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Updated: May 1, 2025
Automata might arise and be destroyed without any value coming or going; only a form-loving observer could say that anything fortunate or tragic had occurred, as poets might at the budding or withering of a flower. Some of nature's automata, however, love themselves, and comment on the form they achieve or abandon; these constellations of atoms are genuine beasts.
At that time of life, what a man has in himself is of greater advantage to him that ever it was before. There can be no doubt that most people who have never been anything but dull and stupid, become more and more of automata as they grow old.
But he was now also master of the interior and had been for nearly a year. Some men succeed best as partial automata, as dogs for instance that can be highly trained to pull little domestic carts.
Conqueror and inquisitor, burglar and murderer, forger and wife-beater, brutal sea-captain and prowling thief all the scoundrels go about their business with a full faith in their own blamelessness. I do not like to class them as automata, though the wise and genial Mr. Huxley would undoubtedly do so. What shall we do with them?
If consciousness is thus accessory to life and not essential to it, the race of man might have existed upon the earth and acquired all the arts necessary for its subsistence without possessing a single sensation, idea, or emotion. Natural selection might have secured the survival of those automata which made useful reactions upon their environment.
As we study the history of the frivolous race of men, it sometimes seems hard to disbelieve the theory of Descartes. The great Frenchman held that man and other animals are automata; and, were it not that such a theory strikes at the root of morals, we might almost be tempted to accept it in moments of weakness, when the riddle of the unintelligible earth weighs heavily on the tired spirit.
She found herself in a box on the edge of an arena, amid a concourse of people whose unrelated movements and chatter combined in a species of visible and audible mist, which encircled the spread of tan bark. In the midst of everything, in the dusty glitter that poured down from the high roof, horses and men were moving like automata. The thud of the hoofs was lost in a great buzzing of voices.
The Ancients release the Automata. Life is too heavy a burden. I am glad. I am afraid to live. THE NEWLY BORN. I think it would be nice to give the poor things a little music. ARJILLAX. Why? THE NEWLY BORN. I don't know. But it would. The Musicians play. The music stops. There is dead silence for a moment. THE NEWLY BORN. That was funny. STREPHON. It was. Even the Ancients are smiling.
The class complied with the instantaneous precision of automata newly greased and in excellent working order. Their abrupt obedience was disconcerting. Some one must have been drilling them, thought their anxious teacher, in the art of simultaneous squatting. The temper of the class respecting scholastic deportment leaned towards rigidity bordering on self-torture.
We were received at the porch by life-like automata, who conducted us into a chamber, the like to which I never saw before, but have often on summer days dreamily imagined. It was a bower half room, half garden. The walls were one mass of climbing flowers.
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