by Usha Alexander

Why Harper Lee’s second novel, Go Set a Watchman, is more profound and important than her first

Even before its publication, Go Set a Watchman had become controversial, acquiring a whiff of conspiracy, inauthenticity, and foul play. It seemed unbelievable that Harper Lee would publish again after more than half a century of quiescence—and that too a novel written long ago and thematically near to her first and only novel, To Kill a Mockingbird. Published in 1960, Mockingbird has become an American classic and standard reading in every American high school. It is revered for its poignant telling of a thoughtful and courageous white man who does his best to hold up the candle of racial justice in the Jim Crow South. How could anything new live up to that? Why would Lee imperil her own legacy?

Since the release of Watchman, many readers have indeed announced their heartbreak over the revelations and struggles contained within. This new story takes place in the same small Alabama town we came to know in Mockingbird, where the endearingly wild little Scout grew up learning from her father, Atticus Finch, to recognize the humanity of those who seemed different from herself. But it’s now twenty years later and we meet the young woman Scout has grown into. On a visit from New York to her hometown in the mid-50s, the twenty-six year old Jean Louise Finch—who no longer goes by her childhood nickname—finds it transformed by time, the postwar economy, and the emergent Civil Rights movement. Much of the story centers around Jean Louise’s sense of unbelonging in the place where her roots remain yet deeply felt, and the cognitive dissonance she suffers as she discovers the people she most loved and trusted to be unapologetic racists:

Why doesn’t their flesh creep? How can they devoutly believe everything they hear in church and then say the things they do and listen to the things they hear without throwing up? … Everything I have ever taken for right and wrong these people have taught me—these same, these very people. So it’s me, it’s not them. Something has happened to me.

They are all trying to tell me in some weird, echoing way that it’s all on account of the Negroes… but it’s no more the Negroes than I can fly and God knows, I might fly out of the window any time, now.

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by Thomas R. Wells

Every week or so a literature professor publishes an eloquent essay about what literature is good for. Here's a nice example. The backdrop is the decades long decline of literature degree programmes in the Anglophone world. This is why you need us!, they argue, somewhat plaintively.

These essays tend to circle around the same handful of arguments. An especially prominent theme, most frequently associated with Martha Nussbaum's defence of the humanities, is that literature is good for us because it promotes empathy, and the practice of empathy is the heart of liberal ethics and the functioning of civilised society.

Unfortunately, defending literature in this way multiplies rather than reduces philistinism. By mistaking means and ends it excludes the very heart of the matter from consideration. The joy of literature is transmuted into duty. This is in line with how professional academics understand literature – as their daily work, albeit work that they love. But if this is how the people who claim to love literature talk about it, no wonder reading is in decline.

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Struck With Rust
.

from a chair close by the hydrangea in white,
and a wheelbarrow old and purely struck with rust,

the hydrangea’s lace planets in close galaxies of
three-petal poems,

the barrow’s hard, black tire and load of pulled weeds
which, until the other day, into life were thrust

now busted, heaped in a dry, foot-deep dome
in the barrow’s bed—

soon this pile of past-life will go, returning home
to nowhere in particular, but home nonetheless

to be (in quantum parts, by chance) reassigned
a place in the eternal ring

to bloom again, to be particles
in the Unknown’s newest thing
.

by Jim Culleny
8/2/15

by Charlie Huenemann

Philosophy students are typically taught the wrong lesson from the great Scottish skeptic David Hume. The standard story goes something like this. British empiricists like Locke and Berkeley wanted to connect everything we know to what we experience through the senses. The welcome consequence of this strategy is that all the stuff we see and interact with stays known – but the spooky invisible stuff, ranging from magical spirits to substantial forms and other metaphysical clutter, all goes by the wayside. But (the story continues) Hume pointed out that this strategy ends up far more corrosive than anyone expected: for, if we hold our beliefs to what we actually experience, we shall have no knowledge of causality. We see one event, and another; but never do we experience the metaphysical glue that connects the two, and forces the second event to follow the first.

The take-away lesson is that, according to Hume, we really have no knowledge of causality, and – if we are rational – we should be completely surprised every time we strike a match. This of course seems utterly loony, and it leads to spirited classroom arguments (which by itself, I’ll allow, is a good reason to teach Hume this way). How could it possibly be right that the fully rational person would not see causality at work in the world?

Well, it isn’t; and in truth, Hume never thought it was. As he defended himself to an incredulous correspondent,

… I never asserted so absurd a Proposition as that any thing might arise without a Cause: I only maintain’d, that our Certainty of the Falsehood of that Proposition proceeded neither from Intuition [sense experience] nor Demonstration; but from another Source.

Hume wasn’t a skeptic about causality. He only maintained that the causal knowledge we have does not arise from our sense experience or from our reasoning.

What’s the difference? It turns out to be an interesting one. In the first (wrong) story, the lesson is that there is no such thing as causality. That’s certainly a bold claim, but it’s not in the least compelling. No one can take it seriously except as some kind of trivial philosophical nut to crack. In the second (correct) story, the lesson is that human knowledge is not as straightforward as philosophers would like. What we know does not boil down to rational inferences from observations and arguments. It’s more natural, more organic, than that.

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by Carl Pierer

Fig. 1: a Ceilidh as Braid

This column last month, here, provided a first glimpse at the fascinating field of braids. Beneath their obvious beauty – to which their widespread aesthetic use bears testimony – lies a deep complexity. They allow for explorations of many beautiful areas of mathematics. They branch into topology, group theory, and geometry, to give some examples. The previous essay explored the theoretical side of braids, the most important results of which were:

• A mathematical concept of braids: Consisting of a certain number of strands n, say, together with a specification of how and where these strands cross each other. Furthermore, these strands (if they are not crossing) run parallel and we may adopt the convention that they are running from top to bottom. To avoid ambiguity, we require further that there are no two crossings at the same horizontal level. It is clear that for the braid to have any crossings at all, it must have at least two strands. If a braid does not have any crossings, it is called the trivial braid.
• The word problem: Thus defined, a braid can be represented with a description of how the strands cross each other. Let σ­_I mean the i^th strand is crossing over the i+1^th strand and a negative power, σ­_i^-1 (read: sigma i inverse), mean the i^th strand crosses under the i+1^th strand. Then, a description of a braid using σ­_I's is called a braid word. The problem is: given two braids, how can we decide whether they are the same? More particularly, given a braid, how do we determine whether it is trivial?
• A solution to the word problem: The method of handle reduction. If a braid contains handles, it can be reduced. If the braid is the same as the trivial braid, this algorithm will return the trivial braid. If the braid is not trivial, this algorithm will return an equivalent braid that does not contain any handles.

It ended there with a very cursory glance at the connection between braids and dances. This idea deserves to be dealt with in greater depth, for it is not only in the abstract spheres of pure mathematics that braids demonstrate a fascinating depth. Rather surprisingly, their mathematical properties find unexpected applications to the more practical problems of motion planning for robots.

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by Hari Balasubramanian

Decisions under demand uncertainty – the so called newsvendor problem.

In October 2007, my father and I took a day train from Bangalore to Chennai. About halfway into the 7-hour journey is a station called Jolarpet, where the train stops for ten minutes. As at other stations, there were dozens of vendors – each with a simple wheeled stall or a wooden basket or a steel container – engaged in a frenzy of small scale entrepreneurship. All sorts of items were being sold: snacks, tea, coffee, water, bananas, flowers, cheap Chinese goods – toys, combs, and, in what became a curiosity and a topic of detailed conversation among our fellow travelers, pens that doubled as flashlights.

But my father was most interested in those who sold vadas, a South Indian specialty, a round, deep-fried snack with a hole in middle – like a donut but not sweet at all – made from a batter of lentils (I've described just one variety). My father felt the vadas sold by vendors at the Jolarpet station were better than those made in the train's pantry. They were hot, had just the right texture, and the timing – late afternoon – was just right to have them with coffee. Three fairly busy trains – including the Bangalore-Chennai Brindavan Express on which we were traveling that day – arrive at Jolarpet station at roughly the same time. “How many vadas get sold?” my father wondered. “Maybe a thousand of them, maybe even more.”

That comment got me thinking. If you are a vendor, the critical question is how many vadas should I make? The vadas have to be fried right before the train arrives so that they are hot and ready to sell during the ten minutes that the train stops. If I fry too many and not enough passengers buy them then what I am left with is wasted, since a vada that is not freshly made is unappetizing. On the other hand, if I fry too few, then I lose the opportunity to sell to passengers who need them. So what is the right number to make given this uncertainty in demand?

The technical name for this dilemma is the newsvendor problem. Replace vadas with newspapers and you have an identical situation. If a newsvendor on the street doesn't sell enough newspapers, what's left is wasted since today's newspaper won't sell tomorrow. If the vendor has too few newspapers and runs out of them, then potential customers are lost.

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by Leanne Ogasawara

In Japan, I knew a gentleman who ran a 200 year old miso shop. K san was also a bon vivant par excellance! Studying Samurai-style (Enshu school) tea ceremony, he wore stylish kimono by day and organized French film festivals for our town on the weekends. He also spent a fortune on tea bowls and art, which he often would show to his friends.

Everyone in town knew him and his miso shop was a gathering place of local luminaries.

Of all the interesting things he was involved in, my favorite was his gramophone club. Once a month like-minded collectors would show up with a favorite record (or not) and sit around listening to old records while drinking sake. Need I say more? The man had endless curiosity and tremendous style. He was my kinda guy!

Speaking of which, I recently finished the most unusual book by Normon Cantor, called Inventing the Middle Ages. The book is about twenty prominent 20th century Medievalists and their impact on the study of the history of the Middle Ages. When I first heard that this book was not just a best seller but was so popular it was even available on Audible, I could hardly believe it! Really? I love anything related to the Middle Ages and so would have read the book no matter what, but I must admit that I was utterly fascinated by the popularity– as well as the controversy surrounding this book, which after all was on such an obscure topic.

So, I picked up the book immediately.

I wasn't disappointed either.

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by Bill Benzon

There can be little doubt that President Obama’s eulogy for Clementa Pinckney was an extraordinary performance and a powerful statement about the state of race relations in the United States of America. But it is also a bit puzzling, for that statement took the form of a sermon. As such, it was religious discourse and not secular political discourse.

That’s what I want to talk about, not to reach any specific conclusions, but to raise questions, to call for a conversation about and an examination of the role of religious discourse in civic life.

Rather than develop those questions directly, I want to place Obama’s eulogy on the table to a moment and consider a recent conversation between Glenn Loury, an economist at Brown University, and John McWhorter, a linguist at Columbia. That will establish the context in which I offer a few remarks about Obama’s performance. Then I want to place in evidence a statement that Robert Mann made about Laudato Si’, the recent and quite remarkable encyclical by Pope Francis.

The ‘Cult’ of Ta-Nehisi Coates

Loury and McWhorter had this conversation at Bloggingheads.tv on July 21, 2015. After opening pleasantries and some remarks about Obama, they move on to discuss the ascendancy of Ta-Nehisi Coates as a commentator on race relations in America. Starting at somewhat after nine minutes in McWhorter argues that Coates has become somewhat like the priest of a religion:

There is now what a Martian anthropologist would call a religion. Which is that one is to understand the role of racism in America’s past and present.

And Coates has reached a point, and this is not anything that I ever predicted, where he is the priest of it. Because, and this is the crucial point, James Baldwin […] his point was often that race IS America, that the race problem is the essence of America and where it needs to go. And people read that and they quoted it but it wasn’t something that ordinary white readers really felt at the time.

Whereas today, really, that is something that whites feel such that Coates is revered. He is not considered somebody where you actually assess whether what he’s saying is true, you’re only supposed to criticize him in the gentlest of terms. He’s a priest of a religion.

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by Eric Byrd

As a teenager who just wanted battles, I tried to read The Face of Battle and was baffled by the historiographic argument of Keegan's introduction, a long essay that, I now see, echoes Virginia Woolf's manifesto “Modern Fiction” and applies its prescriptions to historical prose. Keegan called to writers of military history as Woolf called to the novelists of her time – “Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected or incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness.” Keegan urged historians to turn away from tidy narratives of battle and acknowledge the horizonless confusion experienced by even the best-positioned participants of those battles; urged them to understand that most soldiers don't even know when they are engaged in battle, or at least “battle” as it was understood by the Victorians: a national apotheosis or histrionic downfall; the Hinge of Destiny; and he recommended the historian read and take to heart the chaotic combat scenes in Tolstoy's War and Peace, just as Woolf prescribed Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov to the fiction writer tempted by pat characterization, superficial psychology, all-too-conclusive action, and purely material relations.

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by Brooks Riley

‘I can sleep when I’m dead.’

That’s how Rainer Werner Fassbinder justified his hell-bent, frenetic, productive/destructive dervish whirl through a short existence, trailing an oeuvre of 45 films, 21 plays and countless screenplays. He was 37 when he died.

He’s been sleeping now for 33 years—a well-earned rest he wasn’t quite ready for but did nothing to prevent. He died of an overdose, of life and of every substance that helped fuel his march through it. This year he would have turned 70.

Walking past the Rainer Werner Fassbinder Technical College last week, I found myself doing what I often do with the dead: I imagined his ghost, the Tatar warrior of grunge, clad in filthy Levis and an old leather vest, striding out the door, coming over to me and giving me that bear hug of his.

Was machst Du den hier? he asks, stunned to find me living in his home town of Munich.

What am I doing here? It’s a good question for which I have no easy answer, other than the chain of unrelated circumstances that has brought me here, over and over again, at various times in my life. Now I’ve been here longer than I’ve been anywhere else.

Fassbinder’s Munich is not my Munich. We never had that much in common, except a love of film and a breezy friendship. Now he lies in a pricey part of town, far from the bars he frequented or the studio where he made many of his films. He’s been honored with his very own Platz, the Rainer-Werner-Fassbinder Platz, in a new residential area near the train station. And a technical college, of all things.

We weren’t always friends. The first time I met him, when a colleague and I were the first to interview him on his first trip to New York, he was restless and impatient, fulfilling an obligation with intelligence but without enthusiasm. Fassbinder could be rude and intimidating, with a bad-boy reputation that served him well against intruders, a category that included nearly everyone outside his inner circle of cast and crew, his only friends. He had many admirers out there in the world, myself included, but none could break through that barrier he put up to all those who would befriend him or wish him well. He had no time.

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by Misha Lepetic

“We are at home with situations of legal ambiguity.
And we create flexibility, in situations where it is required.”
~Neuromancer

Consider a few hastily conceived scenarios from the near future. An android charged with performing elder care must deal with an uncooperative patient. A driverless car carrying passengers must decide between suddenly stopping, and causing a pile-up behind it. A robot responding to a collapsed building must choose between two people to save. The question that unifies these scenarios is not just about how to make the correct decision, but more fundamentally, how to treat the entities involved. Is it possible for a machine to be treated as an ethical subject – and, by extension, that an artifical entity may possess “robot rights”?

Of course, “robot rights” is a crude phrase that shoots us straight into a brambly thicket of anthropomorphisms; let's not quite go there yet. Perhaps it's more accurate to ask if a machine – something that people have designed, manufactured and deployed into the world – can have some sort of moral or ethical standing, whether as an agent or as a recipient of some action. What's really at stake here is the contention that a machine can act sufficiently independently in the world that it can be held responsible for its actions and, conversely, if a machine has any sort of standing such that, if it were harmed in any way, this standing would serve to protect its ongoing place and function in society.

You could, of course, dismiss all this as a bunch of nonsense: that machines are made by us exclusively for our use, and anything a robot or computer or AI does or does not do is the responsibility of its human owners. You don't sue the scalpel, rather you sue the surgeon. You don't take a database to court, but the corporation that built it – and in any case you are probably not concerned with the database itself, but with the consequence of how it was used, or maintained, or what have you. As far as the technology goes, if it's behaving badly you shut it off, wipe the drive, or throw it in the garbage, and that's the end of the story.

This is not an unreasonable point of departure, and is rooted in what's known as the instrumentalist view of technology. For an instrumentalist, technology is still only an extension of ourselves and does not possess any autonomy. But how do you control for the sort of complexity for which we are now designing our machines? Our instrumentalist proclivities whisper to us that there must be an elegant way of doing so. So let's begin with a first attempt to do so: Isaac Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics.

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If you talk about it, it’s not Tao
If you name it, it’s something else

What can’t be named is eternal
Naming splits the eternal to smithereens

Not tangled in desire you embrace the unknown
Tangled in desire you see only what you want

But the unknown and what you want
have one source. Call it no place

No place or darkness
……….. —from the Tao Te Ching of Lao Tzu,
………….. 6th Century BC

Lao Tzu's Lament

at first I think, I’ve got it!
then I think, Ah no, that’s not it
I think, it’s more like a flaming arrow
shot into the marrow
of the bony part of everything

………. but some summer nights
………. it’s hanging overhead so bright

then right there I lose it
I let geometry and time confuse it
then it’s silent and won’t sing a thing

………. but some summer nights
………. it’s croaking from a pond so right

then again I lose it
let theology and time confuse it
then it’s silent and won’t sing a thing

……………….. I’m thinking I’ve been here before
……………….. feet two inches off the floor
……………….. thinking, is this something true?

sometimes I think, I’ve lost it!
though I never could exhaust it
because it’s lower than low is
and wider than wide is
deeper than deep is
higher than high is

………. but some fresh spring days
………. it’s cuttin’ through the fog and the haze

……………….. I’m thinking I’ve been here before
……………….. feet two inches off the floor
……………….. thinking, is this something true?
.
.

song by Jim Culleny, 7/15/15
Copyright: Jim Culleny, 6/23/15
all rights reserved

Recording:
Jim Culleny Vocal and rhythm guitar
Joe Podlesny: Bass, lead guitar
Engineering: Joe Podlesny
Production: Joe Podlesny and Jim Culleny

by Jonathan Kujawa

Last week humanity had a moment of triumph. We (well, really the folks at NASA) successfully flew the New Horizons spacecraft over three billion miles at speeds exceeding 51,000 miles per hour (30 times the speed of the proverbial speeding bullet) to Pluto — a target only two-thirds the size of our moon. While zooming past at over 30,000 miles per hour the spacecraft gathered a wealth of images and data which we'll be studying for years to come. Until New Horizons our best image of Pluto was this one from the Hubble Space Telescope [1].

Before New Horizons.

But now we have pictures like this [2]:

After New Horizons.

If you have an iota of curiosity you you can't help but think that's pretty darn cool. Last year the European Space Agency did something I found even more impressive: they flew the Rosetta spacecraft over 4 billion miles and landed it on a comet 2.5 miles in diameter which travels at over 34,000 miles per hour. In both cases the spacecraft provides us with fantastic new data about our solar system, but just getting it there already counts for a lot in my book.

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by Tamuira Reid

Go because you're still holding onto the baby weight even though your baby is four.

Because you have nowhere else to go today. Because you're not over him.

Go because the depression is eating you alive, from the inside out. Go because you forget what happy feels like. (Go because you know how clichéd that sounds. Go because you don't want to be a fucking cliché.)

Go because you want to get laid. Go because you want to be naked again without reaching for the sheet. Go because the last time you really lifted something it was your dress, over your head, on the night you made your son. Go because you want to glisten with sweat like the models in the Lululemon ads. Go because you are a nerd who uses the word “glisten” still. Go because you're tired of your thighs chaffing as they rub together. Go because you're mom is worried you might be a lesbian, because all of your friends are gay men and you haven't had sex since 2010. Go because you want to get out of your head because your head scares you. Go because it's either the gym or the bar and we all know where the bar gets you.

Get a trainer. Pick a protein powder. Buy a duffle bag.

Learn the difference between a dumbbell and a barbell. That it's deadlift not deadweight. Learn to press. To plank. To lunge. Learn to hide the pain radiating through your knees and hips. Hide your age. Especially when the twenty-four year-old next to you looks bored going at speeds that would rip the cartilage right from your bones. Secretly decide to hate her. Secretly decide to be her.

Feel like an imposter, like someone will come to the treadmill at any second and pull you off by the neck. You are an outsider here but not for long.

Stop keeping a hair diary, the one the dermatologist told you to start when your hair began to fall in huge clumps, the one where you count every strand to report back how lazy your follicles are being. Stress levels lower when your glutes are firing. So forget about meditation tapes and visualization and rainforest gong music. You don't need to listen to rain or crickets or steel drums to fall asleep anymore. You will be out before your train leaves the station, your head resting on the guy's shoulder next to you. He'll feel sorry for you, even as your drool saturates the fabric of his Brooks Brothers shirt, the one his wife spent an hour ironing before she had coffee this morning. Because that's what newlyweds do.

You've never been a newlywed. Your relationships last about as long as your gym memberships. Make this time the exception. Be ready for the change.

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by Jalees Rehman

Billions of cells die each day in the human body in a process called “apoptosis” or “programmed cell death”. When cells encounter stress such as inflammation, toxins or pollutants, they initiate an internal repair program which gets rid of the damaged proteins and DNA molecules. But if the damage exceeds their capacity for repair then cells are forced to activate the apoptosis program. Apoptotic cells do not suddenly die and vanish, instead they execute a well-coordinated series of molecular and cellular signals which result in a gradual disintegration of the cell over a period of several hours.

The remains of an apoptotic cell are being engulfed and ingested by a phagocytic white blood cell. Image via National Library of Medicine.

What happens to the cellular debris that is generated when a cell dies via apoptosis? It consists of fragmented cellular compartments, proteins, fat molecules that are released from the cellular corpse. This “trash” could cause even more damage to neighboring cells because it exposes them to molecules that normally reside inside a cell and could trigger harmful reactions on the outside. Other cells therefore have to clean up the mess as soon as possible. Macrophages are cells which act as professional garbage collectors and patrol our tissues, on the look-out for dead cells and cellular debris. The remains of the apoptotic cell act as an “Eat me!” signal to which macrophages respond by engulfing and gobbling up the debris (“phagocytosis“) before it can cause any further harm. Macrophages aren’t always around to clean up the debris which is why other cells such as fibroblasts or epithelial cells can act as non-professional phagocytes and also ingest the dead cell’s remains. Nobody likes to be surrounded by trash.

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by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

Once, in Italy, I had gelato in a place with a hidden door that opened into a garden with a gazebo. When I discovered it, it was like entering a movie set. Minutes ago I had herded my young children, negotiated foot traffic carrying ice cream and now I was in the middle of a surprise garden— surrounded by clear glass and a fruity scent. I had barely taken in the scene when I realized the baby needed to be changed; we finished our gelato quickly and left.

The delight was so abrupt that I’m not sure if this visit really happened, that there exists such a garden and gazebo in Turin where you can eat gelato. Did I imagine it? It’s a mercurial but lucid memory; it returns again and again.

There are other recurring flashes similar to this, most of them having to do with books: sitting by the window, reading “Of Mice and Men” as the sky raged with all its monsoon might, the drama of rain in real life entering the world of the novel. I still see the pages in the luscious light of Peshawar rain.

And numerous others: reading “Far from the Madding Crowd” on long summer afternoons, to the click-clicking of the ceiling fan, the faint aroma of lunch still in the air, lounging by the gas heater reading P.G. Wodehouse and eating hot sohan halva during winter-break. My mother reading aloud from an old copy of “mirat ul uroos,” an Urdu classic, the light and shadows on its yellowed pages, her clear, soft voice, my eyes lingering on the corners of the white walls, watching my grandmother’s glow-in-the-dark “time piece” from Mecca as I listened to the story.

A good book creates an uncanny silence, a bubble around the reader so that not only is the world of its offering vivid and deeply felt but the sensory reality of the reader as well: the smooth lamination on library books, the vanilla scent of the paper, the peculiar tone of light falling on the pages, the thumb, the forefinger, the folded paperback. Text blends in, binds with the texture of the sensory moment; the book becomes one with the reader.

The first book of poems I read on kindle was Fady Joudah’s “Textu”— I wasn’t sure how much the “reading device” would take away from me. As I fell into the rhythm of the short poems, their jagged, tender, stark, subtle world, there was a hush, then the sound of the wind chimes came from the patio with incredible clarity, the lamplight took on the glow of Japanese paintings, a familiar filter from childhood.

The brief, dreamlike, lasting spells, the residue of the reading life fills the writing life with the basic element: wonder. Once lodged in memory, it carries on— refilling, refueling the writer. These are the small, deep pockets of memory I reach into when I sit down to write.