunning visual, is completely disassembled in an instant. We see the shock and terror of the experience frozen on the faces of Colonel Janus and Dr. Iturbi (“Abaddon’s Gate”). The confrontation with the sublime in this case is a direct one and it is horrifying. Before descending into Venus’ atmosphere, Colonel Janus and Dr. Iturbi have a brief discussion about whether to bring the ship closer to the surface to get a better idea of what the protomolecule was up to. We see the wry smiles on their faces and the twinkle in their eyes as they both understand that their “debate” is just a formality. They are pulled toward the event below them. It is not just about their mission. They are drawn to it by a kind of primal curiosity.

As the decision is made and the Arboghast begins its descent, we can almost see Pascal shake his head in pity.

As shocking as the fate of the Arboghast is, Marco Inaros’ attack on Earth using stealth‐tech cloaked asteroids is more horrifying (“Mother”). It is the first time in the show we see the weaponization of the infinite. We are given the image of a man on the beach (ironically throwing pebbles into the sea) as the asteroid hits Earth. We see the man’s skin begin to blister as the shockwave annihilates him—his experience is one of horror, not sublimity. As we watch the scene unfold, we are confronted with the added challenge that this infinite horror is a human creation. That the attack is intentional, deliberate, adds an element of dread and repugnance to our evaluation of it.

After Inaros’ attack on Earth, Avasarala is told that there has been a report of a “200–300 kiloton explosion” at the impact site. (To put that number in some perspective, the combined power of the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 was 40 kilotons.) The quantification of the event seems to reduce the scope of it. But “200–300 kilotons” is not a number that is very informative—like a blood pressure, a test score or a speed limit. What is the point of this report? How is it supposed to influence our thinking about this event?

Such attempts at description and explanation of sublime events are a way that our psyche tries to assert power over our dread of the infinite. Having a number to measure a phenomenon seems to make it accessible, understandable. It is as if we are telling ourselves, “No need for existential dread here—there is nothing beyond our understanding!” But attempts at explanation cannot contain an infinite moral horror nor can they explain away a sublime experience. Our dread of ourselves and reason’s inability to capture the infinite remain. The infinite and the sublime cannot be explained. But they can be experienced.

No one experience can be more sublime than another. By definition, the sublime is an experience of the infinite and formless. An experience is simply sublime or not. To be clear, only those safely removed from an event can view it as sublime. Attacks of the kind imagined by Marco Inaros are unfathomable moral horrors—they are not strictly speaking sublime. Kant’s view of the sublime is rooted in an experience of nature—either of its infinite size or infinite power. Kant, like many of the Romantic thinkers of his day, saw the sublime in nature as an opportunity for spiritual growth.

Despite its overwhelming power and size, the experience of the sublime can be inspiring—standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, the Hoover Dam, or the bow of a ship looking at the night sky, being out in the woods while the thunderstorm rolls in, or anywhere when an earthquake shakes your surroundings. If we were pressed, we might admit that we enjoyed them all at some level. Why? Yes, the experiences evoke emotions of wonder and awe at the power and infinity around us. Kant wants to say, however, that something else is going on inside us during these experiences, something that shows us our true value as beings in the cosmos.