by Martin Butler

We live in a rational age. Naturalism, the view that the fabric of the world can be – and should be – discovered and understood through the theories and methods of natural science, has dominated philosophy and contemporary thought for years. The theory of evolution and the big-bang theory of the origin of the universe are classic naturalistic explanations, and even those with a religious perspective for the most part concede the natural world to science. Oddly, those who pit their religious beliefs against accepted science, still often try to use scientific evidence to bolster their argument, inevitably resulting in bad science. Trying to ‘prove’ that the age of the earth accords with the biblical account is an example of this.

Many earlier philosophers produced non-naturalistic philosophies. Descartes’ dualism gave a central place to both natural and non-natural causes. The ghost in the machine account, while giving bodily functions a scientific explanation in terms of mechanical causes, understands mental capacities in terms of an immaterial, mental entity, something we might describe as spiritual. And even with the rise of the scientific world view, God could still be relied upon to fill in any gaps where science struggled – the so called ‘God of the gaps’. Newton, for example, despite his discovery of the laws of motion, believed that God intervened to ensure the proper movement of the planets within the solar system. Laplace, however, famously moved things towards full blooded naturalism when, in response to Napoleon’s question about the place of God in his philosophical system, he is supposed to have quipped that he had ‘no need for that hypothesis’. Here we have “a nature stripped of the divine” as Schiller put it. Or, according to the sociologist Max Weber, a disenchanted world

So where does this leave the spiritual, a term still widely used even by those who do not necessarily align themselves to any particular religious belief? Read more »

by John Allen Paulos

Election season has put an increased focus on the stock market, but little attention is ever paid to the Efficient Market Hypothesis (the EMH, for short). As I’ve written in A Mathematician Plays the Stock Market, it is a fundamental and important notion, but it is also a little weird. Its recent formulation derives from the work of Eugene Fama, economist Paul Samuelson, and others in the 1960s. The basic idea, however, dates back more than 100 years when Louis Bachelier, a student of the great French mathematician Henri Poincare, formulated an early version. Roughly, the hypothesis maintains that stock prices reflect all relevant information about the stock. As Fama put it, “In an efficient market, competition among the many intelligent participants leads to a situation where, at any point in time, actual prices of individual securities already reflect the effects of information based both on events that have already occurred and on events which, as of now, the market expects to take place in the future.”

The EMH depends crucially on what information is assumed to be reflected in the stock price. The weakest version maintains that all information about past market prices is already reflected in a stock price. A stronger version maintains that all publicly available information about a company is already reflected in its stock price. The strongest version states that information of all sorts, even inside information, is already reflected in the stock price.

It was probably this last rather implausible and all-encompassing version of the hypothesis that underlies the joke about the two efficient market theorists walking through town. They notice a hundred dollar bill on the sidewalk and simply ignore it. If it were real, they conclude, someone would have been picked it up already. Even more risible is the question: How many efficient market theorists does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: The answer is none. If the bulb needed changing, the wisdom of the market would have insured that it had already been changed.

So why do people think that the market efficiently, and more or less immediately, responds to changes in the conditions for a particular stock or even for the market as a whole? The answer is that investors are always seeking an edge to increase their gains or decrease their losses, and they try to do so in a multitude of ways. They’re on the lookout for new bits of information possibly relevant to a company’s stock price that may be enough to quickly raise or lower it. Because of this swarm of profit-hungry and loss-averse investors, the market rapidly responds to new information, and efficiently – there’s that word again – adjusts prices to reflect it. The changes take place so rapidly, or so the story goes, that even utilizing technical rules or fundamental analyses aren’t fast enough to be fully exploited, and investors who pursue them will see their excess profits shrink to zero. Read more »

Celtic Knot

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Hello Reader,

Because I have taken some medical leave from 3QD in the past few weeks, we have not had magazine posts for a while, though we have continued to post curated articles in the “Recommended Reading” section. I am feeling better now, so we will resume all posts starting tomorrow, meaning Monday, the 16th of September. Just wanted to let you know. More details of what happened to me also coming tomorrow.

All the best,

Abbas

by David J. Lobina

For someone who sees himself as a person of the Left, at least in the sense in which the political right and left were conceptualised by Norberto Bobbio ages ago – that is to say, as moral and political stances towards equality (and inequality) – and more concretely, as a sort-of anarchist, at least in the sense, this time, of being suspicious of authority, top-down impositions and ideas, and much preferring a society composed of spheres of self-realisation instead from the bottom up,[i] the advent and prominence of so-called ‘identity politics’ in recent years, especially in the English-speaking world, and most clearly, in the US, has been surprising, bewildering, and rather frustrating.

Even though identity politics is usually associated with the Left, both by friends and foes, I agree with some thinkers from the Left I actually follow, such as the academic Brian Leiter, that this kind of politics may well be ‘the narcissism of the aspiring bourgeoisie, who want to get their share of the “capitalist pie”, including their share of “respect” as reflected in language and culture’ – and likewise for the concept of equity so common and so often defended these days, which is not really a liberal principle per se, but more of a neoliberal keyword: no universal social programs to be set up, but instead we shall have micro-interventions here and there that can only produce a more ethnically diverse elite. Under these conditions, inequality and capitalism remain untouched, class politics unmentioned, the result a Left without the economics or the socialism, and on we go with elite representation and such worries (seriously, whatever happened to class politics?).

Rather surprisingly, at least to me, the obsession with such diversity concerns is ubiquitous here in the UK too, including at my daughter’s primary school in London, one of the most diverse cities in Europe. In June each year there is a so-called Diversity Week, which according to the Head Teacher is about ‘taking pride in who you are and all of the things that make you ‘you’, especially your differences’ (you can strike out the word especially from that statement), the main point to be conveyed being that ‘one opinion, lifestyle, religion, family make up, or cultural heritage is not more important than another; we are all individuals and our differences are what make us stronger as a community’.[ii]

As a case in point, the school once entered a local flower cart competition, and the chosen message on the cart was: We are all different, and that’s fine.

All of course laudable, at least at first sight. My point in this column is to push back a little bit, and to do so from the point of view of universality and commonality, which I regard as a much more significant property of human thought and belief systems – indeed, of human nature tour court. Or as the La Fontaine Academy flower cart could also have advertised at the competition: We are all the same, and that’s fine too! Read more »

by Mary Hrovat

Mission to Earth: Landsat Views the World, Nicholas M. Short, Paul D. Lowman, Jr., Stanley C. Freden, William A. Finch, Jr. (published 1976)

I found this book in a library at Indiana University when I was a student in the mid-1980s. I spent hours fascinated by the beauty of the photographs and the quiet, precise poetry of the geographical and geological terminology in the accompanying text.

Satellite images were not as readily available back then, and this book provides a rich banquet of them. Maps in the front of the book show where to find images of each part of the planet. First I looked up places I knew or had visited, and then I looked up places I wanted to visit or was curious about, and finally I just browsed. I’d always been interested in maps, with their place names and the history behind them. This book expanded that experience by giving me the geological, ecological, and human context of each image. It was endlessly interesting.

The book also expanded my horizons in another way. I had no theological qualms about the age of Earth or the universe, but I’d been shown a narrow world, growing up—a world centered on sin and redemption, where Earth is ultimately a way station between two eternities. I’d been a homebody as a child, caught up in my parents’ religious scruples and anxiously examining my behavior for not only sinful tendencies but also insufficient devotion to the divine.

This book was one of the things that released me to a wider view of life; it nurtured an enchantment with Earth, its dynamic intricacy and complex history, its reality as a thing in itself rather than a divine stage set. It absorbed me in the features and processes of the living planet. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I can see now that it sowed the seeds of a view of Earth itself as sublime and holy, in a completely natural sense. Read more »

by Adele A. Wilby

Many decades ago, I was fortunate to have had the opportunity of living in India for several years. I was enthralled by that country: its cultural richness; the environment; the food, but most of all the friendliness and warm hospitality of its diverse people. There were, of course, issues that confounded me and stark contradictions stared back at me from many directions, but of particular concern was the scale of the poverty amongst vast sections of the population, an issue that visited me at home frequently. A small begging community gathered regularly at my front gate, hungry and calling out for food. As my knowledge of the Indian social structure deepened, I came to understand that these people belonged to the most oppressed castes in Indian society and not only they, but a multitude of others were living in poverty, and with hunger.

Jean-Martin Bauer’s book The New Breadline: Hunger and Hope in the 21^st Century addresses those very issues of social oppression and politics also that create the condition of hunger for millions of people across the globe. He is well placed to author such a book. With twenty years of experience with the United Nations World Food Programme and now Country Director of the programme in Haiti, Bauer brings to the book a wealth of experience in humanitarian work to alleviate hunger in West Africa, Syria, Iraq and Central Africa, and now in his home country of Haiti.

Bauer tells us that fewer people than ever starve in the world today thanks to technological progress and the creation of systems to bring food aid to people. Indeed, at the turn of the 21^st century the success in winning the battle against hunger was so encouraging the world’s governments publicly committed to eliminating hunger by 2030. That aspirational deadline however appears to have been kicked into the grass as tragically in 2023 it is estimated that 250 million people still faced acute hunger, double the number in 2020. Read more »

by Steve Szilagyi

“Body and spirit are twins. God only knows which is which” –Algernon Swinburne

When I was ten or eleven, the Great Geauga County Fair still displayed what it called human oddities (the term Freak Show had fallen from use by that time). These included the Lizard Man, the Human Pincushion, and the Fat Lady. All were pictured in large paintings outside their tents. The Fat Lady’s picture might have come from the brush of Fernando Botero, the Colombian painter and sculptor who made a career out of depicting round and puffy men, women, and animals. But the real Fat Lady did not look like that at all.

“Ask me anything,” she said, as my brother and I stood before her, staring. An electric fan rippled the hem of her simple cotton dress in the late August heat. She must have been in her 30s, pink-cheeked, with massive calves. Her eyes stared past us, and her voice was flat.

My brother and I could think of nothing to ask. Even as ten and eleven-year-olds, we felt nothing but pity for this woman. She was not one of those people who are “big-boned” but a slight person who was carrying too much weight. There were romance magazines (so many!) piled at her feet, suggesting that she had a rich imaginative life.

We also felt kind of cheated. The Fat Lady was not a legitimate “other” like the Lizard Man, her neighbor in the tent next door. The Lizard Man had black, cracked skin, and stumps for arms and legs. He wore a porkpie hat, sunglasses, and satin shorts. “Hit the Road Jack” trilled from the transistor radio by his head. We thought he was cool. The Fat Lady might have been one of our country aunts if she’d eaten too many of her own apple and pumpkin pies.

The Lizard Man couldn’t help what he was. But all the Fat Lady had to do was lose some weight, and she’d be outside the tent with us—a regular person. Of course, it’s not that easy. We all know that the extent to which the obese are responsible for their condition is a topic of hot controversy. Read more »

by Mike Bendzela

I begin writing this essay the morning after dumping into the woods the sixth porcupine I have had to kill this growing season. It used to be that I would not see any evidence of porcupine damage in my apple trees until early August, but this year I began seeing chewed-off branches in late June. As with other ecological aberrations, it’s tempting to attribute the early arrival of porcupines in the orchard to a warming planet: We experienced a preternaturally early heatwave in mid-June in Maine, breaching 90 degrees on the 19th. Then it shot up to 96 degrees on the 20th, which is just weird. It stayed so hot through July that my onions and potatoes stopped growing and my broccoli failed to head up. All apple varieties are at least a week ahead of schedule this year. In the midst of this, I had to start my weekly scouting ritual extra early, going out into the orchard after midnight with a .22 pistol to deal with spiny rodents in the trees.

Why even shoot porcupines out of trees? It is undoubtedly a despicable practice, and I hate guns, but I can find no way around it. Porcupines love apple trees, and if left to themselves they will chew bark, branches and fruit until the trees are denuded of apples and permanently damaged. Then the well-fed porcupines will produce porcupettes, who will return to the orchard next season to continue the damage.

“Damage” is a matter of perspective. The porcupines are just doing what porcupines do — eat trees. They are rodents, with long, curving claws and incisors that continue to grow throughout their lives. The teeth are orange because they are literally iron-fortified. The animals can gnaw branches right off the trees and then descend to the ground to take bites out of apples. Sometimes they stay in the tree and go from apple-to-apple, gnawing and chewing. The damage they do is often shocking, but they are only doing to the trees what we humans do to lobsters — tear them to shreds and eat them. Read more »

Interior wall in the very high-ceilinged lobby of the Munich airport Hilton, showing some of the rooms.

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by Brooks Riley

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by Mindy Clegg

This month’s post might be shorter than usual, as the semester kicks off next week. I do want to address a couple of things going into the final stretch of the election season. Some historians and scholars have long debated what matters most, the zeitgeist (or vibes as the kids would have it) or materialist view of historical change. But is it really either-or? Let’s take the upcoming election in November. Many have noticed that there has been a change in feeling these last few weeks. At least some of that is embedded in the material conditions happening in the world, such as improvements in the economy, strong job numbers, and rising wages. Stories that explicate the zeitgeist matter, but so do outcomes, as we can see with the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine story “Past Tense.” If there is a vibe change, it’s not just down to attitudes, but the material conditions in which we find ourselves. So, let’s look at the changing vibes of the election.

It’s important to keep in mind that humans love a good story. I would even argue (following the thinking of the late Sir Terry Pratchett) that our love of stories is what makes us human.

Stories can help us to better understand the deeply complicated world in which we find ourselves. A good set of stories can give us shared meaning and direction. It can cement ties between people and move us to make change for the better. The Harris-Walz campaign has seemingly harnessed the power of story in that manner. Both have a compelling background that most of us can connect with, grounded in both struggles and opportunities. They seem entirely relatable, human, approachable. Much like in the year 2000, many people embraced George W. Bush because some voters thought they’d like to have a beer at the local bar with him (despite Bush being someone in recovery from alcoholism-something also rather relatable). While Harris reflects an ambitious career-driven woman from a middle class background, Walz embodies strong mid-west dad vibes. We got some of that from their DNC speeches. Read more »

Chakaia Booker. Romantic Repulsive, 2019.

” The artist first emerged in the early 1990s, creating striking outdoor public sculptures made from discarded industrial materials, namely rubber tires, which she transformed through a laborious process of machine and physical labor, into sensual, tendril-filled, texture-rich sculptures. In 2000, she garnered international attention for It’s So Hard to Be Green (2000), a massive wall-hung tire sculpture featured in that year’s Whitney Biennial. After those early critical murmurs and rumblings, things got quieter, and for the majority of the past two decades Booker has plied her trade largely outside of the limelight.”

Until more recently.

More here, here, and here.

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by Richard Farr

I will use this column to defend myself against the accusation, first made by my surgical assistant Mr. Alan Turing, that I was negligent in the death of an individual under my medical care. Or, as one armchair prosecutor has said, that I am “a stereotypically British sentimentalist who thinks dogs are more human than people.” The story is an ugly one but the facts are straightforward.

It was about 3 AM on a winter’s night in the small town of ________ . The only other neurosurgeon in the area had become “too ill to travel home” while vacationing on Maui. (From her voice message I was immediately able to diagnose Margarita Syndrome, with possibly an enlarged Piña Colada.) Anyway I was the only sawbones available when the call came in: CODE BLUE, DOC. ROAD ACCIDENT. FOUR VICTIMS WITH HEAD INJURIES. WAKEY WAKEY. 

In my line of work you don’t shock easily, but I was about to have the most disturbing night of my life.

I should pause here to explain an important background detail. Turing, who had sent the message, was only moonlighting at the hospital. He was a quick learner for sure, if a bit of an oddball, and his daytime preoccupation (I hesitate to call it an occupation) was a Ph.D. in computational philosophy, whatever that is. He was competent enough; I only wished he wouldn’t keep urging me to read his draft material, which I found either impenetrably technical or else a jocose, badly written muddle. One particular essai of the latter kind turns out to be somewhat relevant to the ludicrous stand he has taken in the present matter. It begins with the arresting first sentence: I propose to consider the question, “Can machines think?” and progresses only pages later to the blithely contradictory The original question, “Can machines think?” I believe to be too meaningless to deserve discussion. (“Fascinating,” I said, hoping that was diplomatic enough.) Read more »

by Katalin Balog

It may be that we have become so feckless as a people that we no longer care how things do work, but only what kind of quick, easy outer impression they give. If so, there is little hope for our cities or probably for much else in our society. But I do not think this is so. —Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, 1961

(Apology)

There is a beautiful garden in a quiet tree-lined street in Manhattan’s Little Italy. There are rows of flower, lush, abundant and slightly wild, a stone balcony you can imagine Romeo climbing up to, stone balustrades, several lions, one with climbing vines adorning his face, a sphynx, various other statues, a copy of a Hermes medallion from the late antiquity, a fig tree and a hydrangea tree,  giant shady pear trees, and many small hidden paths that lead to gazebos and intimate garden spaces. People in the garden sit and while the time or read by a little table. In a very small space, Elizabeth Street Garden has been able to replicate the richness of life, spaciousness of spirit, the magnanimity and dedication to beauty of the best Italian gardens. It is one of the truly great places in NYC. But after 12 years of struggle between the city and garden advocates, on June 18, 2024, the New York State Court of Appeals ruled six to one that the City of New York could destroy it to build a mix of affordable housing, luxury retail and office space in its place. In a Hail Mary pass, Martine Scorsese, Robert de Niro and Patti Smith wrote their own letters to the Mayor, imploring him to, in Smith’s words, “grant a stay of execution of the Elizabeth Street Garden”.

The quirky, beautiful, art-filled space is the creation of long-time neighborhood denizen and outsider artist Allen Reiver who leased a blighted city-owned site in 1991 and filled it with greenery, architectural elements and neoclassical statuary from his own collection as an antique’s dealer. His son Joseph, who worked with his father on creating the Garden, and who is now its executive director, has kept it – with the help of an army of volunteers – open for all and busy with concerts, poetry readings, movie nights, art exhibits, performances, yoga and gardening. With 200,000 annual visitors and hordes of devoted neighborhood regulars, the Elizabeth Street Garden should be designated a New York Landmark. But instead, it is in a life and death struggle to survive.

One might wonder if the imperative to build more affordable housing just might outweigh the neighborhood’s sentimental attachment to this magical space. The call for bold action on housing in the city and in the country is amply justified. And yet… it is not true that we should build absolutely everywhere we possibly can. In a neighborhood and city that is steadily losing its edge and character, there is a case to be made that such decisions need to be tempered by sensitivity to the organic quality of life in a neighborhood, to what it is like to live or work here. Read more »

Before I Entered Time

I’m not blowing smoke, nor am I a sage.
It’s a simple condition:

The universe may as well not have been before;
in fact, “before” did not exist until I entered time.

There’s not one memory I can hang a word upon
before I entered time.

Before was just void, as blank as the sheet of this page
before something keyed this poem’s first “I”
at the beginning.

At this moment I’m somewhere around
“there’s not one memory”, (noted above)
and, by the time I get to “stop”, (likewise noted below),
will there be any words still worth saying,
any word still worth doing?

As I drift from time will there be anything
more than smoke of a doused fire curling up
cycling against gravity —something lighter than air?

But then, will the music stop?

Jim Culleny
8/14/19