Prologue 1: Improbability

Here you are, an improbable person, reading an improbable novel, because an improbable author, improbably wrote it. And even more improbably, you are reading this very sentence at this very moment, the moment this book predicts you will read it!

Think about the improbability!

For 14.75 billion years you didn’t exist. For all practical purposes, you were dead. You were billions of atoms, spread across the vastness of space. But now, here you are! You exist. You think, therefore you are.

For 14.75 billion years the author of this book also didn’t exist. Like you, for all practical purposes, the author was dead. Like you he was billions of atoms, spread across the vastness of space. Yet here he is writing this sentence. And this one. He writes, therefore he is.

For 14.75 billion years the book you are reading didn’t exist. You could have existed, and the author could have existed and still this book might not have existed. Yet it exists. The author writes it and you read it, therefore it is.

Now consider: What are the chances that you would exist, that the author would exist, that the book would exist, and that you would be reading yet another sentence at precisely the predicted moment—the moment when you are reading about reading it?

Think about it!

The joint improbabilities are so large that it’s nearly impossible that the entire constellation of events could ever have taken place. Yet it has. Or, if you speak English rather than American, they have.

Is it just a coincidence? Or is it merely a strong corollary of the weak anthropic principle—that only in a universe capable of supporting living beings intelligent enough to write and read a self-referential metanovel that considers the improbability of living beings intelligent enough to write and read a self-referential metanovel that observes its own improbability could such a question be asked?

Or is there a deeper meaning?

The assembly of atoms that is you is on its way to the heat death of the universe—which is conveniently described on page 86. That is your assembly’s destiny, and therefore it is ultimately yours.

But in the meantime, things can happen. There are questions that can be answered. Among them are these:

Will you keep reading this metanovel?

Will you learn about God’s gifts to you, including, but not limited to: free will, evolution, the scientific method, and the self-referential metanovel?

Will you learn about the most powerful forces in the universe?

Will you learn to harness them?

Will you learn why you might want to write your own metanovel?

Will you learn how?

Will you start writing your own?

Will you be transformed?

Will these questions end? (Yes)

When? (Now)

It’s unlikely that the answers to all the unanswered questions will be ‘yes’ and that you will be transformed. But never forget: in a universe as improbable as this one, anything is possible.

Probability Zero

“The probability that this book exists is nearly zero,” says my inner critic, “and the probability that someone reads it is nearly zero, too.”

“That’s wrong,” I say. “Its improbability is high, but that doesn’t mean its probability is low. This improbable book exists, and so does its reader. Therefore both are not only probable, they are certain. Their probabilities are both one.”

“He’s right,” says God. “I invented probability. I should know.”

“You’re not God,” says my inner critic. “And anyway I meant that the probability that someone finishes it is zero.”

Yes, some readers, possibly you, might think, I might stop before I finish. I might even stop here.

But you didn’t stop. You went on and read this sentence.

I did read that sentence, many readers thought. But I might stop later.

You could be among those that stop. Or you could be among those that finish.

“I prefer that you read the entire metanovel,” God says. “I’m not in too many metanovels, and I have useful things to say. But you don’t have to read it all. I gave you free will. You can stop right now if you want.”

“You’re not God,” repeats my inner critic.

“Or now,” God continues. “You can stop now.

“Or now.”

But you don’t stop.

“Or,” God continues, “you can stop on page 216 if you want to prove that you can stop before you finish. Page 216 is nonessential. You can stop there without missing much.”

You might stop on page 216, but you don’t stop now.

You read this sentence, you turn the page, and you are rewarded by learning how God creates universes.