Plate 'o Triangles

Still slogging through Stephenson's tome. Some times I feel as if I have been sentenced like Erasmus to copy the book, and eventually I will go mad, or perhaps gather wisdom like Jad. I am 400 pages into Anathem. The story proper began around page 200. Lots of set up, I hope it pays off. There is a lot of Plato, specifically the Timaeus, at least what I can remember from my Philosophy of the Middle Ages class I took as an undergrad. the Ideal world, the world we sense, the world contained by God. I remember drawing diagrams of triangles within triangles for the mid-term in that class. I suppose I could go look it up, but I know I'm not going to do that, instead I'll just rely on my  idea of the ideal of the book (Timaeus) that I can glean from the "speculative" fiction of Anathem. But as the characters in Anathem have said, there are no new ideas. But then there wouldn't be in an infinite number of universes; all ideas would exist if all possible permutations of "worlds" existed. I think the Amber Chronicles played with this idea in a more succinct manner.  I guess I aut to be going now.

I am he as you are me and we are all together

We are served by organic ghosts, he thought, who, speaking and writing, pass through this our new environment. Watching, wise, physical ghosts from the full-life world, elements of which have become for us invading but agreeable splinters of a substance that pulsates like a former heart. And all of them, he thought, thanks to Glen Runciter. In particular. The writer of instructions, labels and notes. Valuable notes.

p. 796


All very platonistic, things reverting to their previous forms, yet the forms retaining some aspect of the thing from which it is reverting. There is nothing new in the world. The full-life world being comparable to the ideal world of Plato of which everything in the world we live in is but a shadowy reflection. Additionally we are a dream within a dream within a dream: the dreamer and the dreamed infinitely regress into one another like reflections of mirrors facing one another. I also thought about during the quoted passage above, about M. Adler’s idea of the Great Conversation where writers talk to one another across the centuries about ideas and the world which have become for us invading but agreeable splinters of a substance that pulsates like a former heart.” This of course echoes Plato’s Ideals as well. We are but “walking shadows, poor players who strut and fret their moment upon the stage and then are heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing.”


I question the end. Kind of like adolescent writers who bring an end to a complicated plot by saying, “and then I woke up.” Does Dick work this cliché in an effective manner? Or is it just a cliché?