ACHILLES: Why, Mr. Tortoise! I thought you were back in the fifth century B.C.!
TORTOISE: What about yourself? As for me, I often stroll through the centuries. It’s good for the spleen, and besides, I find it refreshing on a pleasant fall day to meander among the bushes and trees, watching children grow old and die, only to be supplanted by a new generation of equally brainless, but generally rambunctious, human beings. Ah, what a harried existence it must be, to be a member of that feeble-minded species. Oh—pardon me! Indeed, I totally forgot I was addressing a member of that noble race. Why, you, Achilles, of course are an exception to the rule (thereby proving it, as the common human “logic” has it). You have been known, on occasion, to come out with truly insightful comments about the human condition (even if they were, to some extent, more or less accidental and unintended!). I feel very privileged to have known you, of all the human race, Achilles.
ACHILLES: Why, how kind of you to say those things about me. I’m sure I hardly deserve them. But, getting back to our chance meeting, I happen to be here today to have some footraces with a friend. However, he did not show up, so I am led to guess that he had sized up his chances and decided to spend his day some more profitable way. So here I am with nothing particular to occupy me, a leisurely day ahead of me to stroll about, watching the people (and Tortoises), and musing on philosophical matters, which, as you know, is a hobby of mine.
TORTOISE: Ah, yes. As a matter of fact, I too have been musing somewhat over some somewhat amusing ideas. Perhaps you’d like me to share them with you?
ACHILLES: Oh, I should be delighted. That is, I should be delighted as long as you’re not going to try to snare me in one of your wicked traps of logic, Mr. T.
TORTOISE: Wicked traps? Oh, you do me wrong. Would I do anything wicked? I’m a peaceful soul, bothering nobody and leading a gentle, herbivorous life. And my thoughts merely drift among the oddities and quirks of how things are (as I see them). I, humble observer of phenomena, plod along and puff my silly words into the air rather unspectacularly, I am afraid. But to reassure you about my intentions, I was only planning to speak of brains and minds this fine day—and as you know, of course those things have nothing—nothing whatsoever—to do with logic!
ACHILLES: Your words do reassure me, Mr. T. And, in fact, my curiosity is quite piqued; I would certainly like to listen to what you have to say, even if it is unspectacular.
TORTOISE: You’re a tolerant soul, Achilles—a praiseworthy way to be. Well, we’re about to broach a difficult subject, so I will ease us gently into the waters by means of an analogy. You are familiar with “playing-records,” aren’t you—the kind of grooved plastic platters upon which are imprinted fine, near-microscopic patterns?
ACHILLES: Indeed I am. Music is stored upon them.
TORTOISE: Music? I thought music was something to listen to.
ACHILLES: Yes, it is, to be sure. But one can listen to playing-records.
TORTOISE: I suppose. If you put them up next to your ear. But they must make awfully silent music.
ACHILLES: Oh, surely, Mr. T, you are joking. Haven’t you ever listened to the music stored upon a playing-record?
TORTOISE: To tell the truth, I have been inspired, at times, upon glancing at some playing-records, to hum tunes. Is that it?
ACHILLES: Hardly. You see, you put them on a rotating turntable a place a thin needle, which is affixed within a long arm, in the outermost groove, and—well, the details are too much for me, but the end result is that you hear the glorious sounds of music coming out a device called a loudspeaker.
TORTOISE: I see, yet I don’t see; why don’t you just use the loudspeaker and dispense with the other paraphernalia?
ACHILLES: No—you see, the music is not stored in the loudspeaker; it is in the record.
TORTOISE: In the record? But the record is there all at once; music, as I know it, comes slowly, a bit at a time. Isn’t that so?
ACHILLES: You are right on both counts. But even though the record is there “all at once,” as you put it, we can draw sounds out of it bit by bit. The idea behind this is that the grooves pass slowly under the needle, and as they pass, the needle vibrates slightly in response to those very fine designs you earlier referred to. Somehow, in those designs are coded musical sounds, which are processed and passed on to the loudspeaker, to dispense to our waiting ears. Thus we manage to hear the music just as you said, “a bit at a time.” The whole process is quite marvelous, I should say.
TORTOISE: Well, it is marvelously complicated, I’ll grant you that. But why don’t you do as I do—just hang the record up on your wall and enjoy its beauty all at once, instead of in small pieces doled out over a period of time? Is it that somehow there is a masochistic pleasure in the pain of doling out its beauties so slowly? I am always against masochism.
ACHILLES: Oh, you have totally misunderstood the nature of music, I am afraid. You see, it is in the nature of music to be spread out over a period of time. One doesn’t just enjoy it in one sudden burst of sound—it can’t be done, you see.
TORTOISE: Well, I suppose one wouldn’t like hearing one large piercing noise—the sum of all the parts—in one short blow. But why can’t you humans do as I do—it’s such a simple, obvious idea—hang the playing-record up on your wall and, with your eyes, take in all its pleasures at a glance! After all, they are all there, aren’t they?
ACHILLES: I am astonished to hear that you find the surface of one playing-record any different from that of any other. They all look alike to me—much as Tortoises do.
TORTOISE: Well! I hardly need dignify that comment with an answer. You know very well that they are just as different as, say, two pieces of music, one by Bach and the other by Beethoven.
ACHILLES: They look very similar to me.
TORTOISE: Well, it was you who allowed as how the very surfaces of the record contain all the music—thus if the two pieces of music differ so must the record surfaces differ—and to exactly the same amount as do the pieces, moreover.
ACHILLES: I guess you’ve got a point there.
TORTOISE: I’m glad you’ll grant me that. So, since all of the music is on the face of the record, why don’t you take it in at a glance, or at most a cursory once-over? It would certainly provide a much more intense pleasure. And you’ll have to grant that each part of the musical selection is in its proper place; the relationship of the parts is not lost, as it would be if all the sounds were to be heard at once.
ACHILLES: Well, in the first place, Mr. T, I don’t happen to have very good eyes, and—
TORTOISE: Aha! I’ve got another solution! Why don’t you paste all the pages of the written score of some selection upon your wall and regard its beauties from time to time, as you would a painting? Sure you’ll have to admit that the music is all there, in every last respect.