XX - The Terminal Man

So it's been a bit of a stretch since my last post, and in that time I've read a literal mound of literature, and I'm chewing at the bit to tell the internet all about it. Truly, what can be more exciting than paying to sit in an internet cafe on a weekend when the weather outside is magnificent so I can tell 3 people about some books I read??!!

Anyway, onto the book that I couldn't put off telling you about any more! It's called The Terminal Man and it's fucking awful! It's so bad it's reinvigorated my taste for throwing away small amounts of money for books that I know are going to suck before I even start reading them. To put it into perspective, The Terminal Man, by literary giant Michael Crichton, makes literary adaptations of the Transformers films look like penguin modern classics. It makes Katie Price's ghost writer look like Vonnegut reborn. Imagine an episode of torchwood reduced to block colours, no words over 2 syllables long and the Tekken soundtrack playing at a deafening volume in the background and you still have a creative output more cerebral than The Terminal Man. The novel concerns a man called Benson, who suffers from a rare form of epilepsy whereby rather than fitting on the floor he instead turns into a violent sociopath who attacks anything in sight and furthermore holds a deep loathing for anything mechanised. Some genius decides what they need to do is implant a computer in his head that basically tells him off every time he gets cross. I don't know how such a thing could possibly fail, unless... Wait!! This book was written in the 1970's by a man who has no idea about plot subtleties!! Stop the fackin train!

In Crichton's defense, the book really does evoke a sense of the 1970's by being both horrifically sexist and homophobic. He actually describes a block of flats as looking like something that is 'full of hookers, full of drugs, full of fags'. In his defence, Crichton is a plot man, dammit! He hasn't got time for niceties when he's got a man with a computer in his brain who is addicted to electricity and just wants to kill shit! Have I mentioned yet that this was maybe the best 50p I've ever spent? Kirky's Mighty Ducks cap can suck it. Here's a great example of Crichton's way with words. I'm yet to decide whether his writing style is just thoughtful and inclusive of the wider world, from 5 year olds to grown up buffoons, or whether publishing companies in the 1970's just had really really low standards. Take this nugget:

Janet Ross was tall and exceptionally good looking in a lean, tanned, dark-blond way.

Please Michael, go on:

She herself felt she was too bony and angular, and she often wished she were more softly feminine. But she knew her appearance was striking, and at thirty, after more than a decade of training in a predominantly masculine profession, she had learned to use it.

Not only is Janet Ross the main character in the book, she's also a flipping doctor. And before anyone asks, yes all of the characters in this book are this two dimensional. I almost feel like Crichton was so eager to get to the part where the guy's brain fries and he starts blasting shit that he just threw anything out there to describe the other characters with as little effort as possible. Now the baddy of the tale, Harry Benson, is pretty cool and angsty, and he sort of makes the whole thing worth reading, even though I'm guessing Crichton was aiming the book at teenagers and good christians, because there's not nearly enough random bloodletting for such a story. Had there been maybe 5 more deaths and all of them ridiculous, I might have bought all my friends a copy for a present, told them to book the day off work and keep the curtains drawn, and just have a good time really. As it is, the idea and buildup of the story is more fun than the payoff at the end. The experience was like seeing two vest wearing eastern european meatheads about to go at each other with a cleaver and a bin, only to get nicked at the moment it was gonna kick off big time. The book is utterly utterly stupid, but it's way more Terminator Salvation than Judgement Day. One day I might actually re-write this book for a laugh, just to make it as truly bone headed as it deserves to be.

This passage is probably my favourite part of the book, if only because as soon as it's taken out the context of the story it becomes one of the most stupid passages committed to the english language. Isaac Asimov this is not:

George and Martha were essentially the same program with slight differences. The original George was programmed to be neutral in his response to stimuli. Then Martha was created. Martha was a little bitchy; Martha disliked most things. Finally, another George was formulated, a very loving George, who was referred to as Saint George.
Each program could respond with three emotional states - love, fear, and anger. Each could produce three actions - approach, withdrawal, and attack. All this was, of course, highly abstract. It was carried out in terms of numbers. For example, the original George was neutral to most numbers, but he disliked the number 751. He was programmed to dislike it. And by extension he disliked similar numbers - 743, 772 and so on. He much preferred numbers such as 404, 133, and 918. If you punched in one of these numbers, George responded with numbers signifying love and approach. If you punched in 707, George withdrew. If you punched in 750, George angrily attacked - according to the numbers he printed out. The numbers were translated into sentences, the actual interaction was referred to as 'the christmas game' because most of it was conducted as giving and receiving gifts - objects that had an assigned or learned emotional value, just as the numbers did.
Normal George interacting with Martha would eventually win her over, and her bitchiness would recede into the background.
But Saint George had a much worse effect on her. His loving acceptance drove her up the wall. That is, if things were working normally. Richards watched as the print-out flashed across the screen.

HELLO I'M SAINT GEORGE
HELLO
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
MARTHA.
YOU DON'T SAY MUCH, MARTHA.
NO
BUT I LIKE YOU.
WHY I DON'T LIKE YOU.
I UNDERSTAND THAT. HOW CAN I HELP?

"It isn't printing periods consistently," Richards said. When did that start?"
"That's nothing," Gerhard said. "Just keep watching"

HELP?
YES I WOULD LIKE TO HELP YOU.
HAVE A CAT.

Richards winced. Cats were programmed to be something that both George and Martha disliked. Giving George a cat was a very hostile move.

THANK YOU
HAVE ANOTHER CAT.
THANK YOU YOU ARE VERY KIND.
HAVE ANOTHER CAT.
NO THANKYOU.
DON'T YOU LIKE CATS?
YES BUT I HAVE ENOUGH CATS.
HAVE A GORILLA.

"Really nasty," Richards said.

I DON'T WANT A GORILLA.
DON'T YOU LIKE GORILLAS?
NO THANK YOU.
YOU ARE TOO POLITE.
I AM SORRY IF I OFFEND YOU IN ANY WAY.
YOU TALK TOO MUCH.
I AM SORRY.
HAVE AN EGGPLANT.
NO THANK YOU.
DON'T YOU LIKE EGGPLANT?
NOT VERY MUCH.
HERE HAVE ANOTHER ONE.
NO THANK YOU.
I WANT YOU TO HAVE IT.
NO THANK YOU.
GO ON AND TAKE IT.
NO THANK YOU.
I INSIST.
NO THANK YOU.

"What's happening to Saint George?" Richards asked.

I INSIST THAT YOU HAVE A CUCUMBER.
I REFUSE.
THEN HAVE A BANANA.
NO.

"George is breaking down," Richards said. "He's not a saint anymore."

THEN HAVE BOTH A BANANA AND A CUCUMBER.
NO THANK YOU.
I INSIST.
GO TO HELL I WILL KILL YOU: : : : : : : : :

As you can see, exhaustive insight into the dark side of technology from the master of the mediocre, Michael Crichton. If you see this book for 50p I definately recommend you pick up a copy!