Believe: Small Gods

Small Gods by Terry Pratchett

Corgi

Pp. 381

Many people list Small Gods as the best of the Discworld novels. It is, however, probably my least favourite of the thirteen I have read so far. This is mainly due to the fact that the satire seems more obvious than in Pratchett’s other works, but also because organised religion, squabbling philosophers and the nature of belief are such easy targets for mockery.

The story opens in the city of Omnia, whose chief god, Om, has been reduced to a pitiful existence in the form of a turtle because no one really believes in him anymore. Gods need belief to live and thrive, and they fear becoming small gods, barely existing out in the desert wastelands with no believers at all. Om’s religion exists to perpetuate itself, with its rituals and vicious punishments and wars presided over by the psychotic Deacon Vorbis, like a sort of Inquisitor. 

One simple lad, Brutha, does believe in Om, and hears him telepathically when tending to his melon patch. Brutha’s belief is just enough to sustain Om, although the god has a lot of explaining to do. Brutha tells Om that according to The Book of Ossory as dictated to Ossory by Om, Om is omnipotent, but Om counters that not only did he not dictate these words, but “Don’t even remember anyone called Ossory.” He denies he chose anyone to tell his story. “They chose themselves”.

Furthermore, Om admits that he may have not strictly told the truth when he said there was no other god than him. “I exaggerated a bit. But they’re not that good. There’s one of ’em that sits around playing a flute most of the time and chasing milkmaids. I don’t call that very divine. Call that very divine? I don’t.”

The novel was written in 1992, but its discourse on certainty in religion and politics feels particularly pertinent in our post-truth world thirty years on. “Fear is strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground.” Philosophers gather in town squares and brawl in bars over esoteric topics. Discussion can quickly escalate to argument followed by war, which is often binary and almost always arbitrary. While uncertainty can be troubling, it can also bring comfort with the knowledge that there are no absolutes. One character opines, “You don’t know. That’s what stops everyone going mad, the uncertainty of it, the feeling that it might work out all right after all.” Another counters, “Last night there seemed to be a chance. Anything was possible last night. That was the trouble with last nights. They were always followed by this mornings.”

Mere mortals struggle to make sense of life – hence the plethora of philosophers – but the gods are literally above it all. As the novel draws to a close, it returns to its beginnings, as Om surveys the world from his vantage point above the Hub. In a reference to the famous fable, he considers, “It seemed simpler when you were up here. It was all a game. You forgot that it wasn’t a game down there. People died. Bits got chopped off. We’re like eagles up here, he thought. Sometimes we show a tortoise how to fly. Then we let go.” Pratchett suggests that if there were gods, they have a vicious sense of humour and a total lack of decency.

How can you be sure: The Invisible Gorilla

The Invisible Gorilla and Other Ways Our Intuition Deceives Us by Christopher Chabris and Daniel Simons
Harper
Pp. 242

If you were watching a basketball game on television and a person walked onto the court in a gorilla suit, you’d notice, wouldn’t you? Even if you were concentrating on counting the number of passes executed by one of the teams? Apparently not. In a now-famous survey conducted in 1999 by Christopher Chabris and Daniel Simons, half of the subjects didn’t ‘see’ the gorilla, although 75% swore they would have seen it if it had been there. The fact that it was, and they didn’t, has led the two experimenters to investigate the human limits of concentration and assumption of knowledge and ability.

It’s not good news for anyone who talks on a mobile phone (hands free or otherwise) while driving. We only have a limited amount of attention, and if we split its focus, then we are not able to perform either task to full competence.

The book is subtitled ‘And other ways our intuition deceives us’, and these ways are many and varied. Generally we think we are smarter than we are, and the less ability we have, the more confidence we have in it. This illusion of confidence extends to others, as we are more likely to trust someone who expresses absolute certainty, than one who consults their colleagues and considers their opinion. 

This illusion of confidence ties in to the illusion of knowledge, by which we think we know more about a subject than we do. We understand many things on a superficial level, but not at greater depth, because we don’t have to. We may all think we know how a bicycle, a zipper or a toilet works, and this comprehension carries us through life quite adequately. But do we really know how such things operate? Try explaining it in detail and, unless you have had to fix one, you will probably soon come unstuck.

We are also under the illusion that technology is all-powerful. This is evident in examples of people blindly following sat-nav directions until they end up hundreds of miles from where they intended, or in the sea. “Technology can help us to overcome the limits on our abilities, but only if we recognise that any technological aid will have limits too. If we misunderstand the limits of the technology, these aids can actually make us less likely to notice what is around us.”

Part of this confidence trick is the use of ‘neurobabble’, in which scientific terminology is used to lend dubious theories the ring of authenticity. We have long been seduced by talk of the brain’s functioning power, and the myth that we only use 10% of its capacity is commanding. There is a widely-held belief that listening to Mozart makes us more intelligent, and although we like to think we could get smarter by doing nothing, there is no scientific basis for this illusion of potential.

And then there is the illusion of causality: people tend to find the link that suits them, even if there were other factors which have a more influential bearing on the incident, hence conspiracy theories. Because we can relate to the personal rather than the general, we are far more likely to believe an isolated anecdote from a person we know than banks of statistics.

The Invisible Gorilla suggests that we are constantly being duped – often by ourselves – and asks us to question our emotional responses. It’s not so much that everything we know is wrong, as that we don’t know nearly as much as we think we do.