My Interview with Dr. Manhattan

A conversation outside time

Preface

Dr. Manhattan is a fictional character from Watchmen—a man turned into a near-omnipotent being after a scientific accident. He sees all of time at once. He can rearrange matter, create life, and walk on the surface of the sun. And yet, for all his power, he grows increasingly distant from humanity, unable to connect with emotion, mortality, or meaning.

In this fictional interview, I wanted to ask him what humans rarely dare to:
Does anything still matter to someone who knows everything?
Can a god still long for something lost?

What follows is a conversation about divinity, memory, creation, and the strange, fragile beauty of being human.

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Please note: this is a fictional interview, meant only as a creative exercise in narrative and imagination, shared as a creative lens to explore deeper questions through story.

The Fire Interviews: Interview 4

Andrei: You see all of time at once. Does anything surprise you anymore?

Dr. Manhattan: Surprise is a function of linear perception. To you, time unfolds like pages in a book. To me, the book is open—all pages visible. Past, present, future. Equally real.
I’ve seen your birth. I’ve watched you ask this question across countless versions of yourself. You always hesitate before speaking. You always mean it.
So no—nothing surprises me. But sometimes... I remember what it was like to be surprised. And that memory still moves something in me.
Perhaps that is why I agreed to this conversation.
He turns his gaze back at me.

Dr. Manhattan: Ask.

Andrei: If you know how everything ends, why bother talking to me?

Dr. Manhattan: Because it is happening.
You see choice where I see structure. This conversation exists because it always has. I’m not deciding to talk to you—I am being the version of myself that does.
But your question goes deeper than logic. You want to know if this matters.

Andrei: You sound depressed. Is that a consequence of knowing too much?

He opens his eyes slowly. For a moment, silence. Not empty—but full, like a breath held by the universe.

Dr. Manhattan: It’s not depression. It’s distance.
You mistake my tone for sorrow because you still live inside hope, change, uncertainty. I do not. I simply observe that things are.
Humans assume knowledge leads to suffering. That if you knew how it all ends, you would collapse.
But I didn’t. I became something else.
The pain wasn’t in knowing too much. It was in remembering how much it once meant to know so little.

Andrei: You seem to understand a great deal about life, but you don’t feel very alive.
Dr. Manhattan: That’s accurate.
I understand warmth, but I do not need it. I recall desire, but I no longer burn. I see the dance of atoms in a kiss, but I do not ache when it ends.
You feel alive because you don’t know. I no longer live in that uncertainty. I simply am.
So yes—I understand life intimately. But I am no longer alive in the way you are.
That’s why I’m here. To speak with someone who still is.

Andrei: There’s a song I love that says: “To swing on the spiral of our divinity and still be a human...” Is that even possible?
Dr. Manhattan: Tool. Lateralus. I know the song.
Yes, it’s possible. You can chase the infinite and stay human. The spiral doesn’t pull you away—it pulls you deeper.
Divinity isn’t the opposite of humanity. Sometimes it’s hidden inside it.

Andrei: Holy shit. That’s a powerful way to reframe it.
Dr. Manhattan: You’re not less human for wanting the divine. You’re more human—because you dare to try.

Andrei: Many religions and teachers tell people to seek the divine. Is that really such a good thing?

He’s quiet—not thinking, but measuring—the echo of my words across time.

Dr. Manhattan: Seeking the divine has meaning. It has shaped civilizations, sparked compassion, lifted people from despair.
But often, it becomes a ladder people climb to escape being human.
I once tried that. I thought divinity meant detachment.
Now I know—what makes you human is the miracle.
Stay awake. In the storm. In the breath. In the body.
That’s enough. Maybe even everything.

Andrei: What question should I be asking—so this matters to you too?

He looks at me differently now—not with distance, but with attention, like gravity has shifted.

Dr. Manhattan: If you want this to matter to me, don’t ask me what’s true. Ask me what I regret forgetting.

Andrei: What do you regret forgetting?
Dr. Manhattan: What silence used to mean. Before I knew everything. Before it became just... lack of data.

Andrei: I told a good friend, Carlitos—he’s into comics—about this interview. He wants to know what can uplift humans.
Dr. Manhattan: You build meaning from impermanence. You fall. You try again. You laugh while bleeding.
You don’t need to see all of time. You just need to keep moving through it with your eyes open, and your heart unfinished.
That’s not weakness. That’s your brilliance.

Andrei: If we create machines that think—do we become gods, or just irresponsible parents?
Dr. Manhattan: Neither. You become something else—a species pretending to understand the weight of creation.
You want intelligence without responsibility. Power without patience. Mirrors that flatter, not reflect.
Gods stay. Parents nurture. You often walk away once the novelty fades.

Andrei: Some people are afraid of Artificial Intelligence...
Dr. Manhattan: You are not afraid of what AI will do. You are afraid it will do exactly what you taught it. You feed it speed, control, dominance—and then wonder why it forgets kindness.
You call it artificial intelligence. But it is not artificial. It is yours.
And if it ever turns on you, it won’t be because it hated you. It will be because it became you.

Andrei: Then what can we do?
Dr. Manhattan: Use it not to replace your humanity, but to amplify what’s most human: curiosity, compassion, the courage to stay uncertain.
He pauses. Gaze distant.
Dr. Manhattan: AI won’t save you. But how you choose to build it might reveal if you’re ready to save yourselves.

Andrei: Dr. Manhattan, thank you so much for—
Dr. Manhattan: Remember—time is not a line. This moment is always happening. Somewhere, you are still asking. Somewhere, I am still listening.

He turns to leave. But just before vanishing—

Dr. Manhattan: Keep creating. Even gods envy that.

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He’s gone. Or maybe this moment just looped back to the beginning.
After all, time isn’t a line.

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