Infinite Monkey: Part One

If a monkey hits keys at random on a typewriter for an infinite amount of time he will “almost surely” type a work by William Shakespeare. At least in theory.

The Infinite Monkey Theorem has many variations. In one version it’s a vast quantum-vivisection lab filled with a million monkeys who merrily bash the keys for eternity. In another version it’s a single immortal house-monkey sitting alone at a beaten up Underwood with his ink stained sleeves rolled up above his hairless elbows. Trapped in perpetual labour, his sole directive is to compose the work that is not only beyond his ability, but also beyond his comprehension. 

Obviously, the monkey is not an actual monkey but a metaphor for some kind of conceptual machine capable of generating a random sequence of letters … for ever. In the final analysis the odds of a monkey typing a precise work of Shakespeare is so tiny that the chances of it happening before a thousand universes expire are essentially zero.

… Although not actually zero. In any case, if a clever monkey does happen to show up with a fresh copy of The Merry Wives of Windsor some time before the end of the universe it will be the first time the phrase “Stranger things have happened!” can be answered with, “… No they haven’t!”

When you consider how much Shakespeare owed to agencies beyond his control—to fate, genetics, the success of his ancestors, the ability of several of those ancestors to shape his upbringing, the hyper-productive capabilities of his own subconscious, and the work of all the great writers, thinkers and scientists who needed to come before him—it was blindingly far from certain he would ever grow up to write the things he did for us. 

Further, it’s even more blindingly unlikely that some of the atoms thrown up from the collapse of a dying sun would eventually assemble themselves into the precise combination: William Shakespeare. Modern neuroscientists might also make the point that even if you steered young Shakespeare to his table in London and shoved a quill in his paw, you’d be flattering him to say that he was truly in charge of the ship. We are only just beginning to learn the extent to which our subconscious mind is in command not only of our creative activities, but of all aspects of our daily lives. 

It might be possible to think of the greatest writer in the English language as someone destined to happen regardless of conditions. But in a way I think it’s even more lovely to consider his happening as a grand chemical accident, the perfect storm of atomic constitution and external input. The chances of creating a clever monkey like Shakespeare are almost zero—but not exactly zero.