The idea of traveling between alternate realities is a common theme in speculative fiction. Multiverse stories are a logical extension of allohistory, and a close relative of that other grand old convention, time travel. The idea is often explained as inspired by the Many-Worlds Interpretation first formulated by Hugh Everett in 1957, but its use in literature and storytelling has been long with us. Jorge Luis Borges used the theme in his 1941 story "The Garden of Forking Paths". There are earlier examples in Margaret Cavendish's The Blazing World of 1666 (recently revisited by Alan Moore) and in one of the stories in the One Thousand and One Nights. Ancient multiverses can be found in the Hindu cosmology and the nine worlds of the Norse mythos were around long before Jack Kirby.

Right from the start, Banks' Transition has superficial similarities to Michael Moorcock, especially the Jerry Cornelius stories. Both books feature amoral agents with shifting loyalties, flitting between versions of Earth. They party down in exotic locales, averting or causing global calamity — like rock stars trashing an infinity of hotel suites. Victorian airships and super-assassins abound. The theory goes that all of Moorcock's fiction is one big multiverse, from the Sword and Sorcery worlds of Elric of Melniboné or Corum Jhaelen Irsei to the decadent Dancers at the End of Time. All the various characters in these works are aspects or avatars of a stock cast of meta-players often compared to the Commedia dell'Arte theater tradition with its tricksters, oafs, and backstabbers. Jerry Cornelius is a 20th Century face of the slightly mis-named Eternal Champion. He's an anarchist secret-agent, a super-slick antihero whirling in a blaze of intoxicants and ready fuck anything that fucking moves. David Bowie as Doctor Who, turned up to fuckin' twelve! While quite entertaining, it should be no surprise that these quintessential examples of SF's New Wave movement can be a wee bit disorienting. Product of the times.

For a speculative fiction ride of sex, drugs, and rock&roll that's less experimental (ahem, easier to read), I prefer Mick Farren, singer of the proto-punk band The Deviants, White Panther Party member, and Elvis scholar. Out of print, but well worth the hunt, are his multiverse romps in The DNA Cowboys Trilogy and Necrom, some truly weird fun shit. The dimension-tripping demon Yancey Slide from those adventures also turns up in the more recent Kindling and Conflagration He also wrote the Victor Renquist novels, a series of vampire novels that aren't totally lame. 2002's Underland has the CIA, vampires, and Nazis duking it out with flying saucers in the Hollow Earth beneath Antarctica. Yeah. Hell, just track down anything you can by Mick Farren.

Along with Moorcock, two other Monsters of Multiverse Literature ( or "Mul-Lit") are The Amber Chronicles by Roger Zelazny and the series that inspired that, World of Tiers by Philip José Farmer. They have much more of a fantasy feel than the above, especially because of an overuse of courtly language in the former and centaurs and other classic monsters in the latter. You'll also find plenty of complex machinations by powerful groups or families (Zelazny is notorious for Daddy Issues) and decadent, lusty adventure (more of Farmer's bag in trade, but evident in both). I enjoyed both of these series as a teen, but to be honest that was a long time ago and my impressions are murky at best. I recall the fiveTiers with more fondness, but that might be due to the risqué covers by Boris Vallejo. I can assert with some authority that the reader should stop after the first five Amber books, do not read the second series, do not collect the recent stuff written by John Gregory Betancourt. Sadly, Amber suffers from a terminal case of Herberts' Syndrome.

The quirky standalone Roadmarks by Zelazny could be considered a multiverse book. In it, the space-time continuum is an actual highway accessible to a few. The protagonist tools around the centuries in a dusty old pickup running guns to the Persians at Marathon. Occassionally he passes Hitler, his VW bug parked at the side of the road looking for the weed-choked off road to where he won WWII. I'm going to try and fit in some Amber andTiers, maybe revisit Riverworld too, just for old time's sake.

Now that I'm thoroughly soaked in nostalgia, allow me to wax rhetorical on multiverse comic books I always liked. Yes, they're old, I'm old; get used to it, and get off my urine-covered stoop.

The capes-and-tights set is plagued with multiverses, and they're always having Ultimate Critical Infinity Wars — boooring. A refreshing change from all that was the " Zenith" strip in2000 AD (1987-1992). This was young Grant Morrison and Steve Yeowell's contribution to the British superhero deconstruction attack of the 1980s. It had battles between multiple Earths, hippie/fascist versions of the same superheroes, the Lloigor from the Cthulhu Mythos, and a hero who was a real asshole. Yeowell's brushy B & W artwork was a sweet counterpoint to the usual 4-color superhero look, too.

For graphical goodies of a more science fictional bent, you cant go wrong with the ligne claire and spacey psychedlia of Jean Giraud better known as Moebius, co-creator of Métal Hurlant magazine. The Airtight Garage is a series of artificial pocket universes built into the asteroid Flower 51. They are the playgrounds/battlefields for the likes of Lady Malvina, Major Gubert, the crew of the spaceship Ciguri, and Jerry Cornelius. Hey, whaaa? Yep, Moorcock allowed other artists, writers, and musicians the use of the character in a sort of Open Source deal. For a while Marvel had a problem with that and the character was renamed Lewis Carnelian for a while. Weird. There are songs about Jerry by Blue Öyster Cult and Hawkwind, but I digress. Moebius returned to the Airtight Garage in '96 with Man from the Ciguri from Dark Horse. All lots of fun.

Bryan Talbot's The Adventures of Luther Arkwright is also often compared to Moorcock, and in many ways improves upon him. Frankly, when you want to read about sexy psychic spies fighting transdimensional evil, it's hard to top the Arkwright stories. I love Talbot's vision of alternate Britains, like the one where Cromwell's Revolution still rages on and the Puritans terrorize the skies from massive airships. The complex plot jumps around jarringly in the original series, before finally coalescing, as you begin to see the multiverse as Luther does. There is also an audio version with the voices of David Tennant and Paul Darrow, I've never heard it — but wow, fangasm. The later 1999 sequel, Heart of Empire from Dark Horse again, follows the story of Luther's daughter in a much more linear fashion, with absolutely gorgeous art and much of that retro-Victorian futurism the kids like.

I have a particular fondness for the idiosyncratic doodles of doom by of Matt Howarth. His anarchic city-world of Bugtown is the home of indestructible assassins, rockstars, giant sharks, and nuclear goddesses; all of whom flit through the most surreal and impossible alternate universes imaginable. The series Those Annoying Post Brothers and Savage Henry are just packed full of crazy. Many experimental underground musicians make regular appearances in Howarth's work. There are adventures featuring Conrad Schnitzler, The Residents, and Micheal Moorcock collaborators, Hawkwind. Geez, that guy gets his beard into everything. Howarth also draws great aliens that look really alien, like cacti crossed with really uncomfortable furniture. Look for the very funny SF Konny & Czu strips.

"So Grey", I hear you say, " how about something less reminiscent of your college-dorm lava-lamp days? Something more, y'know [describes a circle in the air] for the kids?"

Well, the most well known Young Adult books with multiverse themes would probably be Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials. Chris Roberson should be getting a lot more attention for his time-space tripping adventures of the Bonaventure-Carmody family in novels likeHere, There & Everywhere, Paragea, and End of the Century. Oh and big surprise, Roberson has worked with Michael Moorcock often.

For something different, try Changing Planes by Ursula K. LeGuin. This is a collection of bright and witty capriccios about a woman who discovers how to shift to alternate worlds by being bored and dyspeptic in airport waiting rooms. As usual, LeGuin makes many wry observations about society and class. There's one story about a civilization of flightless avian people and their transcontinentaln migrations...the ending is beautiful. I could mention Dark Tower series by Stephen King or Charles Stross' The Merchant Princes but I'm just not into them, so I won't. Philip K. Dick's doesn't make the cut either: that's really only a duoverse.

I really loved Neal Stephenson's Anathem and it's all about the multiverse, but does it really belong with these other stories? Well of course it does! If for no other reason than it's completely different from the Michael Moorcock imitators. Yes, all the action takes place in one cosmos — going to another world is a one-way trip and requires a big honkin' generation starship. There is the mystery of Fraa Jaad, who appears to be able to move at will between the slightest possibilities. I noticed something odd, even though Stephenson beats us about the head and neck with tons of higher mathematics and metaphysics, he's awfully vague about the actual mechanism for traveling from one reality to another. This is probably the smartest move. Some writers do a lot of handwaving about Quantum and dress it up in blinky lights and an Einstein-Rosen bridge. But usually, it just boils down to closing your eyes and clicking your heels three times. How very apt for a thought experiment.

Multiverse stories are becoming more prevalent on TV these days. That kid from Stand by Me fought Nazi cavemen from Dimension X or whatever in Sliders. The color coded Charlie Jade looked interesting, but I haven't watched it yet. Lost has used the Many Worlds Interpretation, but they will try just about anything these days.

I see Leonard Nimoy is going back and forth in alternate worlds a lot these days (in Fringe and the Star Trek movie.) Glad to see that sort of thing again.

Somebody asked me recently if multiverses were the Next Big Thing in Speculative Fiction? I like the multiverse concept and would like to see different takes on it, that aren't all about decadent ubermensch and their interdimensional power struggles.

And honestly, we don't need Next Big Things. Trendy conventions in writing are a symptom of a lack of originality. Speculative fiction itself should be a glorious sprawling multiverse exploring all manner of settings and styles. Right now, too many of the worlds in the new book section are getting too recognizable, I'm looking at you Contemporary Urban Fantasy! And you with the top hat and goggles, we've talked before about this, you need to seek help.

So yeah, this trip down multiverse lane has been fun — but I think it points out a flaw in sub-genre stories. Why do they all start running together? Why so many Shadowy Conspirancies, Power Hungry Libertarian Scensters and Moral Relatavisim in a majority of these alternate reality adventures. The Multiverse must have more possibilities than that.

Special thanks to Alan Beatts and Chris Braak for their helpful ideas.
Top image from Heart of Empire by Bryan Talbot, 1999.

Commenter Grey_Area is known on many worlds as Chris Hsiang. He brachiates through the endlessly forking branches of possibility frightening all the turtledoves.

First, though, let's take a look at how online annotation works. For example: Footnoting the most recent issue of Final Crisis, "Submit," Wolk writes:

Before he was Black Lightning, Jefferson Pierce was an Olympic decathlete, and over the course of this story we see him doing a few decathlon-type things. Jefferson's two daughters are Anissa (Thunder of the Outsiders) and Jennifer (Lightning of the JSA). Jefferson was also a high school teacher for a while, and later the U.S. Secretary of Education under the Lex Luthor administration.

OK, so now you know who Black Lightning was. I certainly didn't know in this granular level of detail before — and nor do many casual comics readers who haven't got what amounts to an advanced degree in comics like Wolk. And yet knowing it enriches the experience of the issue, since DC Comics characters are often decades old and rather complex.

Neal Stephenson reflects the annotation urge in his recent novel Anathem. He's put part of the novel's extensive glossary online, giving readers a place to go to look up some of the words he coined to describe life among the science monks on another planet.

And these kinds of annotations transcend the world of comics and scifi nerdery. Music journalist Alex Ross released a book last year about twentieth century music called The Rest is Noise, which he supplemented by creating an elaborate, stand-alone annotation website. A massive compendium of twentieth-century musical terms, with definitions and illustrative sound files, his site can be read alongside the book to enrich the experience immeasurably. Or it can be absorbed on its own, as a musical dictionary.

There are many other examples: Some created by the authors of books, and others like Wolk's created by knowledgeable readers. These electronic footnote sites do not replace books, but they make reading feel like an erudite discussion rather than a lecture. They also make it possible for authors to write far more complicated and nuanced books. Confused readers have an easy place to go if they want to understand a crucial reference or idea, while in-the-know readers can have fun adding their own annotations to the web.

A culture of rampant annotators isn't exactly what you'd expect from the web, which is still in many people's minds antithetical to book culture. And yet it seems that our newest media have reinvigorated what often seems a lost art. The art of footnoting.

Stealth science fiction is nothing new. Creators have been churning out scifi for decades and calling it "adventure" or "suspense" or "slipstream" or "speculative" or "magic realism" — anything to get their stuff shelved in "fiction" or "drama" rather than "nerdville." I shouldn't really pin this on creators, entirely: Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union was classified as literature, despite the author's repeated protestation that it was science fiction. But Chabon's position is a rare one.

Usually you find creators eager to distance themselves from nerdliness, which explains why Eleventh Hour producers emphasized over and over in interviews that the show is "science fact, not science fiction." Their strategy for the Jerry "CSI" Bruckheimer-created show worked. While the weird-science-crime premise of Eleventh Hour is nearly indistinguishable from the unabashedly scifi series Fringe, Eleventh Hour is rising in the ratings and garnered 12 million viewers last week. Fringe, on the other hand, is sinking in the ratings, earning a healthy-but-flagging 9.5 million viewers (down from 13.2 million at its peak ratings during its second week).

Granted, you can't put too much stock in these ratings yet. Both shows are still very young, and are getting a lot of help from the popular shows that air right before they do — hit House leads into Fringe, and mega-hit CSI leads into Eleventh Hour. Still, the Eleventh Hour strategy of "deny scifi" is echoed in the success of other current pop culture.

Neal Stephenson's new novel Anathem, which shot right to the top of bestseller lists when it hit bookstores in September, is an epic tale of alien life on a very Earth-like planet. Though Stephenson has written other science fiction like The Diamond Age and Snow Crash, you wouldn't know it from looking at Anathem. Even though it's a novel about aliens and spaceships, the book isn't marketed as scifi. William Morrow called Anathem "an adventure," and the book jacket makes no mention of Stephenson's scifi novels. Only one of the blurbs included on the novel's dust jacket even makes reference to his scifi work, and that's a Salon.com review that refers to "speculative fiction." Even the marketing campaign for Anathem reflected the "deny scifi" strategy. Marketers didn't mention taking out ads in any scifi publications or websites, except for the Eos blog. And that hardly counts: Eos is an imprint owned by Harper Collins, which also owns the imprint that published Anathem.

Stephenson has spoken publicly about what he calls the "bifurcated careers" of people who do science fiction. He believes that people who become popular among scifi fans don't enjoy the same levels of fame in mainstream pop culture, and gives as an example the actor Hugo Weaving, who played Agent Smith in The Matrix. Weaving is like a rock god among scifi fans, but to the mainstream movie-watching public he's not exactly a glamorous celeb. Stephenson has a similar problem. Though his last four books were science history adventures, he's was still best-known to fans of the scifi genre. But no more.

Perhaps the fear that Stephenson is becoming the literary equivalent of Weaving is what motivated Anathem's marketing campaign, or maybe it was the realization that Borders wouldn't order as many copies of the book if it were labeled what it is: A space opera, pure and simple. Whatever the motivation, it worked. While Anathem enjoys bestseller status as an "adventure," novels that are just as worthy won't even make it to most bookstores because they're labeled "science fiction."

Just a few years ago, I would have argued that a lot of this self-loathing among scifi creators and promoters came from a fear of science itself. The past decade in America has been a bad time for science, with funding cuts to to several NASA space programs and government refusal to fund crucial stem cell research because it might endanger "souls." Aligning with science was not the popular thing to do. But I feel like that time has passed, and science phobia is clearly not what's going on here: In fact, Eleventh Hour is combating the scifi label by calling itself "science fact" (though of course it's practically anti-science in its cluelessness about said facts).

These days, science is an acceptable middle-class pursuit — hell, science might even save the world economy. Writing stories about science isn't geeky because science is a part of everyday life. What's more, it's part of the good life. Techies become millionaires.

So people are rejecting the scifi label not because of science, but because of the fiction. Science has become a part of everybody's pop culture, but science fiction hasn't. And by extension, the people who like science fiction haven't. The nerds at Comic-Con, the dorks at the comic book store, and the dweebs who wish Borders carried more scifi are not the kinds of people that marketers want associated with their cultural products.

Something about science fiction remains grubby and unappetizing to the mainstream. Maybe that's because it's the one branch of science that rarely makes money, and never results in a lucrative patent. Or maybe that's because it's associated with troops of socially awkward people who would rather play war games than actually go to war. Whatever the cause, we know the result. If you want to make pop science fiction, you'd better call it something else.

12) Searle in Sunshine.

Okay, I may be the only person who really loved Danny Boyle's blazing space opera about a doomed crew trying to reignite the sun. That's okay, I can be right all on my own. I especially love the way the character of Searle, the ship's psychiatrist, surprises you in his final moments. He's kind of a prurient asshole for most of the movie, obsessed with looking into the sun with as little filter as possible. He's a pretty terrible therapist. But when the chips are down, he knows he's the most expendable crewmember. When four crewmembers from the Icarus II get trapped on the wrecked ship Icarus I, with the airlock damaged, Searle agrees to stay behind so the rest of the away team can get back to the Icarus II. He helps blast the others out the airlock, then exposes himself to the sun, dying the same way as the Icarus I's crew.
If you're going to be a creepy therapist, the least you can do is self-immolate to save the rest of us.

11) Woody in Mission To Mars.

This is a pretty terrible movie overall, but a fantastic death scene. Our heroes have to abandon their vessel. And then Woody, played by Tim Robbins, leaves the others and launches himself at the Resupply Module (REMO), but after he attaches the line from the other astronauts at the REMO, he keeps moving towards the planet. His wife, Terri, wants to go after him, but Woody knows she'll die in the rescue attempt. So he takes off his own helmet and dies of depressurization rather than let her die for him. (Thanks to Meredith for the suggestion!)

Runner up: Speaking of depressurization deaths, Graeme really wanted me to include Cally's death from Battlestar Galactica. But I didn't really think her death was awesome. Sorry, G.

10) Graham in "The Sleeper Wakes" by H.G. Wells.

One of Wells' weirdest stories involves a man known only as Graham, who sleeps for over 200 years and wakes to find that he's not just the richest man in the world, but actually the owner of the entire world. He eventually discovers that the White Council, which governs in his name, is oppressing everyone, and he helps a revolutionary named Ostrog to mount a revolution. But afterwards, Ostrog starts oppressing people just as badly as the White Council had. So finally Graham gets mad. This time, it's personal — he gets into an airplane and rams a whole bunch of Ostrog's air fleet. (Remember, this was written in 1910.) Finally, he rams his plane into Ostrog's, then spirals to Earth, knowing that the revolution will prevail at last.

Runner up: Someone suggested Hari Seldon from Forward The Foundation, but I haven't read that book and couldn't find much about it or track down a copy. Was his death truly awesome? Let me know.

9) The Controller in Doctor Who, "Day Of The Daleks"

"Day Of The Daleks" is probably not on my list of the 100 greatest Doctor Who stories of all time, but it has a few really amazing moments. The greatest of these is where the Controller finally stands up to his Dalek masters. All along, the 22nd century bureaucrat has been fooling himself that he can help the Daleks govern the human race and actually do some good along the way, helping people when the Daleks aren't looking. But after a few chats with the Doctor, he finally realizes you can't work within the Dalek system. He helps the Doctor escape, and when his coverup fails, the Daleks decide to exterminate him. "Who knows?" he says. "I may have helped to exterminate you." Awesome.

Runners up: Various people suggested the deaths of various Doctors, but none of them really jumped out at me as especially cool. One person suggested Adric, and I'll protect his/her identity, to save him/her from the inevitable scorn of the masses.

8) Lt. Paul Wang from Space: Above And Beyond.

"Everybody's favorite tortured bipolar guy," Lt. Wang, callsign "Joker," gives his life to hold off the aliens while everyone else gets away. "This is for you!" he shouts as he pours ammo into the enemy. Commenter oconnellmd suggested this scene, and I can see why.

7) Certain people in Blake's 7, "Blake"

I'm going to show an unusual degree of restraint and not say who dies in this episode. Let's just say it's an incredibly fitting end for the saga, one which makes all of the stuff that comes before seem cooler because it leads up to this. In my write-up on how to discover Blake's 7, I actually advocate watching the last episode first. At the very least, I think this is one spoiler that makes you appreciate the rest of the show more. But don't take my word for it: watch for yourself.

6) Pham Nuwen from A Fire Upon The Deep by Vernor Vinge.

Pham Nuwen is animated by the Old One, a super-powerful artificial intelligence, and he dies fighting the Blight, another super-A.I. First Pham downloads as much of the Old One into his brain as possible, overclocking his human brain by containing this massive superhuman intelligence, which will inevitably destroy him. And then he launches the Countermeasure, an advanced weapon which moves the boundaries of the Slow Zone far enough to enclose and destory the Blight. But the Countermeasure also has the effect of terminating Pham at the same time:

The Countermeasure's writhing had slowed. Its light flickered bright and then out. Bright and then out. She heard Pham's breath gasp with every darkness. Countermeasure, a savior that was going to kill a million civilizations. And was going to kill the man who triggered it.

Almost unthinking, she dodged past the thing, reaching for Pham. But razors upon razors blocked her, raking her arms.

Pham was looking up at her. He was trying to say something more.

Then the light went out for a final time. From the darkness all around came a hissing sound and a growling, bitter smell that Ravna would never forget.

(Thanks Annalee!)

5) The T-800 in Terminator II.

After Arnold Schwartzenegger's T-800 helps Sarah and John Connor defeat Robert Patrick's mean T-1000 by blowing it up and knocking it into molten metal, Arnie knows he has to go too. If there's anything left of the T-800, the technology could be used to reconstitute Skynet and bring the badness down on our heads. So Arnie gets Sarah Connor to lower him — slowly — into the molten metal. He gives a thumbs up as he descends to his robo-fondue doom. (Thanks, Annalee!)

4) Biggs from Star Wars.

I was seriously considering making Obi-Wan the coolest death from Star Wars, but really, screw that guy. First of all, as he points out himself, he comes back a thousand times more powerful afterwards. And secondly and more importantly, he's kind of a big martyr, as everyone points out in the awesome parody Hardware Wars. And Biggs doesn't have any super Force powers, or the ability to come back a thousand times more anything. All Biggs has is a X-ing, a can-do attitude, and an awesome porn-stache. And he's the greatest wingman ever, taking enemy fire and blowing up so that Luke can nuke the death star and get all the glory afterwards. And look how stoic Biggs is in this deleted scene from Episode IV, telling Luke he may never come home again because he's off to join the rebels:

When does baby Biggs get his own episode of the Clone Wars cartoon? Preferably with a little baby mustache?

3) Spike from Cowboy Bebop.

Martian bounty hunter Spike Spiegel gets into a duel with his former best friend, Vicious after Vicious' Red Dragon gang has killed Spike's girlfriend Julia. Spike finally decides to face the past with Vicious that he ran away from three years earlier, and he storms the Red Dragon headquarters, killing a bunch of its members as he climbs. Vicious manages to slash Spike with his katana, but then Spike shoots Vicious dead. Spike comes down the stairs, wounded and weakened, to face all the remaining members of the Red Dragon. Spike makes a gun with his fingers and says "Bang"... then collapses. Most people seem to assume Spike dies of his wounds, and it's not hard to find tons of people online listing this as one of the coolest death scenes in all anime, or all Asian films, let alone science fiction.

2) Someone from Anathem by Neal Stephenson.

Since this book just came out and it's a bit of a major spoiler, I won't say who dies and how — click here if you've already read the book and/or don't care about spoilers.

1) Spock from Star Trek II: The Wrath Of Khan.

I'm not putting the pointy-eared green blooded Vulcan first just because I know I'd get lynched otherwise. I'm not even including the death of Spock because I pretty much memorized all the dialog from that scene as a little kid. I'm including it because it's the template of how to do a memorable, important death in a science fiction epic. The movie isn't ABOUT Spock at all, but it still feels as though the whole film has been leading up to his death. A lesser film would have been more clumsy and obvious about giving Spock a bunch of cool moments leading up to his death, and trying to manipulate us into feeling the Spock love before he snuffs it. Instead, we do get plenty of cool Spock moments, including giving Kirk his present and mentoring Lt. Saavik. But it's woven into the rest of the movie, and the film's running theme of the "no-win situation" and the impossibility of cheating death every single time help to set up the death of Kirk's best friend way better than a scene where Spock talks about what he's going to do when he retires and goes back to Vulcan. The result is one of the most amazing moments in Trek history, one of those moments where you can really beleive Trek is a sweeping saga instead of just a zany adventure with green women and Saurian brandy.

Runner up: I can't believe I left out Roy Batty in Blade Runner, as various commenters have pointed out. Especially since I went on a whole tangent about Roy's amazing death scene in my rant about why there shouldn't be a BR sequel earlier in the day. Suffice to say the Roy Batty death scene is definitely one of the all-time classic, and easily up there with Spock's.

One of the charming things about Stephenson is that, though he writes incredibly intellectual novels, at heart he's clearly a fan of the adventurous side of the stories he's spinning. It's very rare for novelists (and even readers) to worry about spoilers in books — at least, it's rare for book reviewers to issue spoiler warnings, and few readers complain about book spoilers. Not so with Stephenson. When I asked him a few questions about ideas in Anathem that hinged on what happens in the final third of the novel, he seemed mildly alarmed. "First of all, this is a spoiler, so I hope you'll warn your readers!" he exclaimed at one point. I like the idea of book spoiler warnings being as important as spoiler warnings about crap like the new JJ Abrams TV series Fringe.

When he's not worrying about spoiler warnings, however, Stephenson is tackling weighty topics like the conflict between science and religion. Stephenson told Wired magazine that the clash between Anathem's scientific Avout and religious Deolators was partly inspired by the anti-science politics of the Christian-oriented Bush Administration in the United States. Many of the main characters in the novel are essentially scientists trying to deal with a society full of Deolaters, people who believe in a god. And yet in the end, the scientists and Deolaters wind up forging an alliance. They have to work together to progress.

I asked Stephenson about this alliance between Avout and Deolators, and he said:

I'd take issue with your reading of the book here. I don't really think that the scientists and the Deolaters forge an alliance. To me this sounds like an unduly feel-good reading of the book. During the last half of the book they work together under the terms of the Reconstitution, which is a 3700-year-old document. At the very end, we see a few tentative bridges being constructed between the avout and a minority of Deolaters who happen to be unusually compatible with them. But it's way too strong to say that they are forging an alliance.

Since Stephenson's already mentioned that the novel is at least a tip of the hat to Earthly politics, I wondered whether he sees any reconciliation possible between science and religion in our own culture. Does he believe this "reconciliation" would be like on Arbre, where a few Deolaters can work with the avout, but the two cultures remain essentially hostile to each other? Stephenson replied:

There are many, many examples of legitimate scientists who espouse some form of religious faith, so I don't see any essential hostility. I grew up in a community of church-going scientists and engineers. The recent science/religion fireworks are driven by a theological movement that is as controversial within Christianity as it is in secular culture.

Before Anathem, Stephenson spent several years working on the Baroque Cycle, where he recreated the so-called Enlightenment period in Western history in extremely rigorous detail. There is a similar attention to detail in his creation of the alien culture on Arbre. I asked him whether there are any similaries between creating an alien world and recreating an era in human history.

Stephenson said:

Actually, with Anathem I was pursuing a rather different strategy. I specifically didn't want this book to get bogged down in dense historical detail, so I set it on a different planet. Then I structured the narrative in such a way that I didn't have to include a lot of specific information about the planet's history. We see almost everything through the eyes of the avout, who are only a small fraction of Arbre's population, and who live apart from the day-to-day, year-to-year events of the world and have little knowledge of, and little interest in, what is going on outside of the walls. From time to time, our narrator will allude to historical events in passing, but I've tried to spare my readers from having to wade through elaborate chronicles.

In this case, writing about an alien world was quite similar to writing about human history, for the simple reason that Arbre is an Earthlike planet, and its history runs parallel to that of Earth, with a small number of key differences.

I had to get in a question about the Large Hadron Collider, because there is a distant, terrifying event in Arbre's history that sounds a lot like it was caused by a massive physics experiment to recreate the Big Bang (which is what the LHC will be doing when it starts up tomorrow). I asked Stephenson about the LHC and the Terrible Events, and he replied:

This is an interesting interpretation of what the Terrible Events might have been, but it's just one possible interpretation. I don't want to put any authorial stamp of approval on it, since I'm trying to leave the Terrible Events as ambiguous to the reader as they are to the people who live on Arbre.

I'm not competent to have an opinion as to what will happen when they turn on the LHC!

I like a scifi author who admits that he isn't competent to have an opinion on something that plenty of other, less educated, authors in his genre spout off on all the time.

Finally, I asked Stephenson a pretty detailed question about the philosophy in his novel. Most of the action in Anathem centers on how the people of Arbre deal with aliens (includng humans) who have traveled to their planet from other timelines. As the characters discuss how this has come about, they speculate that timeline travel might move in one direction — toward timelines that are closer to a kind of mathematical or philosophical ideal. I asked Stephenson whether he thinks Arbre is more "ideal" than Earth because its cultures have chosen to segregate theoretical scientists from engineers and politicians. He answered in philosophical fashion, after warning me again that "this is a huge spoiler." He then explained:

This is really a question about what you mean by the word "ideal." Philosophers and non-philosophers use it to mean different things. Non-philosophers generally use it to mean "really good," as in "this house is ideal for my family" or "I want to find the ideal job."

Philosophers use it to mean something that is more Platonic. This doesn't necessarily mean something good, just something that is closer to a pure form.

So, in that sense (the philosopher's sense) Arbre is more ideal than Earth. Not "better than" but simplified and streamlined in a way that happens to be useful for me as a novelist.

I explained that what I was really trying to get at was the way this segregation between avout and saecular on Arbre turns them into a slow-moving culture, scientifically speaking. This vision is quite different from what you see in a lot of current speculative writing, which is focused on some big singularity, some big break with history. So is Stephenson suggesting that gradual change is a more philosophically ideal way to think about history? His answer:

No. But neither am I disagreeing. This is just way more self-analysis than I ever engage in. I just write the stuff!

Now you'll just have to read the novel and decide for yourself what Stephenson means when he wrote that stuff. One of the coolest parts of Anathem is trying to puzzle out its references and layers of meaning, and that's exactly what Stephenson is hoping you'll do.

Anathem [via Amazon]

What Stephenson doesn't mention here is that Husserl is more than just an obscure thinker whose works intrigued Gödel — Husserl's work blew up into some of the most wildly popular philosophical movements of the twentieth century. Both existentialism and deconstruction owe a lot to Husserl, and Husserl's student Martin Heidegger is still turning heads with his expansive, seductive theories of how history marks (and mars) what people consider to be "common sense." What I'm saying is that if Stephenson's goal was to pick a cool semi-obscure theorist who revolutionized the way philosophy and science intersect, then Husserl was the right choice. Maybe in his next novel he can deal with post-structuralism and performative identity — you know, just to jump on that late-twentieth century thing before it gets too old.

One of the great parts of this video is that Stephenson is doing his usual brainfarm thing, but keeps throwing in these cute, self-depreciating little comments about how "impenetrable" Husserl is and how it was hard for him to understand all the philosophy he read for Anathem because (as he says), "My IQ is about one tenth of Gödel's." Awww, Neal. We know you'd rather play with swords than metaphysics, but we do appreciate your taking the time to read some of our favorite theorists.

You can pre-order Anathem today!

In Anathem, the monkish "avout" remain locked in their cloisters studying science and math for years on end, while the outside world obsesses over evangelical religion and attention-shortening consumer electronics. Writes Levy:

Stephenson sees a parallel to the George W. Bush-era wars between science and religion, made possible because the general population is either indifferent or hostile to extended rational thought. "I could never get that idea, the notion that society in general is becoming aliterate, out of my head," he says. "People who write books, people who work in universities, who work on big projects for a long time, are on a diverging course from the rest of society. Slowly, the two cultures just get further and further apart."

Stephenson also comments on the length of his novel, which at over 900 pages is fairly epic though quite fast-paced:

It's really about the difference between people who can sit down and focus their attention for a long period of time on something complicated in a patient and steady way—versus people who never read anything longer than a sentence or paragraph and who get very impatient if you try to go on at any length.

Like the young avout in their science cloisters, readers of Anathem need to learn reasoning and patience. Though I have to say, having read most of the novel at this point, it's actually pretty zippy and fun. Yes, there are philosophical conversations but they never go on for too long and are often spiced with humor and flirtation. And just when things seem to be quieting down, a very intense or moving scene will suck you back in profoundly.

Plus, there are aliens.

Novelist Neal Stephenson Once Again Proves That He's King of the Worlds [Wired]

Illustration by Nate Van Dyke via Wired.

Crappiest effort to tie together every kind of cutting-edge science buzzword into one giant science fiction TV "event": The Andromeda Strain miniseries aired early this week, raising hopes that this classic scary space virus story would get an awesome update. It didn't. The "update" was basically slapping every single piece of science into one giant ball of lameness, with its Von Neuman death probe coated in "cutting edge nanotech Bucky Balls" which encoded some ASCII text (now there's cutting-edge for you, though maybe encrypting it with ROT13 would have been even more mega) and was sent from the future through a wormhole. Have I left anything out? Oh yes I have. The virus is also "like stem cells." If only they'd somehow stuck the G-phone in there, or maybe some dark matter, then the science buzzword compliance would have been complete.

Oh, and the plot was really bad too, with Very Special Messages about drugs being bad, environmentalism being nice, and making out with Benjamin Bratt being totally awesome.

Grossman says he's received a notice from the publisher with this catalog copy about the book:

Since childhood, Raz has lived behind the walls of a 3,400-year-old monastery, a sanctuary for scientists, philosophers, and mathematicians—sealed off from the illiterate, irrational, unpredictable "saecular" world that is plagued by recurring cycles of booms and busts, world wars and climate change. Until the day that a higher power, driven by fear, decides that only these cloistered scholars have the abilities to avert an impending catastrophe. And, one by one, Raz and his cohorts are summoned forth without warning into the Unknown.

The Return of Stephenson [Nerdworld]

Orolo sacrifices his life in a really cool and noble way, to help the pursuit of knowledge and to help the people of Arbre to understand the alien ship in orbit. One of the aliens has been shot down on the planet, bringing along blood from all the different humanoids on the ship, and the people on the ship ignite a volcano to destroy her ship. Orolo gives up his spot on the evac helicopter to hand someone the body of the alien and stands there, being engulfed in lava:

"No!" I screamed one more time, as Orolo withered under the pressure wave. He flopped to the ground like a hank of rope. For a moment, smoke shrouded him: radiant heat shining out as a harbinger of the glowing cloud. Our aerocraft rocked and skidded sideways on hard air. The cloud erupted from the gates, vaulted over the rubble of the wall,, and fell onto Orolo. For a fraction of a second he was a blossom of yellow flame in the stream of light, and then he was one with it. All that remained of what he'd been was a wisp of steam coiling above the torrent of fire.