Ponderings

My 103-year-old aunt and I live together. Her mental facilities are still sharp, and after meals we often play a game called Rummycube. The game involves tiles of four sets of numerals ranging from 1 to 13, in groups of red or yellow or blue or black; the object is to get rid of all the tiles in your hand by playing them in one of two ways: either as sets of the same numbers with at least three different colors, or as runs of numbers of the same color.

My aunt sometimes has difficulty distinguishing between the blue and black numbers. To help her with this problem, I bought a package of small stickers to put on the tiles with black numbers so she could tell them apart from the blue numbers. The stickers, from the school supply section of Staples, are in the shape of tiny stars, and have a reflective surface that glitters different colors depending on the angle of the light. The shiny stickers add a festive air to the drab numbers.

Recently, as we were playing, I noticed that on one row of tiles I laid down, the stickers appeared to glow a shimmering blue; a short distance away, however, another row looked orange. I knew intellectually that all the stickers were the same color -- or rather the same shiny material -- so the fact that I saw different colors struck me as interesting in a mildly humorous way. The more I thought about it, though, the odder it seemed that I could see two different shades. I began ruminating about the phenomenon to the detriment of my concentration on the game, and my aunt beat me soundly. Good for her!

However, I'm still thinking about the colors of those stickers, and trying to decide whether I should say they were blue or orange or whatever the original color of the material was. Then again, what would the original color of the material be? If viewed from different angles, it would appear as different colors, so how could it be described as being one certain color, since the color perceived depends on the angle of light?

My tendency is to think that the stickers have an objective color, but how could they when every angle presents a different color, and every viewer would report a different sensation? If my aunt were to describe the stickers as one color, from my position, I would see a different one. If I were to sit in her seat, and look at the tiles from the same angle she had been looking at them, I would see the same color she had described, but that would mean she would have moved and so would now be looking at the tiles from a different angle, and would still see a different color. So no matter what we did, we could never see the same color at the same time. Even if I were to stand behind her and peer over her shoulder, there would still be a slight difference in the position of our eyes, so that, though we might describe the color identically, it would have more to do with the finite number of names of colors versus the infinite gradations of the spectrum. In fact, to get even pickier, my left eye sees from a different position than my right; such a spacial difference in our visual receptors makes the apprehension of three dimensions possible, but it gives rise to differing views of the world even within the same person.

All of which reminds me of a puzzle of physics: all matter in the universe is made of molecules; all molecules are made of atoms; all atoms are made of quarks. On the quantum level -- the level of subatomic particles such as atoms and quarks -- a scientist can know either the location of a particle or its momentum, but never both. That's because in order for the observer to receive the information about the object, there must be some medium which carries that information from the object to the observer. And the interaction of that same, indispensable medium (for instance, a photon of light) with the object (in this case, a subatomic particle) affects the object so that merely by interacting with the object, the state of the object is changed. When the particle is struck by the photon -- analogous to the striking of the eight ball by the cue ball -- its position and momentum both are changed.

Which seems to lead to the conclusion that we can never, ever, even in theory, share another person's perception of the universe. And further, that we can never, ever, even in theory, possess knowledge of the ultimate state of the universe ourselves. We can guess, we can estimate, we can hypothesize, but by the time we've taken measurements on which to base our guess -- in the time it takes for the light to reach our eyes -- the universe has changed, even if only on the subatomic level.

A serious question which confronts not only philosophers and nuclear physicists but everyone, is whether that makes any difference. Maybe not. If a tree falls in the forest, the forest is still a forest; on some level, it might not be the same forest, but it's still a forest. If a hundred thousand trees fall, though, then the forest has ceased to be a forest.

http://media.smithsonianmag.com/images/evotourism-Mount-St-Helens-631.jpg

(addendum: Friday, 14 November 2014) Since this particular post was written, approximately two years have passed, and much has changed. For one thing, my aunt has passed away. She died on Friday, 23 May 2014, at the age of 105. So I now play Rummycube with one of my friends from church. The game is much more competitive, but is somehow not the same game. Before, it had a feeling of family wrapped up in it somehow; with my friend, it's still the same game, but it isn't done for the same reason. When I played with my aunt, my main goal was our mutual enjoyment. Now, it's a duel, and my aim is to win. To bring this discussion back to the original theme of this post, it's the same thing seen from a different perspective, but that makes it different in and of itself. So, with that in mind, what/where/when is the real game? Was Plato with his theory of the Ideal correct, or is the universe filled not with solid objects but with kaleidoscopically changing objects-of-perception? From my undergraduate days of studying philosophy, I know this question has been around in one form or another since the dawn of language, and may not even be capable of answering. Even so, I go on pondering the essence of gaming and of a forest of toppled trees.

Lament

Twenty years ago, when I lived in Tucson, Arizona, I enjoyed shopping at a small, neighborhood bookstore called Books Brothers. I became friends with the owners, and could talk with them about their current recommendation or anything else that popped into my hollow little head.

However, the number of independently owned bookstores has fallen in the U.S. from 4,000 in 1990 to less than 2,000 in 2007. (http://articles.sfgate.com/2007-06-17/business/17250973_1_number-of-independent-booksellers-diesel-cody-s-books) Although I can't vouch for the accuracy of the reporter's data, personal perception supports such figures. In the neighborhood just north of the Atlanta area where I live now, we have only one bookstore, and that one a mega-store, and although I can talk to the staff, they obviously have little personal stake in the store itself.

Embarrassingly, I find myself part of the problem ... if problem it is. My first impulse in book hunting is to use the county library. That resource has felt the sting of declining government revenues, so I want to do all I can to support them. If I can't find a book I want at the library, though, and feel like splurging, I use the Internet to track down the volume. I don't buy on-line, though; I would rather walk into a brick-and-mortar shop, and talk with flesh-and-blood people. I want to ask a human being if he or she has read the book. I want to put my physical sawbucks into an outstretched hand. I want to support someone in his or her efforts to keep food on the table. (Of course, even buying on-line puts food on somebody's table.) I can foresee a time, though, when I may not have that option, and that makes me blue.

Neurobiology and the baboons

As a child, Robert M. Sapolsky wandered among museum dioramas, and fantasized about being a mountain gorilla. Instead of achieving that laudable goal, though, he grew up to receive his Bachelor of Arts degree summa cum laude in biological anthropology from Harvard University, and his Ph. D. in neuroendocrinology -- the study of the interactions between the nervous system and the endocrine system. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_M._Sapolsky) Because of the difficulties involved in studying human beings (getting blood samples for analysis during rush hour would present problems), Mr. Sapolsky decided to focus on a troop of baboons in the wild. He chose baboons because although baboons have so much in common physiologically with humans, many of the complicating variables of human social existence don't apply. As Mr. Sapolsky says in an interview published in The Atlantic (http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2001/04/of-monkeys-and-men/3047/), baboons don't smoke, they don't drink, they all have exactly the same diet, they're all lean, they're all healthy. He chose to study wild animals because the caged life produces a profound difference in the type and intensity of hormones.

Stories of his first 20 or so years of field work on the Serengeti plains of Africa make up his book, A Primate's Memoir. (http://books.simonandschuster.com/Primate's-Memoir/Robert-M-Sapolsky/9780743202411) Mr. Sapolsky's wit is sharp, and some of his antidotes are knee-slapping funny. Others are poignant and thoughtful. The book is structured in four parts, each focusing on a specific era in the life of a baboon: The Adolescent Years; The Subadult Years; Tenuous Adulthood; and Adulthood. Each of the four parts begins with a chapter devoted to The Baboons. The rest of the subsections range widely over the joys and stresses of being a research student in Africa, including the people met and the privations dealt with.

One of the biggest distractions, however, is Mr. Sapolsky's linear view of evolution as moving toward an apex of human endeavor. It may simply be that since he is a human being writing for other human beings, his writing naturally tends to focus on human beings. The heavily anthropological tilt to the book might have been helped by a bit more insight into the evolution of the primates themselves, but then again, that would have been another book altogether, and since I'm not the author, I shouldn't presume to say what should have been written. I guess.

Peeve

A news story currently making the rounds is about the Carnival cruise ship Splendor which finally made it to port after three days at sea with no power. It seems that when describing passengers leaving the ship, all reporters for every news organization on the planet were required to use the word 'disembark.' Why couldn't they just say 'debark'? After all, I doubt if any of them would say 'disemplane.'

William Safire is sorely missed.

Compelling Telling

Here's a theory that's open for debate: there are (at least) two kinds of novels -- literary (did someone groan?) and genre. 'Genre' as in crime and suspense, fantasy and science fiction, historical, Western, and any other way you care to split 'fiction.' For a specific example, just now I'm 191 pages into Stone's Fall by Iain Pears -- a great, wallowing whale of a novel about England at the turn of the 20th century. The book revolves around a mystery: was the death of Industrialist John Stone, aka Lord Ravenscliff, a suicide or a murder?If murder, then who killed him? However, not only is it a murder mystery, but it's also a historical novel, set in the midst of the Industrial Revolution in England. The characters are carefully drawn, if a shade caricaturish -- though isn't that a given of genre fiction? The easily identifiable hero and villain; the body; the stumble and leap from clue to clue till all is revealed?

Yiyun Li's The Vagrants has a similar historical setting -- the aftermath of the Chinese Revolution which brought the Communists to power. There is also death, but it is state-sponsored death, with no mystery about it. Or is there? Maybe the mystery is how such a thing could happen at all. Why does the state have the right to execute a human being, but a single person does not? Why is it called justice if carried out by the government, but murder if by an individual? Is the difference in the two books that one has a plot and the other a theme?

Both of these books excel at the fundamental ground of a novel: tell a story. It doesn't have to be a good story, an original story, but the style of the narrative must be gripping. In fact, the telling of the story is more important than the story itself. Who cares if the mystery is set in Industrial-Revolutionary England or Cultural-Revolutionary China? All that matters is that the telling compels.

On the other hand, isn't there something different in what we the readers take away from each of these books? If so, what is it? Is it mere entertainment or is it something else? A more robust view of the multilayer world we inhabit? Or is each to be judged solely on how well it distracts us from the mundane?

Disrupting The Fictive Dream

I recently read Articles of War by Nick Arvin. Never has a war story so moved me. Not even The Naked and the Dead by Norman Mailer. The reason Arvin's book impresses me more than Mailer's is because it's more personal. Rather than following the course of the war through the eyes of several characters, it follows one American soldier, detailing his reaction to the horror, the stupidity, and the boredom. Such a counter-position brings the action much closer to home, making it much more personal and effective. One of my favorite movies is an Australian picture called Gallipoli, directed by Peter Weir, about the Allies' attempted invasion of the Ottoman Empire during World War I.

But actually, this post isn't about war or war novels or war movies. What I want to comment on right now is how historical figures are used in fiction. Several books of fiction are based on the lives of real people. I, Claudius by Robert Graves is a magnificent portrayal of Imperial Rome. Little Big Man by Thomas Berger is a hilarious account of the expansion of the American West, and the effect of European civilization on Native Americans, in which historical and fictional people interact with aplomb. Several key sections of Birds Without Wings by Louis de Bernieres detail the rise to power of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, a very real person who led the fight for the foundation of the modern state of Turkey.

I am very fond of Little Big Man and Birds Without Wings, but Articles of War surpasses them both in the wealth of detail about the actual feel of combat. Or at least what I surmise actual combat feels like, having never actually been in combat myself. The portrayal of the main character proceeds without flaw. The meaninglessness of battles and bombings and killings is presented with a calmness that makes turning each page imperative. For most of the book, that is. The point where I felt jolted out of the the fictive dream was the introduction of Private Eddie Slovik who was executed for desertion on 31 January 1945. One of the questions raised by the narrative is how Slovik could have been fearful of combat when he faced execution so fearlessly.

For some reason, though, the introduction of Slovik totally derails the storyline for me. It seems like a huge, red flag. It's as if Heck, the main character, violates the fourth wall of the reading experience (to appropriate a metaphor from stage), and addresses me directly. Sometimes this works as a device. All first-person fiction is based on the premise that someone is telling the reader what happened. However, this cannot work in a piece of serious third-person fiction. If it does happen, the fiction is no longer third-person by definition.

So my point is that the use of a character from history instead of imagination can sometimes backfire. In this case, a most excellent book unravels at the end, with tatters of the story-telling thread left flapping in the breeze. The book itself I will trumpet forever as one of the best war/anti-war novels of all time. It's just too bad about that darn ending.

History comes back to bite the hand that feeds it ... kind of ...

If History repeats itself, is there such a word as 'prepeats'?

A few nights ago I stayed up way too late, finishing Birds Without Wings, a novel by Louis de Bernieres about World War I, the end of the Ottoman Empire, and the establishment of the modern state of Turkey.

The next day I came across this article on the Internet:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/us_and_americas/article7050439.ece

about the Turkish atrocities committed during WWI.

"Birds" tells the story of a small village in the boondocks of the Ottoman Empire before, during, and after World War I. Mr. de Bernieres takes over 400 pages to detail the lives of many of the villagers. The first part of the novel shows what life is like in the idyllic setting where Christians and Moslems live so closely together that they often wander into each other's worship services, and regularly ask each other to pray for them. Intermarriage is no big deal. The basic point is that even though there are two faiths, the people are all of one nation.

When the Ottoman Empire dissolves, breaks apart, and goes down in flames, the outside world begins forcing its own viewpoint on the hapless citizens, which means Christians in this corner, Moslems in that one. Friends turn against friends, then regret it. In the end, love not only doesn't conquer all, but it leads with its glass chin.

An interesting quote from the news article is one of the Turkish leaders saying that Turkey is not the Ottoman Empire, and so has nothing to apologize for. However, even if the national identities are not equivalent, what about the individuals who carried over from one regime to the next? If Germany and Japan both felt the need to own up to the atrocities committed in the name of nationalism during World War II, why doesn't Turkey? Then again, how culpable is Attaturk, the leader of the new country? Did his fight against the former rulers absolve him of any shortcomings? Did the independence for which he fought assuage all guilt? Are all losers guilty? Are all winners right? And anyway, whose point of view is so pristine as to set the standard?