Day 199: Adaptations

"Supertoys Last All Summer Long" by Brian Aldiss in Adaptations: From Short Story to Big Screen.*
ISBN: 97814000053148.

One of the major reasons I've never really wanted a child is that I can't see myself loving something the way that most people seem to love their children.  It's like they sort of lose all reason when it comes down to this one (or more) person(s) in their life and nothing you can say or do will make them behave rationally.  I just don't see myself loving in that way, and I don't know if I'm more afraid of not being able to or of turning into one of those people.

I'm not at all suggesting that it is a bad thing to love your child so much.  I just don't know that it's for me.  I even like children somewhat, as a concept.  I like what they represent and the way they tend to look at the world with these very plastic and fluid brains that haven't quite figured out the concept of "wrong" or "inconceivable" yet.  They can and do imagine everything, which is why I think they're so amazing, but I would never, ever want to have one, because oh god the terrible things I might do to something so precious.

But what if I could have a make-believe child?  A robot child that I could love and who could love me, and whose brain I could just wipe clean whenever it got too "old" mentally?  Would I actually be able to feel love for an android child?  I don't think I could, and I don't think that anyone else could either.  It has nothing to do with the "not of my body" issue, although I imagine there are foster and adoptive parents who struggle to learn to love their adopted children (and probably love them all the more for those difficulties).

I think it has more to do with the fact that even though we know how children are made (unless you've undergone abstinence only programs), we don't really know how they are made.  There is a degree of randomness in it, the thrill of the unknown and the unpredictable, not only in creating the child, but in raising him or her.  I think this would be nearly impossible to program into an android child, because even with artificial intelligence, it will still act like a robot and there are things that a robot simply cannot do.

A robot does not need to be cared for in the middle of the night because of fevers or chicken pox or bad dreams.  A robot does not need to have scraped knees kissed or small cuts bandaged just to make him or her feel better.  Granted I'm sure they would have their own mechanical problems that equated to illness or bodily damage, and you could probably even program the android child to have bad dream responses.  But why would anyone in their right minds want their children to have nightmares?  Or diseases?  Or broken bones?  Or hurt feelings?  Yet these are the very things that make them our children, not necessarily the things themselves, but in how we tend to them, care for them, and teach our children to endure them and become better people.  With an android it would just feel like I was teaching the program how to beat me in chess, in the sense that I would be teaching it how to be a better human than I am, which completely defeats the purpose of being human.

We are designed to make mistakes.  And somehow I don't think that designing mistakes into an A.I. would solve the problem, the artifice just produces more artifice.  We love our children so insanely because they are so completely unpredictable.  We can "program" them any way we want to, but they still have their own directives and will follow them passionately in the face of all obstacles.  So while I can love (or hate) my car in the way that I can love any object, there is something particularly beautiful and untouchable in the way that people love children.  It is so vastly different from the way that we love other people or our animals.

It's as if that mixture of the bits of yourself and your partner and your respective relatives and all of the lessons you've taught the child still cannot account for the unknown element that the child carries within him- or herself. And I think it's that unknown element that we really love, because it's the one thing we know we can't grasp or influence and we revel in that.  We live in the joy that is that child's own, unique, and absolutely amazing ability to completely rip our hearts to pieces, and somehow make them bigger and better and more full of love than ever.  I would hate to see that kind of love wasted on a 1967 Corvette, no matter how beautiful it is.

*Film adaptation is A.I. Artificial Intelligence

Day 166: Adaptations

"Rear Window" by Cornell Woolrich in Adaptations: From Short Story to Big Screen.*
ISBN: 97814000053148.

The premise of this short story is that a nosey neighbor with a broken leg and too much time on his hands witnesses suspicious behavior in the building next to him.  He suspects murder and calls the cops.  The question is, how morally responsible are we for reporting suspicious behavior?

This is such a tricky question for me.  As a librarian I unequivocally believe in every citizens' right to privacy.  But if someone's life is in danger or has been taken, don't I also have a responsibility, as a social being and a community member, to prevent harm?  These are the ethical dilemmas of both my profession and my own moral compass.  I am actually not so frightened of the people who come to the library and check out books about bomb making or euthanasia; these are people who act openly even if only in front of their circulation clerk.  I'm more concerned about the people who hide in their homes and do research solely on the internet.  Not that I think their actions should be monitored either, but there is something to the "I'm not doing anything wrong so I have nothing to hide" mentality.

But what if I did observe this behavior in a setting I was not meant to observe?  If I viewed suspicious behavior in someone else's home, I honestly don't know how I would react.  It's likely not a decision I would make on my own.  I would probably discuss it closely with family or friends to determine the best reaction.  I certainly wouldn't rely solely on my own speculations and paranoia to make the best judgment.  But I think perhaps the best I can hope for is to never have to make that decision.


*Film adaptation is Rear Window (1954).  Short story was originally titled "It Had to be Murder."
**Post originally written August 14th, 2010.  I'm a little behind on my reading.

Day 143: Adaptations

"Jerry and Molly and Sam" by Raymond Carver in Adaptations: From Short Story to Big Screen.*
ISBN: 97814000053148.

So, I kind of debated about how I was going to present this.  Gaiman's work was easy because it was all one author.  This is honestly the best way I could come up with; hopefully it's clear enough.

This particular short story is about a man whose life is starting to fall apart around him.  He's on the verge of losing his job (through no fault of his own), his wife (very much from his fault), and he seems to have no interest in his kids whatsoever.  And then there's this damned dog named Suzy that he hates and wants to get rid of.

Man, can I relate to wanting to get rid of a dog named Suzy (or Suzie in my case, but let's not quibble).  My grandpa had a dog named Suzie, thanks to my brother who had a friend who gave it to him as a Christmas present.  Grandpa told my brother to find a new home for Suzie, but after two months it was too late.  Grandpa not only ended up getting attached to the damned dog, but ended up taking care of her as well.

I didn't really mind that grandpa had a pet.  Yes, he was in his mid 90's when the dog came along, but that man was robust.  I would not have been surprised if he had made it to 100 (as it was he was about 2 years shy).  Unfortunately, Suzie was just a little too hyper for Grandpa, especially considering her massive size at 80 pounds (Grandpa probably weighed slightly more at somewhere around 5'3").  It just seemed like it was a little too much work for a man that old.  But he loved her and I don't think any of us who have dared to try to take her away from Grandpa.  I do wish Suzie had been more the size of a Yorkshire Terrier and about as hyper as a Beagle, but then I think Grandpa would have had less incentive to walk that mile and a half a day which was his habit up until the day he died.

Pets are special, even more so when you have one that everyone else seems to hate.  It's nice to have an animal that you alone love.  It's the one time where possessive love is seen as a positive and healthy thing.  I think that love was very necessary for Grandpa, I just wish it hadn't been that damned dog.


*Film adaptation is Short Cuts (1993).
**Photo is Grandpa's last Christmas in 2008.  Sans Dog.  Sadly I was not there and I lifted this from a cousin's Facebook album.
***Post originally written July 18, 2010 and saved in case of impending Zombocalypse.