An infinite number of monkeys typing in a room will eventually produce Hamlet. Isn't this how the theory goes? Or is it a finite number of monkeys typing over an infinite course of time (note that it seems to be important that they all fit in a room)? It doesn't matter. But what does this bizarre image mean? In a world of infinite possibilities, supposedly, everything will occur eventually, simply from the sheer randomness (that's why they call it infinity, Bubba, and not just some arbitrary huge number). Shakespeare was brilliant, no doubt about it; no monkey, he. But in the grand scheme of the events, penning Hamlet had to be expected. Like, we almost have to think of it as inevitable if, given enough time, even monkeys will have done it eventually (and in a world of infinite possibilities, monkeys eventually will write Hamlet, all over again, right?).

Of course, the whole monkey scenario opens more questions than it answers. What are we supposed to make of an ape-authored Hamlet? Would it be the product not of one genius, but rather of a roomful of dullards who had only the slimmest (if any) idea what they were doing? Or even worse, would it be a Hamlet not sprung from minds at all, but just occurring by sheer happenstance? The fruit of a chain of obscure, improbable, seemingly unrelated events somehow coalescing in exactly the correct sequence? And if infinitely-operating apes do produce Hamlet, would it be the same Hamlet, or, in fact, a different play of the same name (and let's follow this thought to the end: you've got not only the same name, but same plot, same set-up, and the same brooding Danes saying the exact same lines. But it was produced independently of Shakespeare. Is it the same play? Is it?)? And how should we feel about these indefatigable monkeys?

Frankly, I find the whole image disturbing. Not so much because the thought of an authorless existence causes me fear and trembling, as it did for that other depressing Dane, Kierkegaard (although this is sort of the iceberg-tip of an entirely different existential crisis lurking in the shadows of the monkey scenario, which I don't even want to get involved with here). What I find disturbing is the prospect that all potentialities will eventually come to be, all imaginings will gain solidity, and become finally clear.

I still recall my first realization, at six years old, that no one could ever be Ferdinand Magellan again. I would never visit unknown continents, unravel undiscovered mysteries, wrestle with unforgiving tempests in uncharted seas. This was a crushing awakening for me, and it took years before I truly accepted the fact of Earth's complete discovery. That every mountain range, every river, and every savanna had been long ago recorded and logged was amazing to me, and bitterly disappointing. The first thing I can recall wanting to be when I grew up was an explorer.

As I grew older, I comforted myself with the thought that even if the world is thoroughly rendered cartographically, it still holds mysteries, though perhaps not geographical in nature. What about subatomic particles? Dinosaurs? The statues of Easter Island? Surely, I thought, there are enough mysteries in the world to go around. Even the pouring of milk into a cup of tea contains within it such a complex set of minute events, random processes, and unpredictable chaos that I surely, will never fully understand it. I needed to believe that strangeness still existed in the world, hidden, waiting for my eager eyes. Lately, however, it occurs to me that the Internet, like infinite monkeys typing in a room, is disclosing all that once was mysterious.

A friend of mine wore a Milwaukee brace in high school. If you're notfamiliar with the name, it's a sure bet that you've seen the device. You'll recall being excused from gym class, standing shirtless in the locker room, while the school nurse enigmatically drew a dotted line down your back in magic marker. Most of us passed this exam without comment, but the unlucky few diagnosed with scoliosis had to suffer the humiliation and indignation of the Milwaukee brace – basically an upper body metal cage from which the unfortunates had to live out their hormone-addled awkward years. This was a prison for the wretched. Not only did those entombed in the brace become immediately bizarre to uncomprehending eyes, but this miserable fate seemed to fall, through some incalculable logic, upon people who were weirdos already. But brace-wearing was its own kind of protection. Like the mark of Cain, the brace seemed to say, "don't make fun of these people, they have enough problems as it is."

My brace-wearing friend recently discovered that there are Milwaukee brace fetish sites on the Internet. We both thought this was hilarious, and my friend saw it as a possible outlet for some extra bucks. He could dig the cage out of his parents' basement, pose for some risqué snapshots, and watch the sweet moolah roll in. He gets money, an Internet kink community gets some fun; a win-win if ever there was one. Thinking about it later, though, it became sad to me. I thought, once again, everything has been mapped. Magellan did rise again, this time inking a virtual cartography of all of life's phenomena.

The Internet, day after day, gets cobbled together by monkeys typing in rooms. And what results? The mysterious secrets of the Milwaukee brace obsessed, meticulously charted, extending into the ether. And who could have planned this? Has Shakespeare finally been outdone? The Internet is no mere Hamlet,but, in fact, far broader. The Internet takes all comers. Every thought offered up is accepted. All mysteries have a finality, now. Want to know what burrow owls eat? It's on the Internet. Want to know the origin of the word "hoosegow?" It's there. There's probably a site describing in vivid detail what's going on in my mysterious cup of tea, but I don't even want to look. It'd be too depressing. I don't really want all the answers, I want them to continue to exist, just around the next corner. And aren't I just contributing to the problem,right here and now? I'm simply adding to the glut of web pages that must surely already exist addressing the disturbing consequences of monkeys typing.

The beauty of the Internet is the velocity with which it propels the transitory toward solidity. Blips in the darkness, continually switching on, digitally illuminating a vast continent. As a child I wanted to believe in lost continents. I loved the movie The Black Hole. The movie ends with the heroes' amazing exit into the swirling vortex – but the exit is also an entrance. An entrance into… uncharted waters. It was that entrance into the unknown that entranced me. But, finally, everything really is being charted. Every experience, no matter how arcane, now matter how insignificant is granted eternity through the fingers of an entire planet of hairless apes at keyboards.

And hasn't this been the promise of art, since the painters of Lascaux first projected animals onto cave walls? Lost glimpses are reanimated, becoming permanent. Did those painters intend their buffalo to still be visible, all these thousands of years later? And certainly they couldn't have imagined their continual duplication, on postcards, coffee mugs, and finally the Internet.

Why do we do it? Why do we keep putting everything online? It's a little slice of self-assurance. Maybe you thought you were the only person in the world interested in clown porn; now you can find those other few aficionados. And everything is given equal weight. Fan pages devoted to bad 80s sweaters exist in equal prominence and accessibility next to pages on the Spanish Civil War and ratatouille. Devote a web page to some arcane phenomenon and it seems more real, more important. It's a way of achieving the permanence that continually evades regular life. And of course I'm equally to blame, putting all my thoughts here so that some stranger who I'll never meet can read them. And I guess this is comforting in some strange way. But once again, I'm a man conflicted. The detailing of all of life on the Internet disturbs me, as much as I want to participate in it. I want some mysteries to simply remain unaddressed, but perhaps I just don't want them to be my own (I particularly don't want to see the mysteries of clown porn addressed).

But, finally, are my worries justified? Will the contents of the world finally be written, carved in digital stone, to exist for all eternity? My anxiety may have been misplaced. Apparently, someone finally did it. Someone ran an experiment in which monkeys were put in rooms with computers. Obviously they weren't left there indefinitely, but their behavior is still revealing. They shat on the keyboards and typed the same letters over and over again. They didn’t write anything. No resurrected Hamlet grasped Yorrick’s simian skull in verse. Perhaps even infinity can’t bring all things to conclusion, but only guarantee endless repetitions. And this is what’s so peculiar about the monkey scenario. The monkeys actually get some work done. They manage to finish their exam, and the class is let out early. And what happens when Hamlet is finally finished all over again? Does time end? Does infinity pick up its things and go home? The appeal of infinity is that everything always remains to be done; nothing is ever finished. At the end of each day Sisyphus’ pages are tossed out and he has to join the other monkeys at the keyboard all over again. A scenario in which the monkeys actually get somewhere is terrifying because then even infinity wouldn’t be immune to death. And isn’t this really what I’m afraid of? If no more mysteries exist in the world, isn’t death right around the corner? As I crouch at my computer watching all the world’s minutae get transcribed into cyberspace, my fear is that the real world (it is the real one, isn’t it?) lays dying. But I tell myself to take heart. Those real monkeys in the real room just threw feces about. The mysteries of the universe for them remain mysterious. And, likewise, it could be that some mysteries will never be resolved on the Internet. I noticed recently, for instance, that no one has devoted a web page to cooking new foods in log shape. And this is good. Perhaps no one should do this. What would be left for us to wonder about? Instead, blogs may just keep on addressing the same issues while leaving others unresolved. I hope so.

Maybe there will be future Magellans after all.