Lord of the Rings

 

I’m finally done with the Lord of the Rings volumes. It took me over a month to go through Tolkein’s colossal work. And I have a strong feeling that what I’m going to state in this post may fall into the domain of extremely unpopular opinion. But here goes: I found the reading experience to be painfully mediocre.

It was a struggle to get to the end of the six books, compiled into three volumes. And the usual thrill and suspense associated with most fantasy books was absent. I felt the majority of the literature focused on describing surroundings than on actual dialogue and character development.

Now, make no mistake, I do understand and appreciate Tolkein’s contribution to the world of literature and the fantasy genre in particular. But Lord of the Rings, when reviewed objectively, didn’t turn out to be such a great book. Personally, I felt more than half the book could have been omitted without making a huge difference to the narrative. Also, Tolkein didn’t seem to have too much of a regard about building suspense towards the climatic scenes of the book. Frodo Baggins and Gollum fighting over the ring in the heart of Mount Doom will always remain one of my most favorite cinematic moments. This monumental scene took place in the first half of the last book. And it was over before I could even start to savor it. And with Sauron gone, it seemed pointless to continue reading the narrative for seven more chapters (practically three to four days).

I’ve always been a fan of Tolkein’s world. Peter Jackson’s portrayal of his books will always be among the few cinematic masterpieces in film history. I strongly feel Jackson’s narrative was a lot more engaging. His movies had significant female characters, something which Tolkein’s books utterly lacked. Additionally, Jackson conveniently removed all the parts that were a pain to read and otherwise unimportant to the main narrative (think Tom Bombadil, Goldberry and Saruman’s conquering of the Shire).

Everything said and done, I’d be stupid if I denied that the books give a valuable insight into how the entire genre of fantasy took birth. Most people I know swear by the books. Maybe it all boils down to a matter of personal taste. And although I did not like the books and may never read them again, I’d strongly suggest you do. It is a must have in every serious reader’s bookshelf.

The Ship of Theseus

 

Personal Identity has always been that one branch of philosophy that never ceased to entice me. And today, I thought I’d write a small piece on the Ship of Theseus paradox, its proposed solutions and the kind of ramifications it has to the contemporary (and most probably, futuristic) world.

The paradox, one of the most famous and hotly debated ones in philosophical circles, was first explained by Greek philosopher and essayist Plutarch who introduced the problem as follows:

The ship wherein Theseus and the youth of Athens returned from Crete had thirty oars, and was preserved by the Athenians down even to the time of Demetrius Phalereus, for they took away the old planks as they decayed, putting in new and stronger timber in their places, in so much that this ship became a standing example among the philosophers, for the logical question of things that grow; one side holding that the ship remained the same, and the other contending that it was not the same.

It seems to me that the answer to the aforementioned question is in the affirmative. I strongly believe that both the ships are the same. And the school of philosophers who hold the same opinion as mine will tend to give you the example of the human body.

Human cells are continuously formed and destroyed throughout the entire lifetime of a person. This means that every cell you were born with have perished and have been replaced by new cells. Does this make your 1 year old self and you present self two completely different people? I think not.

And why this is the case is what I’d like to devote the crux of this post on. But before that, consider an alternative scenario where Theseus sets sail and in the middle chooses to transfer himself and his crew to another ship. Will the two ships be the same? I think most of us would believe the contrary. But what if the new ship in this Universe was built of exactly the same materials that was used to replace parts in Plutarch’s Universe? Despite the crew and the ship being exactly the same, the two ships have sharply contrasting identities. One can clearly be shown to not be the original ship whereas the other is a source of raging debate.

So, is my premise wrong? Are the two ships not the same? I’d say no. And to defend my position of what clearly seems to be a case of dissonance, I’d like to explain a concept which I call assimilation.

In its bare essence, it means that for an entity A and B to be the same whilst having entirely different compositions, it is mandatory that the replacement of A’s parts with that of B’s be done in a discrete, step-wise manner.

In the case of the ship, the parts were being replaced one by one. So, when the first plank was replaced by a newer, stronger one, the latter became assimilated to the original ship. It now was as much part of Theseus’ ship as all the other original parts. And by induction, every new piece which was introduced into the ship was assimilated too.

But if you were to take this set of new materials and build an entirely new ship altogether, the process of assimilation would be absent. And that is the primary reason why the two scenarios described above had contradictory results.

Think of it in this way. Let’s say you’ve built a huge Lego house built entirely out of yellow blocks. Now, you proceed to replace each yellow block with a red, one by one. While doing so, you wouldn’t end up with a new Lego house even if the end product is completely red (in contrast to the yellow house you started out with). That’s because each red brick became a part of the house when it was replaced. It assimilated. It became one of them.

But again, a very interesting question could be posed. What if those yellow bricks were collected and another house was built that resembled the original house. Which of the two houses would be the original one?

As counter intuitive as this may sound, I’d still say it is the red one. And this, I believe, arises out of something I call ‘assimilation power’. Basically, when one part is removed from another, one part tends to lose its identity of being a part of the object whereas the other retains it. When one plank is removed from Theseus’ ship, it no longer remains a part of Theseus’ ship. It loses that identity. The rest of the ship, however, retains its identity.

Probably this analogy would help convince you more if you aren’t yet. A person excommunicated from a nation (say, the United States) does not remain an American anymore. But all the other citizens of the nation continues to. On the other hand, an immigrant that enters a nation naturally becomes an American.

So, hypothetically, if all the current residents of America were excommunicated one by one and replaced by a new immigrant up to a point of time when all the original residents are banished, which country would be America? The one of the immigrants or the one formed by the excommunicated? Again, I believe the answer is the former.

I do understand that what my line of reasoning may not seem that potent. Particularly, the concept of assimilation power and loss of identity upon removal are some things that I’m not entirely sure of. But again, as it is with almost every question in philosophy, I do hope this encourages some healthy debate. I do not have a lot of comments on my blogs but this time, dear reader, please do make it a point to share your opinions, however polar and contrasting they are to mine.