Alchemy: Etymology: Middle English alkamie, alquemie, from Middle French or Medieval Latin; Middle French alquemie, from Medieval Latin alchymia, from Arabic al-kImiyA', from al the + kImiyA' alchemy, from Late Greek chEmeia 1 : a medieval chemical science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transmutation of the base metals into gold, the discovery of a universal cure for disease, and the discovery of a means of indefinitely prolonging life. 2 : a power or process of transforming something common into something special. 3 : an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting. (Taken from Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary)
Alchimie: n.f. (1418; alquemie, 1265; lat. médiév. alchemia, arabe al-kimiyâ, probabl. d'o. gréco-égypt.). Science occulte, né de la fusion de techniques chimiques gardées secrètes et de spéculations mystiques, tendant à la réalisation du grand oeuvre. (Tiré du Petit Robert 1983).
The alchemist, in medieval history, is thought of as someone who would work in secret to create new elements using nature's secret structure. The image has been expanded by many authors to yield a more general perception of the profession: the alchemist designs potion recipes, blends mysterious ingredients into odd brews... He is the figurehead of the scientist before the true Renaissance, one who gropes blindly at science in order to grasp its meanings. As such, the spreading of the rigorous method of experimentation (well posed by Descartes, Bacon, Spinoza and many other philosophers of this age) led to a disdain for the alchemists. In effect, however, one can easily deduce from reading science texts from the 1600-1800 period that the method was progressively and slowly installed within the community. For example, Spinoza in his letters on the nature of certain substances, considers their taste and smell as primary ways of differenciating between them.
There is another way that we can look at the image of the alchemist. This is the idea that is usually projected when the name comes up in a conversation, as man often prefers the impression over the substance. Here I mean the the alchemist is someone that we consider as one who seeks effect, rather than the nature of things. We can easily picture a bearded man, pouring small vials of wildly coloured liquids into a larger one, producing a totally new object, with a plume of smoke rising from the receiving beaker and froth bubbling around its circonference. The cook is something akin to that when compared to the food chemist. Cooking is alchemy's tamer cousin, the one that usually gives predictable results. Still, there are techniques to be learnt, and mixing certain ingredients together can cause unexpected effects, for example thickening a sauce with corn starch or butter that breaks down under the effect of heat. The alchemist deals not with food in particular, but seeks the effect in scientific work over the cause of things.
I am a modern alchemist. Inevitably from the background I was raised in comes this particular blend of a man both of science and arts. On one hand, it is known that I write short stories, greatly enjoy reading old books, play guitar and piano, compose a bit, and am acquainted with the art of cinema (not to discuss my passion for cooking). However I have been led since I was quite young, and by an interest of my own more than external causes, into Computer Science and Mathematics. During my time as a player in chess tournaments, I learnt of these people who had been bred since their very first years into playing chess and loving chess. This usually led to high quality players, often masters. In the same way, I was exposed so intensely to computers during my youth that it seeped into me and left me forever marked as one who understands these blinking machines. To me this is more than experience; it is a feeling that part of my knowledge core is computer-oriented. The other part, however, is deeply set into the 19th and 20th century French literature.
There is a pull in me that requires me to constantly create in order to be satisfied. One eminent professor that I once met asked me whether I could see myself building computer agents in twenty years from now. I instantly replied no, although I couldn't afterwards justify my answer. The truth dawned on me on my way back, as I sat on the plane watching the clouds fluff by. I did not see myself building agents in twenty years; I saw myself creating agents. The distinction between those two words is very strrong; one implies a certain amount of engineering, suggests a material aspect; the other proposes a completely free, original view of the process. The alchemist as we perceive it today sought to generate new, yet unexplained substances. Similarly, the modern alchemist seeks creation over building, originality over engineering and ultimately, effect over cause.
Here I have to take a paragraph to describe what I mean by effect. One could disapprove of this concept by suggesting that it leads to something with appealing shapes but no substance. I do not consider it interesting to attempt to produce the strongest chess (or backgammon, or checkers, or go) player or something akin to those robots that Japan has created, robots that have been modified to look alive but that in fact have shallow potential. These things are shadows projected against the white screen and given the appearance of life. But it is much more interesting to look into an agent that can learn chess on its own, for the beauty of the creation, even if it never reaches the strength of Deep Blue; to teach a robot how to sing from no prior knowledge. Effect as it must be sought, to me, is not parent to fireworks and movie theaters; it belongs instead in the realm of the quiet but unexpected.
The work of a short story writer and that of a computer scientist are much further apart than they seem. The writer is he who depicts scenes in such a way that they give rise to images in the reader's head. The images (if we exclude ultra-realists) always proceed from subjectivity. To give a concrete example, I have recently submitted a short story to the Solaris contest, named Onze pas vers le futur. I had a few friends and roommates read the text and give me feedback on it, and on other short stories that I also wrote. Each of them came back to me with a quite different vision of the world. Their interpretation of my work mingled with their relationship with me and blended into a very specific view of the story and of its form.
The computer scientist, on the other hand, is one who works in a deterministic world. The program behaves in a certain way, no matter how people would like it to. This phenomenon I found highly present during the spread of personal computers at the end of the 20th century. People who did not have this inner feeling of the computer's behavior, produced irrational explanations to their machine and software problems. How many times have I heard completely distorted conceptions of how internet virii are spread and how much damage someone can do using an IP address! This view of the machine still remains within the 20-30 generation as they have learnt an interface (Windows) that does not allow them to glimpse at the gears that turn in the background and create icons, mouse clicks and blue screens. Yet, a computer does not allow for stochasticity; it follows the course of its programs methodically, without the possibility of deviating from it. In form and content, it is trapped within a tight carapace that allows us to use it. A short story (or a novel), on the other hand, must deviate as much from known form and substance in order to be interesting.
Yet, I consider myself a modern alchemist. Capable both of scientific method and unrestricted imagination, I choose to follow science's path, but for its original discoveries over its technological advancements.
- Marc G. Bellemare, March 2005