Technological Man and Qualia
The following stream of consciousness narration is taken from the novel “Homo Faber” by Max Frisch. It takes place the night after the commercial airplane the protagonist was aboard was forced to make an emergency landing in the middle of the Tamaulipas desert because of engine failure.
"I’ve often wondered what people mean when they talk about an experience. I’m a technologist and accustomed to seeing things as they are. I see everything they are talking about very clearly; after all, I’m not blind. I see the moon over the Tamaulipas desert - it is more distinct than at other times, perhaps, but still a calculable mass circling round our planet, an example of gravitation, interesting, but in what way an experience? I see the jagged rocks, standing out black against the moonlight; perhaps they do look like the jagged backs of prehistoric monsters, but I know they are rocks, stone, probably volcanic, one would have to examine them to be sure of this. Why should I feel afraid? There aren’t any prehistoric monsters anymore. Why should I imagine them? I’m sorry, but I don’t see any stone angels either, nor demons; I see what I see - the usual shapes due to erosion and also my long shadow on the sand, but no ghosts. Why get womanish? I don’t see any Flood either, but sand lit up by the moon and made undulating, like water, by the wind, which doesn’t surprise me; I don’t find it fantastic, but perfectly explicable. I don’t know what souls of the damned looked like; perhaps like black agaves in the desert at night. What I see are agaves, a plant that blossoms once only and then dies. Furthermore, I know (however it may look at the moment) that I am not the last or the first man on earth; and I can’t be moved by the mere idea that I am the last man, because it isn’t true. Why get hysterical? Mountains are mountains, even if in a certain light they may look like something else, but it is the Serra Madre Oriental, and we are not standing in a kingdom of the dead, but in the Tamaulipas desert, Mexico, about sixty miles from the nearest road, which is unpleasant, but in what way an experience? An airplane to me is an airplane, I can’t see it as a dead bird, it is a Super-Constellation with engine trouble, nothing more, and it makes no difference how much the moon shines on it. Why should I experience what isn’t there? Nor can I bring myself to hear something resembling eternity; I don’t hear anything, apart from the trickle of sand at every step. I am shivering, but I know that in seven to eight hours the sun will be shining again. What is all this about the end of the world? I can’t imagine a lot of nonsense, merely in order to experience something. I see the sandy horizon, whitish in the green night, twenty miles away at a guess, and I don’t see why there, in the direction of Tampico, the Other World should begin. I know Tampico. I refuse to feel afraid simply because of an overactive imagination, or to start imagining things simply because I feel afraid. It was altogether too mystical for me."
"I’ve often wondered what people mean when they talk about an experience. I’m a technologist and accustomed to seeing things as they are. I see everything they are talking about very clearly; after all, I’m not blind. I see the moon over the Tamaulipas desert - it is more distinct than at other times, perhaps, but still a calculable mass circling round our planet, an example of gravitation, interesting, but in what way an experience? I see the jagged rocks, standing out black against the moonlight; perhaps they do look like the jagged backs of prehistoric monsters, but I know they are rocks, stone, probably volcanic, one would have to examine them to be sure of this. Why should I feel afraid? There aren’t any prehistoric monsters anymore. Why should I imagine them? I’m sorry, but I don’t see any stone angels either, nor demons; I see what I see - the usual shapes due to erosion and also my long shadow on the sand, but no ghosts. Why get womanish? I don’t see any Flood either, but sand lit up by the moon and made undulating, like water, by the wind, which doesn’t surprise me; I don’t find it fantastic, but perfectly explicable. I don’t know what souls of the damned looked like; perhaps like black agaves in the desert at night. What I see are agaves, a plant that blossoms once only and then dies. Furthermore, I know (however it may look at the moment) that I am not the last or the first man on earth; and I can’t be moved by the mere idea that I am the last man, because it isn’t true. Why get hysterical? Mountains are mountains, even if in a certain light they may look like something else, but it is the Serra Madre Oriental, and we are not standing in a kingdom of the dead, but in the Tamaulipas desert, Mexico, about sixty miles from the nearest road, which is unpleasant, but in what way an experience? An airplane to me is an airplane, I can’t see it as a dead bird, it is a Super-Constellation with engine trouble, nothing more, and it makes no difference how much the moon shines on it. Why should I experience what isn’t there? Nor can I bring myself to hear something resembling eternity; I don’t hear anything, apart from the trickle of sand at every step. I am shivering, but I know that in seven to eight hours the sun will be shining again. What is all this about the end of the world? I can’t imagine a lot of nonsense, merely in order to experience something. I see the sandy horizon, whitish in the green night, twenty miles away at a guess, and I don’t see why there, in the direction of Tampico, the Other World should begin. I know Tampico. I refuse to feel afraid simply because of an overactive imagination, or to start imagining things simply because I feel afraid. It was altogether too mystical for me."