I was also surprised to learn, after doing a modest bit of research, that Tolstoy is seldom mentioned amongst any of the prominent figures in philosophy or metaphysics over the past several centuries. The only articles that even deign to label Tolstoy as a philosopher, are ones that are actually more concerned with Tolstoy as a cult-inspirer, as a pacifist, and as an anarchist.

So, while history has been just and generous in venerating Tolstoy as a novelist, I feel that his contribution to the field of philosophy has gone unacknowledged. This is no doubt in part because Tolstoy didn't consider himself a philosopher, and because he didn't pen any purely philosophical works (published separately from novels and other works), and because he himself criticised the value of such works. Nevertheless, I feel warranted in asking: is Tolstoy a forgotten philosopher?

Free will in War and Peace

The concept of free will that Tolstoy articulates in War and Peace (particularly in the second epilogue), in a nutshell, is that there are two forces that influence every decision at every moment of a person's life. The first, free will, is what resides within a person's mind (and/or soul), and is what drives him/her to act per his/her wishes. The second, necessity, is everything that resides external to a person's mind / soul (that is, a person's body is also for the most part considered external), and is what strips him/her of choices, and compels him/her to act in conformance with the surrounding environment.

A simple example that would appear to demonstrate acting completely according to free will: say you're in an ice cream parlour (with some friends), and you're tossing up between getting chocolate or hazelnut. There's no obvious reason why you would need to eat one flavour vs another. You're partial to both. They're both equally filling, equally refreshing, and equally (un)healthy. You'll be able to enjoy an ice cream with your friends regardless. You're free to choose!

And another simple example that would appear to demonstrate being completely overwhelmed by necessity: say there's a gigantic asteroid on a collision course for Earth. It's already entered the atmosphere. You're looking out your window and can see it approaching. It's only seconds until it hits. There's no obvious choice you can make. You and all of humanity are going to die very soon. There's nothing you can do!

However, the main point that Tolstoy makes regarding these two forces, is that neither of them does – and indeed, neither of them can – ever exist in absolute form, in the universe as we know it. That is to say, a person is never (and can never be) free to decide anything 100% per his/her wishes; and likewise, a person is never (and can never be) shackled such that he/she is 100% compelled to act under the coercion of external agents. It's a spectrum! And every decision, at every moment of a person's life (and yes, every moment of a person's life involves a decision), lies somewhere on that spectrum. Some decisions are made more freely, others are more constrained. But all decisions result from a mix of the two forces.

So, going back to the first example: there are always some external considerations. Perhaps there's a little bit more chocolate than hazelnut in the tubs, so you'll feel just that little bit guilty if you choose the hazelnut, that you'll be responsible for the parlour running out of it, and for somebody else missing out later. Perhaps there's a deal that if you get exactly the same ice cream five times, you get a sixth one free, and you've already ordered chocolate four times before, so you feel compelled to order it again this time. Or perhaps you don't really want an ice cream at all today, but you feel that peer pressure compels you to get one. You're not completely free after all!

And, going back to the second example: you always have some control over your own destiny. You have but a few seconds to live. Do you cower in fear, flat on the floor? Do you cling to your loved one at your side? Do you grab a steak knife and hurl it defiantly out the window at the approaching asteroid? Or do you stand there, frozen to the spot, staring awestruck at the vehicle of your impending doom? It may seem pointless, weighing up these alternatives, when you and your whole world are about to be pulverised; but aren't your last moments in life, especially if they're desperate last moments, the ones by which you'll be remembered? And how do you know for certain that there will be nobody left to remember you (and does that matter anyway)? You're not completely bereft of choices after all!

Background story

Tolstoy's philosophical propositions in War and Peace were heavily influenced by the ideas of one of his contemporaries, the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. In later years, Tolstoy candidly expressed his admiration for Schopenhauer, and he even went so far as to assert that, philosophically speaking, War and Peace was a repetition of Schopenhauer's seminal work The World as Will and Representation.

Schopenhauer's key idea, was that the whole universe (at least, as far as any one person is concerned) consists of two things: the will, which doesn't exist in physical form, but which is the essence of a person, and which contains all of one's drives and desires; and the representation, which is a person's mental model of all that he/she has sensed and interacted with in the physical realm. However, rather than describing the will as the engine of one's freedom, Schopenhauer argues that one is enslaved by the desires imbued in his/her will, and that one is liberated from the will (albeit only temporarily) by aesthetic experience.

Schopenhauer's theories were, in turn, directly influenced by those of Immanuel Kant, who came a generation before him, and who is generally considered the greatest philosopher of the modern era. Kant's ideas (and his works) were many (and I have already written about Kant's ideas recently), but the one of chief concern here – as expounded primarily in his Critique of Pure Reason – was that there are two realms in the universe: the phenomenal, that is, the physical, the universe as we experience and understand it; and the noumenal, that is, a theoretical non-material realm where everything exists as a "thing-in-itself", and about which we know nothing, except for what we are able to deduce via practical reason. Kant argued that the phenomenal realm is governed by absolute causality (that is, by necessity), but that in the noumenal realm there exists absolute free will; and that the fact that a person exists in both realms simultaneously, is what gives meaning to one's decisions, and what makes them able to be measured and judged in terms of ethics.

We can trace the study of free will further through history, from Kant, back to Hume, to Locke, to Descartes, to Augustine, and ultimately back to Plato. In the writings of all these fine folks, over the millennia, there can be found common concepts such as a material vs an ideal realm, a chain of causation, and a free inner essence. The analysis has become ever more refined with each passing generation of metaphysics scholars, but ultimately, it has deviated very little from its roots in ancient times.

It's unique

There are certainly parallels between Tolstoy's War and Peace, and Schopenhauer's The World as Will and Representation (and, in turn, with other preceding works), but I for one disagree that the former is a mere regurgitation of the latter. Tolstoy is selling himself short. His theory of free will vs necessity is distinct from that of Schopenhauer (and from that of Kant, for that matter). And the way he explains his theory – in terms of a "spectrum of free-ness" – is original as far as I'm aware, and is laudable, if for no other reason, simply because of how clear and easy-to-grok it is.

It should be noted, too, that Tolstoy's philosophical views continued to evolve significantly, later in his life, years after writing War and Peace. At the dawn of the 1900s (by which time he was an old man), Tolstoy was best known for having established his own "rational" version of Christianity, which rejected all the rituals and sacraments of the Orthodox Church, and which gained a cult-like following. He also adopted the lifestyle choices – extremely radical at the time – of becoming vegetarian, of renouncing violence, and of living and dressing like a peasant.

War and Peace is many things. It's an account of the Napoleonic Wars, its bloody battles, its geopolitik, and its tremendous human cost. It's a nostalgic illustration of the old Russian aristocracy – a world long gone – replete with lavish soirees, mountains of servants, and family alliances forged by marriage. And it's a tenderly woven tapestry of the lives of the main protagonists – their yearnings, their liveliest joys, and their deepest sorrows – over the course of two decades. It rightly deserves the praise that it routinely receives, for all those elements that make it a classic novel. But it also deserves recognition for the philosophical argument that Tolstoy peppers throughout the text, and which he dedicates the final pages of the book to making more fully fledged.

The Oxus region is home to archaeological relics of grand civilisations, most notably of ancient Bactria, but also of Chorasmia, Sogdiana, Margiana, and Hyrcania. However, most of these ruined sites enjoy far less fame, and are far less well-studied, than comparable relics in other parts of the world.

I recently watched an excellent documentary series called Alexander's Lost World, which investigates the history of the Oxus region in-depth, focusing particularly on the areas that Alexander the Great conquered as part of his legendary military campaign. I was blown away by the gorgeous scenery, the vibrant cultural legacy, and the once-majestic ruins that the series featured. But, more than anything, I was surprised and dismayed at the extent to which most of the ruins have been neglected by the modern world – largely due to the region's turbulent history of late.

This article has essentially the same aim as that of the documentary: to shed more light on the ancient cities and fortresses along the Oxus and nearby rivers; to get an impression of the cultures that thrived there in a bygone era; and to explore the climate change and the other forces that have dramatically affected the region between then and now.

Getting to know the rivers

First and foremost, an overview of the major rivers in question. Understanding the ebbs and flows of these arteries is critical, as they are the lifeblood of a mostly arid and unforgiving region.

The Oxus is the largest river (by water volume) in Central Asia. Due to various geographical factors, it's also changed its course more times (and more dramatically) than any other river in the region, and perhaps in the world.

The source of the Oxus is the Wakhan river, which begins at Baza'i Gonbad at the eastern end of Afghanistan's remote Wakhan Corridor, often nicknamed "The Roof of the World". This location is only 40km from the tiny and seldom-crossed Sino-Afghan border. Although the Wakhan river valley has never been properly "civilised" – neither by ancient empires nor by modern states (its population is as rugged and nomadic today as it was millenia ago) – it has been populated continuously since ancient times.

Next in line downstream is the Panj river, which begins where the Wakhan and Pamir rivers meet. For virtually its entire length, the Panj follows the Afghanistan-Tajikistan border; and it winds a zig-zag course through rugged terrain for much of its course, until it leaves behind the modern-day Badakhstan province towards its end. Like the Wakhan, the mountainous upstream part of the Panj was never truly conquered; however, the more accessible downstream part was the eastern frontier of ancient Bactria.

The Oxus proper begins where the Panj and Vakhsh rivers meet, on the Afghanistan-Tajikistan border. It continues along the Afghanistan-Uzbekistan border, and then along the Afghanistan-Turkmenistan border, until it enters Turkmenistan where the modern-day Karakum Canal begins. The river's course has been fairly stable along this part of the route throughout recorded history, although it has made many minor deviations, especially further downstream where the land becomes flatter. This part of the river was the Bactrian heartland in antiquity.

The rest of the river's route – mainly through Turkmenistan, but also hugging the Uzbek border in sections, and finally petering out in Uzbekistan – traverses the flat, arid Karakum Desert. The course and strength of the river down here has changed constantly over the centuries; for this reason, the Oxus has earned the nickname "the mad river". In ancient times, the Uzboy river branched off from the Oxus in northern Turkmenistan, and ran west across the desert until (arguably) emptying into the Caspian Sea. However, the strength of the Uzboy gradually lessened, until the river completely perished approximately 400 years ago. It appears that the Uzboy was considered part of the Oxus (and was given no name of its own) by many ancient geographers.

The Oxus proper breaks up into an extensive delta once in Uzbekistan; and for most of recorded history, it emptied into the Aral Sea. However, due to an aggressive Soviet-initiated irrigation campaign since the 1950s (the culmination of centuries of Russian planning and dreaming), the Oxus delta has rescinded significantly, and the river's waters fizzle out in the desert before reaching the sea. This is one of the major causes of the death of the Aral Sea, one of the worst environmental disasters on the planet.

Although geographically separate, the nearby Murghab river is also an important part of the cultural and archaeological story of the Oxus region (its lower reaches in modern-day Turkmenistan, at least). From its confluence with the Kushk river, the Murghab meanders gently down through semi-arid lands, before opening into a large delta that fans out optimistically into the unforgiving Karakum desert. The Murghab delta was in ancient times the heartland of Margiana, an advanced civilisation whose heyday largely predates that of Bactria, and which is home to some of the most impressive (and under-appreciated) archaeological sites in the region.

I won't be covering it in this article, as it's a whole other landscape and a whole lot more history; nevertheless, I would be remiss if I failed to mention the "sister" of the Oxus, the Syr Darya river, which was in antiquity known by its Greek name as the Jaxartes, and which is the other major artery of Central Asia. The source of the Jaxartes is (according to some) not far from that of the Oxus, high up in the Pamir mountains; from there, it runs mainly north-west through Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, and then (for more than half its length) Kazakhstan, before approaching the Aral Sea from the east. Like the Oxus, the present-day Jaxartes also peters out before reaching the Aral; and since these two rivers were formerly the principal water sources of the Aral, that sea is now virtually extinct.

Hyrcania

Having finished tracing the rivers' paths from the mountains to the desert, I will now – Much like the documentary – explore the region's ancient realms the other way round, beginning in the desert lowlands.

The heartland of Hyrcania (more often absorbed into a map of ancient Parthia, than given its own separate mention) – in ancient times just as in the present-day – is Golestan province, Iran, which is a fertile and productive area on the south-west shores of the Caspian. This part of Hyrcania is actually outside of the Oxus region, and so falls off this article's radar. However, Hyrcania extended north into modern-day Turkmenistan, reaching the banks of the then-flowing Uzboy river (which was ambiguously referred to by Greek historians as the "Ochos" river).

Settlements along the lower Uzboy part of Hyrcania (which was on occasion given a name of its own, Nesaia) were few. The most notable surviving ruin there is the Igdy Kala fortress, which dates to approximately the 4^th century BCE, and which (arguably) exhibits both Parthian and Chorasmian influence. Very little is known about Igdy Kala, as the site has seldom been formally studied. The question of whether the full length of the Uzboy ever existed remains unresolved, particularly regarding the section from Sarykamysh Lake to Igdy Kala.

By including Hyrcania in the Oxus region, I'm tentatively siding with those that assert that the "greater Uzboy" did exist; if it didn't (i.e. if the Uzboy finished in Sarykamysh Lake, and if the "lower Uzboy" was just a small inlet of the Caspian Sea), then the extent of cultural interchange between Hyrcania and the actual Oxus realms would have been minimal. In the documentary, narrator David Adams is quite insistent that the Oxus was connected to the Caspian in antiquity, making frequent reference to the works of Patrocles; while this was quite convenient for the documentary's hypothesis that the Oxo-Caspian was a major trade route, the truth is somewhat less black-and-white.

Chorasmia

North-east of Hyrcania, crossing the lifeless Karakum desert, lies Chorasmia, better known for most of its history as Khwarezm. Chorasmia lies squarely within the Oxus delta; although the exact location of its capitals and strongholds has shifted considerably over the centuries, due to political upheavals and due to changes in the delta's course. In antiquity (particularly in the 4^th and 3^rd centuries BCE), Chorasmia was a vassal state of the Achaemenid Persian empire, much like the rest of the Oxus region; the heavily Persian-influenced language and culture of Chorasmia, which can still be faintly observed in modern times, harks back to this era.

This region was strongest in medieval times, and its medieval capital at the present-day ghost city of Konye-Urgench – known in its heyday as Gurganj – was Chorasmia's most significant seat of power. Gurganj was abandoned in the 16^th century CE, when the Oxus changed course and left the once-fertile city and surrounds without water.

It's unknown exactly where antiquity-era Chorsamia was centred, although part of the ruins of Kyrk Molla at Gurganj date back to this period, as do part of the ruins of Itchan Kala in present-day Khiva (which was Khwarezm's capital from the 17^th to the 20^th centuries CE). Probably the most impressive and best-preserved ancient ruins in the region, are those of the Ayaz Kala fortress complex, parts of which date back to the 4^th century BCE. There are numerous other "Kala" (the Chorasmian word for "fortress") nearby, including Toprak Kala and Kz'il Kala.

One of the less-studied sites – but by no means a less significant site – is Dev-kesken Kala, a fortress lying due west of Konye-Urgench, on the edge of the Ustyurt Plateau, overlooking the dry channel of the former upper Uzboy river. Much like Konye-Urgench (and various other sites in the lower Oxus delta), Dev-kesken Kala was abandoned when the water stopped flowing, in around the 16^th century CE. The city was formerly known as Vazir, and it was a thriving hub of medieval Khwarezm. Also like other sites, parts of the fortress date back to the 4^th century BCE.

I should also note that Dev-kesken Kala was one of the most difficult archaeological sites (of all the sites I'm describing in this article) to find information online for. I even had to create the Dev-Kesken Wikipedia article, which previously didn't exist (my first time creating a brand-new page there). The site was also difficult to locate on Google Earth (should now be easier, the co-ordinates are saved on the Wikipedia page). The site is certainly under-studied and under-visited, considering its distinctive landscape and its once-proud history; however, it is remote and difficult to access, and I understand that this Uzbek-Turkmen frontier area is also rather unsafe, due to an ongoing border dispute.

Margiana

South of Chorasmia – crossing the Karakum desert once again – one will find the realm that in antiquity was known as Margiana (although that name is simply the hellenised version of the original Persian name Margu). Much like Chorasmia, Margiana is centred on a river delta in an otherwise arid zone; in this case, the Murghab delta. And like the Oxus delta, the Murghab delta has also dried up and rescinded significantly over the centuries, due to both natural and human causes. Margiana lies within what is present-day southern Turkmenistan.

Although the Oxus doesn't run through Margiana, the realm is nevertheless part of the Oxus region (more surely so than Hyrcania, through which a former branch of the Oxus arguably runs), for a number of reasons. Firstly, it's geographically quite close to the Oxus, with only about 200km of flat desert separating the two. Secondly, the Murghab and the Oxus share many geographical traits, such as their arid deltas (as mentioned above), and also their habit of frequently and erratically changing course. Lastly, and most importantly, there is evidence of significant cultural interchange between Margiana and the other Oxus realms throughout civilised history.

The political centre of Margiana – in the antiquity period and for most of the medieval period, too – was the city of Merv, which was known then as Gyaur Kala (and also briefly by its hellenised name, Antiochia Margiana). Today, Merv is one of the largest and best-preserved archaeological sites in all the Oxus region, although most of the visible ruins are medieval, and the older ruins still lie largely buried underneath. The site has been populated since at least the 5^th century BCE.

Although Merv was Margiana's capital during the Persian and Greek periods, the site of most significance around here is the far older Gonur Tepe. The site of Gonur was completely unknown to modern academics until the 1970s, when the legendary Soviet archaeologist Viktor Sarianidi discovered it (Sarianidi sadly passed away less than a year ago, aged 84). Gonur lies in what is today the parched desert, but what was – in Gonur's heyday, in approximately 2,000 BCE – well within the fertile expanse of the then-greater Murghab delta.

Gonur was one of the featured sites in the documentary series – and justly so, because it's the key site of the so-called Bactria-Margiana Archaeological Complex. It's also a prime example of a "forgotten realm" in the region: to this day, few tourists and journalists have ever visited it (David Adams and his crew were among those that have made the arduous journey); and, apart from Sarianidi (who dedicated most of his life to studying Gonur and nearby ruins), few archaeologists have explored the site, and insufficient effort is being made by authorities and by academics to preserve the crumbling ruins. All this is a tragedy, considering that some have called for bronze-age Margiana to be added to the list of the classic "cradles of civilisation", which includes Egypt, Babylon, India, and China.

There are many other ruins in Margiana that were part of the bronze-age culture centred in Gonur. One of the other more promiment sites is Altyn Tepe, which lies about 200km south-west of Gonur, still within Turkmenistan but close to the Iranian border. Altyn Tepe, like Gonur, reached its zenith around 2,000 BCE; the site is characterised by a large Babylon-esque ziggurat. Altyn Tepe was also studied extensively by Sarianidi; and it too has been otherwise largely overlooked during modern times.

Sogdiana

Crossing the Karakum desert again (for the last time in this article) – heading north-east from Margiana – and crossing over to the northern side of the Oxus river, one may find the realm that in antiquity was known as Sogdiana (or Sogdia). Sogdiana principally occupies the area that is modern-day southern Uzbekistan and western Tajikistan.

The Sogdian heartland is the fertile valley of the Zeravshan river (old Persian name), which was once known by its Greek name, as the Polytimetus, and which has also been called the Sughd, in honour of its principal inhabitants (modern-day Tajikistan's Sughd province, through which the river runs, likewise honours them).

The Zeravshan's source is high in the mountains near the Tajik-Kyrgyz border, and for its entire length it runs west, passing through the key ancient Sogdian cities of Panjakent, Samarkand (once known as Maracanda), and Bukhara (which all remain vibrant cities to this day), before disappearing in the desert sands approaching the Uzbek-Turkmen border. The Zeravshan probably reached the Oxus and emptied into it – once upon a time – near modern-day Türkmenabat, which in antiquity was known as Amul, and in medieval times as Charjou. For most of its history, Amul lay just beyond the frontiers of Sogdiana, and it was the crossroads of all the principal realms of the Oxus region mentioned in this article.

Although Sogdiana is an integral part of the Oxus region, and although it was a dazzling civilisation in antiquity (indeed, it was arguably the most splendid of all the Oxus realms), I'm only mentioning it in this article for completeness, and I will refrain from exploring its archaeology in detail. (You may also have noted that the Zeravshan river and the Sogdian cities are missing from my custom map of the region). This is because I don't consider Sogdiana to be "forgotten", in anywhere near the sense that the other realms are "forgotten".

The key Sogdian sites – particularly Samarkand and Bukhara, which are both today UNESCO-listed – enjoy international fame; they have been studied intensively by modern academics; and they are the biggest tourist attractions in all of Central Asia. Apart from Sogdiana's prominence in Silk Road history, and its impressive and well-preserved architecture, the relative safety and stability of Uzbekistan – compared with its fellow Oxus-region neighbours Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, and Afghanistan – has resulted in the Sogdian heartland receiving the attention it deserves from the curious modern world.

Also – putting aside its "not forgotten" status – the partial exclusion (or, perhaps more accurately, the ambivalent inclusion) of Sogdiana from the Oxus region has deep historical roots. Going back to Achaemenid Persian times, Sogdiana was the extreme northern frontier of Darius's empire. And when the Greeks arrived and began to exert their influence, Sogdiana was known as Transoxiana, literally meaning "the land across the Oxus". Thus, from the point of view of the two great powers that dominated the region in antiquity – the Persians and the Greeks – Sogdiana was considered as the final outpost: a buffer between their known, civilised sphere of control; and the barbarous nomads who dwelt on the steppes beyond.

Bactria

Finally, after examining the other realms of the Oxus region, we come to the land that was the region's showpiece in the antiquity period: Bactria. The Bactrian heartland can be found south of Sogdiana, separated from it by the (relatively speaking) humble Chul'bair mountain range. Bactria occupies a prime position along the Oxus river: that is, it's the first section lying downstream of overly-rugged terrain; and it's upstream enough that it remains quite fertile to this day, although it's significantly less fertile than it was millennia ago. Bactria falls principally within modern-day northern Afghanistan; but it also encroaches into southern Uzbekistan and Tajikistan.

Historians know more about antiquity-era Bactria than they do about the rest of the Oxus region, primarily because Bactria was better incorporated into the great empires of that age than were its neighbours, and therefore far more written records of Bactria have survived. Bactria was a semi-autonomous satrapy (province) of the Persian empire since at least the 6^th century BCE, although it was probably already under Persian influence well before then. It was conquered by Alexander the Great in 328 BCE (after he had already marched through Sogdiana the year before), thus marking the start of Greco-Bactrian rule, making Bactria the easternmost hellenistic outpost of the ancient world.

However, considering its place in the narrative of these empires, and considering its being recorded by both Persian and Greek historians, surprisingly little is known about the details of ancient Bactria today. This is why the documentary was called "Alexander's Lost World". Much like its neighbours, the area comprising modern-day Bactria is relatively seldom visited and seldom studied, due to its turbulent recent history.

The first archaeological site that I'd like to discuss in this section is that of Kampyr Tepe, which lies on the northern bank of the Oxus (putting it within Uzbek territory), just downstream from modern-day Termez. Kampyr Tepe was constructed around the 4^th century BCE, possibly initially as a garrison by Alexander's forces. It was a thriving city for several centuries after that. It would have been an important defensive stronghold in antiquity, lying as it does near the western frontier of Bactria proper, not far from the capital, and affording excellent views of the surrounding territory.

There is evidence that a number of different religious groups co-existed peacefully in Kampyr Tepe: relics of Hellenism, Zoroastrianism, and Buddhism from similar time periods have been discovered here. The ruins themselves are in good condition, especially considering the violence and instability that has affected the site's immediate surroundings in recent history. However, the reason for the site's admirable state of preservation is also the reason for its inaccessibility: due to its border location, Kampyr Tepe is part of a sensitive Uzbek military-controlled zone, and access is highly restricted.

The capital of Bactria was the grand city of Bactra, the location of which is generally accepted to be a circular plateau of ruins touching the northern edge of the modern-day city of Balkh. These lie within the delta of the modern-day Balkh river (once known as the Bactrus river), about 70km south of where the Oxus presently flows. In antiquity, the Bactrus delta reached the Oxus and fed into it; but the modern-day Balkh delta (like so many other deltas mentioned in this article) fizzles out in the sand.

Today, the most striking feature of the ruins is the 10km-long ring of thick, high walls enclosing the ancient city. Balkh is believed to have been inhabited since at least the 27^th century BCE, although most of the archaeological remains only date back to about the 4^th century BCE. The ruins at Balkh are currently on UNESCO's tentative World Heritage list. It's likely that the plateau at Balkh was indeed ancient Bactra; however, this has never been conclusively proven. Modern archaeologists barely had any access to the site until 2003, due to decades of military conflict in the area. To this day, access continues to be highly restricted, for security reasons.

Bactria was an important centre of Zoroastianism, and Bactra is one of (and is the most likely of) several contenders claiming to be the home of the mythical prophet Zoroaster. Tentatively related to this, is the fact that Bactra was also (possibly) once known as Zariaspa. A few historians have gone further, and have suggested that Bactra and Zariaspa were two different cities; if this is the case, then a whole new can of worms is opened, because it begs a multitude of further questions. Where was Zariaspa? Was Bactra at Balkh, and Zariaspa elsewhere? Or were Bactra and Zariaspa actually the same city… but located elsewhere?

Based on the theory of Ptolemy (and perhaps others), in the documentary David Adams strongly hypothesises that: (a) Bactra and Zariaspa were twin cities, next to each other; (b) the twin-city of Bactra-Zariaspa was located somewhere on the Oxus north of Balkh (he visits and proposes such a site, which I believe was somewhere between modern-day Termez and Aiwanj); and (c) this site, rather than Balkh, was the capital of the Greco-Bactrian kingdom that followed Alexander's conquest. While this is certainly an interesting hypothesis – and while it's true that there hasn't been nearly enough excavation or analysis done in modern times to rule it out – the evidence and the expert opinion, as it stands today, would suggest that Adams's hypothesis is wrong. As such, I think that his assertion of "the lost city of Bactra-Zariaspa" lying on the Oxus, rather than in the Bactrus delta, was stated rather over-confidently and with insufficient disclaimers in the documentary.

Upper Bactria

Although not historically or culturally distinct from the Bactrian heartland, I'm analysing "Upper Bactria" (i.e. the part of Bactria upstream of modern-day Balkh province) separately here, primarily to maintain structure in this article, but also because this farther-flung part of the realm is geographically quite rugged, in contrast to the heartland's sweeping plains.

First stop in Upper Bactria is the archaeological site of Takhti Sangin. This ancient ruin can be found on the Tajik side of the border; and since it's located at almost the exact spot where the Panj and Vakhsh rivers meet to become the Oxus, it could also be said that Takhti Sangin is the last site along the Oxus proper that I'm examining. However, much like the documentary, I'll be continuing the journey further upstream to the (contested) "source of the Oxus".

The principal structure at Takhti Sangin was a large Zoroastrian fire temple, which in its heyday boasted a pair of constantly-burning torches at its main entrance. Most of the remains at the site date back to the 3^rd century BCE, when it became an important centre in the Greco-Bactrian kingdom (and when it was partially converted into a centre of Hellenistic worship); but the original temple is at least several centuries older than this, as attested to by various Achaemenid Persian-era relics.

Takhti Sangin is also the place where the famous "Oxus treasure" was discovered in the British colonial era (most of the treasure can be found on display at the British Museum to this day). In the current era, visitor access to Takhti Sangin is somewhat more relaxed than is access to the Bactrian sites further downstream (mentioned above) – there appear to be tour operators in Tajikistan running regularly-scheduled trips there – but this is also a sensitive border area, and as such, access is controlled by the Tajik military (who maintain a constant presence). Much like the sites of the Bactrian heartland, Takhti Sangin has been studied only sporadically by modern archaeologists, and much remains yet to be clarified regarding its history.

Moving further upstream, to the confluence of the Panj and Kokcha rivers, one reaches the site of Ai-Khanoum (meaning "Lady Moon" in modern Uzbek), which is believed (although not by all) to be the legendary city that was known in antiquity as Alexandria Oxiana. This was the most important Greco-Bactrian centre in Upper Bactria: it was built in the 3^rd century BCE, and appears to have remained relatively vibrant for several centuries thereafter. It's also the site furthest upstream on the Oxus, for which there is significant evidence to indicate a Greco-Bactrian presence. It's a unique site within the Oxus region, in that it boasts the typical urban design of a classical Greek city; it's virtually "a little piece of Greece" in Central Asia. It even housed an amphitheatre and a gymnasium.

Ai-Khanoum certainly qualifies as a "lost" city: it was unknown to all save some local tribespeople, until the King of Afghanistan chanced upon it during a hunting trip in 1961. Due primarily to the subsequent Afghan-Soviet war, the site has been poorly studied (and also badly damaged) since then. In the documentary, it's explained how (and illustrated with some impressive 3D animation) – according to some – the Greco-Bactrian city was built atop the ruins of an older city, probably of Persian origin, which was itself once a dazzling metropolis. The documentary also indicates that access to Ai-Khanoum is currently tricky, and must be coordinated with the Afghan military; the site itself is also difficult to physically reach, as it's basically an island amongst the rivers that converge around it, depending on seasonal fluctuations.

The final site that I'd like to discuss regarding the realm of Bactria, is that of Sar-i Sang (a name meaning "place of stone"). At this particularly remote spot in the mountains of Badakhstan, there barely exists a town, neither today nor in ancient times. The nearest settlement of any size is modern-day Fayzabad, the provincial capital. From Ai-Khanoum, the Kokcha river winds upstream and passes through Fayzabad; and from there, the Kokcha valley continues its treacherous path up into the mountains, with Sar-i Sang located about 100km's south of Fayzabad.

Sar-i Sang is not a town, it's a mine: at an estimated 7,000 years of age, it's believed to be the oldest continuously-operating mine in the world. Throughout recorded history, people have come here seeking the beautiful precious stone known as lapis lazuli, which exists in veins of the hillsides here in the purest form and in the greatest quantity known on Earth.

Although Sar-i Sang (also known as Darreh-Zu) is quite distant from all the settlements of ancient Bactria (and quite distant from the Oxus), the evidence suggests that throughout antiquity the Bactrians worked the mines here, and that lapis lazuli played a significant role in Bactria's international trade. Sar-i Sang lapis lazuli can be found in numerous famous artifacts of other ancient empires, including the tomb of Tutankhamun in Egypt. Sources also suggest that this distinctive stone was Bactria's most famous export, and that it was universally associated with Bactria, much like silk was associated with China.

The Wakhan

Having now discussed the ancient realms of the Oxus from all the way downstream in the hot desert plains, there remains only one segment of this epic river left to explore: its source far upstream. East of Bactria lies one of the most inaccessible, solitary, and unspoiled places in the world: the Wakhan Corridor. Being the place where a number of very tall mountain ranges meet – among them the Pamirs, the Hindu Kush, and the Karakoram – the Wakhan has often been known as "The Roof of the World".

The Wakhan today is a long, slim "panhandle" of territory within Afghanistan, bordered to the north by Tajikistan, to the south by Pakistan, and to the east by China. This distinctive borderline was a colonial-era invention, a product of "The Great Game" played out between Imperial Russia and Britain, designed to create a buffer zone between these powers. Historically, however, the Wakhan has been nomadic territory, belonging to no state or empire, and with nothing but the immensity of the surrounding geography serving as its borders (as it continues to be on the ground to this day). The area is also miraculously bereft of the scourges of war and terrorism that have plagued the rest of Afghanistan in recent years.

Much like the documentary, my reasons for discussing the Wakhan are primarily geographic ones. The Wakhan is centred around a single long valley, whose river – today known as the Panj, and then higher up as the Wakhan river – is generally recognised as the source of the Oxus. It's important to acknowledge this high-altitude area, which plays such an integral role in feeding the river that diverse cultures further downstream depend upon, and which has fuelled the Oxus's long and colourful history.

There are few significant archaeological sites within the Wakhan. The ancient Kaakha fortress falls just outside the Wakhan proper, at the extreme eastern-most extent of the influence of antiquity-era kingdoms in the Oxus region. The only sizeable settlement in the Wakhan itself is the village of Sarhad, which has been continuously inhabited for millennia, and which is the base of the unique Wakhi people, who are the Wakhan's main tribe (Sarhad is also where the single rough road along the Wakhan valley ends). Just next to Sarhad lies the Kansir fort, built by the Tibetan empire in the 8^th century CE, a relic of the battle that the Chinese and Tibetan armies fought in the Wakhan in the year 747 CE (this was probably the most action that the Wakhan has ever seen in its history).

Close to the very spot where the Wakhan river begins is Baza'i Gonbad (or Bozai Gumbaz, in Persian "domes of the elders"), a collection of small, ancient mud-brick domes about which little is known. As there's nothing else around for miles, they are occasionally used to this day as travellers' shelters. They are believed to be the oldest structures in the Wakhan, but it's unclear who built them (it was probably one of the nomadic Kyrgyz tribes that roam the area), or when.

Regarding which famous people have visited the Wakhan throughout history: it appears almost certain that Marco Polo passed through the Wakhan in the 13^th century CE, in order to reach China; and a handful of other Europeans visited the Wakhan in the subsequent centuries (and it's almost certain that the only "tourists" to ever visit the Wakhan are those of the past century or so). In the documentary, David Adams suggests repeatedly in the final episode (that in which he journeys to the Wakhan) that Alexander – either the man himself, or his legions – not only entered the Wakhan Corridor, but even crossed one of its high passes over to Pakistan. I've found no source to clearly corroborate this claim; and after posing the question to a forum of Alexander-philes, it appears quite certain that neither Alexander nor his legions ever set foot in the Wakhan.

Conclusion

So, there you have it: my humble overview of the history of a region ruled by rivers, empires, and treasures. As I've emphasied throughout this article, the Oxus region is most lamentably a neglected and under-investigated place, considering its colourful history and its rich tapestry of cultures and landscapes. My aim in writing this piece is simply to inform anyone else who may be interested, and to better preserve the region's proud legacy.

I must acknowledge and wholeheartedly thank David Adams and his team for producing the documentary Alexander's Lost World, which I have referred to throughout this article, and whose material I have re-analysed as the basis of my writings here. The series has been criticised by history buffs for its various inaccuracies and unfounded claims; and I admit that I too, in this article, have criticised it several times. However, despite this, I laud the series' team for producing a documentary that I enjoyed immensely, and that educated me and inspired me to research the Oxus region in-depth. Like the documentary, this article is about rivers and climate change as the primary forces of the region, and Alexander the Great (along with other famous historical figures) is little more than a sidenote to this theme.

I am by no means an expert on the region, nor have I ever travelled to it (I have only "vicariously" travelled there, by watching the documentary and by writing this article!). I would love to someday set my own two feet upon the well-trodden paths of the Oxus realms, and to see these crumbling testaments to long-lost g-ds and kings for myself. For now, however, armchair history blogging will have to suffice.

I spent a bit of time recently, hunting for sets of data that could answer these questions in an expansive and meaningful way. And I'm optimistic that what I've come up with satisfies both of those things: in terms of expansive, I've got stats (admittedly of varying quality) for most of the film-watching world; and in terms of meaningful, I'm using box office admission numbers, which I believe are the most reliable international measure of film popularity.

So, without further ado, here are the stats that I've come up with:

Note: this table lists all countries with annual box office admissions of more than 20 million tickets sold. The countries are listed in descending order of number of box office admissions. The primary source for the data in this table (and for this article in general), is the 2010 edition of the FOCUS: World Film Market Trends report, published by the European Audiovisual Observatory.

The Mighty Hollywood

Before I comment on anything else, I must make the point loudly and clearly: Hollywood is still the most significant cinema force in the world, as it has consistently been since the dawn of movie-making over a century ago. There can be no denying that. By every worldwide cinema-going measure, movies from the United States are still No. 1: quantity of box office tickets sold; gross box office profit; and extent of geopolitical box office distribution.

The main purpose of this article, is to present the cinema movements around the world that are competing with Hollywood, and to demonstrate that some of those movements are significant potential competition for Hollywood. I may, at times in this article, tend to exaggerate the capacity of these regional players. If I do, then please forgive me, and please just remind yourself of the cold, harsh reality, that when Hollywood farts, the world takes more notice than when Hollywood's contenders discover life on Mars.

Seriously, Hollywood is mighty

Having made my above point, let's now move on, and have a look at the actual stats that show just how frikkin' invincible the USA's film industry is today:

• The global distribution of US movies is massive: of the 31 countries listed in the table above, 24 see more than 50% of their box office admissions being for US movies.
• The US domestic cinema industry is easily the most profitable in the world, raking in more than US$9 billion annually; and also the most extensive in the world, with almost 40,000 cinema screens across the country (2009 stats).
• The US film industry is easily the most profitable in the world: of the 20 top films worldwide by gross box office, all of them are at least partly Hollywood-produced; and of those, 13 are 100% Hollywood-produced.

Cinéma Européen

In terms of global distribution, and hence also in terms of global social and cultural impact, European movies quite clearly take the lead, after Hollywood (of course). That's why, in the table above, the only two film industries whose per-country global box office admissions I've listed, are those of the United States and of the European Union. The global distribution power of all the other film industries is, compared to these two heavyweights, negligible.

Within the EU, by far the biggest film producer — and the most successful film distributor — is France. This is nothing new: indeed, the world's first commercial public film screening was held in Paris, in 1895, beating New York's début by a full year. Other big players are Germany, Spain, Italy, and the UK. While the majority of Joe Shmoe cinema-goers worldwide have always craved the sex, guns and rock 'n' roll of Hollywood blockbusters, there have also always been those who prefer a more cultured, refined and sophisticated cinema experience. Hence, European cinema is — while not the behemoth that is Hollywood — strong as ever.

France is the only country in Europe — or the world — where European films represent the majority of box office admissions; and even in France, they just scrape over the 50% mark, virtually tied with Hollywood admissions. In the other European countries listed in the table above (UK, Germany, Italy, Spain, Poland, Netherlands, and Belgium), EU admissions make up around 30-35% of the market, with American films taking 60-75% of the remaining share. In the rest of the world, EU admissions don't make it far over the 10% mark; although their share remains significant worldwide, with 24 of the 31 countries in the table above having 3% or more EU admissions.

Oh My Bollywood!

You may have noticed that in the table, the US is not first in the list. That's because the world's largest cinema-going market (in terms of ticket numbers, not gross profit) is not the US. It's India. Over the past several decades, Bollywood has risen substantially, to become the second-most important film industry in the world (i.e. it's arguably more important than the European industry).

India has over 1.2 billion people, giving it the second-largest population in the world (after China). However, Indians love cinema much more than the Chinese do. India has for quite some time been the world's No. 1 producer of feature films. And with 2.9 billion box office admissions annually, the raw cinema-going numbers for India are more than double those of the US, which follows second worldwide.

Apart from being No. 1 in domestic box office admissions, India also has the highest percentage of admissions for local films, and the lowest percentage of admissions for US films, in the world. That means that when Indians go to the cinema, they watch more local movies, and less American movies, than any other people in the world (exactly what the social and cultural implications of that are, I leave for another discussion — perhaps better analysed in a PhD thesis than in a blog post!). That also gives Bollywood the No. 2 spot for international box office admissions.

However, massive as Bollywood's presence and its influence is domestically within India (and in the rest of South Asia), its global reach is pretty slim. Bollywood's No. 2 spot for international box office admissions, stems 99% from its domestic admissions. The vast majority of Bollywood movies are never even shipped outside of the region, let alone screened in cinemas. A significant number are also filmed in the Hindi language, and are never dubbed or subtitled in English (or any other languages), due to lack of an international market.

There are some exceptions. For example, a number of Bollywood films are distributed and screened in cinemas in the UK, targeting the large Indian community there (the number of films is relatively small compared to the size of the Bollywood industry, but it's a significant number within the UK cinema market). However, despite its growing international fame, Bollywood remains essentially a domestic affair.

The rest of the world has yet to truly embrace the lavish psychedelic costumes; the maximum interval of six minutes between twenty-minute-long, spontaneous, hip-swinging, sari-swirling song-and-dance routines; or the idea that the plot of every movie should involve a poor guy falling in love with a rich girl whose parents refuse for them to marry (oh, and of course there must also be a wedding, and it must be the most important and extravagent scene of the movie). Bollywood — what's not to love?

Nollywood, anyone?

We're all familiar with Bollywood… but have you heard of Nollywood? It's the film industry of Nigeria. And, in case you didn't know, in the past decade or so Nollywood has exploded from quite humble beginnings, into a movement of epic proportions and of astounding success. In 2009, Nollywood rose up to become the No. 2 producer of feature films in the world (second only to the Indian industry, and pushing Hollywood down to third place).

However, you may have noticed that Nigeria isn't in the table above at all. That's because cinema screens in Nigeria are few and far between, and almost all Nollywood films are released straight to home media (formerly VHS, these days DVD). So, Nollywood is an exceptional case study here, because the focus of this article is to measure the success of film industries by box office admissions; and yet Nollywood, which has rapidly become one of the most successful film industries in the world, lacks almost any box office admissions whatsoever.

There are few hard statistics available for distribution of films within Nigeria (or in most of the rest of Africa), in terms of box office admissions, DVD sales (with almost all being sold in ramshackle markets, and with many being pirated copies), or anything else. However, the talk of the town is that the majority of movies watched in Nigeria, and in many other countries in Africa, are local Nollywood flicks. In Nigeria itself, the proportion of local-vs-Hollywood film-watching may even be reaching Indian levels, i.e. more than 90% of viewings being of local films — although it's impossible to give any exact figures.

Nollywood's distribution reach is pretty well limited to domestic Nigeria, and the surrounding African regions. Bollywood boasts a significantly greater international distribution… and Bollywood's reach ain't amazing, either. The low-budget production and straight-to-disc distribution strategies of Nollywood have proved incredibly successful locally. However, this means that most Nollywood movies aren't even suitable for cinema projection without serious editing (in terms of technology and cinematography), and this has probably been a factor in limiting Nollywood's growth in other markets, where traditional box office distribution is critical to success.

East Asian cinema

The film industries of the Orient have always been big. In particular, the industries of China and Japan, respectively, are each only slightly behind Hollywood in number of feature films produced annually (and Korea is about on par with Italy). Many East Asian film industries enjoy considerable local success, as evidenced in the table above, where several Asian countries are listed as having a significant percentage of local box office admissions (in China, Japan and Korea, local films sweep away 50% or more of the box office admissions).

Much like Bollywood, the film industries of many East Asian countries have often fallen victim to cliché and "genre overdose". In China and Hong Kong, the genre of choice has long been martial arts, with Kung Fu movies being particularly popular. In Japan and Korea, the most famous genre traditionally has been horror, and in more recent decades (particularly in Japan), the anime genre has enjoyed colossal success.

East Asian film is arguably the dominant cultural film force within the region (i.e. dominant over Hollywood). It's also had a considerable influence on the filmmaking tradition of Hollywood, with legends such as Japan's Akira Kurosawa being cited by numerous veteran Hollywood directors, such as Martin Scorsese.

However, well-established though it is, the international distribution of East Asian films has always been fairly limited. Some exceptional films have become international blockbusters, such as the (mainly) Chinese-made Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000). Japanese horror and anime films are distributed worldwide, but they have a cult following rather than a mainstream appreciation in Western countries. When most Westerners think of "Asian" movies, they most likely think of Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, the majority of whose films were Hollywood productions. Additionally, the international distribution of movies from other strong East Asian film industries, such as those of Thailand and Taiwan, is almost non-existent.

Middle Eastern cinema

The most significant player in Middle Eastern cinema is Egypt, which has a long and glorious film-making tradition. The Egyptian film industry accounts for a whopping 80% of Egypt's domestic box office admissions; and, even more importantly, Egyptian films are exported to the rest of the Arabic-speaking world (i.e. to much of the rest of the Middle East), and (to some extent) to the rest of the Muslim world.

Turkey is also a cinema powerhouse within the Middle East. Turkey's film industry boasts 51% of the local box office admissions, and Turkey as a whole is the largest cinema-going market in the region. The international distribution of Turkish films is, however, somewhat more limited, due to the limited appeal of Turkish-language cinema in other countries.

Although it's not in the table above, and although limited data is available for it, Iran is the other great cinema capital of the region. Iran boasted a particularly strong film industry many decades ago, before the Islamic Revolution of 1979; nevertheless, the industry is still believed to afford significant local market share today.

Also of note is Israel, which is the most profitable cinema-going market in the region after Turkey, and which supports a surprisingly productive and successful film industry (with limited but far-reaching international distribution), given the country's small population.

Other players worldwide

• Russia & CIS. Although US box office admissions dominate these days, the Russian film industry wins almost 25% of admissions. This is very different to the Soviet days, when foreign films were banned, and only state-approved (and highly censored) films were screened in cinemas. Russian movies are mainly distributed within the former Soviet Union region, although a small number are exported to other markets.
• Latin America. The largest markets for box office admissions in the region are Mexico, Brazil, and Argentina. Admissions in all of Latin America are majority Hollywood; however, in these "big three", local industries are also still quite strong (particularly in Brazil and Argentina, each with about 15% local admissions; about half that number in more US-dominated Mexico). Local industries aren't as strong as they used to be, but they're still most definitely alive. Latin American films are distributed and screened worldwide, although their reception is limited. There have been some big hits, though, in the past decade: Mexico's Amores Perros (2000); Argentina's Nueve Reinas (2000); and Brazil's Cidade de Deus (2002).
• South Africa. Despite having a fairly large box office admission tally, there's not a whole lot of data available for local market share in the South African film industry. Nevertheless, it is a long-established film-making country, and it continues to produce a reasonable number of well-received local films every year. South Africa distributes films internationally, although generally not with blockbuster success — but there have been exceptions, e.g. Tsotsi (2005).

In summary

If you've made it this far, you must be keen! (And this article must be at least somewhat interesting). Sorry, this has turned out to be a bit longer than average for a thought article; but hey, turns out there are quite a lot of strong film industries around the world, and I didn't want to miss any important ones.

So, yes, Hollywood's reach is still universal, and its influence not in any way or in any place small. But no, Hollywood is not the only force in this world that is having a significant cultural effect, via the medium of the motion picture. There are numerous other film industries today, that are strong, and vibrant, and big. Some of them have been around for a long time, and perhaps they just never popped up on the ol' radar before (e.g. Egypt). Others are brand-new and are taking the world by storm (e.g. Nollywood).

Hollywood claims the majority of film viewings in many countries around the world, but not everywhere. Particularly, on the Indian Subcontinent (South Asia), in the Far East (China, Japan, Korea), and in much of the Middle East (Egypt, Turkey, Iran), the local film industries manage to dominate over Hollywood in this regard. Considering that those regions are some of the most populous in the world, Hollywood's influence may be significantly less than many people like to claim.

But, then again, remember what I said earlier: Hollywood farts, whole world takes notice; film-makers elsewhere discover life on Mars, doesn't even make the back page.

Additional references

• Top Ten Feature Film Production Map
• Are foreign language films becoming more popular?
• Yearly Box Office Index (2008)
• 2008 World Cinema Stats
• Number of Cinema Admissions by Country

Our journey begins in prehistoric times, (arguably) before man even existed in the exact modern anatomical form that all humans exhibit today. It is believed that modern homo sapiens emerged as a distinct genetic species approximately 200,000 years ago, and it is therefore no coincidence that my search for the oldest known evidence of meaningful human communication also brought me to examine this time period. Evidence suggests that at around this time, humans began to transmit and record information in rock carvings. These are also considered the oldest form of human artistic expression on the planet.

From that time onwards, it's been an ever-accelerating roller-coaster ride of progress, from prehistoric forms of media such as cave painting and sculpture, through to key discoveries such as writing and paper in the ancient world, and reaching an explosion of information generation and distribution in the Renaissance, with the invention of the printing press in 1450AD. Finally, the modern era of the past two centuries has accelerated the pace to dizzying levels, beginning with the invention of the photograph and the invention of the telegraph in the early 19^th century, and culminating (thus far) with mobile phones and the Internet at the end of the 20^th century.

List of communication milestones

I've done some research in this area, and I've compiled a list of what I believe are the most significant forms of communication or devices for communication throughout human history. You can see my list in the table below. I've also applied some categorisation to each item in the list, and I'll discuss that categorisation shortly.

Prehistoric (200,000 BC - 4,000 BC)

Ancient (3000 BC - 100 AD)

Renaissance (1450 AD - 1620)

Modern (1839 - present)

Note: pre-modern dates are approximations only, and are based on the approximations of authoritative sources. For modern dates, I have tried to give the date that the device first became available to (and first started to be used by) the general public, rather than the date the device was invented.

Directionality and preservation

My categorisation system in the list above is loosely based on coolscorpio's types of communication. However, I have used the word "directionality" to refer to his "downward, upward and lateral communication"; and I have used the word "preservation" and the terms "transient and permanent" to refer to his "oral and written communication", as I needed terms more generic than "oral and written" for my data set.

Preservation of information is something that we've been thinking about as a species for an awfully long time. We've been able to record information in a permanent, durable form, more-or-less for as long as the human race has existed. Indeed, if early humans hadn't found a way to permanently preserve information, then we'd have very little evidence of their being able to conduct advanced communication at all.

Since the invention of writing, permanent preservation of information has become increasingly widespread*. However, oral language has always been our richest and our most potent form of communication, and it hasn't been until modern times that we've finally discovered ways of capturing it; and even to this very day, our favourite modern oral communication technology — the telephone — remains essentially transient and preserves no record of what passes through it.

Directionality of communication has three forms: from a small group of people (often at the "top") down to a larger group (at the "bottom"); from a large group up to a small one; and between any small groups in society laterally. Human history has been an endless struggle between authority and the masses, and that struggle is reflected in the history of human communication: those at the top have always pushed for the dominance of "down" technologies, while those at the bottom have always resisted, and have instead advocated for more neutral technologies. From looking at the list above, we can see that the dominant communications technologies of the time have had no small effect on the strength of freedom vs authority of the time.

Prehistoric human society was quite balanced in this regard. There were a number of powerful forms of media that only those at the top (i.e. chiefs, warlords) had practical access to. These were typically the more permanent forms of media, such as the paintings on the cave walls. However, oral communication was really the most important media of the time, and it was equally accessible to all members of society. Additionally, societies were generally grouped into relatively small tribes and clans, leaving less room for layers of authority between the top and bottom ranks.

The ancient world — the dawn of human "civilisation" — changed all this. This era brought about three key communications media that were particularly well-suited to a "down" directionality, and hence to empowering authority above the common populace: megalithic architecture (technically pre-ancient, but only just); metallurgy; and writing. Megalithic architecture allowed kings and Pharoahs to send a message to the world, a message that would endure the sands of time; but it was hardly a media accessible to all, as it required armies of labourers, teams of designers and engineers, as well as hordes of natural and mineral resources. Similarly, metallurgy's barrier to access was the skilled labour and the mineral resources required to produce it. Writing, today considered the great enabler of access to information and of global equality, was in the ancient world anything but that, because all but the supreme elite were illiterate, and the governments of the day wanted nothing more but to maintain that status quo.

Gutenberg's invention of the printing press in 1450 AD is generally considered to be the most important milestone in the history of human communication. Most view it purely from a positive perspective: it helped spread literacy to the masses; and it allowed for the spread of knowledge as never before. However, the printing press was clearly a "down" technology in terms of directionality, and this should not be overlooked. To this very day, access to mass printing and distribution services is a privilege available only to those at the very top of society, and it is a privilege that has been consistently used as a means of population control and propaganda. Don't get me wrong, I agree with the general consensus that the positive effects of the printing press far outweigh its downside, and I must also stress that the printing press was an essential step in the right direction towards technologies with more neutral directionality. But essentially, the printing press — the key device that led to the dawn of the Renaissance — only served to further entrench the iron fist of authority that saw its birth in the ancient world.

Modern media technology has been very much a mixed bag. On the plus side, there have been some truly direction-neutral communication tools that are now accessible to all, with photography, video-recording, and sound-recording technologies being the most prominent examples. There is even one device that is possibly the only pure lateral-only communication tool in the history of the world, and it's also become one of the most successful and widespread tools in history: the telephone. On the flip side, however, the modern world's two most successful devices are also the most sinister, most potent "down" directionality devices that humanity has ever seen: TV and radio.

The television (along with film and the cinema, which is also a "down" form of media) is the defining symbol of the 20^th century, and it's still going strong into the 21^st. Unfortunately, the television is also the ultimate device allowing one-way communication from those at the top of society, to those at the bottom. By its very definition, television is "broadcast" from the networks to the masses; and it's quite literally impossible for it to allow those at the receiving end to have their voices heard. What the Pyramids set in stone before the ancient masses, and what the Gutenberg bibles stamped in ink before the medieval hordes, the television has now burned into the minds of at least three modern generations.

The Internet, as you should all know by now, is changing everything. However, the Internet is also still in its infancy, and the Internet's fate in determining the directionality of communication into the next century is still unclear. At the moment, things look very positive. The Internet is the most accessible and the most powerful direction-neutral technology the world has ever seen. Blogging (what I'm doing right now!) is perhaps the first pure "up" directionality technology in the history of mankind, and if so, then I feel privileged to be able to use it.

The Internet allows a random citizen to broadcast a message to the world, for all eternity, in about 0.001% of the time that it took a king of the ancient world to deliver a message to all the subjects of his kingdom. I think That's Cool™. But the question is: when every little person on the planet is broadcasting information to the whole world, who does everyone actually listen to? Sure, there are literally millions of personal blogs out there, much like this one; and anyone can look at any of them, with just the click of a button, now or 50 years from now (50 years… at least, that's the plan). But even in an information ecosystem such as this, it hasn't taken long for the vast majority of people to shut out all sources of information, save for a select few. And before we know it — and without even a drop of blood being shed in protest — we're back to 1450 AD all over again.

It's a big 'Net out there, people. Explore it.

* Note: I've listed television and radio as being "permanent" preservation technologies, because even though the act of broadcasting is transient, the vast majority of television and radio transmissions throughout modern times have been recorded and formally archived.

Ben Elton (2005), 'The First Casualty', Ch. 36: 'A communal interlude', Bantam Press, pp. 206-208.

And if I'm not mistaken, that pretty well sums it up. I remember studying WWI, back in high school. Like so many other students of history, I couldn't help but notice the irony of it — the sheer and absurd stupidity of an entire continent (supposedly the most advanced in all the world, at the time), falling like a pack of dominoes and descending into an all-out bloodbath. It would have been funny, were it not for the fact that half the young men of early 20^th-century Europe paid for it with their lives.

It would have been great if they'd simply told me to read this, instead of having me study and memorise the ridiculous chain of events that led up to the Great War. 'Russia declares war on Austria', 'Germany declares war on Russia', 'France declares war on Germany', etc. I've also finally unravelled the mystery of how the hell it was that us Aussies managed to get roped into the war, and of how the hell our most sacred event of national heritage involved several thousand of our Grandads getting mowed down by machine-guns on a beach in Turkey. I guess we fall into the category of: 'Fuck knows... I lost track after the Belgians.'

And very hypnotic

I've heard tales for many years that the Teletubbies have a hypnotic effect on little kids. More recently, I've witnessed this hypnosis first-hand, as it infected my little step-sister. Today, the final blow came. For a few terrifying minutes, I myself fell victim to the magnetism of the Teletubbies.

The thing that I found most compelling to watch was the landscape. It's so neat, so bright and green and pastel-coloured, so blatantly artificial (although I've heard, ironically, that the show is actually filmed on location at a real country farm in England, with a fair bit of special effects added in). It looks like something out of a computer game. Or like an alien planet (insert sinister laugh here).

I guess the British love the show so much because, unlike the real England, it never rains in Teletubbyland! There's (almost) always a clear blue sky, and a happy, smiling, laughing orange sun shining down from overhead.

Speaking of which, what is the deal with that stupid baby-faced sun? Another strangely hypnotic feature of the show, the sun seems to randomly smile, laugh, and make weird baby noises. There are also numerous eerie moments in the show, where the sun and the teletubbies just stop whatever they're doing (which generally isn't much), and stare at each other for a while, apparently locked in a fervent lover's trance.

The narrator

This has to be one of the freakiest things about the Teletubbies. I don't know where they found this guy, but he's bad news. It's not just his incredibly insightful comments, such as "Teletubbies love each other very much" (said as Teletubbies embrace in a [literally] pear-shaped group orgy). It's the way he says them. He's completely unexcited, completely unenthusiastic. He could teach Bernie Fraser how to talk boring.

Not only is he utterly uninspiring with his droning monotone; he also repeats everything over and over again. For example:

This most eloquent of poems must have been recited at least 5 times, in the space of just one episode. I'm not sure if the intent is to hypnotise or to tranquilise; the end result is a bit of both.

Flubs

Then there's all the other things: the visual appearance of the Teletubbies themselves; the baby-like chatter that they constantly engage in; the distinctive (no doubt alien) antennae that they all have implanted in their cotton wool skulls; the random rabbits; etc. All up, the Teletubbies makes for a most disturbing 30 minutes of entertainment.

Child psychologists are right to worry about their effect on the next generation. South Park and The Simpsons are right to... errr... critique them. In fact, white Western toddlers the [white Western] world over would be much better served, in my opinion, by learning about the good 'ol American values of animal cruelty, fast food addiction, death by mutilation, panoptic racism, and so on (all of which can be found in South Park and The Simpsons, amongst other quality TV shows); than they would be by obvserving the bouncing motions of a group of oversized talking beanbags.

Those flubby tubbies are starting to freak me out.

Shake what yo' Tubbie Momma gave you

Check out these videos — they're far less disturbing than the real Teletubbies TV episodes:

• Teletubbies Lean Wit It
• Y'all Wanta Single

I have had far more than the recommended dosage of The Matrix in my time. In watching the film, my friends and I have developed a tradition of sorts, in that we have always derided this particular scene as being 'fake' and 'medically impossible'. We endlessly applaud the dazzling special effects, the oh-so-cool martial arts, the ultra-quotable screenplay, and the relishably noirish techniques, all of which the film overall is brimming with; nevertheless, we cannot help but feel disappointed by this one spot, where it seems that romantic melodrama has thwarted plausibility.

But like Neo, I believe that I may finally have the answer.

Ironically (and, since The Matrix itself has so much irony of a similar nature, doubly ironically), the answer has been staring me in the face all along. Indeed, like Morpheus, I too "came to realise the obviousness of the truth".

In almost any other movie, there can be no acceptable excuse for bringing someone back from the dead. It's a moviemaking sin. It's the lazy way to set the film's plot back on course, and the cheap way to engender drama and climax. This is because films are expected to follow the same rules that apply in the real world. When someone dies in real life, they stay dead. There is no way to reverse what is, by its very definition, fatal. Even in the realm of sci-fi, where technology is capable of anything, there is an unwritten rule that even the best gadgets cannot undo death - at least not without some serious scientific justification. Surely The Matrix is not exempt from this rule? Surely the film's producers cannot expect to conjure up the impossible on-screen, and expect something as unscientific as a kiss to qualify as "serious scientific justification"?

But what we can so easily forget, when making all these judgements, is the central theme and message of The Matrix. This message is constantly re-iterated throughout the film:

• There Are No Rules
• There is no spoon
• Free your mind
• What is real?
• The mind makes it real

In a nutshell, this quote sums it up best:

By being 'The One', Neo's job is to understand and fully absorb the concept that everything in life is a rule, and that every rule can be broken. What is a rule? A rule is something that determines cause and effect. What happens if you are able to 'break' a rule? The cause occurs, but the effect does not. Simple as that. The only tricky bit is: how do you break a rule? You choose to deny that the rule applies to you, and therefore you are not governed by that rule. That last bit is the only bit that we haven't (yet?) proven in real life.

So, what are some basic rules that virtually all of the main characters in The Matrix learn to break, and that the audience is generally able to accept as being 'broken'? Gravity. Speed. Agility. Stamina. To name a few.

When you think about it like this, it becomes clear that death is just another one of these rules; and that if (according to 'Matrix logic') you are able to choose to deny death, then being killed (i.e. 'the cause') should not necessarily result in your dying (i.e. 'the effect'). In fact, when you follow this logic, then it could be argued that had Neo died permanently, he would have been permanently affected by the 'rule of death', and hence the movie would have been inconsistent. Instead, the movie portrays death as 'the ultimate rule to overcome'; and when Neo does succeed in thwarting it, he suddenly finds himself utterly unshackled from the confines that the Matrix attempts to place upon him.

The mind has an instinctive conviction that when the body is fatally injured, the whole bang shoot (i.e. mind / body / soul) ceases to function. By freeing your mind of this conviction, you are freeing yourself from the consequences that the conviction entails. That's the theory being touted, anyway. Personally, I find it to be a very self-centred and arrogant theory, but an enthralling one nonetheless.

This logic has helped me to 'accept' Neo's death and re-animation somewhat. But I still have a healthy level of cynicism, and I hope you do too. Despite all the work I've just done justifying it, the re-animation was a second-rate effort at tying up the story, and it was particularly poorly executed with the Hollywood kiss 'n' all. This sin is only barely explainable, and is certainly not admirable. But at least it is (in my eyes, at least) excusable, which is more than I can say for any other movies that do it.

A few days ago, I finished reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's famous book, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1892). This was the first time that the famous detective's adventures had been published in a permanent tome, rather than in a more transient volume, such as a journal or a magazine. It contains 12 short stories of intrigue, perplexity, and 'logical deduction', and it was a great read.

But as I neared the end of this book, something about it suddenly struck me. There was something about the way it was written, which was profoundly different to the way that more recent books are usually written. It was more profound than simply the old-fashioned vocabulary, or than the other little hallmarks of the time, such as fashion, technology, politics, and class division. It was the heavy use of dialogue. In particular, the dialogue of characters speaking to each other when recalling past events. Take, for example, this quote from the 11th story in the book, The Beryl Coronet:

In this example, not only is the character (Mr Holder) reciting a past event, but he is even reciting a past conversation that he had with another character! To the modern reader, this should universally scream out at you: old fashioned! Why does the character have to do all this recitation? Why can't the author simply take us back to the actual event, and narrate it himself? If the same thing were being written in a modern book, it would probably read something like this:

This new, 'modernified' version of Doyle's original text probably feels much more familiar to the modern reader.

It is my opinion that Sherlock Holmes is written very much like a play. The number of characters 'on stage' is kept to a minimum, and dialogues with other characters are recalled rather than narrated. Most of the important substance of the story is enclosed within speech marks, with as little as possible being expounded by the narrator. I have read other 19th century novels that exhibit this same tendency, and really it should come as no surprise to anyone. After all, in those days the play was still considered the dominant literary form, with the novel being a fledgling new contender. Novelists, therefore, were very much influenced by the style and language of plays - many of them were, indeed, playwrights as well as novelists. Readers, in turn, would have felt comforted by a story whose language leaned towards that of the plays that many of them often watched.

My 'new version' of the story, however - which is written in a style used by many contemporary novels - exhibits a different deviation from the novel style. It is written more like a movie. In this style, emphasis is given to providing information through visual objects, such as scenery, costumes, and props. Physical dynamics of the characters, such as hand gestures and facial expressions, are described in greater detail. Parts of the story are told through these elements wherever possible, instead of through dialogue, which is kept fairly spartan. Once again, this should be no groundbreaking surprise, since movies are the most popular form in which to tell a story in the modern world. Modern novelists, therefore, and modern readers, are influenced by the movie style, and inevitably imbue it within the classic novel style.

So, in summary: novels used to be written like plays; now they're written like movies.

This brings us to the question: what is the true 'novel style', and just how common (or uncommon) is it?

By looking at the Wikipedia entry on 'Novel', it is obvious that the novel itself is an unstable and, frankly, indefinable form that has evolved over many centuries, and that has been influenced by a great many other literary and artistic forms. However, although the search for an exact definition for a novel is not a task that I feel capable of undertaking, I would like to believe that a 'true novel' is one that is not written in the style of any other form (such as a play or a movie), but that exhibits its own unique and unadulterated form.

Just how many 'true novels' there are, I cannot say. As a generalisation, most of the 'pulp fiction' paperback type books, of the past several decades, are probably written more like movies than like true novels. The greatest number of true novels have definitely been written from the early 20th century onwards, although some older authors, such as Charles Dickens, certainly managed to craft true novels as well. As for the questions of whether the pursuit of finding or writing 'true novels' is a worthwhile enterprise, or of whether the 'true novel' has a future or not, or even of whether or not it matters how 'pure' novels are: I have no answer for them, and I suspect that there is none.

But considering that the novel is my favourite and most oft-read literary form, and that it's probably yours too, I believe that it couldn't hurt to invest a few minutes of your life in considering issues such as these.

This fantastical Utopia of the 21st century, however, could hardly be further from our own reality. What's interesting to note, however, is that there are a whole bunch of amazing things in this world today, that would have been considered science fiction not that long ago; but that these things are quite different to what the prophecies of science and of popular fiction have foretold.

The general pattern, as far as I can tell, is that it's the fun, the colourful, and the sexy ideas that inevitably wind up being predicted; and that it's the useful, the mundane, and the boring ideas that actually come into existence, and that (to a greater or lesser extent) become part of the global furnishings in which we live.

Take the Internet, for example. As a basic idea, the Internet is not very sexy (how ironic!): it's just a whole bunch of computers, all around the world, that are able to communicate with each other. How about computers? Even less sexy: a pile of circuits and resistors, that can perform complex calculations real fast. The mobile phone (a.k.a. cell phone)? Big deal: a phone that you can carry in your pocket. These are all things that we take for granted every day. They're also all things that have radically changed the way we live. Only, not in the sexy way that we imagined.

Where are the laser guns? Where are the cool spaceships? Where are the zero-gravity shoes, the holographic worlds, and the robotic people? When can you beam me up? Where's the sexy stuff? Sure, my iPod™ looks cool, but chopping my foot off and swallowing a pill to make it grow back would be so much cooler.

Flavours of prediction

Futuristic predictions come in two main flavours: the sleek, awe-inspiringly glossy flavour; and the crude, depressingly 'realistic' flavour. The science fiction movie genre has gone through both these phases. In the earlier years (the 60s and 70s), the genre seemed to favour the former flavour (the futuristic Utopia); and in the latter years (the 80s and 90s), it seemed to favour the latter flavour (usually in the form of a post-disaster world).

Take, for example, this shot from the classic Stanley Kubrick film, 2001: A Space Odyssey:

This is a beautiful machine, full of graceful curves and subtle gradients - very much compatible with the elegant classical music to which it 'waltzes'. This kind of spaceship is the perfect example of a 'glossy' future - that is, one that has been made to look perfect and insatiable. Here's another example of a future that's been glossed up:

This shot is from Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones. I'm actually cheating a bit here, because Star Wars is technically set 'a long time ago, in a galaxy far away'; and also because Episode II was made recently, not in the 60s or 70s. Also, Star Wars has traditionally had less glossy-looking scenery than this. But nevertheless, this shot gets the point across pretty well: the future is a gleaming city of spires and curvaceous arches, with thousands of little shuttles zooming through the sky.

And now for something completely different, here's a shot from Ridley Scott's film Blade Runner:

This is a totally different prediction of the future: not attractive, but grotesque; not full of life, but devoid of it; not designed, but mass-manufactured. This is not just a different image, but a whole different philosophy on how to foretell the future. Similar things can be said about this shot from The Matrix Reloaded:

While this one isn't quite so obviously blocky and noirish as the Blade Runner shot, it still looks more 'realistic' than 'futuristic', if you know what I mean. It's got that industrial, scrap-metal-dump-site kind of look about it.

Conclusions

So, which of these flavours of prediction is accurate? Will the future continue to disappoint, as it has up until now, or will it live up to its glossy predictions?

As I said earlier, it's the cool ideas that get predicted, and the practical ideas that actually happen. Bearing that in mind, I think that many of the cool ideas from science fiction will become a part of our real lives in the not-too-distant future (in fact, many of them are already), but not in the sexy way that they've been portrayed by the mass media.

Many of the ideas that futurists have come up with will never (foreseeably) actually happen, because they're simply too impractical to implement in the real world, or because implementing them is way beyond our current capacity in the realms of science. And, as we've seen in the past few decades, many useful but mundane innovations will continue to spring up, without ever having been predicted by even the most talented of modern prophets. Maybe such ideas are just too simple. Maybe they're too boring. Maybe they're just easier to sell in desktop form, or in pocket form, than in panoramic wide-screen digital surround-sound form.

I don't guarantee that the future will be any glossier than the present. The future might not be as jazzed up as Hollywood has made it.

But one thing's for sure: the future will be cool.

I've had an amazing vision of something that is bound to happen, very soon, in the world of movies. I will explain my vision at the end. If you're really impatient, then feel free to skip my ramblings, and cut to the chase. Otherwise, I invite you to read on.

Rambling review of American Epic

I just finished watching Part 1 of Cecil B. DeMille: American Epic (on ABC TV). DeMille was one of the greatest filmmakers of all time. I watched this documentary because DeMille produced The Ten Commandments, which is one of my favourite movies of all time. When I saw the ad for this show a few nights ago - complete with clips from the movie, and some of the most captivating music I've ever heard (the music from the movie, that is) - I knew I had to watch it.

This documentary revealed quite a few interesting things about Cecil B. DeMille. Here are the ones that stayed with me:

• In his 50+ years of movie-making, he produced an astounding 70+ feature films!
• He was actually a failed playwright and actor, who turned to film as an act of desperation. His failure in the world of theatre filled him with an incredible ambition and drive for the rest of his life.
• He founded Hollywood. That's right: when he arrived in Los Angeles in 1913, Hollywood was a sleepy village with nothing but farmland around it. He set up the first movie studio ever in Hollywood. He chose to establish himself in the town, because the scenery of the area was just what he needed to film his first movie (The Squaw Man).
• He first produced The Ten Commandments in 1923. All those countless times I've watched the 1956 version (I watch it at least once every year): and never once did I realise or suspect that it was actually the second version that he made. The documentary shows clips from the original film, and it's uncanny how striking the resemblances are. The 'day of exodus' scene, the 'chariot chase' scene, and the famous 'splitting of the sea' scene, all look pretty much the same as their later equivalents, just with way worse special effects and no sound.
• When he produced The King of Kings in 1927, it originally portrayed the Children of Israel as being responsible for the death of dear old Brian (AKA Jesus). But the outcry from the American Jewish community at the time was so severe, the ending had to be changed before the film was released.
• Although his mother was Jewish - and although his biggest film ever was the story of the birth of the Jewish people - he was apparently a tad bit anti-semitic. He considered himself to be a devout Christian, and somewhat resented his Jewish blood. He wouldn't let one of his relatives appear in any of his films, or in any photographs associated with them, because she had a 'Jewish nose' (hey, I know all about that, I know just how she feels!).

Anyway, most of the documentary was about DeMille's work producing silent films, during the 1913-1929 period. Watching these films always gives me a weird feeling, because I've always considered film to be a 'modern' medium, and yet to me, there's absolutely nothing modern about these films. They look ancient. They are ancient. They're archaeological relics. They may as well belong in the realms of Shakespeare, and Plato, and all the other great works of art that are now in the dim dark past. We give these old but great works a benevolent name (how generous of us): we call them classics.

But even at the very start of his producer / director career, the hallmarks of DeMille's work are clear; the same hallmarks that I know and love so well, from my many years of fondness for The Ten Commandments. Even in his original silent, black-and-white-not-even-grey, who-needs-thirty-frames-in-a-second-anyway films, you can see the grandeur, the lavish costumes, the colossal sets, the stunning cast, and the incontestible dignity that is a DeMille movie.

Cut to the chase

Watching all this stuff about the dawn of the film industry, and the man that made Hollywood's first feature films, got me thinking. I thought about how old all those movies are. Old, yet still preserved in the dusty archives of Paramount Pictures (I know because the credits of the documentary said so). Old, yet still funny, still inspiring, still able to be appreciated. Old, but not forgotten.

I wondered if I could get any of these old, silent films from the 1920s (and before) on video or DVD. Probably not, I thought. I wondered if I could get access to them at all. The 1923 original of The Ten Commandments, in particular, is a film that I'd very much like to see in full. But alas, no doubt the only way to access them is to go to the sites where they're archived, and pay a not-too-shabby fee, and have to use clunky old equipment to view them.

Have you ever heard of Project Gutenberg? They provide free, unlimited access to the full text of over 15,000 books online. Most of the books are quite old, and they are able to legally publish them online royalty-free, because the work's copyright has expired, due to lapse of time since the author's death. Project Gutenberg FAQ 11 says that as a general rule, works published in the USA pre-1923 no longer have copyright (this is a rough guideline - many complicated factors will affect this figure on a case-by-case basis).

Project Gutenberg's library consists almost entirely of literary text at the moment. But the time is now approaching (if it hasn't arrived already) when the world's oldest movies will lose their copyright, and will be able to be distributed royalty-free to the general public. Vintage films would make an excellent addition to online archives such as Project Gutenberg. These films are the pioneers of a century of some of the richest works of art and creativity that man has ever produced. They are the pioneers of the world's favourite medium of entertainment. They should be free, they should be online, and they should be available to everyone.

When this happens (and clearly it's a matter or when, not if), it's going to be a fantastic step indeed. The educational and cultural value of these early films is not to be underestimated. These films are part of the heritage of anyone who's spent their life watching movies - that would be most of the developed world.

These films belong to the masses.

But just what is it that makes these books so damn popular? As I lay awake last night, having just finished reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (I'll talk about J.K. Rowling's work in a minute), I pondered this question, and I would now like to share with you all the conclusions that I came up with.

We all know that fantasy books all have a lot in common. A lot. In fact, most of them are so similar, that once you've read a few, you could read the rest of them with your eyes shut, and still be able to take a pretty good guess at what the plot is. They all follow the classic formula, which goes something along these lines:

1. Young boy (or girl, or creature... or hobbit) grows up in rural setting, living peaceful childhood, knowing nothing about magic, dark lords, wizards, etc.
2. Hero is forced to leave beloved home (may or may not have found true love by now), because dark power is growing stronger, and hero must go on dangerous journey to escape.
3. Hero soon realises that his parents/ancestors (whom he never met - up until now he thought those nice country bumpkins who raised him were his closest family) were powerful wizards, or kings/queens, or something else really famous.
4. Hero discovers that he has amazing magical powers, and that he was born with a destiny to overthrow some terrifying evil power. He is taught how to use his cool abilities.
5. Hero overcomes all odds, battles huge monsters, forges empires, unites many nations, fulfils several gazillion prophecies, defeats dark lord (who always has some weird, hard-to-pronounce name - not that that matters, because everyone is scared to pronounce it anyway), marries beautiful princess/sorceress love of his life (who is also really brave, fulfilled many prophecies, and helped him do battle), and everyone lives happily ever after.

Fantasy books are also always set in a pre-industrial world, where by some amazing miracle, every nation on the planet has managed to stay in the middle ages for several thousand years, without a single person inventing things such as gunpowder, petrol engines, or electronics (although they have all the things that would naturally lead up to such inventions, such as steel, sulfur, etc). Instead of all these modern inventions, fantasy worlds are filled with magic. In most books, magic is a natural phenomenon that some people are born with, and that most are not. There are various magical creatures (e.g. elves, vampires, dragons), all sorts of magical artefacts, and usually various branches (or specialised areas) within the field of magic.

The common argument for why fantasy books are so popular, is because people say that they're "perfect worlds". Yet this is clearly not so: if they're perfect, then why do they all have dark lords that want to enslave the entire human race; terrifying and revolting evil creatures; warring nations that don't get on with each other; and hunger, disease, poverty, and all the other bad things that afflict us the same way in the real world? Fantasy worlds may have magic, but magic doesn't make the world perfect: as with anything, magic is just a tool, and it can be used (and is used) for good or for evil.

So fantasy worlds aren't perfect. If they were, then the whole good vs evil idea, which is central to every fantasy book, would be impossible to use as the basis for the book's plot.

Now, let's go back to that idea of a pre-industrial world. Every since the industrial revolution of the 1840s, many people upon this Earth have grown worried that we are destroying the planet, that we are making the world artificial, and that all the beautiful natural creations that make up the planet are wasting away. Fantasy worlds, which are all set before the growth of industry, are lacking this ugly taint. Fantasy worlds are always natural.

And that, in my opinion, is why people can't get enough of fantasy books. Everything about fantasy worlds is natural. The environment is natural: most of the world is untouched wilderness, and human settlements (e.g. farms and cities) do not have a noticeable impact upon that environment. It's a bit like those strategy-based computer games, where no matter what you do or build upon the terrain map, you have no effect upon the map itself: it remains the same. The people are natural: they show qualities like bravery, honour, dignity, and trust; qualities that many consider to be disappearing from the human race today. Even magic, which is not part of any natural world that we know, is a natural part of the fantasy landscape: people are born with it, people use it instinctively, and it can be used to accomplish things that are still not possible with modern technology, but in a natural and clean way.

Harry Potter is unique among fantasy books, because unlike most fantasy worlds, which are totally contrived and are alien to our own, the world of Harry Potter is part of our own modern world. This lets us contrast the fantasy environment with our own very clearly: and the result, almost invariably, is that we find the fantasy world much more attractive than our own. It may lack all the modern wonders that we have artificially created - and that we consider to be our greatest achievements - but it seems to easily outdo these things with its own, natural wonders: magic, raw human interaction, and of course, a pristine natural environment.

It's quite ironic, really, that we so often applaud ourselves on being at the height of our intellectual, social, and technological greatness (and we're getting higher every day, or so we're told), but that when it comes down to it, we consider a world without all these great things to be much more appealing. Traversing a continent on horseback seems far more... chivalric... than zooming over it in a 747. The clash of a thousand swords seems much more... glorious... than the bang of a million guns. And the simple act of lighting a candle, and reading great and spectacular works of literature in leather-bound volumes in the dark of night, seems much more... fulfilling... than turning on a light bulb, and booting up your computer, so that you can go online and read people's latest not-at-all-great-or-spectacular blog entries, in one of many sprawling big cities that never sleeps.