大约在冬季

又看了一本马伯庸的小说。最近还真是迷上他了。

记得是好久以前,我在小红书上收藏一个推荐《长安的荔枝》的帖子。当时这本书只有电子版,所以大概是一两年以后我才在中国超市买到了纸质版。每次去超市我都会在书架前磨蹭浏览很久——我先生对此见怪不怪,却没有想到我真的会在超市买书。这本《长安的荔枝》挺精致的,还附加了一张荔枝运输路线图。我展示着地图跟先生开心地讲解着唐代的中国,然后当晚就一口气把书看完了。在此后,我在市图书馆的外国文学架上相继找到了《我读书少,你可别骗我》和马的出道之作《风起陇西》。这次去逛超市,我又与《太白金星有点烦》相遇。

缘分不浅。

说巧不巧,马在重新出版《风起陇西》的后记中写道了他青年时期所读弗·福赛斯 (Frederick Forsyth) 的《豺狼的日子》和克里斯提昂·贾克 (Christian Jacq) 的《谋杀金字塔》被惊艳并开始写历史小说的经历。这两个作者我竟然都没听说过!图书馆正好有《豺狼的日子》(The Day of the Jackal)。我借回家后又是一个无眠的夜晚,在凌晨四点钟感叹福赛斯是何方神圣,把已定的历史时刻演变为如此悬念。下一步嘛,就是准备看1973年的电影版过过瘾。

相对与小说,我最热衷阅读的其实是非小说。2023这个年度我最于此倾心的书便是詹姆斯·爱德华·戈登 (J.E. Gordon) 的《结构之书:从自然物到人造物,万物成性与屹立不摇的永恒秘密》。这本书妥妥能算上是工程学的教科书了吧,至今还在我书桌的一角摆着,等待笔记伺候… 书里提到了航天业所运用到的材料科学原理以及内尔·舒特 (Neville Shute) 的自传《计算尺》(Slide Rule)。我突然记起曾有好友赠予我一本舒特非常暖人心扉的小《说来自工具室的受托人》(Trustee from the Toolroom),便兴高采烈的去图书馆采购。虽然一时借不到这本自传,却找到了他最有名的那本《世界就是这样结束的》(On The Beach)。记不太起在当时在图书架中徘徊的详细动态,不过到家后库尔特·冯内古特 (Kurt Vonnegut) 的《猫的摇篮》(Cat’s Cradle) 也被顺回来了。这两本书都是很早前就想拜读却一直没遇到契机的前辈啊。

不过呢,我非常不建议任何人把这两本关于世界末日的书安排进同一个圣诞假日。我郁郁寡欢了若干日后才终于有精神从书架上翻出了朋友送给我的一本《迷失在思想中:智慧生活的隐蔽欢愉》(Lost in Thought: The Hidden Pleasures of an Intellectual Life) 和去书店领取预定后终于到货的《查令十字路84号》(84 Charing Cross Road)。这两本书接班让我缓冲了一下情绪。

Lost in Thought 的写作结构算是个流水账,但是我对书中探讨知识性好奇和感性好奇的相对的部分还是比较认可的。书里花长篇幅讲解了奥斯定的《忏悔录》与埃琳娜·费兰特 (Elena Ferrante) 的《我的天才女友》,也提及了一本 The Intellectual Life of the British Working Class。我回想起当年阅读《忏悔录》所带来的震撼,于是便去图书馆搬来了费兰特和 British Working Class。

细谈 84 Charing Cross Road 之前我们得加个小插曲,介绍一下我现在所居住的城市——Kitchener的一个非常优秀的慈善组织。这个组织名为The Working Centre,初衷是接济市内贫困与失业的人,如今运营着多家涉及不同领域的社区项目,包括求职资源中心,社区厨房,社区工具舍,技术教学,经济适用房,二手自行车行,旧货店等等。因疫情的原因,在前几年这些项目都被暂停了,近期才慢慢的再开始运营。其中的旧货店就在几个星期前搬到了我们每周末必去采购的农贸市场附近;我们去逛了一次,给我先生买了几本二手的经典英国文学(他作为一个不怎么读书的人不知是不是被我潜移默化收到启发了)。当时给他挑奥斯丁的《傲慢与偏见》和《理智与情感》时,我余光瞟到了一本带有插图的 Canterbury Tales。乔叟的这本中世纪大作,我从儿时起就想要拜读了,只不过对自己理解中世纪英语的能力没什么信心。我翻了翻几页插图,纸质感很厚很好。

犹豫了一下,我还是没有买。

那么现在,回到 84 Charing Cross Road 的主题上。这是一本以信件为格式,悠悠二十余年的书信集。身居纽约的女作者这个再小众化不过的顾客订购着杂七杂八的书,每本书的价钱也不过几块美元;英国旧书店里这个再绅士不过的出货员回应着他与她在知识上的碰撞,每词每句皆是英式礼貌。短短不到一百页纸中承载了高山流水般沉淀与厚重的友情。我读完后先是为自己阅读的孤独痛哭了一场,然后拉着先生看了Anne Bancroft和Anthony Hopkins主演的1987版同名电影。信件中作者提及许多本她想要收藏的书籍,而我也筛选了若干引起自己兴趣的加入了阅读清单中。乔叟的 Canterbury Tales 也短暂的出现在信件中。

这不是难道老天在提醒我?

星期六离开农贸市场后,我再次直奔旧货店。看到那本乔叟依然完好无损的竖在架子上后终于松了一口气。当店主告诉我这本书的价格是“three dollars”时,我瞬间转移到了电影中,好像我就是那个以写剧本为生调侃二手书店店员为叻的古灵精怪的作者。

天假其便。

忆江南

一:几味书屋

福建农大附小(注:农业大学现已改名为农林大学)是个貌不惊人的建筑,但是它六层高的教学楼在那个淳朴的年代、青葱小朋友的眼里,已经很是威严了。操场前后包抄教学楼;后半部有运动设备(其实好闲就是几台乒乓球石桌),前半部是未铺盖水泥的地,课间大家玩耍时那叫一个尘土飞扬。偶尔体育老师会领着几个班在操场四周除除杂草、做做校园美化。最令人向往的片刻是午休时,穿过操场东南角上的小铁门离开校园境内准备回家写作业(我们数学老师并不相信午睡对人有益)的瞬间——因家离学校太远而需要留校的同学们纷纷在小门外等订购的盒饭,而我们有幸时还能瞧上几眼。啊,牛肉番茄饭!我小时候最倾心的神秘美食也不过如此了。

二:咸鱼的理想

菜市场是大学校园里最有烟火气息的地方,好几百米的长街人来人往。我妈几乎每天都去买菜,周末也会带上我,在熙熙攘攘中穿梭,挑选周围郊区运来的新鲜蒜苔(我最爱吃的)、在卖带鱼那里很腥的摊位前讨价还价。我日常负责的是去(离得比菜市场近很多的)食堂买馒头,有一次却心血来潮自告奋勇要去菜市场买葱。对各种蔬植并不熟悉的我在韭菜前晃了许久才意识到这葱怎么“有点忒细了”。早晨上学的时候绕点远路,就可以穿过菜市场到学校。我最心仪的一天开始的景象是炸海蛎饼和煮扁肉的早餐摊——用楼上家哥哥的口音说,“最爱呲扁漏了”。

三:拷贝复制

在我的记忆中邮局离家很远。下了我们住宅区所在的东山,经过菜市场和车站,再往校园西边走很久很久才能取到信件。到底走多久就不详了:反正就是先到邮局,再走走到了礼堂,再走走到了大学的主教学楼(也是我爸妈的实验室),而再继续走下去就能到非常遥远的附属中学和西山的住宅区(大概就是世界的另一端)。现在想想,相比之下邮局其实还蛮近的。它所在的应该算是个商业地段,还有一些其他商店和服务。我第一次看到蓝色的电脑显示屏不是在主楼的实验室里,而是跟着我妈去打印她要发给学生的试卷时,印刷店里琳琅满目的鼠标和键盘让我眼花缭乱。那是一个多么硬核的时代,虽然那时的软盘才名副其实是软的。

2021 Reading List: Favourites

Wittgenstein’s Vienna, Allan Janik & Stephen Toulmin

An exposition on the social and political backdrop of Wittgenstein's work on language and reality that somehow manages to be a real delight and page-turner.

We see both familiar names that would be expected in a philosophical context - Kant, Schopenhauer, Kierkegaard, and even Tolstoy, as well as those less frequently associated with philosophy - Herz, Planck, Mach, Boltzmann. We watch a plethora of scientific and cultural ideas evolve through the dusk of Hapsburg Vienna and encounter burning questions of ethics that the Tractatus and later Wittgenstein works would address.

The list of applicable questions that stream into mind can go on almost endlessly:

  • When is theory be developed out of general analysis in an attempt to explain the universe, and when as a way of solving practical problems?

  • What are the implications of neo-Kantian thoughts of reason not being able to dictate morality on contemporary humanitarianism and on political typologies? Should and can we think about the ethics of science and technology outside of rational frameworks?

  • To what extent is language a fitting metaphor for reality, and is anthropology any less flawed a representation of the physical world than say, blackhole statistical systems used by deep learning methods?

Consider the Lobster and Other Essays, David Foster Wallace

David Foster Wallace is/was that Marvellously Caustic Friend whose after-dinner casual remarks about life make you laugh, cry, and fall into A Deep Pondering. A collection of razor sharp exegeses of puritanical and prurient America.

When Einstein Walked with Gödel: Excursions to the Edge of Thoughts, Jim Holt

Objectively, this is an enjoyable collection of essays about topics in math and science, some more well-written and engrossing than the rest (for example, do not take the one about Ada Lovelace seriously in any way). Subjectively, this book felt deeply personal to me as it was the trigger of realization that I’ve miraculously reached an undefined, critical threshold of “having read enough random things” to enjoy reading other random things and derive constant joy from the process.

Details spared in this post: The Elegant Universe

The Power of Babel: A Natural History of Language, John McWhorter

With the proliferation of some languages as standards of global commerce and influence, as well as grammatical dictations by the codification of spoken languages, it may be common perception that languages are defined, static, and increases in complexity with the degree of technological advancements of the underlying society. This book dissects the ways in which languages morph and function to dispel these inaccurate views: that it is much more sensible to think of languages as complexly interrelated dialects, that language mixture has been happening ever since the first word was spoken, that less known and more isolated languages actually have far more subtle and complex rules and nuances than more widespread languages, and that the spoken version of many languages (ex. English and French) have evolved far past codified written rules created centuries ago.

Solaris, Stanislaw Lem

With few human characters, there is tantamount conflict, complex and heartbreaking, taking place on the faraway and strange planet of Solaris. To say that creating conflict with such limited human cast is difficult is unfair, as landing on this very planet is akin to man meeting God. I think that the best science fiction shatters and recreates our notions of existence and axioms of epistemology, and Lem does exactly this.

The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov

Magic and Mayhem makes for peculiar yet effective social commentary. The book reads like new age poetry, a big metaphor full of unfamiliar concepts strung together that may frustrate some traditional readers, and indeed I would not have enjoyed it nearly as much without some previous exposure to Gogol’s grotesque surrealism, Chekhov’s love for inconsequential details, and of course Solzhenitsyn’s cultural backdrop. Injecting some Eastern perspective (which may be appropriate), enjoyment from this metaphor of a book was akin to reading Chinese poetry, the ultimate embodiment of generations of works built on prior reference.

A Brightness Long Ago, Guy Gavriel Kay

Rarely does one cross a fantasy storyteller who crafts worlds and meaning without gratuitous pages and characters as Guy Gavriel Kay. These lyrical pages sing an existential song full of sadness and joy, ever so profound:

“Without a single word, the essence is conveyed. Without speaking of misery, a passionate sadness comes through. It’s true someone hidden controls the world; with that being you sink or flat”. (Sikong Tu, Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry)

The Novelist

In certain moments - in the midst of a podcast, book, or TV show - I discover my arid observations of life instantly overcome by an ocean of tears as witness of some serendipitous human connection that has taken place. In these moments, I am part of these connections. From the millions of other sides of the mirror that are not myself, I glimpse the meaning of being alive as one species. I can’t help but think, how lonely god must be.

In my youth, there was nothing I aspired more than to become a Great Novelist. I poured time and effort into style and rhetoric, planned plot progessions, and themes and characters. I started out a thousand times the beginnings and endings of my book, yet no Great Novel emerged as my teenage years passed by, and I went on with life.

Some two decades later, I now pour my heart - or at least those moments of it - into notes long and short, here and there. Working memory is so precious that when lightning strikes, I must etch each flash of thought into fine white sand: A phrase. An emotion. A description of an unrealized landscape faraway. Nothing is too trivial for my records.

When I sit down to explore my temporally interspersed thoughts after much time has elapsed, I often experience the joy of seeing these droplets of thoughts - miraculously - slowly collecting and gently rolling until the morning dew arrives and prose flows forth: sometimes a story about relationships, other times an expression of beauty, or a reflection of contemporarily society and politics. These fortuitous word connections make me think that one day, perhaps, I might become a Novelist with Something to Say.

The novel itself is not the end but only a vehicle. Before there can be a novel, the allegory must exist in the heart.

this is a story about me

This is also a story about work, so caveat lector.

I love to takes notes. Lots and lots of it. Digitally and on paper. All in attempts to move my frequent and disjointed ideas from RAM to SSD. (Or in the terminology of product I work with, from hot to frozen data nodes).

I make some valiant and commendable attempts to be organized, idea-wise. I use a notebook application to create and maintain data lineage for all things work related. However, it often falls woefully out of sync with my indexing volume onto scratch notes.

Last night, I sat down to get some work done. I tried to think about what my priorities should be, but I haven’t “rebased my repos” in a while and was instantly overcome by scattered thoughts. I flipped through page after page of notes (with pretty bad handwriting) and felt waves of sheer panic.

It seemed like an eternity before I looked up again. But as I did, I took a few slow breaths. I’ve picked up from various podcasts that breathing is the most effective way of bringing heart rate (and subsequently emotions) into the green zone. I also heard a quote that I liked very much - “A problem well-defined is a problem half-solved”.

So I continued to flip backwards in my paper notebook until I found a page that was full of completely checked off items (why can’t we have more of these days?). It was dated more than a month ago. I launched my tracker and began to organize content from the paper notebook as either new ideas or expansions of existing ideas.

I then did the same for my digital notes strewn across various apps on various devices. I then added and/or updated priority tags for each item in my tracker.

At the end of this effort, I hadn’t actually crossed any items off my list. Yet I felt like a new person, methodical and mentally unburdened.

By no means was this the first time I experienced such a thing. For the first time, however, I decided to document my experience.

I concluded a few things:

  1. 80-20 Rules: When a problem seems too big to solve, the most valuable time I can spend is on breaking it down into smaller problems.

  2. This Too Shall Pass: Once I take one small step and address one small problems, the rest become exponentially easier.

  3. Telemetry the Brain: Writing things down all the time is a good thing. With good data retention policy, I can always defragment the hard drive to make sense of it later on.

  4. “You’re only as agile as your ability to ship frequently”: When I generate a large volume of information across multiple repositories, the lack of continuous integration will bite me in the ass. A better approach would be to clock out each day by syncing various data sources, and being my own master node.

Birds of Pray

自搬至滑铁卢便爱上这儿花繁草盛鸟儿飞。天气渐暖,出门儿随便溜溜就能把五颜六色百语千言各鸟类——什么蓝鸦红雀、白胸鳾金翅鸟——尽收眼底。

生活气息感最强的当属家里阳台柱子顶端空凿中入驻的一窝麻雀。最近刚添雏鸟,成天叽叽喳喳好不热闹。

宅层三米五的优势在此反映出来:上有鸟下有人,互不打扰。因此我们也有幸目睹了这一家安居乐业的过往。

自仲春,雄雀便来此觅巢,常环绕柱子鸣达着给房子下单了的信息。至孟夏雌雀已下蛋并开始孵化。

鸟类的育儿方式堪比人类典范。父母轮流值班看护幼鸟和外出觅食,那叫一个相濡以沫。我们搭着凉椅在阳台上透风,常看见颜色略深些的雄雀栖在近处杆子上,蓬松着羽毛,气势凌人对我们很是不屑。

再有时,还见得外姓麻雀来侵。雌雀刚放下嘴里喂娃的种子便要打架保家护仔,尽是唇枪舌剑你啄我赶。

静立玻璃门前隔岸观火,看那硝烟过后,几簇羽毛悠悠落地。孩子们肚子还饿着,赶紧再张罗吃的去。麻雀奋斗史中哪有高枝可攀?凤凰呀,那只是个传奇。

Between

there once was a time I was sure of the bond

My first listens of Vienna Teng’s Between date back to third year university. Back then, fear of liberation came from the unknown adult world so soon within reach. Something more alive than silence swallowing conversation was social anxiety and the desire to be loved.

I’ve always wondered why her music did not become more mainstream. Perhaps restless souls and beautiful poetry don’t mass market fruitfully.

In subtle averted eyes
the swelling fermata
as the chord dies

The same song played back a decade later still invokes goosebumps, albeit of an entirely new set of emotions.

Dashavatara

意不称物,文不逮意
— 陆机《文赋》

Chinese idioms, rich in imagery and theatrics, are often derived from classics, different formats of essays and poetry throughout the dynasties, and annotations and rewrites. For the modern reader, they are delightful historical assemblies that express complex thought patterns not by way of language alone but via reference to a historical occurrence, fable, a line or phrase within a poem, or even subsequent citations. They embody the wholesomeness of conveying meaning via symbolism.

Rationales for my personal preference for the lyrical conciseness of the Chinese language did not occur to me until I began organizing book notes on a treatise of the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus:

Propositions were capable of modelling and, so, describing reality, but they could not simultaneously describe how they describe it, without being self-referential and consequently meaningful.

The problem on which Wittgenstein embarked was that of constructing a general critique of language capable of showing, at one and the same time, both that logic and science had a proper part to play within ordinary descriptive language, by which we produce a representation of the world analogous to a mathematical model of physical phenomena, and that questions about “ethics, value and the meaning of life” by falling outside the limits of this descriptive language, become - at best - the objects of mystical insight, which can be conveyed by “indirect” or poetical communication.

These sentence languish under their own weight, yet manage to convey the notion — that when attempting to express the inner self, be it an exclamation of life’s beauty, pain, or meaning, idioms invoking imagery, story, and context are rotund, where mere words fall flat. The lack of direct equivalence of such symbols in a foreign language effect that much more be lost in translation.

Last year, a friend began to read an English translation of Lu Chi’s “The Art of Writing”, but did not deem it a particularly worthy read. Out of curiosity, I picked up the original version and began to work through these seventeen hundred-year old words — an essay roughly seventeen hundred characters long. Equipped with a dictionary and weekends, I copied, annotated, and read aloud stanzas for months. With each re-read, the self-referential meta of an essay attempting to describe the precise process in which language fails to convey exact meaning, grew more vibrant. How brilliantly these phrases capture the joy and frustrations of the creative process! I often repeated sentences and phrases under my breath, unable to verbally explain the resonance I felt within.

The process of reading, writing, and thinking inspires us via recontexualization of experiences and what we previously thought we knew, every new occurrence an invigorating affirmation of a puzzle piece — of unknown size — that has fallen into place.

The Elegant Universe

When disjointed pieces of the past, of the present, of the general, and of the personal, fall into fractal symmetry, pulsing and spinning in the abstract, and emerge a colourful rangoli, words cease to be able to describe this intimated experience of joy.

I have been about a year at self-studying German, and am delighted and jolted by every reference of the language that I encounter. Adjacently, but perhaps not orthogonally, I am a heavy consumer of political and philosophical texts, the prominent authors of which often have German speaking origins.

The book I most recently picked up is a collection of essays on quantum mechanics, so imagine my surprise when the Preface mentions David Foster Wallace as a thinker on the concept of infinity. I had just finished an engrossing essay collection by DFW on such esoteric topics that I recommended it to those I do not usually give book recommendations.

Then, the very first essay quotes Wittgenstein in relations to infinity — one of my Christmas reads had been an exposition of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus within the social and cultural context of Vienna on the precipice of World War I. I had been verbally transported to la bell époque, to the same locales that I had visited not long ago in a golden autumn, the only distance between instances of my self an endless chasm laid out by time.

Funnily, Kurt Gödel, the main subject of this first essay, didn’t believe in time anyway.

I first came across Gödel’s name in a Perimeter Institute public lecture when I was in high school. I can only vaguely recall the lecture subject as perhaps quantum cryptography, but I vividly remember the excitement with which the speaker expounded Gödel’s incompleteness theorem and the boundaries of mathematics. I can still hear the passion in her voice and the feel the inspiration of youth. Incidentally, I now live not too far from the Perimeter Institute and very much look forward to returning to the lecture series.

Returning to the first pages of this first essay — Gödel was a godlike name even in his contemporary sphere, and a Princeton philosopher recounts an amusing anecdote in which Richard Rorty spots Gödel at the grocery store and stands there in a daze of this heavenly descent.

Rorty is an analytics-turned-political philosopher whose writing on liberalism I very much enjoy and often revisit and quote. However, I did not expect his name to crop up in a physics essay collection.

At this point, I looked up from the printed page and gazed across blue lake waters, and drew a sharp breath. I could almost see a rangoli design furiously willing itself into existence. I first saw rangolis, a courtyard full of them, when visiting an orphanage in souther Indian. The ground was covered with beautiful geometries of coloured sand, and children smiled proudly. Some images become embedded in the mind, never to fade away.

Carl Sagan’s concluding paragraphs of Pale Blue Dot are ever so quotable:

The pioneering psychologist William James called religion a ‘feeling of being at home in the Universe’. Our tendency has been […] to pretend that the Universe is how we wish our home would be, rather than to revise our notion of what’s homey so it embraces the Universe. If, in considering James’ definition, we mean the real universe, then we have no true religion yet.

Die Weltanschauung is the German word for a personal conception of the universe and life, and it is with this term that I shall conclude this remembrance of things past and present. I have never felt more at home or more alive, than in this very moment.

Second Act

Upon reaching age thirty, I began to correlate this magical threshold (quite likely quite spuriously) with my recurring tendonitis, the possibility of not hitting my running goal for the calendar year, and getting headaches on rainy days.

The aged-thirty me is observably more flustered than the aged-twenty-nine me. The frequency of flares of physiological discomfort and existential doubt has increased: Who am I outside of the framework defined by my job? Do I stretch enough after runs?

Last night we watched Life In a Day on the Western States 100. It is always a treat to watch a running film the night before going on a weekend longish run. The bug to run more organized races has yet to hit me, and I have no desire to run ultras. Earlier this year, however, I had mentally formulated a glorious 30k run for my 30th birthday. I had let life get in the way of this milestone, but have conceded that there is still time to gift myself this before the next birthday hits.

I recently read The Life of Pi on my flight to Berlin. I was a first timer for both. The visit spurred me to extend daily Duolingo German lesson durations both in the hopes of one day reuniting with this lovely city and - more personally and poetically for me - reading Faust in Goethe’s original words.

Returning home to an early Canadian winter meant renewing NPR podcast-filled treadmill sessions. Day by day the evenings grow darker. Time over time the rest of the world begins to become my Richard Parker. Sail the sea, meet the storm. Hallucinative journey, unknown ends.

***

At age seventeen I wrote that I wanted to see my every single action as a flutter of the butterfly’s wing - that I wanted to be a wave in the ocean and an echo in the valley. At age twenty-seven I wrote that there is no greater joy for me than bulwarking my understanding of the world to share with fellow human beings - that information wants to be shared and I yearned to be its messenger.

I still want these things. The fiery believer exists in me still. I think - I hope.

Yet everyday I am drawn to treatises on contemporary civilization’s crash course with ecological limits, discourses on compatible political and economic models, and most recently, The Empathic Civilization, perhaps in hopes of restoring my belief in the struggle for reaching higher global consciousness and empathy.

Yet everyday the big stage seems further and further away. Solutions to complex systems require elusive amounts of social cooperation and effort. Amongst the despairing politics that drown us, how does one extract meaning from the day to day?

I’ve begun to think more seriously about pursuing projects that can add immediate value for real people, maybe a cost optimization app for small and medium businesses that rolls pro forma accounting, supply management, and inventory forecasting into one. This sounds almost as delightful as reading Feynman Lectures.

But then again, I’ve also begun to think more seriously about becoming a part-time dogwalker and grocery shopper.

“Do be do be do”

Flying Solo

...to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the lines of thought dip deep into the stream.
— Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

I was curiously entrenched in passages about the study of empathy in elephant social groups when suddenly, shifting strands of sunlight caught the corner of my eye. Glancing up, I trace the rays through an eastward window pane back to treetops swaying playfully in midsummer’s morning breeze and strumming the cascades of sun in a game of light and shadows.

I wonder: What do treetops look like in Queensland? How does sunlight appear to refract in Tanzania? Does the same moment of sheer delight exist halfway across the globe or decades into the previous millennium?

I squint my eyes a bit and look up past the trees into an eastern sky that grows increasingly more golden in the early morning.

I have never been one to travel extensively either in the fashion of great travel writers or Instagram influencers. Yet I have never felt that I was missing out on the world by not travelling to every coveted corner. When I see beautiful places captured in photographs and videos, I feel the relatable urge to apparate into billowing fields and frozen waterfalls and breath in every descriptive essence of the moment. When I encounter poignant passages of writing, all the same, I roll the words in my mouth until the smell of salty seawater and verdant rainforests materialize.

I have seen the white hot desert sands from atop the Burj Khalifa, and I have sailed the Strait of Magellan aboard the HMS Beagle. I have sat on dirt floors watching rangoli competitions in orphan homes, and I have sojourned in the joys and struggles of this land through pages of Naipaul. I have the utmost appreciation for the perspective and local eye that a work like A Year in Provence surfaces in the way that scattered travels of my own constrained by time, culture, and language, perhaps never would do.

If I saved the intake mindset of experiencing the spacetime continuum solely for travel, how limited and narrow would my worldview be? I have loved every sunrise before my eyes, and every one in the globe of my imagination across lands and skies never measured before.

2018 Reading List: Favourites

I can see patterns. I see the gestalt, the melody within the notes, in everything: mathematics and science, art and music, psychology and sociology.
— Ted Chiang, Understand

 

The Bonfire of the Vanities, Tom Wolfe

No contemporary Valley tale quite expectorates on Masters of the Universe like this one. No Bad Blood quite calls out all of our own bullshit and arrogance. Sherman McCoys of today may have hipper names, bigger techs, and greener thumbs, but the cogs that are our socially useless jobs continue to churn the wheels of despair.

The Ecology of Commerce, Paul Hawken

Those nagging voices in our heads: "the cash register is the daily voting booth in democratic capitalism".

One of the greatest flaws of the modern marketplace is how efficiently it has externalized the cost and losses of destroying the environment to taxpayers and away from corporate profits. 

This book stirs ambitious questions: Will we ever be able to remove the incentives to continue manufacturing waste as well as the conflict between being "economic" and being "sustainable"? Can we move on to biodegradable consumer products without antagonizing minority and lower-income groups by forcing them to make sacrifices in lifestyle and income? Can we create a "cyclical, restorative economy" in which designers account for the future utility of a product and avoidance of waste from its inception?

Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania, Erik Larson

“I give you now the saga of the Lusitania and the myriad forces, large and achingly small, that converged one lovely day in May 1915 to produce a tragedy of monumental scale, whose true character and import have long been obscured in the mists of history.”

My thriller of the year. Silent film in black and white cinema. History come to life.

Sign Here If You Exist, The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2011, Jill Sisson Quinn

I spent a good half hour on Youtube watching the ichneumon wasp deposit larvae, the emerald cockroach wasp zombify roaches, and various other anthropods in action. The camera lens makes it easy to see beauty in decay and life after death on Earth.

“If my decomposing carcass helps nourish the roots of a juniper tree or the wings of a vulture—that is immortality enough for me. And as much as anyone deserves.”

Why Information Grows: The Evolution of Order, from Atoms to Economies, César A. Hidalgo

Science writings are to me what sermons are to the pious. This short book is an information theory play-by-play from atoms to life to economies, and a beatific epilogue relating physics to the essence of human existence that upon every reread brings tears to my eyes.

Weniger, aber besser

As we increasingly embrace equality and cultural diversity, any kind of judgment across cultures becomes a fine maneuver risking political incorrectness, racism, or a sense of imperial imposition. It seems that the popular notion of cultural relativism arises from the following points:

  • Social structures have different moral codes dictating what is acceptable and unacceptable

  • No social structure is capable of criticizing the moral code of another social structure

However, this logic assumes that moral truths are equivalent to social codes, and that no objective right and wrong exist. Some judgments of cultural phenomena lack social context and are examples of ignorance, but the lack of understanding of context should not preclude learning about and understanding said context. If anything, this implies that we should read more ethnography.

We feel urges to place judgment on situations we encounter not simply because we are cynical and naive. Knowledge behests judgment. Unlike data points and information, knowledge is not judgment-agnostic. I prefer to think that we judge because we seek to understand, and that the so-called cynicism of youth is what kindles the sparks of discovery, revolutions, and new horizons.

Had we never stepped out norms of what is deemed socially acceptable, politically correct, or empathetic, corporal punishment might never have been questioned, scientific discoveries may not have achieved triumphs in the fact of religion, and women might not have the vote. I think it is the very people who do not back down in defeat, who do not lose their impulses to constantly ask “Why”, that drive progress in all walks of life and history.

External Comubustion

Hot hand streak days of optimism fuelled by endless good fortune. No limitations to how early the body wakes up, how many volumes the mind consumes, how much energy the unit of human being outputs. Is performance an illusion or bodily immune response to the environment? Who truly has control over smooth sailings over a calm ocean under the full moon?

And then there are times when steps lose rhythm, when one ailment worsens another, when days are cold, nights are dark, hormones high and feelings lugubrious. The body is but a vehicle for bacteria not our own, a playground where infinitesimal shifts effect that we are never the same from one moment to the next. Are successes statistical flukes?

Plato's Cave

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
— The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Are these fire shadows my reality? Is there sunlight outside these dark caverns?

It seems not too long ago that I sat in an office well endowed with plants and neutral colours, across from my psychotherapist, explaining to her my frustrations with a life that no longer surfaced challenges that took my breath away: "I wanted to accomplish, X, Y, and Z, and did so successfully. I am not experiencing failure in things that I try, and this greatly alarms me."

Little did I know that some twelve months later I would be managing the aftermath of enrolment in a full time masters program (while working),  a new job, my running addiction, moving, juggling tuition and investments, and sudden bouts of sickness that seem to emerge out of nowhere. I have not yet failed any commitments, but in my heart of hearts, I know that this is a distinct possibility. 

I recently listened to an excellent NPR podcast about human reaction to resource constraints: money and time are both scarce resources, and when we experience scarcity, we tend to suffer tunnel vision and become less able to consider long term effects.

So far, this seems to ring true. I spend most of my time thinking about work or school, and when I'm not struggling with occasional ailments, I run myself so hard that I can fall asleep within two seconds of hitting the pillow. I still read sometimes when I'm not too mentally drained, catching up on social debts, or doing chores. My near term worries consist of "I'm not walking the dog enough" and "Who will dog-sit for my next wedding travel obligation?". Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know there are items I should be collecting for the next quest area, but just as I have no idea what Pocket articles I have in my backlog, I couldn't name even a few. Life seems to be rushing by week after week at full speed, and its colours are merely passing me by. 

If we were to use building IKEA furniture as analogy, we would not have read the entire instruction manual before picking up the hammer. This is a reflection of a desperato's recent learnings in real life constraints. 

Get ready for some wrongly placed pegs and twirly locks. 

 

 

Laugh Often

Optimism begs the occasional reminder, be that passages from Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning, or some such unique and specific meaning defined in personal essays. While it is presumptuous to state that I have overcome significant adversities and uncertainties, I do believe that life has bestowed upon me valuable lessons in stoic perseverance and rational optimism. 

What matters more to the Econ? Justification of indignation or a wide berth from the Velvet Coffin? 

"Standing outside we saw sinister clouds glowing in the west and the whole sky alive with clouds of everchanging shapes and colors, from steel blue to blood red. The desolate grey mud huts provided a sharp contrast, while the puddles on the muddy ground reflected the glowing sky. Then, after minutes of moving silence, one prisoner said to another: 'how beautiful the world could be!' "

 

Byzantine Berceuse

Update Identity.

Children of the Danube. Brief creatures of high myth. Unheeded flakelets falling silently in civilization's cradle and gazing earnestly across the Aegean Sea, longing for deliverance. 

Set Background Music.

Turbulent rapids roar like a symphony, the suspiration of unexpected fellowship. Savage music lays low by day to tyrannize in the moonlight. Does it remind one of Beethoven's 9th or Rachmaninov's No. 3? Does it encompass all of time's genius? 

Choose Palette. 

This is a strange city, filled with colours I do not recognize. The dye merchant reassures me that my eyes would adjust to the strange frequencies in time, just as my own identity within this daedal metropolis would slowly flower and blossom. 

Epilogue. 

The universe expands equally everywhere. A golden star looks without direction and blinks once. 

The starlight
I will be chasing a starlight
Until the end of my life

2017 Reading List: Favourites

Weakness and ignorance are not barriers to survival, but arrogance is.
— Liu Cixin, Death's End

 

fiction

A Man Without a Country, Kurt Vonnegut

The Sailor of Life fumbles with crude navigation tools in the crossings of many stormy straights, when a beacon of light sings out to the Sailor from across the blackened waters, as if harmonizing a celestial song of paradise. Thus is how old man Kurt makes one feel. 

Stories of Your Life and Others, Ted Chiang

What indeed, is science fiction, but the reinvention of science in the defiant cross-examination of life-as-we-know-it?

The Darkness and the Light, Anthony Hecht

"the fluted pleats
Of the antiphonal archangelic choirs
Singing their melismatic pax in terram"

 

Non-fiction

Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, Carl Sagan

"The Universe is lavish beyond imagining. [...] That's where we live. That's where we come from. The sky and the Earth are one." The lyrical introductory lens pans in from the cosmos to human kind, and takes us along for a wild ride in our search for origins, meaning, and purpose. 

If intelligence is our most marked distinction, then all the more reason there is to acknowledge our primal facets, analyze how our social configurations evolved to contain them, and strip away our anthropocentric special-snowflakes security blanket. 

Sapiens: A Brief History of Human Kind, Yuval Noah Harari

The humans species that didn't make it to the big kids table are rarely mentioned in history books. Sapiens, having come out on top and having conveniently named ourselves "wise humans", seem the most cut-throat, ruthless, humility-lacking, and utterly impressive. 

"So why study history? Unlike physics or economics, history is not a means for making accurate predictions. We study history not to know the future but to widen our horizons, to understand that our present situation is neither natural or inevitable, and that we consequently have many more possibilities before us than we imagine."

Complexity: A Guided Tour, Melanie Mitchell

Fascinating introduction to topics in complexity theory: information theory and computation, fractals and genetic algorithms, universal computers, network theory… consistently engaging, eye-opening, and thought-provoking. 

 

 

 

   

 

Museum Musings: A Furthering of Simmel on Art

Amongst Simmel’s writings on various cultural phenomena, the dissertation on Expressionistic art in The Conflict of Modern Culture is sanguine and animated, elevating said discipline to a surreal height. To him, the creation of such art is a process by which “the emotional impulse is spontaneously transferred into the hand holding the brush, […], so that what eventually takes shape on the canvas is the direct precipitate of inner life, unmodified by any external, alien elements.” The writing gives a number of insights into such a spectacular art form as Expressionism, and at the same time raises interesting questions with regards to its peculiarity – specifically, challenges to meaningful interpretation and subjective cultural value.

Artworks for Simmel are constituents of culture and, moreover, products of inspiration of both spiritual and physical natures. . Akin to other cultural items, art is prone to the disparities between the objective and subjective spirit. Firstly, any subjectively created discipline develops rules and rigidities outside the control of their human counterparts – reflections of this occurrence can be seen in the numerous forms and techniques that art has produced. Secondly, the vast and ever increasing quantity of objective art items available results in decreasing abilities of individuals to absorb such art for the purpose of personal refinement. Simmel points to cultural works having attained such perfection within their fields that individual humans are little able to understand and interact with such works. “The most impressive works and ideas impose their own intrinsic content and criteria on us that their cultural significance is overshadowed”, and hence these works of perfection are left to drown in solidarity.

The difference of Expressionistic art from other art forms, in Simmel’s view, consists in its lack of restraint by forms. Expressionism “takes seriously the insight that a cause and its effect can have wholly dissimilar external manifestations”. Traditional art may require that a vase be drawn according to certain techniques and rules so that it may best resemble the original item of inspirations, but Expressionistic art commands no such thing. Instead, the inspiration of a vase may result in any quantity and quality of colours, shapes, lines, as instigated by the creativity of the artist. Simmel accredits Expressionistic art as flowing forth with the inner vigour of life, raw and unchanged, beyond worldly judgments of beauty and likeness. Thus, Expressionistic art brings out the energies of life which traditional art stifles.

To see the significance of such a conclusion, we recall Simmel’s other writings in which he calls the conflict of modern culture “a perpetual struggle between life, with its fundamental restlessness, evolution and mobility, and its own creations which become inflexible and lag behind its development.” Culture is a continual interaction between the subjective and objective spirit, in which creations of the subjective soul become objectified as intellectual products, and individuals subjectify cultural milestones through learning for the purpose of personal refinement. However, the process of objectification of human creativity is flawed, since the soul cannot be represented wholly by something that is rigid in form.

The social mania for originality springs from the fear of channeling life into and “squandering its vitality on something that is no longer alive.” After being alienated from their own creations, humans seek to escape from the constraints of forms that these creations have developed independently. Indeed, the essence of life aspires to “manifest itself beyond all forms.” The importance of Expressionistic art then, arises from the fact that it has attained the unattainable – artistic inspirations are expressed in their raw entirety and the essence of life has become free. In a world where so many constraints and unsuccessful attempts to veer away from those constraints – Simmel calls Futurism one such effort – Expressionism is a rare victory in the manifestation of life.

Accordingly Simmel celebrates Expressionism. In has endorsed life so wonderfully, that “perhaps [it] is the basic explanation of the peculiar preference for the late works of the great masters observable in recent times, [where] creative life has become so sovereignly itself, so rich in itself, that it sloughs off any form which is at all traditional or common to other works also.” Van Gogh’s works, for example, Simmel lauds, possess a passionate vitality transcending the limits of painting, stunningly becoming unveiled self-expressions.

Although Simmel depicts beautifully the admirable qualities of Expressionism in overcoming the inflexibility of cultural forms, it would not be fair to conclude that one tragic portion of culture has been thus sutured. A simple trip to the museum – surely most people have the experience – brings about interesting questions.

That we catalog works of arts from all around the world and display them for the benefit of the public demonstrates, as a society, that we recognize the objective importance of these cultural artifacts – mere existence is sufficient for cultural significance, regardless of our personal opinions and preferences. Yet how many times has someone ventured into a gallery full of Van Goghs or Rodins sculptures and lamented his own inability to appreciate such masterpieces? How many times has someone scrutinized a famous post-modern work of art and raised an eyebrow, thinking it odd and even insensible to put such a piece on display? Objective awareness of the importance of such artworks often clashes with subjective outlook: some individuals or cultures may regard certain art forms highly while others harbor no such opinion. A trip to the art museum likely results in appreciation of some arts and confusion at some others.

Masterpieces may embody the energy and creativity of the artist, but the matter lies with how external observers resonate with such energy. With artworks, immediate appreciating often arises when the piece has some characteristic which the observer can relate to. No other individual than the artist himself can feel the inspirational vigour of his piece, and it must be the case that not all viewers can resonate with the artist’s energy or absorb it through the viewing of that particular piece of work. If a class of young students were presented some random shape and instructed to draw whatever the shape reminded them of, the end of the class will surely yield a great many difference drawings, perhaps never two the same – People always interpret inspirations, internal or external, differently and uniquely.

With unique interpretations of inspiration, it is sensible that artworks are often of an inter-subjective nature. Just as money is objectively very thin paper, subjectively, wealth or disdain possession, inter-subjectively all individuals recognize money as currency and a medium of exchange. Likewise, objectively society regards the artwork as a milestone of culture, subjectively some museum-goers find the artwork interesting or uninteresting, and some artworks can inter-subjectively be interpreted as “an apple” or “a lady sitting by a tree”. Naturally, most personal pleasure achievement of refinement is obtained through subjective appreciation – the ability to resonate with the artist’s energies – but even an inter-subjective recognition of the artworks allows for some surface understanding and knowledge. It is in the case of Expressionistic art that such inter-subjectivity does not exist, and a viewer must choose to accept or reject the artwork’s energies subjectively, a price to be paid for raw expression. As formidable as the energies that flow from Expressionistic artists, they can only be understood at a subjective level. The color of life can never be objectively defined or infused through learning, and so the lack of an inter-subjective layer results in the museum goer’s welling up in joy in sight of the painting, or vaguely acknowledging it as some renowned work.

In Simmel’s texts, movements against form, such as Futurism and Naturalism, result in unintelligible and inarticulate expressions. Thus they are brave but unsuccessful. But does not the average museum-goer’s quandary show that Expressionism in its lack of form is also often unexpressed? True manifestation of life is only attainable through the sacrifice of form, but form provides the inter-subjective window that transforms crude inspiration into recognizable culture. The conflict and tragedy of culture remain unresolved.

Deconstructed Keywords

Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand.
— Cat's Cradle

The Stoic accepts suffering.
The Existentialist embraces suffering.
Siddhartha: "Suffering has no significance."

It was on one of those rare days of full immersion in society, strolling down mid-afternoon streets brimming with pumpkin spice latte- and paper shopping bag-carrying patrons, that Schopenhauer's snarky face hit me like a truck.

What little value I would have created in an otherwise socially accepted constructive day job suddenly seemed but a vapid catechism. It is simple to be content when one is physically disconnected from the world. It is only when walking among one's fellow humans that The Loneliness emerges. Roaming from one observational deck to another, this axiomatic misery feels like an anthropological joke.

I had put off reading The Fountainhead until Roark's Noble Struggle seemed trivial. Its flat characters and dry prose imparted upon me that the indisputably noble thing to do Today is to become a high school philosophy teacher, a foundation builder of critical thinking and metaphysical frameworks. Afterthought: but what's the point? What is the goddamned point?

Vonnegut’s words always make my eyes want to swell up with tears. “The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow.”

“For heaven’s sake.” one wants to cry aloud, “Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”

Glass palace on the shore. Waves frozen in time.