by Tom Jacobs

We may be in the Universe as dogs and cats are in our libraries, seeing the books and hearing the conversation, but having no inkling of the meaning of it all.

—William James (1908)

Years ago I found myself wandering through library stacks picking up and putting down books until I found a tome with a title that I liked. It was called Forbidden Knowledge, and the first line of the book as I remember it was: “Are there some things we shouldn't know?”

This question has haunted my mind in some way or other for many years, and although the writer was interested in a vaguely conservative way about whether we should be reading dangerous thinkers of resistance and rebellion like Foucault or the Marquis de Sade (or, less topically, whether Prometheus should have stolen that fire, or Adam and Eve have eaten that apple), I found that his opening line got me interested not so much in what we maybe would be better off not knowing, like how to build an atomic bomb, but rather in considering how it comes to pass that we come to know the sorts of things and animals and ideas that exist at the very edges of conceptual understanding. This would be the space between the “known unknowns” and the “unknown unknowns.”

Clearly there are things that we don't understand just because we don't have a vocabulary or language to understand them. The universe itself might be one of them. As Richard Rorty so compellingly claimed, sounding not unlike Fox Mulder: “The world is out there, but descriptions of it are not.” This is not a simple idea at all, and while I don't want to suggest that we don't know what we are talking about just because we have to use language (or music or art or whatever) to describe the world in some meaningful way, what I'm interested in is how we regard those things that make us aware, even if only in the most inchoate of ways, that our representations of things are fundamentally inadequate and maybe even misleading.

I am utterly fascinated by the notion that there are some things that can't be seen because we don't have the language or means or the technology to render them visible and coherent. One of Thomas Kuhn's most compelling claims in “The Historical Structure of Scientific Discovery” has to do with what he calls the “violation of expectation”—the moment when an anomaly asserts itself and is perceived in however muddled a manner. Kuhn's discussion of this moment of violation reverberates in all kinds of ways, and although he is interested in how we understand what it means to “discover” something, it makes me wonder about how many things in this world escape our attention because we are in some sense looking at things wrongly.

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by Sebastian Normandin

On January 4th, 2015, the second day of the 102nd Indian Science Congress held in Mumbai, a very curious paper was given by two men — Anand J. Bodas, the head of a flight school and Ameya Jadhav, a lecturer at a small college in the host city.

Their paper made a rather extraordinary claim. Citing evidence from an early 20th century text — the Vaimanika Shastra — the two men argued that the airplane was invented in the Vedic Age (c. 1500-500 BCE). In further interviews, Mr. Bodas claimed these flying vehicles — vimana — were huge and could fly to other planets. Unlike modern airplanes, the vehicles didn't just fly forward but were capable of making immediate course corrections and could suddenly fly left, right or backwards.

The vimana is a fascinating idea. Mentioned in the great Indian epics — the Mahabharata and the Ramayana — it translates as “spacecraft” or “aircraft”. The Sanskrit word “vi-mana” can be literally translated as “measuring out” or “traversing” or “having been measured out”. The vimana is also an architectural term for a tower above the inner sanctum (the sanctum sanctorum or Garbhagriha) of a Hindu temple. These two meanings are not necessarily unrelated, and there is a symbolic connection between the vimana as vehicle and as architectural structure. When a god sits in the chariot — the vimana as vessel or spacecraft — it is analogous to the architectural form, the tower. Symbolically the vimana as tower sits in a “heavenly” liminal space between the earthly temple and the realm of the gods. It is this “space”, whether vessel or that which lies between, that allows transportation between the heavens and earth.

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by Thomas R. Wells

Are universities places for neoliberal human capital formation, or for the construction of a secular cathedral of human knowledge, or the development and promulgation of policies and technologies for the material benefit of society, or a finishing school to ensure the critical thinking skills and moral character of our future rulers? Clearly they cannot very well do all these things at the same time. They must choose. And that choice, according to a series of articulate, erudite critics from the humanities, like Martha Nussbaum and William Deresiewicz, should be for the liberal arts finishing school.

The diagnosis is correct but not the solution. The university cannot be saved.

I. The problem: The pathology of prestige

Universities have become too big to succeed and too big to challenge. They funded their expansion by promising all things to all stakeholders – jobs for parents, economic growth for governments, a podium for activists, an education for students. They said we had to trust them because, like doctors, they were the best judges of the wisdom they were selling. Well we did trust them and now the university has become gatekeeper to all sorts of essential parts of modern life, from intellectual credibility to middle-class jobs with dignity to scientific facts.

But they haven't actually kept their promises. They hardly even try. The leftist critique that universities have been taken over by the logic of the market is laughable. Paying customers, whether students, parents, or government, are an afterthought. Of course the money has to come from somewhere, but universities have always found ways to escape the discipline of the market. They invest a lot in marketing but not in connecting their education to the skills valued by the labour market. They have strenuously resisted providing students with the independent standardised information about teaching quality and employability that they need to make rational choices about where and what to study. The degrees they offer, even the ones with practical seeming titles, are stuffed with irrelevant courses about theory that mainly serve to provide jobs for academics rather than practical skills for students (and much of the actual teaching work is then outsourced to grad students anyway). One is often more likely to get a real education in ideas by joining the student debating society, and real work skills by leaving for a 6-month internship.

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by Paul Braterman

University of North Texas, where I was teaching in 2005

Kitzmiller v Dover Area School District, in which judgment was pronounced on 20^th December 2005, is the court case that established that Intelligent Design is not science, but a form of religiously motivated creationism, and as such may not be taught in publicly funded schools in the US. This is a shortened version of what I told the students at Texas Academy of Mathematics and Science, University of North Texas's early admissions programme, whom I was privileged to be teaching at the time of the trial. I have omitted my discussion of the embarrassing Intelligent Design pseudotext, Of Pandas and People, and the even more embarrassing statement that the Dover School Board instructed teachers to read, for reasons of space and because I have discussed them here before. I have tried to avoid rewriting in the light of what I have learnt since, but insert some comments for clarity, and links where relevant.

The “supplementary textbook” at the core of the case

This is a rather unusual presentation. It is the only presentation that I have ever given in response to a specific request from the [then] President of the United States, who has given as his opinion that Intelligent Design should be discussed in schools. It is the only presentation in which you will see me, a chemistry professor, practicing philosophy and even biblical exegisis; and I should warn you that I am practicing without a license. It is the only presentation I have ever given with the expectation that a number of people in the audience will be actively hostile to what I intend to say, because the point of view that I stand for is often misrepresented in this society as being hostile to religion.

But what is really extraordinary about this presentation is, that it is necessary at all. Having been a hundred years in the making, the central notions of evolutionary biology erupted into public awareness a century and a half ago, and, over the following 50 years, the major religious groups of the industrialised world came to terms with these ideas. The creationist challenge to what has been, for over a century, the central theoretical framework of biology, is a recent development, and, very specifically, a 20^th-century American phenomenon. Very recently, creationism has changed its name to Intelligent Design Theory, but this is a purely cosmetic change.

I expect that this talk will please no one. I will, as you might expect, argue against Intelligent Design arguments. Indeed, I will go much further, claiming that such arguments are part of a particular kind of mindset, which I will call literalism (although some call it fundamentalism), and that the rise of this mindset represents a most serious threat to knowledge.

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by Emrys Westacott

When terrorist atrocities are visited on civilian populations, the immediate emotional response is a combination of shock, sadness, and anger. That is natural and understandable. But the anger people feel fuels the thought that “something must be done; ” and political leaders, acutely aware of what is expected of them, immediately proceed to take some action or other. Thus, after the recent massacre in Paris, French president François Hollande ordered bombing raids on Raqqa, an ISIS stronghold in Syria. After 9/11 George Bush ordered a military campaign against al Qaeda in Afghanistan. These knee-jerk responses may gratify the urge to act; they also satisfy the politicians' need to appear to be doing something. But these are unworthy ends. Always, the crucial question regarding any action a government takes should be: What are its likely long-term consequences? And very often, it seems, the long-term consequences of the responses to terrorist atrocities are quite contrary to what is intended or hoped for.

Without question, the violence threatened and perpetrated by organizations like ISIS and al Qaeda has to be addressed directly. Appropriate surveillance, improved security procedures, and sometimes military measures are all in order. But we should challenge the idea that those who support large-scale offensive military actions or draconian domestic security measures are the hard-heads, the realists, the pragmatists, while those who tend to be skeptical about the likely efficacy of such actions are weak, soft, unrealistic, and naïve. If anything, the opposite is true.

Let's face it, the track record of the hard-headed hawks is not exactly inspiring. After 9/11, a US military campaign in Afghanistan ousted the Taliban (who had provided a supportive platform for Al Qaeda). This was certainly applauded by most Afghanis. But fourteen years on, around 150,000 people have been killed,[1] about $700 billion dollars have been spent,[2] and Afghanistan was ranked a year ago by Transparency International as the fourth most corrupt country in the world.[3]

The cost of the US led invasion of Iraq in 2003 and its aftermath has been even greater: over 224,000 deaths (according to the Iraq Body Count Project),[4] $815 billion dollars spent, and Iraq is ranked by Transparency International as the sixth most corrupt country in the world.

Moreover, the dollars and death stats just cited seriously understate the real costs. In addition to all the deaths there are hundreds of thousands of people who are crippled, blinded, deafened, maimed, disfigured, or traumatized, not to speak of millions who are widowed, orphaned, or suffer inconsolable grief at the deaths of their children, siblings, family and friends. Millions have lost or been forced to leave their homes.

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by Charlie Huenemann

The biggest struggle my fellow modern-day cyborgs and I face is to create a virtual reality that connects more wholesomely with the human part of our nature. The artificial reality we currently plug into is a Terry Gilliam nightmare. Too many characters within it are armed, dangerous, and barbaric. The bright spots within it – few and far-between – are either so childish and sugary as to seem like a parody of our hearts’ deepest needs, or so smart and ironic as to mock any nobler aims. It’s Grand Theft Auto, or Sesame Street, or South Park – take your pick.

Other virtual diversions exist for us, of course. One can find meaningful examinations of human experience, sensible and judicious overviews of economic tensions, intelligent and respectful discussions of critical issues, wonderfully rich book reviews, and so on. But one has to seek out such treasures deliberately – they seldom pop up of their own accord out of the collective net consciousness – and one must have the time, patience, and discipline to attend to them. This is a bit like trying to read Moby Dick in a strip club. And, cyborg nature being what it is, not many of us will end up spending much time with brother Ishmael.

Aristotle, a human being from twenty-five centuries ago, did his best to put together a sensible account of what makes human beings happy. By his own estimate, we are social beings who like to enjoy one another’s company, usually with some nice food and drink, some music, and a conversation that stimulates the mind. We like to exercise, and to apply our best ideas to laws and social policies. Through drama and art, we love to explore vicariously the troubles we can get into, and discover for ourselves how we would feel in other people’s tragic circumstances. We are, as one might say, multidimensional beings. The trick then, according to Aristotle, is to manage this multidimensionality with reason and experience. We need to monitor our cultural intake with the fastidiousness of a Weight Watcher, judging for ourselves how much is too much, how much too little, and when more attention needs to be directed here or there.

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by Hari Balasubramanian

During my middle and high school years, I became fascinated with two generations of stray dogs that lived in my neighborhood. This was in the early 1990s. My family lived in the central Indian city of Nagpur, in a 3rd story flat. The flat had a couple of balconies (decks) which gave me the chance to watch the dogs go about their routines. Instead of studying for exams – which involved the dreary task of memorizing entire sections of textbooks – I would get up in the morning and spend time watching the neighborhood strays. The dogs liked the cool air of early mornings. They played frantically, chasing each other down, trying to wrest torn rags from each other as if the rags were of great value. At 8 am, with the sun up and strong, they would be exhausted. They would lie in the shade, front limbs stretched, their snouts nuzzling in between but their noses still twitching and ears still alert for anything untoward.

Stray dogs (desi kutta in Hindi, theru nai in Tamil) can be found almost everywhere in India. The term ‘stray', in the South Asian context, does not refer to abandoned pets (although some mixing with pet European breeds does happen). From the genetic viewpoint these dogs are actually very ancient and have been around for millennia. They seem to have evolved independently by natural selection (they were not bred commercially) and have adapted well to living in and around human settlements. And they are still around, living on the dirt shoulders of streets, alleyways, the platforms of railway stations, and the ignored nooks and interstices of infrastructure. Residential families and street vendors may occasionally feed them and look after them informally, but the strays largely fend for themselves, scavenging in rubbish dumps or wherever leftover food is available. They mark their territories with their seemingly bottomless bladders, participate heartily in the chaotic and noisy mating season which happens once a year, and work hard to raise their offspring. In this sense, the strays are as wild and independent as, say, the squirrels and crows we find everywhere. They are not always liked due to the risk of rabies, and there is an ongoing debate on how their numbers should be controlled (see this for another perspective).

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by Mathangi Krishnamurthy

The rains visited on the 1^st of December, 2015. This monsoon in Chennai, we had already experienced deluge and mayhem, mid-November. The city's low-lying areas had flooded, and thousands of people had to be evacuated.

When the rains made a dramatic appearance again on the 1^st of December, I wasn't prepared for a repeat of the November events. One spate had already weakened the city, and it had tired me out. One only prepares for one natural disaster a year, though all evidence should have us scurrying otherwise. The waters seeped in through the walls of my ancient building, and I looked on, fervent in my belief that this too would pass. Neither the slowly forming pool in the dining room of my second floor walkup, nor the increasingly bleak weather reports prepared me for anything but a day's worth of indoor activity, and a night of sleeping to the sound of soothing, lashing rains.

Picture © Neetesh Kumar

From the evening of the 1^st of December to the evening of the 5^th of December, large parts of the city went under water and lost power. The rains came at us relentlessly as the sky dissolved into eddies of Mordor-like blackness.

I have experienced the phenomenon known as a natural disaster a few times before; first as a child, and then as an almost adult. Other floods and earthquakes had produced in me a vague sense of preparation. As if this is but another event out of a series of life possibilities, and one is bound to emerge unscathed. When the lights went out that 1^st of December, I retained this sense of possibility. Fumbling around with the help of a few forgotten birthday candles, I wolfed down some leftovers, and went to sleep in the darkness. Before going to bed, I gathered all the dust cloths, old towels, and washcloths in the house and lay them down like a patchy quilt next to the walls, hoping they'd absorb the waters. I slept in the living room, the daybed sticking up against the windows, hoping that I would hear the rains stop.

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by Tasneem Zehra Husain

It is practically a rite of passage for physics majors. We study Maxwells equations – the illuminating set of relationships that reveal the nature of light; we marvel at the power and grace of this compact quartet, and can't resist a chuckle when – inevitably – we come across the t-shirt that says “God said [Maxwell's Equations] And there was light.” Something about that sticks. We remember the t-shirt years later, even if we can't write down the equations anymore.

But, even though James Clerk Maxwell could boast several outstanding accomplishments – including taking the first ever color photograph, and unleashing a fictional demon that outwits entropy – for far too many of us, our association with this brilliant scientist begins and ends with the famous equations that govern electromagnetic radiation.

There is no cult of genius surrounding Maxwell. Unlike Einstein, Feynman or more recently, Hawking, Maxwell has no groupies; his quotes don't adorn bumper stickers, physics students don't own collections of his lectures or writing, and I don't know of anyone (save Einstein) who put up a poster of Maxwell in their workspace.

Like thousands of other physics students who went to college, studied Maxwell's equations, and bought the t-shirt, I felt no real bond with the man until some years ago, when a writing project (to which I shall forever remain indebted) led me to find out more about him.

I read Maxwell's writings as part of my research, and it was love at first letter. I was completely enchanted by the mind revealed in, and between, the lines; it was an investigative, creative, whimsical creature, with scintillating wit and lyrical expression. Over the months, as I read more, my initial intellectual infatuation developed into a deep fondness and a genuine respect. I found the flow of Maxwell's logic and the dance of his ideas simply beautiful. I read and re-read his words for the pleasure of having them stream through my mind, but also in the hope that if they performed his choreography enough times, my thoughts might learn to move that way on their own.

Casting around today for a piece of writing that might serve as an introduction to Maxwell, I settled upon his 1870 address to the members of the British Association (whom Maxwell teasingly referred to as the British ‘Asses') about scientific metaphor. This is not an idea that is articulated very often, especially not this clearly, but it is precisely the sort of overarching theme that I think should be emphasized in physics classrooms everywhere.

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You will not be punished for your anger,
you will be punished by your anger.

.

WWBS?

What Would Buddha Say, I thought,
of all that flows from lips of wealthy oafs
who claim to know the shortcuts
on the highway to nirvana?

I’d guess he’d sit in stillness, smile
un-perplexed, knowing discontent and bile
and the willingness by which
we all can be deluded

He’d see impostors on TV
as he sat beneath his favorite tree
counting discontents that lead to rage
and suffering in Saṃsāra

Sid studied long the hearts of oafs
and made his case for noble truths
long before this modern age
had put all beings in this cage
(himself included)
.

by Jim Culleny
12/12/15

by Leanne Ogasawara

Once upon a time, asymmetrical warfare was viewed as a last resort. Only when every other means possible had been exploited and defeat seemed inevitable, only then would people make a stand against an obviously far stronger enemy.

Thermopylae comes to mind.

Between cliffs and the sea, it was here that Leonidas made his legendary last stand.

Μολών λαβέ (molon labe).

It is so famous, I hesitate to bother describing the armies they faced– the myriad of tribes and peoples comprising the Persian army went on for pages and pages in Herodotus. Here is William Golding's depiction:

The numbers alone are exhilarating– the Persian army being said to have been comprised of a million men! Impossible, of course, but Herodotus' famous anecdote about the great Spartan warrior Dienekes is unforgettable when told that the Persian archers were so numerous that, their arrows would block out the sun for undaunted by this prospect, he remarked with a laugh, 'Good. Then we will fight in the shade.'

Every time I read it, it makes me breathless.

It leaves me breathless because they knew they would lose–but in knowing that, they acknowledged that there are some things worth dying for.

Fast forward to today, where asymetrical warfare seems increasingly to be a tactic of choice.

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by Bill Benzon

The idea has been around since 1793 when Dr. Benjamin Rush wrote an essay “A Plan of a Peace-Office for the United States.” Rush was a Philadelphia physician, the founder of Dickinson College, the father of American psychiatry, an abolitionist, he served in the Continental Congress, and he was a signer of the Declaration of Independence. Benjamin Banneker published the essay in the 1793 edition of his well-known almanac and then later in a collection of Rush’s essays. It is an interesting and curious document, which I reproduce in full below.

“Benjamin Rush Painting by Peale” by Charles Willson Peale – Unknown. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Rush imagines that the department would be able to transact its business in a single large room “adjoining the federal hall”. The world was much smaller then than it is now and so a larger portion of that world’s business could be encompassed within a single room. Rush is quite particular about the appointments of this room, suggesting that it house “a collection of ploughshares and pruning-hooks made out of swords and spears”.

The allusion is Biblical of course (Isaiah 2:3-4). Rush also directed that each family in the country be provided with a Bible at government expense. We are still in dire need of moral guidance, though it is by no means obvious that the Bible is the best source of it. What would Rush think of the Dalai Lama or of Pope Francis?

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by Sarah Firisen

The world seems a very depressing, scary place these days. Maybe it always was. I remember being 12 years old and driving with my father and expressing to him how terrified I was by the possibility of nuclear war with the Soviet Union. He talked to me about mutual assured destruction and the deterrent this was going to provide. Those fears seem almost quaint now; our current enemies don’t seem to play by the same rational rules of self-interest. Another thing that has changed is our exposure to just how much other people in our lives don’t share our values and opinions on these, and other issues. I always knew that I was somewhat at odds with elements of my family about Judaism and Israel’s relationship the Palestinian people. But for the most part, as we probably all do, I lived in a bubble where most of the people around me pretty much shared my political and social views. I’ve always had friends who vote Republican, but they’re all on the fiscal rather than social conservative spectrum; lower taxes but prochoice. I have no problem with people whose views differ from mine in these ways. Yes, we can debate the merits of trickledown economics, but as long as we all are in favor of gay marriage, a woman’s right to choose to have an abortion, and the normal laundry list of social items that US liberals care about, the friendship won’t be tarnished by the things we don’t agree on.

But social media has changed all this. The views that our acquaintances hold are often now fully in our faces, good, bad and sometimes very ugly. Reconnecting with your best friend from kindergarten now often brings with it the horrible realization that she’s grown into a narrow minded bigot. Yes, you can unfriend and unfollow, and we often do or have it done to us. But what about when that’s not viable option? And should it be our first reaction?

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by Eric Byrd

John Keegan and Geoffrey Perret have repackaged the essential arguments of The Generalship of Ulysses S. Grant, first published in 1929, in more politically palatable prose. But I was interested by the book's datedness, the view it offers of the odd personality and ominous historical situation from which the reevaluation of Grant was launched. Major-General J.F.C. Fuller (1878 – 1966) is a somewhat sinister and repellent figure – a disciple of Aleister Crowley; a mystic whose Futurism graded into Fascism; the maverick mastermind of British tank operations in the Great War (and his skill at drawing elaborate occult symbols came in handy when the Tank Corps needed an insignia) whose theories of mobile armored warfare were ignored in interwar Britain but eagerly studied in Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia, the rival tyrannies destined to build thousand-tank armies and smash them together on the burning steppes of the East. Fuller attended Hitler's fiftieth birthday party, in April, 1939, a celebration capped by a three-hour parade of tanks and motorized infantry. Afterwards Hitler asked Fuller if he was pleased with his “children.” “Your excellency,” Fuller replied, “they have grown up so quickly that I no longer recognize them.”

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by Scott F. Aikin and Robert B. Talisse

At the fourth Republican Presidential Debate, Senator Marco Rubio asserted that the country “needs more welders and less philosophers.” The small corner of the internet where professional philosophers reside promptly was awash with repudiation, criticism, and outrage (for example, here and here). We were, we have to admit, puzzled by it all – both by Rubio's statement and by the philosophers' outrage.

Senator Rubio's remarks were patently silly. First, the rationale Rubio offered, that “welders make more money than philosophers” is false. Moreover, the proposed reason, even were it true, is irrelevant – the social value of a profession is not a matter of the income paid to those who practice it. Surely no one would argue that hedge fund managers and reality TV stars are more socially valuable than nurses and carpenters simply on the basis of the difference between their respective paychecks. Finally, Rubio's reasoning is self-defeating, as there is no better way to decrease the earning power of a welder than by flooding the labor market with more competitors. For sure, Rubio's case was more rhetorical flourish than serious reasoning; he intended to draw a line in the sand between two perspectives on the role of education in society. His welders-versus-philosophers line was just window dressing for his view that education should aim to produce serviceable labor, not people who think.

Now, given these easy criticisms of Rubio's remarks, one might think that we were outraged by his claims. Many of our colleagues certainly were, and our inboxes and social media feeds quickly filled with missives of all shapes and sorts. But, we admit again, we found this phenomenon even more curious than Rubio's statement.

Here is why. There is nary a day that goes by without someone making a joke or remark to us about philosophy's alleged uselessness. Philosophy's oldest story highlights this. Thales of Miletus, who Aristotle counts as the first of the philosophers, apparently was walking one night and gazing up at the stars, contemplating their eternal motion. And then he fell in a well. A Thracian serving woman witnessed the fall, and laughed at him, urging that he should think about where he was putting his feet. Philosophy starts with a pratfall, and everyone, even those who have never taken a philosophy course or read any of the great books, gets the joke: It's not just that somebody fell in a well, it's that it was a philosopher.

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