Star Maker, Olaf Stapledon [top rated books of all time .TXT] 📗
- Author: Olaf Stapledon
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Telepathic intercourse united the whole galaxy; but telepathy, though it
had the great advantage that it was not affected by distance, was
seemingly imperfect in other ways. So far as possible it was
supplemented by physical travel. A constant stream of touring woridlets
percolated through the wholy galaxy in every direction.
The task of establishing Utopia in the galaxy was not pursued without
friction. Different kinds of races were apt to have different policies
for the galaxy. Though war was by now unthinkable, the sort of strife
which we know between individuals or associations within the same state
was common. There was, for instance, a constant struggle between the
planetary systems that were chiefly interested in the building of
Utopia, those that were most concerned to make contact with other
galaxies, and those whose main preoccupation was spiritual. Besides
these great parties, there were groups of planetary systems which were
prone to put the well-being of individual world-systems above the
advancement of galactic enterprise. They cared more for the drama of
personal intercourse and the fulfilment of the personal capacity of
worlds and systems than for organization or exploration of spiritual
purification. Though their presence was often exasperating to the
enthusiasts, it was salutary, for it was a guarantee against
extravagance and against tyranny.
It was during the age of the galactic Utopia that another salutary
influence began to take full effect on the busy worlds. Telepathic
research had made contact with the long-extinct Plant Men, who had been
undone by the extravagance of their own mystical quietism. The Utopian
worlds now learned much from these archaic but uniquely sensitive
beings. Henceforth the vegetal mode of experience was thoroughly, but
not dangerously, knit into the texture of the galactic mind.
A VISION OF THE GALAXY
IT seemed to us now that the troubles of the many worlds of this galaxy
were at last over, that the will to support the galactic Utopia was now
universal, and that the future must bring glory after glory. We felt
assured of the same progress in other galaxies. In our simplicity we
looked forward to the speedy, the complete and final, triumph of the
striving spirit throughout the cosmos. We even conceived that the Star
Maker rejoiced in the perfection of his work. Using such symbols as we
could to express the inexpressible, we imagined that, before the
beginning, the Star Maker was alone, and that for love and for community
he resolved to make a perfect creature, to be his mate. We imagined that
he made her of his hunger for beauty and his will for love; but that he
also scourged her in the making, and tormented her, so that she might at
last triumph over all adversity, and thereby achieve such perfection as
he in his almightiness could never attain. The cosmos we conceived to be
that creature. And it seemed to us in our simplicity that we had already
witnessed the greater part of cosmical growth, and that there remained
only the climax of that growth, the telepathic union of all the galaxies
to become the single, fully awakened spirit of the cosmos, perfect, fit
to be eternally contemplated and enjoyed by the Star Maker.
All this seemed to us majestically right. Yet we ourselves bad no joy in
it. We had been sated with the spectacle of continuous and triumphant
progress in the latter age of our galaxy, and we were no longer curious
about the host of the other galaxies. Almost certainly they were much
like our own. We were, in fact, overwhelmingly fatigued and
disillusioned. During so many aeons we had followed the fortunes of the
many worlds. So often we had lived out their passions, novel to them,
but to us for the most part repetitive. We had shared all kinds of
sufferings, all kinds of glories and shames. And now that the cosmical
ideal, the full awakening of the spirit, seemed on the point of
attainment, we found ourselves a little tired of it. What matter whether
the whole huge drama of existence should be intricately known and
relished by the perfected spirit or not? What matter whether we
ourselves should complete our pilgrimage or not?
During so many aeons our company, distributed throughout the galaxy, had
with difficulty maintained its single communal mentality. At all times
“we,” in spite of our severally, were in fact “I,” the single observer
of the many worlds; but the maintaining of this identity was itself
becoming a toil. “I” was overpowered with sleepiness; “we,” severally,
longed for our little native worlds, our homes, our lairs; and for the
animal obtuseness that had walled us in from all the immensities. In
particular, I, the Englishman, longed to be sleeping safely in that room
where she and I had slept together, the day’s urgencies all blotted out,
and nothing left but sleep and the shadowy, the peaceful awareness in
each of the other.
But though I was fatigued beyond endurance, sleep would not come. I
remained perforce with my colleagues, and with the many triumphant
worlds. Slowly we were roused from our dowsiness by a discovery. It
gradually appeared to us that the prevailing mood of these countless
Utopian systems of worlds was at heart very different from that of
triumph. In every world we found a deep conviction of the littleness and
impotence of all finite beings, no matter how exalted. In a certain
world there was a kind of poet. When we told him our conception of the
cosmical goal, he said, “When the cosmos wakes, if ever she does, she
will find herself not the single beloved of her maker, but merely a
little bubble adrift on the boundless and bottomless ocean of being.”
What had seemed to us at first the irresistible march of godlike
world-spirits, with all the resources of the universe in their hands and
all eternity before them, was now gradually revealed in very different
guise. The great advance in mental caliber, and the attainment of
communal mentality throughout the cosmos, had brought a change in the
experience of time. The temporal reach of the mind had been very greatly
extended. The awakened worlds experienced an aeon as a mere crowded day.
They were aware of time’s passage as a man in a canoe might have
cognizance of a river which in its upper reaches is sluggish but
subsequently breaks into rapids and becomes swifter and swifter, till,
at no great distance ahead, it must plunge in a final cataract down to
the sea, namely to the eternal end of life, the extinction of the stars.
Comparing the little respite that remained with the great work which
they passionately desired to accomplish, namely the full awakening of
the cosmical spirit, they saw that at best there was no time to spare,
and that, more probably, it was already too late to accomplish the task.
They had a strange foreboding that unforeseen disaster lay in store for
them. It was sometimes said, “We know not what the stars, even, have in
store for us, still less what the Star Maker.” And it was sometimes
said, “We should not for a moment consider even our best-established
knowledge of existence as true. It is awareness only of the colors that
our own vision paints on the film of one bubble in one strand of foam on
the ocean of being.” The sense of the fated incompleteness of all
creatures and of all their achievements gave to the Galactic Society of
Worlds a charm, a sanctity, as of some short-lived and delicate flower.
And it was with an increasing sense of precarious beauty that we
ourselves were now learning to regard the far-flung Utopia. In this mood
we had a remarkable experience.
We had embarked upon a sort of holiday from exploration, seeking the
refreshment of disembodied flight in space. Gathering our whole company
together out of all the worlds, we centered ourselves into a single
mobile viewpoint; and then, as one being, we glided and circled among
the stars and nebulae. Presently the whim took us to plunge into outer
space. We hastened till the forward stars turned violet, the hinder red;
till both forward and hinder vanished; till all visible features were
extinguished by the wild speed of our flight. In absolute darkness we
brooded on the origin and the destiny of the galaxies, and on the
appalling contrast between the cosmos and our minute home-lives to which
we longed to return.
Presently we came to rest. In doing so we discovered that our situation
was not such as we expected. The galaxy whence we had emerged did indeed
lie far behind us, no bigger than a great cloud; but it was not the
featured spiral that it should have been. After some confusion of mind
we realized that we were looking at the galaxy in an early stage of its
existence, in fact at a time before it was really a galaxy at all. For
the cloud was no cloud of stars, but a continuous mist of light. At its
heart was a vague brilliance, which faded softly into the dim outer
regions and merged without perceptible boundary into the black sky. Even
the sky itself was quite unfamiliar. Though empty of stars, it was
densely peopled with a great number of pale clouds. All seemingly were
farther from us than that from which we had come, but several bulked as
largely as Orion in the Earth’s sky. So congested was the heaven that
many of the great objects were continuous with one another in their
filmy extremities, and many were separated only by mere channels of
emptiness, through which loomed vistas of more remote nebulae, some of
them so distant as to be mere spots of light.
It was clear that we had traveled back through time to a date when the
great nebulae were still near neighbors to one another, before the
explosive nature of the cosmos had done more than separate them out from
the continuous and congested primal substance.
As we watched, it became obvious that events were unfolding before us
with fantastic speed. Each cloud visibly shrank, withdrawing into the
distance. It also changed its shape. Each vague orb flattened somewhat,
and became more definite. Receding and therefore diminishing, the
nebulae now appeared as lens-shaped mists, tilted at all angles. But,
even as we watched, they withdrew themselves so far into the depth of
space that it became difficult to observe their changes. Only our own
native nebula remained beside us, a huge oval stretching across half the
sky. On this we now concentrated our attention.
Differences began to appear within it, regions of brighter and of less
bright mist, faint streaks and swirls, like the foam on the sea’s waves.
These shadowy features slowly moved, as wisps of cloud move on the
hills. Presently it was clear that the internal currents of the nebula
were on the whole set in a common pattern. The great world of gas was in
fact slowly rotating, almost as a tornado. As it rotated it continued to
flatten. It was now like some blurred image of a streaked and flattish
pebble, handy for “ducks and drakes,” held too near the eye to be
focused. Presently we noticed, with our novel and miraculous vision,
that microscopic points of intenser light were appearing here and there
throughout the cloud, but mainly in its outer regions. As we watched,
their number grew, and the spaces between them grew dark. Thus were the
stars born.
The great cloud still span and flattened. It was soon a disc of whirling
star-streams and strands of uncondensed gas, the last disintegrating
tissues of the primal nebula. These continued to move within the whole
by their own semi-independent activity, changing their shapes, creeping
like living things, extending pseudopodia, and
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