The Macauley Circuit by Robert Silverberg - Literature review Example

Harmony of the Future Robert Silverberg’s story “The Macauley Circuit,” the presents a futuristic parable relevant to today’s technological progress. The name of the story has certain connotations and allusions to the theme of the story. The Scottish name ‘Macauley’ can only be a reference to the long running tradition of scientific Scottish engineers, running from the influential physicist James Maxwell to the science fiction projection of ‘Scotty’ in the Star Trek universe. Yet Silverberg hides a more symbolic reference in this choice of names, for it contains the word ‘caul,’ which is the protective membrane surrounding a baby in the womb. A child born with a caul around its head (while traditionally considered a good omen) must have it removed before it can experience the world; Silverberg’s story directly addresses human trepidation in the face of new technology, i.e. the birth of a new age for mankind. Likewise, ‘Circuit’ proves to be a double entendre, for it directly relates to the actual electric circuit that causes the drama of the story, but also connotes the route by which judges traveled in order to hold court. This story is told in the first person, and the narrator must travel a circuit of conflicting emotions before reaching a point of judgment for himself (and also the lesson intended by the author). The story is set somewhere around the year 2300. The conflict revolves around two main characters, the narrator (a synthesizer interpreter) and Gregor Kolfmann (an aging concert pianist), and their contrasting views about the future of music through technology. Macauley himself, the creator of title circuit which will bring about the next generation of synthesized music, is essentially a faceless secondary character and therefore his role is incidental. As the narrator observes, “All the young technicians used to tinker with (the imperfect Kennedy circuit of 2261) for diversion, each one hoping he’d find the secret.” (130). Presumably, the problem would have been solved by someone… it was only a matter of time. Therefore the two main characters are important for their opposing opinions about technological evolution. As one of the main concerns of the story is technology, perhaps it would be easier to analyze the characters in terms a computer would understand, a sort of binary code. Computers operate on the principle of the binary code, where the 1 or 0 are values assigned to all properties. This 1-0 can be likened to a light switch, where the 1 is on and the 0 off, or rather, they represent a series of positive or negative positions. When applied to Silverberg’s characters, this model reveals a number of interesting ramifications… The story is told as a flashback from the narrator’s eventual point of view. For the purposes of the binary model, one must examine his original position, chronologically speaking, which can only be designated as positive (or 1) in regards to technology. The narrator is a synthesizer interpreter, who secretly views himself as an artist, despite his work focusing on enhancing existing works rather than composing now music. The reality of his occupation is in direct conflict with his self-image. He freely admits that he feels no need to rearrange Beethoven’s Seventh, but is merely reinforcing them with ultrasonics while imagining that Beethoven would have appreciated the added ‘feel.’ While this job requires skill, it is more technical than artistic, and as such is not nearly enough evidence to justify the view of himself “as a musical artist” (131), no matter that he might classify his accomplishments as “…the great artistic triumph of synthesizing” (129). When the narrator claims that “…my deepest allegiance is to music” (132), the author is using an element of ironic foreshadowing, for the narrator’s alliance proves otherwise in the end, but only after his exposure to Gregor Kolfmann. Gregor Kolfmann definitely represents the 0 in the equation, as his initial view of technologies influence are negative in every way. Furthermore, he accurately recognizes the narrator (much to the narrator’s dismay) and his colleagues by saying, “You, you scientists - you’ve killed art…” (131), simultaneously declaring his fears about the evolution of synthesizers. Kolfmann’s aggravation has some justification: he is a concert pianist whose performances and students have dwindled in the wake of technology’s progress. What concerns him more seems to be the shrinking respect students hold for music in general. Aside from being unable to book any performances, his fears are compounded by the next generation’s attitude to the piano, for they study it as an curiosity. He is outraged because “… they are not artists… they have no artistic drive…”, a condition he again directly accuses the narrator and the machine of having killed art. Perhaps it is because of this accusation that the narrator wishes to prove the benefits of technology; perhaps the insult of being categorized as a scientist rather than as an artist, has wounded the narrator to the point of needing to retaliate. Whatever the cause, the narrator plays Kolfmann a version of the Hohenstein Viola Concerto. This is a difficult piece to play, especially so for the piano: the score is arranged in a twelve-tone scale (a rather arbitrary pattern of chromatic scale that uses no keynotes) while the piano was specifically designed around octave progressions. The narrator mentions no use of ultrasonics or subharmonics for this piece, as the machine’s precision effortlessly playing such a complex composition is beyond any human’s skill on the viola. Kolfmann recognizes the complexity and it technical performance. No doubt he also recognizes the insult offered to his instrument of choice. Small wonder that he listens to the full recording then leaves, declaring that the narrator is “a devil.” (132). Kolfmann is confused at this point and his pride is wounded… but he is still anti-technology, if only because he sees the demise of his own career and passions in the evolution of the synthesizer. At this point in the story, Kolfmann has referred to the narrator, and his advocacy of technology, as “a devil.” These are but further ramifications of the duality of the binary code: a god or a devil, the infernal or the sublime… all in a matter of human perspective. But whatever the extreme, be it Heaven or Hell, there is still the unhappy medium of reality. Yet while in computer language an assigned value is a permanent value, in nature (particularly human nature) there are no definites. This is illustrated in the apex of the story, where the narrator uses a synthesizer to restructure a speech by Kolfmann’s deceased teacher, Gotthard Kellerman, to directly address Kolfmann in his mentor’s voice. Ironically, the source speech was one Kellerman had delivered entitled “The Development of Pedal Techniques,” which implies not only an advance along a technical front, but also evolving adaptations of its artistic manipulation. The reorganized voice informs Kolfmann that “Techniques must constantly change, though art itself remains changeless.” (132). Kolfmann after much thought, is forced to reply that the narrator was successful and that his opinion has been shaken. Kolfmann then makes his greatest (and most insightful) concession, declaring that “You are foolish, but I have been even more foolish than you.” (133), going on to recognize that he should have been first among those to embrace the possibilities the application of technology could allow. For what happens now, as far as a binary code is concerned, is nothing short of miraculous. The two characters begin to exchange their values… something impossible within a computer’s parameters of binary code! Gregor Kolfmann becomes the proponent of technology, as the narrator loans him both a synthesizer and an instructor to hasten the mastering of the machine. Kolfman returns soon enough, bearing several tapes of pieces he has worked on and claiming that “This machine is the noblest instrument I have ever played.” (133). The narrator is dumfounded by the pianist’s masterful use of ultrasonics; Kolfmann has conquered applications the narrator spent fifteen painstaking years to learn. Kolfamnn is now bursting with excitement over synthesizer possibilities, but more interesting is the author’s subtle choicees of music in furthering the plot. The first example Kolfmann plays is Chopin’s Fantaisie in F Minor, a piece ingenious in its intricacies, but which uses motif variations of a song from the November Uprising. The November Uprising, also known as the Cadet Revolution, was an 1830 Polish revolutionary attempt against Russian control. Although unsuccessful, Silverberg has chosen it as a reference to revolution led by cadets, i.e. students, against traditional order. Kolfmann’s second musical example is equally apt - Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor - which is compelling in its improvisational feel. Many theorize that Bach composed this piece to test an organ, for in trying to play the instrument to its full capacity, any possible flaws in would result in changes of pitch and tone. Kolfmann could have chosen no finer piece to test the full range of the synthesizer’s capabilities. It is during the playing of this tape that the narrator begins to realize that he and his co-technicians were “striving to perfect the synthesizer by eliminating the one imperfect element - man.” (134) at which point the narrator claims to wake up. Kolfmann’s final piece, Mozart’s Requiem Mass, is selected primarily for its impact upon the narrator. The narrator has come full circle by now: he is the 0, the negative opinion of technology. The Mass for the Dead playing symbolizes the demolishment of both his self-delusion and his grandiose opinion of technology. Through the course of the story (aside from the 20/20 hindsight of the introductory paragraphs), the narrator has idly contemplated the significance of Macauley’s circuit. He recognizes that it could leave him unemployed, “since anyone would be able to create a music interpretation… artistry (at least his efforts at it) would no longer be an operative factor.” (133). Yet this is mere speculation initially. When Kolfmann shows how truly limited the narrator’s ‘artistry’ truly is, the narrator then realizes how insignificant his contributions to music have been. The narrator rationalizes that the pianist should live out the rest of his life without any more competition from a machine, and that therefore the circuit should remain on the shelf until after Kolfmann’s death. Having realized his own artistic mediocrity, contemplation of the circuit’s ramifications forces him to recognize that his own technical skills would no longer be marketable, “for interpreters like me would be a credit a hundred.” (134). The irony of the narrator’s long hours working on Beethoven’s Seventh are understandable now: for while Beethoven was deaf, the narrator has been blind… but he is beginning to see. Marginalized from the annals of his beloved music, replaced in his work by a small piece of silicon, the narrator’s depression leaps to the possibility of his deepest horror: that the circuit would make both conductor and composer a footnote in history books. With his own self-image shattered, the narrator lashes out at this idea, destroying both the diagram of Macauley’s circuit and the synthesizer playing Mozart. He has no illusions that he has “stopped the wheels of science.”, yet his reaction can only be viewed as negative, a violent reaction to a nightmare realized. His aspirations for technology have flat-lined. The zero, risen from Arabic sands, seems connected to the silicon of computers in some mystic way… but the narrator now hopes both return to dust. And so this discussion must gain a dimension, by moving the focus from two element to three. One of the basic guidelines in most music is the concept of harmony. One of the simplest forms of harmony is the triad, an interlocking relationship between three elements to accentuate and play off of the other elements. This can be applied to the story, in the relationship of the narrator-machine-Kolfmann, or to the music experience in general, in which the relationship works composer-instrument/medium-listener. All of these elements directly effect each other. The root cause of the narrator’s bitterness, what he has lost but Kolfmann has regained, what Silverberg accomplishes in his story… is a sense of harmony. When the narrator comments that “I looked at Macauley’s circuit and at Kolfmann, and felt as if everything were dropping on me at once.” (131), these are the first signs of discord in his environment. Then, when Kolfmann returns from having mastered the synthesizer, everything truly does begin to fall down of the narrator’s psyche. He must first concede that Kolfmann far outshines his own abilities, a fact his fragile ego still tries to take credit for, claiming “I felt that this (introducing Kolmann to the synthesizer) was my greatest artistic triumph.” Abashed, yet still pompous, the narrator then tries to bolster his own ego by studying his true expertise, that of technology. For the narrator only her begins to realize “the threat represented by the Macauley circuit.” (133). He realizes that it might eliminate the need for his own work, but placates his injured ego by believing that the circuit will outperform even Kolfmann. Hence, his decision to suppress the circuit’s use until after Kolfmann’s demise. All of this time, Kolfmann’s use of ultrasonic is buffeting the narrator’s already shaken emotions. When the Requiem Mass begins, the narrator’s psyche shatters completely: his battered self-defenses leap paranoid to the conclusion that the circuit will allow music to circumvent a whole third of the composer-medium-listener triad, ultimately destroying the harmony of his own personal reverence for music. The narrator’s collapse, however, only serves to underscore the other harmonic elements in the story: both in Kolfmann’s vindication, and the implied justification of musical technological evolution. Kolfmann’s character has certainly grown harmonious with both the application of synthesizers and with the narrator’s original passion. This growth is certainly understandable when one considers just how sympathetic Kolfmann’s nature is regarding these subjects. Kolfmann has ordered his life around music and especially the piano… if he should be so doting upon the parent, it reasonably follows that he should come to adore the prodigal child, even should that offspring be so daunting in its complexities as the synthesizer proves to be. Yet it is still derived from the things he loves, and once Kolfmann is able to overcome his trepidation, he quickly becomes a stalwart ally of the new technology, claiming that he has “wasted my life.” (133) by not moving to the synthesizer earlier. Likewise, when the narrator claims that his (the narrator‘s) “deepest allegiance is to music” (132), he could easily be speaking for Kolfmann as well. The narrator’s inflated ego is what makes him feel responsible for Kolfmann’s well-being; they are both irrevocably linked to music, yet it is the narrator’s field that has destroyed Kolfmann’s livelihood. It is only fitting that Kolfmann should be reminded of the necessity to adapt to progress through the narrato’r hybrid of technology and the spirit of Gotthard Kellerman. Thus the past and the future speak, in harmony, to make Kolfmann realize that he is still a necessary component to music. Whatever the narrator may come to believe, Kolfmann’s revitalization can only be beneficial to music in general. The third part of Silverberg’s harmonious plot can now be examined: technology. Macauley initially describes the circuit’s functions thusly: one must “establish the esthetic coordinates…and the synthesizer will handle the rest of the interpretation for you.” (130). This effectively allows the machine a fractalized method of design, in which it may create random appearing patterns within a set of definite parameters. Esthetics themselves refer to what humans find artistically pleasing; by setting the parameters for the machine, the synthesizer must accommodate to what humans find pleasing. The narrator, when he grows paranoid that the technology will make musicians and/or composers obsolete, makes a few leaps in logic over important factors. He claims that the synthesizer “could create it’s own music, from scratch, with no human help.” (134). Perhaps this is true, but the product would still have to be judged by human esthetics… at least until the machine became aware enough to develop its own set of esthetic values. For humans, esthetic values are determined by the nature of their reality and the emotions these conditions invoke. A computer, whose very existence in inherently different from humans, esthetic qualities would have to develop from contemplation of its own role in the universe. The narrator, despite his violent regression in defending his tenets, does make one evolutionary connection. Just as Kolfmann realized the error of fighting progress and was forced to revaluate his views of technology, so too does the narrator revaluate his own error. Where he first states that “…art is a function of human beings…” (134), he lashes out against the technology. After this, he admits that he has not stopped progress in the slightest, and he realizes a few paragraphs later that “Art is a function of intelligent beings.” Although the synthesizer does not qualify yet, perhaps it will come closer with the application of Macauley’s circuit… which is not ultimately a bad thing. There has never been a single human composer to produce all of music in history; there will never be a single synthesizer to produce all of the music of in the future. The reasons for this lie in the evolution of music, for every musician has an intuitive “feel” for the music (the intuition of which changes the piece from performance to performance) as well as an individual interpretation of the composition. Artists learn through the inspiration of themselves and others. Should a computer reach the level of sentient being, should it eventually compose music for its own enjoyment, then it undoubtedly will benefit from exposure to other music performed by other composers - be they human or mechanical. If anything, computers might be exempt from such human foible’s as jealousy - which is what the narrator suffers. Regardless, music in general will only thrive with more intelligent beings participating in its creation. While the narrator has delusions of grandeur regarding his musical abilities, he fails to recognize his skills as a catalyst between music and technology. There is skill in understanding a craft so well that it develops into artistic qualities. This is certainly the case of Silverberg’s writing. He has used his craft and artistry to interweave a number of elements and devices into a significant statement. He adopts the musicla theory of harmony to create the central elements of his story; he uses the binary code of technology to establish opposing character personalities; he then accentuates their human capabilities by having the characters reverse their positions. His allusions to musical works each illustrate certain cogent parallels to the plot progression. Even his writing style, when seemingly at odds with the surface layer of the story, reveal multiple dimensions to the story. On the first page, the narrator’s descriptions have such words as ‘felt’ or ‘strengthened’ italicized, which only reinforces the character’s attachment to abstract human esthetics over the coldness of technological analysis. This attachment is particularly ironic in that the narrator works as a synthesizer-interpreter technician… proving ultimately to be foreshadowing, manifested in the final pages of the story, where the narrator completely loses any logical control and resorts to the sheer humanity of emotion. As the story is told in first person, the narrator is naturally the most developed character in the story, yet he is so well established through the course of events that Silverberg never felt the need to give him a name. Perhaps, because of this, the narrator can represent a sort of everyman character, forced to deal with the ongoing evolution of technology… especially the techno-phobe. Silverberg implies both warning and reassurance in this story: true, the narrator becomes a doom prophet, yet in his fatalistic final opinion, there remains an element of extremism, as if to say “it can’t really be that bad.” The Kolfman character certainly indicates otherwise. Regardless of what the future may hold in store for intelligent technology, it will have to evolve to staggering heights to approach the artistry Silverberg has instilled in “The Macauley Circuit.” Works Cited Silverberg, Robert. “The Macauley Circuit.” Sunrise on Mercury. Nelson Doubleday, ed. 1975. Read More