Knowing Everything: Is It Possible?

Mike Bodnar ponders why it is that we humans seem destined to discover things incrementally, rather than gaining full knowledge of everything in a blinding flash...

Telephone Bell
(Image: AI)

"Mr. Watson! Come here, I want to see you!" demanded Alexander Graham Bell in 1876. Watson, in another room of the Boston house, clearly heard Bell's command at the receiving end of the 'liquid transmitter' and did as he was bid, hastening to his side. Thus was born the telephone, along with - some time later - scam callers from Mumbai telling you that your PC is faulty.

Fun fact: one of three brothers, Alexander Bell was the only one of them who hadn't been given a middle name at birth by his parents. So he lobbied for one, and guess what his eleventh birthday present was? Yup: a 'Graham.' "Here darling, happy birthday!"

Happy 11th Birthday Alex! (Image: AI)

Frivolity aside, the road to inventing - and then further developing - the telephone was one of step-by-step achievement, until finally, at the end of the first quarter of the twenty-first century, we all carry one around with us in our pockets. It took just over a hundred years for the phone to go from crude liquid transmitter to mobile, but why didn't it happen much sooner?

Science Is To Blame. Partly.

Because science. Because brain power. Because someone, something, somewhere, has decreed that we are not allowed to know everything too soon. How's that for a conspiracy theory?

If you believe in creationism, you'll believe that the world was created by God somewhere between six thousand and ten thousand years ago, in which case you and I will never be friends. To trust that premise, you have to ignore scientific discoveries showing the evolution of humans over hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of years - ignoring dinosaurs completely - and put your faith in an omnipresent supernatural being. And, in the interests of inclusivity, that's okay. I guess.

A confusion of beliefs drowning
under a sea of conflict...

But - and it's a big but - if God did actually create the world in six days, with a day off for R&R - why didn't he just give us all the knowledge of everything at the same time? Why did we have to learn that when we're naughty it would piss him off to the extent that he would initiate major climate change and flood the whole world? Answers on a postcard please, to anywhere but me.

Why, also, did it take a further few thousand years to be able to see the moon, planets and stars through a telescope? Why was it almost three centuries between Sir John Harington inventing a flushing water cistern and Thomas Crapper popularising the flushing toilet? How come it took almost two thousand years to go from simple fireworks to rockets that could take us to the moon? And why do we still not know if there are aliens somewhere in the universe?

You get my drift. Cancer, male pattern baldness, osteoporosis, Alzheimer's, Donald Trump - there is a multitude of problems in the world that still need solving. Or maybe eliminating is a better word, given how that short list concludes.

Yay! Cancer cells under attack. Image: science.org

There are, of course, encouraging signs in many areas; cancer survival rates have improved, there are ongoing trials with disease-modifying drugs for Alzheimer's patients. Even baldies have some hope with recent advances in treatment, but in all these cases there is still some distance to go before they're solved. 

That's not to say there haven't been some game-changers in the past; X-rays, lasers, and microchips are all examples of 'ah-ha!' moments, and who could forget Alexander Fleming and his grotty petri dishes resulting in penicillin? (Fun fact: Alexander Fleming never received a middle name either, and was never given one as a birthday or Christmas pressie). But even penicillin didn't cure everything. Nothing has, and probably nothing will. It's unlikely there is such a thing as a universal panacea. Which leads us to...

Big Words and Deep Thoughts

So, stand by for some big words to explain why we don't know more than we already do, and why Big G didn't endow us with universal knowledge from Day One. In short (spoiler alert), we don't have the smarts to cope with such revelation.

Let's start with epistemological barriers, a phrase which you can drop into the conversation at your next dinner party and amaze your friends. Or lose them. In a nutshell, epistemological barriers

Cerebral overload.
Image: Posters.cz

 are modes of thinking that resist new direction of thought. This could be summed up as: if you always do what you've always done, then you'll always get what you always got. That is, no progress. Sometimes our own ignorance, or stubbornness of thought, gets in the way.

Horvath, Fernandes & Idiart, in a 2023 research paper, address the issue of why we can't understand the entire universe, and point to barriers such as the cosmological horizon, and event horizons; we just don't have the smarts or the technology to look beyond these limits, and potentially never will.

Human brains evolved for survival, not cosmic comprehension, claim Boudry, Vlerick & Edis (2020). However, on the plus side they also suggest that mathematics, certain instruments, and distributed cognition (many minds make light work) can leverage greater understanding, so all is not lost.

Other research suggests that human brains just don't have the capacity to solve all problems or understand everything, and that science is open-ended and can never be complete.

I believe that's probably true, and maybe God understood that from Day One, which is why Adam and Eve didn't just sit in the Garden of Eden and go, "Ah, so that's what it's all about!"

Gödel, and his Theorem of Incompleteness
Image: Instagram

If you really want to impress your friends, ask their opinions on Gödelian limits, then go and pour yourself another wine while they get on their phones, or start thumping each other.

In a nutshell again: Gödelian limits prove that any consistent mathematical system capable of basic arithmetic is inherently limited, because it will always contain true statements that it cannot prove using its own rules.

Which means, basically, that answering a question only raises more questions, and so ad infinitum. 

So We Will Never Know Everything?

Ah, good question! Can we just agree on: No, we can't? Nah, let's not, because that's no fun.

What if - and this is a big if - but think outside the square for a moment and leap over that epistemological barrier like an Olympic hurdler - what if mankind transcends its own physical and cerebral limitations, and ultimately becomes a different type of being altogether? What if, for example, we became pure thought?

Image: New York Times

No wait, come back! A couple of years ago my wife gave me the book Homo Deus, by Yuval Noah Harari, which delves into a potential future for mankind where we integrate with AI, biotech and genetic engineering to become something more 'super.' It made for interesting reading, but didn't quite go far enough, IMHO.

My theory is that yes, everything Harari predicts will happen, and that we will embrace and integrate with data, but I suggest we will evolve further, to the extent that we have no need of corporeal flesh at all, and that ultimately we will all connect (Borgs, take note) as a mind-hive, as pure thought. At that point, we can leave earth and think our way around the universe, discovering everything, comprehending everything, without hinderance or limit. 

The only thing we won't have discarded, however, is the question that we've always faced, from when we first crawled out of the primordial slime or swung down from the trees, and that is: what's next? 

We, as humans, are built to be inquisitive, to improve, to explore, to understand. If we become pure thought, and we know everything, what's left? What would our next challenge be?

Well, here's a thought: maybe we could create a new race for example, in our own image. Wait, where have I heard that before?

Nail-Biting Novel

Mike Bodnar is in a state of nervousness as he awaits feedback from a group of pre-readers about his next novel...

Lucien Treadwell, Influencer

I am on tenterhooks about my next novel. It's written but not yet published, and I am in the Unknown Zone where time stands still, there is hushed silence (can there be any other?), and if the silence is broken at all it will be by the ping of the email inbox, which could herald either triumph or terror. I am a bag of nerves.

I did this with my last novel, Unity: Peace for All, Freedom for None, when I asked a 'focus group' of people I knew to read the first draft and send me feedback. It proved to be very useful, as readers picked up on things that had been staring me in the face for a long time, but which I never saw. An author is too close to their own work to see the bleeding obvious sometimes. 

And I expect it to be the same with this new novel, but likely more complex. My previous book was a fairly standard Cold War spy thriller, but Settlement is very different, and could open the proverbial can of worms on all sorts of different fronts, not least those of political correctness, historical accuracy, and cultural appropriation. There could well be an element of 'how dare you?' to this, because I have written a story that inevitably involves Māori, and as someone who is pale, male and (arguably) stale, I could be accused of literary trespass.

Here's my draft blurb for the novel: 

It is 1839, and a private, clandestine expedition to New Zealand, involving astounding new imaging technology, is under threat from the start. The principal of the venture mysteriously disappears en route, leaving his protégé to undertake the mission alone.

His name is Lucien Treadwell, but he too becomes a target. His endeavours ashore in the nascent colony of Port Nicholson are closely watched from the shadows, and danger is never far away. But what he sets out to achieve also ignites tension and subterfuge almost two centuries later, on the other side of the world.

Fabienne, one of the characters in Settlement

Okay, that might change, but in essence that's what it's about, and with half the book set in New Zealand of 1839, to ignore the presence and roles of Māori would be a sin in itself. But to include them - even any reference to them - also today invites argument, ridicule, contempt, and accusations of everything from ignorance to outright racism. Controversy looms.

And yet it's a 'history-mystery,' so how does an author safely navigate the historical truths of a period - even though they're writing fiction - and avoid accusations of interference or manipulation? Or should they even worry? Is it not a novelist's calling to tell a story, one fabricated from their imagination? Sure, it may well draw upon historical facts, but should that in itself require the novelist to 'play it safe'? I suspect in safety lies boredom. (Which sounds like it should become a Latin motto: In securitate taedium inest)

However, I am getting ahead of myself. As I write this I have yet to receive any feedback from the PRFG - the Pre-Reader Focus Group - so I am crossing bridges before they're even built. But yes, I am nervous.

The author maintaining composure...

The PRFG comprises eight people of mixed genders, ages, and reading interests. It is also international, in that three of the participants live in England. This is important because I need to know whether the story has international appeal, or whether it will remain firmly on Kiwi bookshelves.

The feedback on the first draft of Settlement will decide how much of a rewrite it needs (possibly total), whether the concept is viable, whether the story arc works, whether the characters are credible/relatable, and so on, before I approach a publisher. Having a high New Zealand content I aim initially to approach Kiwi publishers, but to be honest I don't hold out much hope.

Poor overworked publisher
(Image: Copilot)

Why? Because publishers are today inundated with manuscripts. During Covid, suddenly
everyone found themselves with extra time on their hands, and guess what? They wrote the book that had been fermenting in the back of their minds for years. I was living in England at the time and I researched what the impact of Covid had been on publishers; it was dramatic, and many of them were completely snowed under with submissions. What used to be dozens of manuscripts per week suddenly became hundreds. 

Self-publishing also went through the roof, and that's not changed. It remains my backstop position for when every publisher in New Zealand has turned me down, or more likely just not responded at all. That's okay; I am thick-skinned, but this time I would dearly love a publisher to take me on.

I am, however, my own problem. Forgive me for elaborating on something I mentioned earlier, but I am a prime candidate for the pale, male and stale category of writer. I am also seventy-two years of age, and am likely to be perceived as being beyond my use-by date, particularly as I have never been successfully published before, and therefore have no track record.

Quantum physics: what you observe
changes what you observe
(Image: Caltech Science Exchange)

Also, as with quantum physics, the act of observing or measuring a system fundamentally alters it, so to ask a group of people I know to evaluate the story could mean that they tell me what they think I want to hear rather than what I should hear. It is likely to be a flawed experiment, so perhaps this time I will take into account what they say, edit the manuscript based on their feedback, and then send it out to a group of people I don't know for a more robust second opinion. If you'd like to be one of them, please email me at mgbodnar@gmail.com.

In the meantime, and while I endure this twilight zone of the unknown, I am avoiding reading the draft novel again, deliberately not editing anything, and trying basically to forget all about Settlement. It's not easy, but to take my mind off it I've started to cobble together the next next novel. It doesn't have a name yet, but it is post-apocalyptic in nature, and yes it's set in New Zealand, one of the few countries that could survive a global nuclear conflict. Does that mean we're safe here? No, not at all. The characters live by their wits, taking each day as it comes, always ready for the unexpected and to fight for their survival.

Pretty much how I'm living right now.

The Path of the Ancients

Mike Bodnar sets off an a short odyssey to try out the newly-opened Te Ara Tupua - a shared walking/cycling path along the western coast of Wellington Harbour...

The Walking Man

Wellington's harbour (wake up at the back there; we're in New Zealand...) was unexpectedly gifted some land in 1855, which made quite a few things possible that hadn't been before. This surprise donation didn't come daintily wrapped, or with a bow tied round it; it was an earthquake, of serious magnitude - 8.2 to be precise.

I'm not here to give you a lesson in tectonics though; just know that the quake uplifted certain parts of the Wellington coastline between 1.5 and 2.0 metres, especially along the western shore. Over to the south-east it rose as much as 6.4 metres. I know, right?

There's a certain irony in useful land being created not long after British colonials had bought (or 'stolen', some would argue) whatever useful land they could from local Māori, because the uplift of the terrain along the western edge of the harbour - and especially around the nascent city of Wellington - enabled much reclamation and development where there had been little or no opportunity before.

It also allowed a road and rail link to be established from the city to the north. Prior to the uplift, there had been no useful shoreline on which to build what we now call a 'transit corridor.'.

So here I was today strolling along the newly-opened Te Ara Tupua, the Pathway of the Ancients, which follows those same shoreline contours and serves all sorts of useful purposes - until the next major earthquake returns it to the sea. But let's not think about that right now (although I will return to it shortly. There's no escape. No, literally: there is no escape. You'll see.)

The northern end of Te Ara Tupua

This new pathway is a shared cycling/walking facility, running alongside the aforementioned transit corridor which carries a railway line and a major road - State Highway 2. In short, what they've done is build a rocky seawall/defence in the shallows, and on the inside of that have created a flash new dual-purpose pathway, safe from the railway and traffic on one side, and from the crashing waves that bless our harbour on occasion on the other. Having only just opened (at time of writing), it has yet to weather its first major storm, so we'll have to wait and see just how robust it is.

Today though the harbour was calm, with just an amateur northerly blowing. Wind? Pfft. I chose to do the trek from north to south so that the breeze and sun would be behind me. Wasn't born yesterday.

An infrastructure minister (left) and son
Image: RNZ

Pathways like this don't come cheap, and as soon as I'd set off after leaving the train at Petone station, a media story replayed in my head from the previous weekend. A man named Chris Bishop, (a minister of infrastructure, m'lud) officially opened it on 15 May, taking the opportunity to criticise the overall NZ$348.7 million cost of the project.

Which made me realise that even after just my first ten metres, I had walked along a section costing almost NZ$775,000. Ka-ching! (No, I didn't do the maths in my head - I cheated)

But hey, I'm not here to be churlish about it. Don't get me wrong; I believe in investing in car-free alternatives, and I'm sure those who now zoom along the new pathway on their bikes thoroughly enjoy passing the traffic in its rush-hour clog evenings and mornings. I do worry, however, that projects of this nature cost so, so much.

The arguments for this particular pathway are many and sound though. It's not just a pathway; it's a 'resilience project' - a buzz-phrase which actually has some merit in this case. In 2013, a major storm washed out portions of this coastline, undermining the railway line and causing fairly major disruption. Given the effects of climate change, it seems sensible to build a robust seawall to counter future such incursions, and within it place an alternative transit corridor.

In the event of an apocalypse...

I haven't read this anywhere else yet, but it seems obvious to me that if the western hillside were to slip onto and block the state highway (as it does on occasion), then the new Te Ara Tupua is actually wide enough for, say, emergency vehicles to use it. Or, in the event of an apocalyptic event, zombies would be able to shuffle from Wellington to Pito-One at a horrifyingly leisurely pace. In perfect safety.

But I digress. The pathway is split unevenly: two-thirds of it is given over to a cycling lane, while the remaining third is for those of a more perambulatory nature. This distinction hadn't made it into some people's brains though; I had covered no more than fifteen metres before a cyclist pulled over and stopped literally in front of me, blocking the whole walking lane. She hadn't even seen me. What am I? The Invisible Man? I gave her a full-on EXCUSE ME and pushed past, listening to her and her partner, and the man they'd stopped to chat to, guffawing in laughter. Sorry cyclists, but behaviour like that does nothing to endear you to the rest of us.

So, while I'm on a rant, let me just point out two other niggles. One is that there are no toilets, either at the ends or in the middle. Secondly, not a single rubbish bin in sight. 

On my stroll today - a normal Wednesday late morning - the vast majority of those using the

Searching for a toilet?

 Path of the Ancients were, well, ancient. It was definitely Te Ara Senior, and although I'm sure not every one was incontinent or suffering prostate issues, if one were to be, shall we say, "caught short" in transit, then to nip behind a coastal rock would be to take your life in your hands, among other things.

Oh wait, a third niggle. To prevent us from straying from the path onto the railway line and causing inconvenient bus replacements for the next day or so, there is a chain-link fence along the entirety. From a health and safety point of view, that's good, until the next 1855 earthquake causes a large tsunami. In which case we'd have a hard job 'getting to higher ground' - as we are advised to do by the emergency management services. See, I warned you: literally no escape.

Oh, and I just remembered a fourth niggle, but let's just call it an 'observation': There are three 'AED' cabinets (AED = automated external defibrillator), one at each end and one in the middle, so plan your heart attack carefully, or be prepared to run approximately two kilometres to the nearest paddles. Clear? Clear!

Drainspotters have it easy...

On the plus side, Te Ara Tupua is flat along its length apart from the overbridge at Ngauganga, but even that's a gentle gradient. There are many attractive Māori motifs built in to stonework, and on pou (poles) at various places, as well as Māori-influenced patterning on pathway signage. Even the manhole covers have Māori 'location finder' paintwork across the entire path so that they're easy to spot (for those who like manhole covers, i.e. Drainspotters).

Information boards telling of local wildlife or history are plentiful, and there are multiple rest areas - or ūranga - along the way, with seating, so that you can watch the whales and dolphins frolicking in the harbour. Or, as an ancient, check your heart rate or work out how long it's been since you last had a wee.

Trees, grasses and other plants have been planted, particularly at the laybys, so if you want to know which varieties grow well in a harsh coastal environment, bring a notebook. It'll be nice to have some fully grown trees eventually, you know - to nip behind in the event you need to.

I noticed there's lighting as well, which suggests evening or night-time strolls are doable. Personally, and this really is just me, I would love to ride my motorbike along Te Ara Tupua around three o'clock in the morning; there's nothing stopping a motorcycle accessing the path either end. (But shhh, don't tell anyone).

Just before I reached the overbridge at Ngauranga I was treated to a brief but obvious whiff of eau de sewage, which was a shame. And no, despite the lack of conveniences, it wasn't me.

But let's not end on that. During my stroll I admired the harbour a lot, looking in the hope of seeing the aforementioned whales or dolphins, but sadly I saw only a few shags, who seemed to appreciate the 'islands' that have been created specifically for them just off-shore. I did see one of the interisland ferries coming in, and saw at least four fisher-folk who had obviously taken advantage of the path giving them access to previously unreachable fishing spots. 

All-in-all, the distance from Pito-One to Ngauranga is just under five kilometres, but you could walk another five and you'd find yourself in Wellington city. I didn't, and chose to catch the bus at the Ngauranga flyover instead. I mean, I didn't want to end up a zombie.

(Author rating of Te Ara Tupua: 7 out of 10)