Taleb

To bankrupt a fool, give him information.


Procrastination is the soul rebelling against entrapment.


The best revenge on a liar is to convince him that you believe what he said.


Hatred is much harder to fake than love. You hear of fake love; never of fake hate.


You exist if and only if you are free to do things without a visible objective, with no justification and, above all, outside the dictatorship of someone else’s narrative.


Read nothing from the past one hundred years; eat no fruits from the past one thousand years; drink nothing from the past four thousand years (just wine and water); but talk to no ordinary man over forty. A man without a heroic bent starts dying at the age of thirty.


You will be civilized on the day you can spend a long period doing nothing, learning nothing, and improving nothing, without feeling the slightest amount of guilt.


You can tell how uninteresting a person is by asking him whom he finds interesting.


Charm is the ability to insult people without offending them; nerdiness the reverse.


Rumors are only valuable when they are denied.


Failure of second-order thinking: he tells you a secret and somehow expects you to keep it, when he just gave you evidence that he can’t keep it himself.


The three most harmful addictions are heroin, carbohydrates, and a monthly salary.


Only in recent history has “working hard” signaled pride rather than shame for lack of talent, finesse, and, mostly, sprezzatura.


Decomposition, for most, starts when they leave the free, social, and uncorrupted college life for the solitary confinement of professions and nuclear families.


You exist in full if and only if your conversation (or writings) cannot be easily reconstructed with clips from other conversations.


Technology is at its best when it is invisible.


Writing is the art of repeating oneself without anyone noticing.


What they call philosophy I call literature; what they call literature I call journalism; what they call journalism I call gossip; and what they call gossip I call (generously) voyeurism.


You need to keep reminding yourself of the obvious: charm lies in the unsaid, the unwritten, and the undisplayed. It takes mastery to control silence.


A good maxim allows you to have the last word without even starting a conversation.


You are alive in inverse proportion to the density of clichés in your writing.


It is a waste of emotions to answer critics; better to stay in print long after they are dead.


Regular minds find similarities in stories (and situations); finer minds detect differences.


Many are so unoriginal they study history to find mistakes to repeat.


Wit seduces by signaling intelligence without nerdiness.


I find it inconsistent (and corrupt) to dislike big government while favoring big business—but (alas) not the reverse.


The four most influential moderns: Darwin, Marx, Freud, and (the productive) Einstein were scholars but not academics. It has always been hard to do genuine—and nonperishable—work within institutions.


The best way to spot a charlatan: someone (like a consultant or a stockbroker) who tells you what to do instead of what not to do.


The left holds that because markets are stupid models should be smart; the right believes that because models are stupid markets should be smart. Alas, it never hit both sides that both markets and models are very stupid.


You know you have influence when people start noticing your absence more than the presence of others.


For company, you often prefer those who find you interesting over those you find interesting.

Coolness, how it’s defined and propagated

”But there is one institution, so to speak, that Silicon Valley, and, specifically, many of AI’s biggest proponents, have become particularly obsessed with demolishing. To the point where I feel comfortable calling their premiere obsession. It even played a role in Musk’s acquisition of Twitter. It’s a refrain — or, really, prayer — we hear over and over again with every new AI release. The unwavering belief that this is the Shiny New Thing that will finally destroy it. And that institution, of course, is coolness. And, specifically, the kind of coolness that is determined by teenage girls.”

Great piece.

Ryan Broderick, “Silicon Valley vs. teenage girls”

Melodious

(First off: I’m going to be making some big claims here. I don’t have documentation. These are just the ramblings of a bedridden 60-year-old man. Perhaps if I had grad students to send out in search of footnotes things would be different. But I don’t. Everyone clear? OK. Play ball!)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately of the relationship between music, language, and memory.

These things are all intertwined. Consider Socrates’ objections to books.

The story goes that Thamus said much to Theuth, both for and against each art, which it would take too long to repeat. But when they came to writing, Theuth said: “O King, here is something that, once learned, will make the Egyptians wiser and will improve their memory; I have discovered a potion for memory and for wisdom.” Thamus, however, replied: “O most expert Theuth, one man can give birth to the elements of an art, but only another can judge how they can benefit or harm those who will use them. And now, since you are the father of writing, your affection for it has made you describe its effects as the opposite of what they really are. In fact, it will introduce forgetfulness into the soul of those who learn it: they will not practice using their memory because they will put their trust in writing, which is external and depends on signs that belong to others, instead of trying to remember from the inside, completely on their own. You have not discovered a potion for remembering, but for reminding; you provide your students with the appearance of wisdom, not with its reality. Your invention will enable them to hear many things without being properly taught, and they will imagine that they have come to know much while for the most part they will know nothing. And they will be difficult to get along with, since they will merely appear to be wise instead of really being so.” (Phaedrus, Pp. 551-552 in Compete Works, edited by J. M. Cooper. Indianapolis IN: Hackett.)

Socrates (or Plato) is on to something here. To use contemporary phrasing, writing is a way to outsource memory. And this applies to all media. Illich talked about how he was of the generation that moved from in-person, unamplified speaking and musical performance, to not only amplification, but recording. Someone could have the voice of Churchill, or Caruso, in their library, in addition to their books.

Our time has taken this yet further. I am in my bed after a stroke. My room, while comfortable enough, has very few things of mine. But through my iPad tablet, I have access to my Kindle library (and others), my Spotify music (and others), my Paramount+ videos (and others).

Which is how this all started. Paramount+ has (or had) a series on the making of the movie The Godfather I enjoy a great deal, The Offer. Being recent, and their own production, I assumed it would be available for years. I outsourced my memory Paramount.

Then, one day, Paramount took it away. I don’t know when. I just know I went to Paramount+ and The Offer wasn’t there anymore. In the implicit contract between Paramount and myself to be my memory, Paramount proved to be an unreliable partner. So I have canceled my subscription.

I now have my own copy of The Offer, technically pirated. Which goes to show how piracy is an archival project. But it reminded me of why I buy so many of my books, at great cost, and don’t use the library as often as I might. When I was a boy in California I used libraries a great deal. Then along came Howard Jarvis and Proposition 13. Libraries largely lost their funding. I could no longer trust libraries to have the books I wanted. So I hung out at used bookstores the way others would lurk at pool halls. (To use Joseph Epstein’s image.) My bookshelves began a lifetime of groaning.

But roll back to Socrates, above. Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey were epic poems. How did Homer remember them, at such length? Or the Epic of Gilgamesh, the Vedas, the Icelandic sagas, or any other oral work of great length?

Why, they were sung, of course.

What were Homer’s melodies? I really wish I knew. But here is someone’s version of Gilgamesh.

Here is the Hurrian Hymn #6, the oldest song where we have both the lyrics and what we believe are the original notes:

Pound talks about how great poetry should not stray too far from the dance. But this, too, implies melody.

Music. Memory. How many of us have songs we remember and recognize as soon as the first chord plays? What else is Name That Tune but a memory game? How many songs do we remember from the crib?

This came up through an internet meme (of all things):

The point, that women need to know (or at least, greatly want to know) when the blood will come is a strong reason for inventing a calendar. So is the snow. Or the baby. Or the migratory birds, or animals.

Does it make sense such a calendar would be sung?

How did h. sap. come up with music in the first place? What music touches us most deeply?

A woman needing to calm a baby, and so a lullaby.

A man seeing his partner die in childbirth, and so a dirge.

A group wanting to express joy, and so the dance.

Music evokes memory. Language evokes memory. Writing evokes memory. Recording evokes memory.

It’s a long march from the general (birth/death) to the specific (your favorite singer, doing your favorite song, during your favorite performance).

I currently believe language evolved to fill in that specificity. To increase the bandwidth. How do you keep that baby alive? Where do we go to follow the beasts and sun? Which mushrooms do we avoid?

Maybe this is all rehashed Jean Auel. I’ve never read her, so cannot say.

But I still think it’s all been to remember more and more, in greater detail, across generations.

The past isn’t what it used to be

Here at Mission, one of my fellow residents is quite old — 99.

I thought about that a little bit. So he was born in 1922. That’s not right. Surely a 99-year-old was born in the 1800s. Horse-drawn carriages, not Duesenbergs and gin.

I think that way because for so much of life, it was true. But time advances, and now 99 years reaches back only to the Jazz Age, instead of the McKinley administration.

Jason Kottke has something he calls “The Great Span”: “(T)he link across large periods of history by individual humans.” The last surviving child of a Civil War veteran (and thus drawing an Army pension) died in 2020. Units of 99 years (sometimes called “Bettys,” after Betty White) definitely qualify, but it’s stunning how quickly that event horizon moves on.

At least to this 60-year-old.

Among the *many* problems…

Lexicon. A reworking of the renowned “Spanish Inquisition” sketch by Monty Python. That sketch has an original structure of:

  • “Our chief weapon is…”
  • “Our two weapons…”
  • “Our three weapons…”
  • “Our four — no — Amongst our weapons…”

Our version goes more like…

  • The problem with {x} is…
  • Among the problems with {x} Is…
  • Among the many problems with {x} is…


(It’s possible this comes from Douglas Adams, instead, but he may have been riffing on the Pythons himself.)

Pushing my luck

Lexicon. Almost always me. I came up with it in the early days of our relationship. Every now and then I will lightly push Ulrika, on the arm or something. The canonical exchange:

“What are you doing?”
“Pushing my luck.”

And I do feel I’m a genuinely lucky guy.

The Man In the Shack

Lexicon.

This comes from “Fit the Twelfth,” the final episode of the radio version of The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The lads have found the ruler of the universe, who is a solitary man in a shack, and who has a cat. While feeding the cat he says,

“I think fish is nice, but then l think that rain is wet, so who am I to judge?”

I’m going to include some screen captures below, because I’m too lazy to type out the whole thing. But it’s Douglas Adams at his most humorously philosophical, and also empirical.