As a microcosmic exemplification of the epic, ongoing struggle between freewill and determinism.
Huh? What?
No, but really, think about it.
There are 2 minutes left before my 11 AM as I scramble into Sewall Hall. I pant vigorously as I run in the door, thrilled to still have a fighting chance at making it to class on time. But wait. I’m on the ground-level floor and class is at least two stories up.
How do I elevate myself?
Given my exhaustion and rapid respiration, by far the more tempting option is the elevator. It will literally do the climbing for me, allowing me to pause and collect my thoughts as the magic of technology brings me ever closer to my class. On the other hand, the elevator may be slow and cause me to be late — missing the critical 1 minute and 30 second window I still have open before class starts. The stairs, in contrast, would allow me to literally control my own destiny, moving as fast or slow on them as I choose.
But that kind of responsibility is scary.
If I am late, I can’t blame it on an antiquated elevator, only my own chubby bipeds. There is also the question of risk. Theoretically I could be injured on either the stairs or the elevator, but if I am hurt by the latter, it is the machine’s own fault, whereas if I trip on the stairs it is supremely likely that blame attribution will devolve into a legalistic “he said/she said” stalemate. (Was it my big toe that did the slipping? Or the poor traction of the step surface upon which I slipped?)
So which will it be?
The rectangular rubber of autonomy or the creaking metal of surrender? Freedom from responsibility or the responsibility of freedom?
There are 0 minutes left before my 11 AM as I scramble into Sewall and one thing is definitely for certain: Today, I will be late to my philosophy class.
