When I was a young, I was obsessed with nuclear annihilation.
Let me start over:
Have you ever, while freshly disentangled from the gelatinous mass of your clutch, seized the opportunity to ensure increased parental investment in your livelihood by devouring your quiescent brood mates before the spark of consciousness can Hotwire their motor neurons to execute escape clauses conditional on murderous sisters balkanizing the fitness landscape through cannibalistic muck banging, and leap, with strained urgency in a manner perpendicular to the plane of your cakehole? Was your scrumptious feast then interrupted by a dizzying flash and the appearance, upon the distant horizon, of a great plume of ash and smoke rising from the ground like a blighted cauliflower, causing you to croak to your mother, “I always thought the naïve techno-optimist conception of history was missing some crucial ingredient, and here we see the term which was lacking from the equation.” Your mother, having now been roused from her morphean passivity by the liberation of energy from matter in accordance with Einstein’s famous equation, and witnessing her newborn daughter pontificating on the ineffable nature of man’s continued folly while committing obligate siblicide, finds it all too much. “Fool daughter, had this passionate self interest, which your current crime so grotesquely espouses, been subordinated to cooperative ends, things could’ve been very different.” She says. And, moments before the blast wave hits, with mucosal skin shimmering and a soup of partially developed embryos cascading down your chin, a eureka moment detonates inside your amphibian brain. ��It was potential energy. That’s what was missing. Mother, suppose for a moment that all life in the universe, after having crossed the Rubicon of abiogenesis, must continue to evolve and proliferate through Darwinian means of selection which inherently biases agents towards some level of competition and cooperation which finds a kind of equilibrium in an environment with no gross asymmetries. However, suppose further that some of these genetic landscapes produce highly intelligent species who are able to rapidly innovate technologies which allow them to displace and outcompete all rivals. Will this inertia cause them to inevitably converge upon civilization destabilizing weaponry? What means of governance could curtail their avarice? What social policies promote the best incentives for altruism?” To which your mother replies, “Please wipe your mouth. I can’t take you seriously like -“ [End transmission]
That’s not it.
Have you ever, after staggering from your mother’s womb, fully formed, with a cowl of placenta pulled low for dramatic purposes, found yourself so enthused by the de facto metric of modern eschatology (i.e. Megatonnage), that you clutched a history of humanity’s most existential innovation to your chest like the Holy Bible, and, upon being inquiried (?) by an elderly relative about the nature of the distended repository of phonetic scribblings (i.e. “What’s that book you have there, young lady?”) concealing your still flexible and diminutive xiphoid process from view like a riot shield emblazoned with a photorealistic decal of a mushroom cloud, replied by holding the tomb aloft with trembling arms and squealed, “Pickle! Hehehehe!” Eliciting coos from your assembled family in the way that only neotenous specimens designed to prey upon the sympathies of care givers can, (i.e. children, bestest good boy doggos, and moe animation) and quips such as, “She’s definitely your daughter Björn! An engineer through and through!” To which your towering, unbelievably lanky father, being more loquacious during the long disquisition on your perspicacity than he would ever be again, says, “She took apart a chair in the kitchen with her barehands. It must’ve taken days of hiding the screws. If you balance this against the fact that she can’t tie her shoes, and continually hides spiders in her mouth, I think there is still room for hope.” Causing raucous laughter which conceals your retreat into the shade of a big tree in the front yard, wherein you page through the book and muse, “Mustn’t arouse suspicion, Jen. No one has any clue how those screws were repurposed. But if they found it, your cuteness could no longer be relied upon to render your complex motives opaque. And if they found your notes on Mr. Rhodes magisterial account… perish the thought. It was bad enough when you had to eat the paper you wrote on Husserl, yet still your father found the scathing conclusion clinging to your lips like a pithy dissertation vomited from a fortune cookie, “Phenomenology has tested to the extreme my ability to believe that so much intelligence could have gone to serve so futile an undertaking.” He read aloud, squinting at the shred of paper. Surmising that this must’ve came from a textbook in his personal study. Yes, your daughter has an appetite for angry diatribes. It is your good fortune that he takes this literally and does not suspect your aptitude for doling out hot takes. What would he make of your interest in fission reactions? A child who reads The Making of The Atomic Bomb must be contemplating subversion, must have sold her soul to that devil, Uranium 234. That she might simply be reading The Making of The Atomic Bomb to elevate her mind is so incongruous a conceit that no member of the adult class could ever entertain it - oh look, a spider!” ?
Wait, here we are.
This is a complete and authoritative exploration of mankind’s most glorious repository of latent violence. The potential energy in the equation. That which has dissolved, (like any physical tool or concept that becomes ubiquitous enough in use or exchange,) into a soporific realm where colloquialisms senesce but continue to deform the beings they inhabit in ways we do not readily perceive. When the measurements of the car are so clearly etched in your autonomic nervous system that you can sense if you will fit through a space while driving it, where you is a term which captures the unconscious synthesis of you and the mechanical chassis whose dimensions you’ve expanded into. When you cease to regard the hammer as a separate entity and see only your ability to pulverize nails. No idea is without consequence. No technology is created that does not modify those who use it. When the object has so thoroughly penetrated consciousness, it renders banal what is meta-cognitively shocking: “We, as a species, have constructed a technology capable of annihilating all life on earth and rendering it uninhabitable to all but the most hardy extremophiles.” How lifeless (no pun intended) this hypothetical must be for us. How many wake from an agitated half sleep in a littered bed, with the radiant heat of their own imaginings burning their brains to ashes, and shouting, “The earth riven by a big tongue of ice in an epochal period of geological cunnilingus induced by nuclear winter in a diffracted modernity that those damnable physicists helped inaugurate!”? Mutually assured destruction becomes a “doctrine of military strategy”. Suffering an abstract. Collateral damage a surreptitious locution. War as historical, as that which happens to other people. Thermonuclear explosion, how tiresome. The sword of Damocles is invisible and we continue to exult in our civilizing progress. What of this book? No detail is spared in examining the conceptual birth, invention, and execution of this thanatopic undertaking. All the dramatis personae receive thorough treatment, the technical details are explored right up to the limit of their inclusion becoming prohibitive to scientifically educated lay persons, and our subsequent deployment of this technology (bombs which would seem positively quaint in light of the hydrogen weapons we now posses) to incinerate two Japanese cities, including the historical context under which this grave decision was made, is examined with all the horrible minutiae one could ask for. Is it enough to infuse somnolent semantics with real life? Perhaps briefly. But, with time, they all - we all - go back to sleep.