I’ve just finished Felix Gilman’s The Revolutions, with both delight and sadness. Delight in a grand story, beautifully told; sadness, because it ends with some of the elegiac tenderness of Crowley’s Little, Big. It’s not so much science fiction, as a ‘scientific romance’ of the kind popular a hundred years ago. At first I thought it a steampunk fantasy with a few oddments of Kabbalah thrown in, but it’s not at all that sort of cynically contrived pastiche. No, this is Burroughs with believable characters, Lovecraft with warmth and hope. In fact I’d say much of the story reminds me of Tim Powers’ work, in the best way. I’ll have to run off and read everything else from Gilman. Recommended.
This bubble diagram is fun:
Its designer categorizes it as ‘whimsy’, so it’s not fair to demand a lot from the diagram. I love this sort of thing, though, so I can’t help wishing it were a bit more rigorous.
The degree of left-right skew (on the x-axis) is described in terms similar to the degree of rigour or integrity (on the y-axis). Utter garbage and conspiracy theories correlate tightly with sensational or clickbait. If it really compared publications on two dimensions, there should be some in the upper corners, combining a complex or analytical approach with content that’s utter garbage. What would those be, exactly? Maybe some specialty sites detailing astrology calculations or UFO-sighting timelines? Not really—how would one assign such a subject to the left or right in the first place?
No, the two scales need to be better differentiated. Because they aren’t, the chart (inadvertently, I’m sure) implies that careful, responsible journalism is found only in the centre of the political spectrum, which isn’t true. You can be a serious journalist and also believe in a centrally-planned, state-owned economy enforcing strict individual equality of income. You can be a serious journalist and believe that your country should be run by religious elders concerned primarily with enforcing moral laws and maintaining a traditional way of life. I’d consider both badly mistaken, but I wouldn’t claim that they couldn’t offer a complex, analytical discussion of the issues.
For instance, the WSJ and the Economist are, indeed, careful and analytical, and take responsibility for what they publish. They skew further right than shown, though. They’ll debate the costs and benefits of nuclear aircraft carriers, for instance, but never ask whether it’s right to build a weapon system exclusively to carry out mass murder on the other side of the world from the citizens you’re supposedly defending. It’s not a lack of journalistic rigour—it’s a matter of values and cultural assumptions. They assume the goal of military dominance, and analyze only the means toward that end.
There are similar problems with publications on the left. Some publish excellent long-form analyses of, say, the impact of technology on the environment, with great journalistic integrity. What they won’t question is the assumption that any low-tech or traditional practice is automatically wonderful, while wilfully ignoring, say, the infant mortality rate in pre-industrial societies. Preserving food with sodium chloride or potassium nitrate is traditional and hence fine; preserving food with sodium nitrite is modern and hence poisonous.
So I’d structure that diagram a little differently. If the x-axis was all about political position, and the y-axis all about integrity, we could spread out that top-centre cluster more meaningfully. Then there’d be the question of depicting the narrowness or broadness of a publication—you can publish only centrist opinions, or publish views from both the left and the right, and average out to the same ‘skew’, but with very different effect on your readers’ understanding.
Depicting this is an interesting problem, not least because the left-right distinction is pretty sketchy—the world is full of Greens who favour nuclear power, small-government individualists who think all recreational drugs should be legal, and people who detest both corporations and labour unions on the grounds that they undervalue happy idleness and value waged work for its own sake. Where do any of those fit on a left-right axis? Nowhere obvious. Walk into an off-grid traditional farming commune. Are the people sexually restrictive Amish or sexually libertine Hippies? No way to know—which tells us something about the supposed connection between religious views, economic priorities, and so on: there really isn’t one.
Again, the diagram was only supposed to be a bagatelle. The author isn’t proposing it as a serious tool for categorizing publications, and I don’t mean to imply otherwise by criticizing it. It’s just good enough, though, that I wish it were better—and as I’ve just shown, I really don’t know how to do any better myself.
Thanks to Price Tags for this…always a thought-provoking read, over there.
Gregg Braden thinks he knows how the heart knows—and boy, is he mistaken.
Sadly, the nonsensical misinterpretation of scientific results, critiqued so cogently in the linked article, is rife elsewhere as well. In fact, I’m troubled by the way people systematically underestimate the complexity and difficulty of scientific investigation. I keep hearing things like ‘the second law of thermodynamics says that every transformation of energy is slightly inefficient’ when in fact the second law is a mathematical expression, with tightly defined terms, and in its simplest form is true only under rigorously specified conditions that do not ordinarily obtain in daily life. It took lifetimes of work to discover the general laws that underlie the much messier and more variable observations that scientists actually had to work with.
We both insult scientists, and mislead ourselves, when we mistake impressionistic, verbal interpretations of scientific ideas for the ideas themselves. Einstein, for instance, had to tell people thousands of times over that his work had nothing to do with cultural relativism, or relationships, or the inevitable relativity of opinions and comparisons generally. ‘Everything is relative’ people said, and imagined that physicists had proven it—when in fact, general relativity is strictly deterministic and permits measurements and judgements far more absolute than anything in the sphere of human opinion.
That, I think, is what’s going on with Braden’s nonsense about a separate brain that exists in your heart, allows precognition, and so on. The foolish author failed to read the work closely—if he had, he’d have realized he wasn’t understanding it. He picked up a couple of points that were couched in language he found familiar, rather than in the precise but daunting jargon of cardiology. He then hilariously over-interpreted those sentences, invented a whole book’s worth of nonsense, and peddled it to people who, understandably, find science impenetrable, and who quite like the idea that you can ‘know something in your heart’.
It’s a little too pat, I think, simply to call for more science education or better public understanding of science. Both are worthy aims, but realistically, an awful lot of science is going to remain incomprehensible to the general public. For that matter, an awful lot of science is incomprehensible to other scientists, and accessible only to specialists. So I think we need, as much as anything else, a better public understanding of how hard it is to do science, how many of its results are counterintuitive, and just how tricky it is to tease general laws from particular data. I’ve written and edited public-facing science communications, in a small way, and I support efforts to bring scientific understanding to the masses. I also think, though, that we could stand to be more realistic about the amount that ordinary people can be expected to understand.
There’s some pretty sound thinking, here. The very American perspective, though, obscures the obvious equivocation on ‘work’. Not all meaningful work has to be work in the labour market for pay, and work undertaken without pay (notably child care and home-making) has every bit as much right to be regarded as character-building, status-affirming, and demonstrative of personal value and significance, as that undertaken for money.
The author does not raise a question that strikes me as crucial: even if we assume that each human is valuable and respectable in proportion to how much their work contributes to their community (an assumption open to debate, at the very least), why assume that the only way to evaluation that contribution is by looking at what some affluent person is willing to pay them for the service of making that employer even more affluent?
Economists believe in full employment. Americans think that work builds character. But what if jobs aren’t working anymore?
Here’s Paul Mason with a much more balanced and thoughtful treatment of the UK’s departure from the EU than most I’ve read.
The Brexit vote was a insurrectionary protest against neoliberalism, globalism, and cultural contempt. It will break up the UK, and split England.
This is concise, well-reasoned, and passionate—one of the best and simplest critiques of Silicon Valley hubris I’ve read:
The only thing I would add, is that poor people stand to gain more than most from the flowering of a digital civilization—from education and remote work opportunities, to health care, advocacy, political engagement. That they have instead been largely overlooked, exploited, or excluded instead, is a disgrace to both the technical elite and the politicians and journalists who praise them so uncritically.
This is a good read on both the history and the current role of nation-states in the ways of the world. I’d have appreciated a paragraph or two on the economic benefits of subnational currencies, even local ones. The concentration of development, industry, knowledge, and wealth in just a few cities derives in large part from the lack of exchange-rate balancing between different regions and cities within nation-states. I’ve actually put time and thought into a fictional world in which there are no countries as such, but other groups reflecting affinity and allegiance at multiple scales. Alas, fiction is not a terribly useful guide to real-world policy.
Forgive me if I rant a wee bit, here:
- If you know a lot about the subject (more than those around you) then speak up confidently and share what you know.
- If you know a little about the subject (less than those around you) then ask constructive questions—share what you don’t know.
- If you know nothing about the subject, then shut up and listen—eventually you’ll come to understand at least a little.
- If no one in the conversation knows what they’re talking about—change the subject.
Notice that in none of these cases do you have any reason to hesitate, self-deprecate, or apologize for speaking up. Certainly, you should distinguish opinions from factual claims, and express reservations or qualifications some of the time. But whenever I hear a fake apology: I’m not a scientist, but… or I don’t know that much about economics, but obviously… I’m going to assume you’re in case 2 or 3, pretending to be in case 1.
Short version: if you have to apologize for what you’re about to say, don’t say it.
I’ve posted about our strange city-ignoring system of governance before, and still suspect that in Canada particularly, we should re-organize the country into a system of cities and their associated hinterlands, at least from Sudbury west. Here’s an American take on the subject, with thoughtful comments that speak to Canada’s very different structure.
I’ve just finished Chris Wooding’s The Black Lung Captain, and it’s a delight from start to finish. The world building is strictly kitchen-sink fantasy, with airships, demonology, wormhole travel, and a mad jumble of incompatible real-world technologies—shotguns and auto cannon cheek-by-jowl with magical tracking rings and half-sentient swords. It ought to come off as an amateurish pastiche, but the headlong pace of the story keeps your attention on the plot and the characters. It reminds me of Cynosure, in the Grimjack comics—basically everything is true, to one degree or another, in one neighbourhood or another, at least long enough to move the story ahead.
The best aspect, for me, was the omniscient narrator’s access to all the characters’ secret motivations and hidden agendas—our heroes are a tough, scroungy band of outsiders and outlaws, bristling with weapons and swagger. Inside, though, they’re as fretful and indecisive as any ordinary person—maybe a little more. The story proceeds on two levels at once—the strategy and tactics of a wild McGuffin chase across the planet, punctuated by gunfire, bloodshed, and airship malfunctions, and just as important, the successive revelations, reconciliations, and personal epiphanies that determine why they all persist in their hazardous adventures.
Wonderful stuff—dark and bright, violent and tender, but never gloomy or sadistic, and ultimately hopeful. Recommended.