Let's talk future.
This week is the golden anniversary of the opening of the 1964 New York World's Fair, when visitors flocked to Queens to see exhibits that included a guy flying around with his jet pack, Michelangelo's “Pieta,” the brand-new Ford Mustang and Walt Disney's animated figurines singing “It's a Small World (After All).” I am not quite sure we needed “It's a Small World.” Nice sentiment, terrible tune.
There were computers on display, performing exciting tasks like — looking up a date. (Peering forward, people almost always overestimated the possibility of flying cars and underestimated the potential of computers.) “You will be able to ask for the news of any date that you like,” enthused a woman at the IBM pavilion, where visitors could experience what was supposed to be a futuristic information search. Participants got to write a date on a card, which they then stuck into a box about the size of two refrigerators. Then, after a little wait, a little electronic ticker tape would announce that on Oct. 29, 1950, King Gustav of Sweden had died.
When the fair opened, Isaac Asimov wrote a piece for the New York Times conjuring up a “Visit to the World's Fair of 2014.” He was remarkably prescient on some points. He foresaw Skype, although he imagined we'd be doing it with our friends on the moon colonies. He was pretty darned close in predicting population growth and appropriately dubious about robot house cleaners. He knew we'd be going to 3-D movies but was overoptimistic about how much we'd like them. (If you're going to be a futurist, there's no point in looking ahead to a world with an exceedingly high level of technology that's dedicated to “The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug.”)
The way people see the future can define their present. A century or so ago, when Americans were trying to imagine the year 2000, the talk was about ending social ills. The best-selling novel “Looking Backward” told the story of a man who fell asleep and woke up in a world where crime, unemployment and mental illness had virtually vanished, where college was free and laundry was cheap and people ate their stupendously delicious meals in communal dining rooms. It sold millions of copies and spawned both progressive movements and a long line of novels with heroes who fell asleep and woke up at the next millennium.