Question from Zhihu
Since we have “science-fiction novels,” do we have “philosophical fantasy novels” (philosophical speculative fiction), too?
Andy Weir’s The Egg.
In my book, this is the greatest philosophical fantasy novel ever written.
The Egg is the only novel that has directly answered one of my ultimate philosophical confusions (I’ll explain below).
This philosophical confusion that has been haunting me for half my life is so obscure that I hadn’t even read any related discussion by a philosopher (I assume that’s because of my own ignorance). So when I read The Egg back then, it felt like my scalp had blown right off my head.
I’ve attached this miniature story at the end of the article. You can read the original story first and treat this article as an analysis, or read this article first and use it as a guide to the story.
Since I couldn’t find any formal philosophical discussion of this particular confusion of mine, I had to give it a name myself. I call it: the problem of the asymmetry of subjective experience under the hard problem of consciousness.
I know that’s a mouthful. What can I say? It’s an ultimate philosophical confusion. Please bear with me.
Let me try to explain. There are two key terms here:
1.The hard problem of consciousness—this part has been seriously discussed by philosophers.
2.The asymmetry of subjective experience—I haven’t found any related discussion of this part.
1. The Easy Problems and the Hard Problem of Consciousness
As for what the hard problem of consciousness is, I went into it in another post—
Let me add a little here. The concept of “the hard problem of consciousness” was proposed by the philosopher David Chalmers. He pointed out that, when it comes to the nature of consciousness, we need explanations on two levels.
The first level is the easy problem: What kind of physical system (obviously, the main example is the human nervous system), and according to what rules, produces consciousness—in other words, what is the physical basis of consciousness?
By now you may be completely lost: Isn’t this already an insanely complicated hard problem? How can it be called an “easy problem”?
That’s right. To this day, neuroscientists’ understanding of the neural basis of consciousness has barely made it past the starting line. Figuring out the neural basis of consciousness could easily be called the hardest hard problem in neuroscience.
But compared with the “hard problem” below, the question above really does qualify as “easy.”
Chalmers believes that, when it comes to the nature of consciousness, it’s the second level of explanation that is truly “the hard problem of consciousness”: Why is there subjective experience?
From the perspective of physics, a conscious person (a human brain) is nothing more than rearranged particles of matter. If we accept that the material world is objective, then why does “subjective experience” arise in this objective world?
The physicist Max Tegmark wrote in Life 3.0:
When you drive a car, you experience colors, sounds, emotions, and a sense of self. But why do you undergo these experiences? Does a self-driving car have experiences? If you were racing a self-driving car, both of you would take in information through sensors or sense organs, process that information, and output movement commands. But logically speaking, the subjective feeling of driving is another matter entirely. Is this experience optional? If it is, what causes it?
…Why do some arrangements of the same particles have consciousness while others do not? Physics also teaches us that things are simply large numbers of quarks and electrons arranged in certain ways. So which arrangements are conscious, and which are not?
If the universe is material and objective, then why is there a subjective point of view called “I”?
Or, in the words of that post I mentioned above:
If the essence of the universe is objective matter, then even if complex organic beings like us emerged when conditions happened to be right, we should still be nothing more than “philosophical zombies.” Our nervous systems might be powerful and flexible enough to handle all kinds of environmental problems, but there shouldn’t be an “I” inside our brains, nor a “subjective world” that is observing the environment.
This unbridgeable chasm between the objective material world and subjective experience—in other words, “the hard problem of consciousness”—may be the most astonishing mystery in the universe.
2. The Asymmetry of Subjective Experience
And yet there’s a question that actually confuses me even more than “the hard problem of consciousness”: the asymmetry of subjective experience—a term I made up.
The existence of “I” is already the most astonishing thing imaginable. But what’s even more baffling is this: Why is “I” in this particular body of mine right now, observing and feeling this world through this particular pair of eyes?
If “subjective experience” exists equally and symmetrically in all matter (or at least in all nervous systems), then why doesn’t “I” appear behind your eyes? Why doesn’t “I” appear in the nervous system of any other person in history—or in the future?
Why is this one I, here and now, the only one that is me?
The subjective world exists asymmetrically, only here and now!!—that’s what I mean by my invented term “the asymmetry of subjective experience”.
(Please note: If your answer is, “Obviously it’s because your genes and your experiences are different from mine. Your genes and experiences are unique, so of course you’re in your own body,” then you have completely missed my point.)
This “asymmetry of subjective experience”—I’ve turned it over and over in my mind, and I can probably come up with only two solutions—
The first solution:
Subjective experience is inherently asymmetrical, because there is only one “subjective experience” in this world, namely my subjective experience. Everyone else in the world is a walking corpse with no subjective experience (what philosophers call a “philosophical zombie”). I am the only person in the world who experiences it through subjective experience.
If I accept this solution, I’m effectively declaring myself the center of the universe. This explanation is off-the-charts arrogant.
The second solution:
That leaves only the second solution: “asymmetry” doesn’t exist at all. All subjective experiences in this world are shared.
This means that one day, in some form, “I” will undergo “your” subjective experience. Every subjective experience in the universe, past and present, will somehow be experienced by “me.” And just like that, the asymmetry disappears!
Although here and now I experience and observe this world only from inside my own body, at some time and place that I cannot currently perceive, I will eventually experience and observe this world from inside your body. Then I’ll perceive this world in one subjective experience, and then the next…
Finally, perhaps within some ineffable form of existence, “I” and “you”… all the subjective experiences I have ever undergone through countless “reincarnations” will somehow be gathered together. That will be the moment I truly “wake up”!
—And that, precisely, is the second solution to my “problem of the asymmetry of subjective experience” described in Andy Weir’s The Egg. That’s why reading it back then felt like my scalp had exploded, and why I couldn’t come back down to earth for a long time. I’ve brought up the philosophical confusions discussed in this article with friends and family, and not one of them could understand. I never imagined that an American science-fiction writer on the other side of the planet would so clearly be wrestling with the very same question—and that the answer he gave through this story would be the only reasonable answer to this confusion, at least in my mind. The shock of that moment is still fresh in my memory.
One day, I’m going to find a chance to discuss this question with Andy Weir in person. I’m putting this in writing as proof. Ha-ha.
Appendix:
The Egg
By Andy Weir
Translated by Cathysia
You died on your way home.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly strange, but fatal all the same. You left behind a wife and two children. Your death wasn’t painful. The paramedics tried their hardest, but there was nothing they could do. Your body was smashed to pieces. You’re better off dead, believe me.
That was when you saw me.
“Wh… what happened?” you asked. “Where am I?”
“You’re dead,” I said bluntly. No euphemisms.
“A tr… a truck. It skidded…”
“That’s right,” I said.
“I… I’m dead?”
“Mm-hmm. But don’t be sad. Everyone dies eventually,” I said.
You looked around. Emptiness surrounded you; there was only you and me. “What is this place?” you asked. “Is this the world after death?”
“You could put it that way,” I said.
“Are you God?” you asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m God.”
“My children… and my wife,” you said.
“What happened to them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“I like that,” I said. “You’ve just died, but you’re still worried about your family. That’s a good thing here.”
You stared at me blankly. To you, I didn’t look like God—just an ordinary person, possibly a woman. Some vague image of authority, maybe; compared with an all-powerful God, I looked more like a grammar-school teacher.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll all be fine. In your children’s memories, you’ll be flawless; they haven’t reached the age when they look down on you. Your wife will sob in public, but privately she’ll feel relieved. To be fair, your marriage had already fallen apart. She’ll feel guilty about that relief, if that’s any comfort to you.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven, or hell, or somewhere else?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Oh,” you said. “So Hinduism was right.”
“All religions get it right in different ways,” I said. “Come with me.”
You followed me as we walked through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “We can just walk and talk.”
“Then what’s the point?” you asked. “After I’m reincarnated, I’ll be a blank slate again, right? A baby. Everything I experienced and everything I did in this life will be meaningless.”
“Not quite!” I said. “All the knowledge and experience from your past lives come with you. You just don’t remember them at this moment.”
I stopped and put a hand on your shoulder. “Your soul is far more magnificent, beautiful, and vast than you can imagine. A human brain can hold only a tiny, tiny fraction of you. It’s like using one finger to test whether a glass of water is hot or cold. You need only dip a tiny part of yourself into this container; once you pull it out, you have gained all the knowledge in it.”
“You’ve been human for forty-eight years, and you haven’t had time to stretch yourself out and experience the other parts of your vast consciousness. If we stayed here long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But we don’t need to do that between every life.”
“So how many times have I been reincarnated by now?”
“Oh, a lot. A whole lot. Lots of different lives,” I said. “In your next life, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 CE.”
“Wait, what?” you stammered. “You’re sending me into the past?”
“Well… theoretically, I suppose. The time you understand exists only in your universe. The place I come from isn’t like yours.”
“Then where do you come from?” you asked.
“It’s like this,” I explained. “I come from somewhere. In that other place, there are beings like me, too. I know you want to know what it’s like there, but honestly, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you say, a little crestfallen, “but wait—if I can be reincarnated into other times, that means that under certain circumstances I can meet myself.”
“Of course. That has always been the case. But each incarnation remembers only its own slice of life, so when your incarnations meet, you have no idea that you’re looking at yourself.”
“Then what is the meaning of any of this?”
“Are you serious?” I ask. “You’re not joking? You’re asking me about the meaning of life? Don’t you think that’s a little cliché?”
“That’s a reasonable question, too,” you insist.
I look into your eyes. “The meaning of life—the reason I created this entire universe for you—is to help you mature.”
“You mean all of humanity? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I created this entire universe for you. In each incarnation, you grow, become more mature, and gain greater and better wisdom.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I say. “In this universe, there are only you and me.”
You stare at me blankly. “But everyone else in the world…”
“They’re all you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait! I’m everyone!”
“Now you understand,” I say, patting you on the back in congratulations.
“Every person who has ever lived in this world was me?”
“The people alive now are, too.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“You’re also John Wilkes Booth,” I add.
“I’m Hitler?” you ask in horror.
“You’re also the millions of people he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“You’re also all his followers.”
You fall silent.
“Every time you hurt someone else,” I say, “you’re hurting yourself. Every time you do good, you’re helping yourself. Every joy and every pain that others have experienced or will experience, you will experience, too.”
You think about this for a long time.
“Why?” you ask me. “Why do we have to do all this?”
“Because one day, you will become me. Because that’s what you are. You are my kind. You are my child.”
“Wow,” you say, unable to believe it. “You mean I’m a god?”
“Not yet. You’re an embryo. You’re still growing. Once you have lived the lives of everyone throughout all of time, you will be mature enough to be born.”
“So this entire universe,” you say, “is just a…”
“An egg,” I reply. “It’s time for you to go on to your next life.”
Then I send you on your way.
(The End)
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