Comparability

"That still doesn't answer my question," said Ben, refusing to relinquish his point.

It was early, but the bar was already filling; tired students, stalwart regulars, homeward commuters stopping off.

"It's an absurd question," said Dan, draining his glass.  "It doesn't have an answer."

"I'm sure there are at least a dozen," said Ben.  "If I look it up online I can have four or five decent guesses and probably a canonical explanation in a minute."

"Knock yourself out," said Dan.

"But what I want," said Ben, "is your answer to the question, because I'm sure you've got one."

"It never occurred to me before," said Dan, looking over at the bar.  “Anyway, what brought this on?”

Ben shrugged.  Dan got up and came back with two glasses of beer.

“It’s this book I’m reading,” Ben said.

“Good?” asked Dan.

“Awful,” said Ben.

“So why are you reading it?” asked Dan.

Ben shrugged again.

“Did it win an award?” asked Dan.

Ben looked away.

“Are we reading this because it’s an award book?” asked Dan, trying to meet Ben’s eye.

“I heard it was good,” Ben agreed.

“If you don’t like it don’t read it,” said Dan.

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” said Ben.  “I’m just trying to understand it.”

“What’s not to understand?”  asked Dan.  “What book is it?”

Ben told him.

“I love that book,” said Dan.

“I thought you might,” said Ben.

“How can you not like that book?” asked Dan.

“That’s what I’m trying to understand,” said Ben.

“You don’t understand--” began Dan.

“Why I don’t like it, yes,” finished Ben.  “I have a theory so far, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Try me,” said Dan.

“It’s because the writing is bad,” said Ben.

“That’s insufficient information,” said Dan.  “What do you mean, bad?”

“That’s what I’m having trouble pinning down,” said Ben.  “But it’s mainly in the style, or lack thereof, I suppose.”

“It’s not a book you read for style,” said Dan, making a wry face.  “It’s a book you read for the ideas.”

“I know that,” said Ben.

“And it has style,” said Dan.  “It’s just not preoccupied with itself.”

“If you want to put it that way,” said Ben.  “I keep getting distracted by how band everything is.  It’s like someone describing what’s going on in a movie.  Nothing seems natural.”

“Do you like the ideas?” asked Dan.

“They’re interesting,” said Ben, “but they don’t seem to mean much so far.”

“There’s a whole world there,” said Dan.

“But nothing very interesting is happening in it,” said Ben.

“Says you,” said Dan.

Ben shrugged and took a drink.

“And this is why you want to know my answer to your question,” said Dan.

“Sure,” said Ben.  “But there’s another reason.”

“Which is,” said Dan.

“What’s your answer to the question first,” said Ben.  “You were about to say what it is.”

“Yes, they have it,” said Dan.  “Of course they do.”

“But why?” said Ben.  “That’s my question.  Why would they have art?  What would it be for?”

“How much do you know about Vulcans?” asked Dan.

“I know they have no emotions,” said Ben.  “They’re all logic.”

Dan shook his head and waved his finger, glass in hand.

“See, first thing,” he said.  “They do have emotions, they just suppress them so that they don’t interfere with their ability to get things done.”

“So do they ever feel them?” said Ben.

“I think they sort of feel them all the time,” said Dan.  “They just have gotten really good at not amplifying them, or acting on them in any way.”

“Then how can they create art?” said Ben.

“First,” said Dan, “I think you’re oversimplifying art by saying that it always has to do only with emotion.”

“Okay,” said Ben.

“I think there’s such a thing as logic art,” said Dan.

“Such as?” asked Ben.

“Escher?” said Dan after a moment.

Ben considered this.  “I don’t know that I’d say his work is purely logical, there’s definitely a sense of satisfaction.  But maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Dan.  “Anyway, I think there’s a lot more to art than just emotion.”

“There might be,” said Ben.  “But the emotion is the part that people remember, it’s what draws them in, it’s what they relate to.”

“Therefore,” said Dan, “you think that if a Vulcan made art, no one could relate to it, and no one would remember it.”

“I think,” said Ben, “that without emotion, the art would have very little meaning.”

“Maybe their art would just be very subtle,” said Dan.  “It wouldn’t be designed to make you feel carried away by anything, but to sort of explore very gentle changes in your own emotional state.”

“Curious notion,” said Ben, “but I’d like a concrete example.”  He blinked.  “That’s part of what’s bothering me about this book,” he said.  “The author just says everything, without giving any actual illustrations of anything.  He reports on what the characters say and do, and he never gives any personal impressions.”  He finished his beer.  “It’s like he’s giving a technical description.”

“And so you’re saying,” said Dan, “that this book must have been written by an alien with very little emotional response.”

“Actually no,” said Ben, “the two aren’t really related.  Or maybe they’re related to a third point that I’m not sure how to make.”

Dan pushed his empty glass towards his friend, who took it and went to the bar.

“It’s something like this,” said Ben, sitting back down with two new glasses and pushing one to Dan.  “And I have to make this quick, because I have to get going in a moment.”

“Always in a hurry these days,” said Dan.

“It’s getting late,” said Ben, “I have dinner plans.”

Dan cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s like this,” Ben began again.  “It’s like you said, some books are made for certain things, and nuanced emotion sometimes isn’t one of them.  But that’s okay, because the author spent their time working up the ideas.”

“Go on,” said Dan.

“But isn’t it better,” said Ben, “isn’t it always better when the ideas have an emotional reason for existing?  When they have to do with what the characters are going through personally, and not just part of where they are or what their world happens to be like?”

Dan considered.

“In the book you’re reading,” he said, “if I remember correctly, the ideas have quite a lot to do with the struggle the characters are going through.”

“You know what I mean,” said Ben.

“You’re talking about genre again, right?” asked Dan.

“Not necessarily,” said Ben.

“This is the ‘isn’t genre really inferior’ question all over again,” said Dan.

“It’s not what I meant to talk about,” said Ben.  “I just mean that in the stories that mean the most to me, the characters have to accomplish something or overcome something meaningful to them in an emotional way.”

“I’ve seen that happen in genre dozens of times,” said Dan.  “More often than not.”

“It’s just like they’re all technicians,” said Ben.  “And they encounter this technical problem, and then they find a technical solution to it.  Repeat.  No one really changes, no one really makes any sacrifices or gains any meaningful relationships.  Or they do, and the only way we hear about it is the narrator saying, ‘So-and-so really felt like they had changed, and What’s-his-name had developed a meaningful relationship.”

“Not everyone feels the need to play games,” Dan said with a shrug.  “Sometimes people just say things directly.  You never think to yourself, ‘I have a meaningful relationship with that person?’  You never tell them that to their face?”

“I might,” said Dan, “but it’s a little hokey.”

“And heaven forbid any of the classics you love be hokey,” said Dan.

“Well,” said Ben, “I’m going to think on this some more, and give you a more precise analysis, I think I’m on to something here, I just don’t have it yet.”

He rose and put on his coat.

“My day way fine, by the way,” said Dan.

“Glad to hear it,” said Ben.  “Maybe I’ll just drop this whole thing.  If I don’t like the book, I don’t have to read it.”

“Let me know when you finish it,” said Dan, as his friend walked out.