Monthly Archives: December 2010

Looking back, part 1

As we’re approaching the end of a year, I thought I’d celebrate it on the blog by looking back… 100 years ago!  I decided to look at several editions of the Renfrew Journal and the Renfew Mercury for 1910 (one might, nowadays, think it to be curious that a small town like Renfew would have two newspapers).  Anyway, here are some little tidbits:

One of the topics that graced the newspapers on a regular basis was that of local option, evidently a very hot topic back then but sufficiently unfamiliar to most people nowadays that I’ve provided a link to the Wikipedia article.  I’ll just share one small article that I think illustrates well the futility of local option (from the Renfrew Journal, January 10, 1910, page 10):

The Eganville Star-Enterprise last week has the following: “The value of the hotel properties at Portage du Fort and Osceola will be considerably enhanced for a time at least by the passing of local option by-laws in Renfrew and Cobden. In the latter instance the hotel is located but three miles from Cobden and young men and others desiring to go “out for a time” will be able to drive in a few minutes from Cobden to Osceola and there partake freely of the inebriating fluid—more freely perhaps than they would were they able to buy a drink at home at will. The situation at Cobden emphasizes the soundness of the position of those who held that all rural bars should be abolished before attempting local option in the larger centres.”

Another common theme, at least between January and March, was hockey.  This was the first year of the National Hockey Association (NHA), the forerunner of the NHL.  Renfrew, a place that would never be a candidate for expansion nowadays, had a team, as well as the towns of Cobalt and Haileybury.

One story from the Renfrew Mercury (January 21, 1910, page 6) seems as if it is from a lot more than 100 years ago:

Agriculture is the milch cow of the United States as it also is in Canada. The value of farm products this year is $8,760,000,000.00 being $869,000,000 in excess of 1908. The putput of all the mills and factories in that country does not equal the products of the farms. Shortage in labor has been the farmers’ handicap but labor saving machinery has enabled them to greatly increase farm output. Special education in schools and colleges, by farm bulletins, farmers’ institutes and in other ways has given farmers a scientific knowledge of soils, of the crops best suited to their different kinds and of the seasons and methods of plowing, seeding and harvesting. Improved methods have doubled in 11 years farm products so that in corn and wheat growing states farmers are enjoying unparalleled prosperity—mortages have been raised, banks have been established, homesteads have been greatly improved, modern conveniences—telephone, telegraph, electric roads, railroads, good country roads—have brought farmers in touch with cities and towns, so that more than ever are farmers the backbone of the nation in its larger financial and political interests…

One interesting thing that I saw was an article about the deleterious effects of cigarette smoking and how many employers refuse to hire smokers.  Plus ca change

Another thing not seen much in modern papers is the degree of personal items.  We would never see on the front page of the paper nowadays  the news that Mr. J. A. Jameson has left on a business trip for Regina, for example.

Another thing that we don’t see much in newspapers is a large volume of patent medicine ads, such as those for “Dr. Morse’s Indian Root Pills” and “Psychine” and many others.

All in all, a very interesting exercise.  There’ll definitely be another installment of “looking back” later…

The Full Moon

There was a full moon last night.  There was also a lunar eclipse, but I didn’t see that (I think it was around 3:00 EST, when I was in bed).  I did have a bit of a look at the moon at midnight.  It was quite high in the sky.  It makes sense that it would be so high.  The full moon is opposite the sun in the ecliptic; being so close to the winter solstice, the sun would be quite low in the sky, so the moon would have to be higher.

Will I (or will you, if you happened to see the moon around midnight) ever see the full moon this high in the sky again?  The full moon doesn’t always occur this close to the winter solstice, so if you see the full moon next December, for example, it will be a tiny bit lower in the sky than it was this year.  Probably in 19 years or so there may be a full moon so close to the solstice… but will it be cloudy on that day from my observational point?  Will I forget to have a look at it?

It makes me think.  How many things do I pass by, not really noticing them, not thinking about whether I’m going to see them again or not?

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

I saw a news article today about a study done on celebrities through analyzing five million books.  Some interesting conclusions drawn; the study found that celebrities achieve fame earlier in life (those born in 1950 initially achieved fame, on the average, at the age of 29, compared to 43 with those born in 1800) but fame drops off faster (measured by how long it takes for mentions in books to fall from half of the peak).

One other trend not mentioned in the article is that, due to the increasing diversity of our society and the proliferation of media that serve this diversity, a lot more people are able to become famous.

What if we extrapolate these two trends?  The article I read doesn’t provide enough data points to come up with a meaningful trend line (possibly the original journal article does) but if I use my imagination I imagine the number of celebrities increasing and the amount of time decreasing.  Projecting this out far enough, and the result is that everyone is famous for 15 minutes, a la Andy Warhol.

I wrote an article last week about the increasing importance of being a celebrity in today’s economy.  If being a celebrity remains important, it is only natural that more people are going to try to achieve celebrity status, and thus more people are going to succeed, only to be pushed out of the limelight ever faster by more up-and-comers.  In this scenario, Andy Warhol’s prediction of a world in which everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes seems dead on.

So, guess what?  If you live long enough, you’re going to be famous, too!  Just don’t expect it to last…


There is a greenbelt a short walk away from my home.  People walk through it, going from somewhere to somewhere else, and there is a bit of a beaten path that runs through it.  What always interests me is that the path isn’t straight.  There are bends in the path for no apparent reason, in areas of the greenbelt that are completely flat and obstacle-free.  Probably you live near a greenbelt, and, assuming it’s not completely covered with snow right now, you’ll likely notice similar winding paths.

It’s not hard to understand why it remains like that (less resistance following a path that’s already been beaten down rather than making a new one) but how did it get like this in the first place?  Were there obstacles at some point in the past that someone had to walk around, or did someone just wander and/or misstep at one point and ended up creating the somewhat winding path that someone else followed, until the bent path was beaten down?

I now want to use this idea of paths as a metaphor for our thinking.  Do we think in the most direct manner possible, or do our thoughts wander all around the place for reasons that haven’t existed for years?  Could we get things done a lot faster if we could think more directly?

The Point of It

Today I wanted to share a short story by E. M. Forster, first published in 1912, called “The Point of It.” It is a fairly deep short story. When reading, ask yourself: What is the point of “it”?

The Point of it


“I Don’t see the point of it,” said Micky, through much imbecile laughter.

Harold went on rowing. They had spent too long on the sand-dunes, and now the tide was running out of the estuary strongly. The sun was setting, the fields on the opposite bank shone bright, and the farm-house where they were stopping glowed from its upper windows as though filled to the brim with fire.

“We’re going to be carried out to sea,” Micky continued. “You’ll never win unless you bust yourself a bit, and you a poor invalid, too. I back the sea.”

They were reaching the central channel, the backbone, as it were, of the retreating waters. Once past it, the force of the tide would slacken, and they would have easy going until they beached under the farm. It was a glorious evening. It had been a most glorious day. They had rowed out to the dunes at the slack, bathed, raced, eaten, slept, bathed and raced and eaten again. Micky was in roaring spirits. God had never thwarted him hitherto, and he could not suppose that they would really be made late for supper by an ebbing tide. When they came to the channel, and the boat, which had been slowly edging upstream, hung motionless among the moving waters, he lost all semblance of sanity, and shouted:

“It may be that the gulfs will wash us down,
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.”

Harold, who did not care for poetry, only shouted. His spirits were also roaring, and he neither looked nor felt a poor invalid. Science had talked to him seriously of late, shaking her head at his sunburnt body. What should Science know? She had sent him down to the sea to recruit, and Micky to see that he did not tire himself. Micky had been a nuisance at first, but common sense had prevailed, as it always does among the young. A fortnight ago, he would not let the patient handle an oar. Now he bid him bust himself, and Harold took him at his word and did so. He made himself all will and muscle. He began not to know where he was. The thrill of the stretcher against his feet, and of the tide up his arms, merged with his friend’s voice towards one nameless sensation; he was approaching the mystic state that is the athlete’s true though unacknowledged goal: he was beginning to be.

Micky chanted, “One, two—one, two,” and tried to help by twitching the rudder. But Micky had imagination. He looked at the flaming windows and fancied that the farm was a star and the boat its attendant satellite. Then the tide was the rushing ether stream of the universe, the interstellar surge that beats for ever. How jolly! He did not formulate his joys, after the weary fashion of older people. He was far too happy to be thankful. “Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,” are the words of one who has left his youth behind, and all that Micky sang was “One, two.”

Harold laughed without hearing. Sweat poured off his forehead. He put on a spurt, as did the tide.

“Wish the doctor could see you,” cried Micky.

No answer. Setting his teeth, he went berserk. His ancestors called to him that it was better to die than to be beaten by the sea. He rowed with gasps and angry little cries, while the voice of the helmsman lashed him to fury.

“That’s right—one, two—plug it in harder. . . . Oh, I say, this is a bit stiff, though. Let’s give it up, old man, perhaps.”

The gulls were about them now. Some wheeled overhead, others bobbed past on the furrowed waters. The song of a lark came faintly from the land, and Micky saw the doctor’s trap driving along the road that led to the farm. He felt ashamed.

“Look here, Harold, you oughtn’t to—I oughtn’t to have let you. I—I don’t see the point of it.”

“Don’t you?” said Harold with curious distinctness. “Well, you will some day,” and so saying dropped both oars. The boat spun round at this, the farm, the trap, the song of the lark vanished, and he fell heavily against the rowlock. Micky caught at him. He had strained his heart. Half in the boat and half out of it, he died, a rotten business.


A rotten business. It happened when Michael was twenty-two, and he expected never to be happy again. The sound of his own voice shouting as he was carried out, the doctor’s voice saying, “I consider you responsible,” the coming of Harold’s parents, the voice of the curate summarizing Harold’s relations with the unseen—all these things affected him so deeply that he supposed they would affect him for ever. They did not, because he lived to be over seventy, and with the best will in the world, it is impossible to remember clearly for so long. The mind, however sensitive and affectionate, is coated with new experiences daily; it cannot clear itself of the steady accretion, and is forced either to forget the past or to distort it. So it was with Michael. In time only the more dramatic incidents survived. He remembered Harold’s final gesture (one hand grasping his own, the other plunged deep into the sea), because there was a certain æsthetic quality about it, not because it was the last of his friend. He remembered the final words for the same reason. “Don’t you see the point of it? Well, you will some day.” The phrase struck his fancy, and passed into his own stock; after thirty or forty years he forgot its origin. He is not to blame; the business of life snowed him under.

There is also this to say: he and Harold had nothing in common except youth. No spiritual bond could survive. They had never discussed theology or social reform, or any of the problems that were thronging Michael’s brain, and consequently, though they had been intimate enough, there was nothing to remember. Harold melted the more one thought of him. Robbed of his body, he was so shadowy. Nor could one imagine him as a departed spirit, for the world beyond death is surely august. Neither in heaven nor hell is there place for athletics and aimless good temper, and if these were taken from Harold, what was left? Even if the unseen life should prove an archetype of this, even if it should contain a sun and stars of its own, the sunburn of earth must fade off our faces as we look at it, the muscles of earth must wither before we can go rowing on its infinite sea. Michael sadly resigned his friend to God’s mercy. He himself could do nothing, for men can only immortalize those who leave behind them some strong impression of poetry or wisdom.

for himself he expected another fate. With all humility, he knew that he was not as Harold. It as no merit of his own, but he had been born of a more intellectual stock, and had inherited powers that rendered him worthier of life, and of whatever may come after it. He cared for the universe, for the tiny tangle in it that we call civilization, for his fellow-men who had made the tangle and who transcended it. Love, the love of humanity, warmed him; and even when he was thinking of other matters, was looking at Orion perhaps in the cold winter evenings, a pang of joy, too sweet for description, would thrill him, and he would feel sure that our highest impulses have some eternal value, and will be completed hereafter. So full a nature could not brood over death.

To summarize his career.

Soon after the tragedy, when he in his turn was recruiting, he met the woman who was to become his helpmate through life. He had met her once before, and had not liked her; she had seemed uncharitable and hard. Now he saw that her hardness sprang from a morality that he himself lacked. If he believed in love, Janet believed in truth. She tested all men and all things. She had no patience with the sentimentalist who shelters from the world’s rough and tumble. Engaged at that time to another man, she spoke more freely to Michael than she would otherwise have done, and told him that it is not enough to feel good and to feel that others are good; one’s business is to make others better, and she urged him to adopt a profession. The beauty of honest work dawned upon the youth as she spoke. Mentally and physically, he came to full manhood, and after due preparation, he entered the Home Civil Service—the British Museum.

Here began a career that was rather notable, and wholly beneficial to humanity. With his ideals of conduct and culture, Michael was not content with the official routine. He desired to help others, and, since he was gifted with tact, they consented to the operation. Before long he became a conciliatory force in his department. He could mollify his superiors, encourage his inferiors, soothe foreign scholars, and show that there is something to be said for all sides. Janet, who watched his rise, taxed him again with instability. But now she was wrong. The young man was not a mere opportunist. He always had a sincere opinion of his own, or he could not have retained the respect of his colleagues. It was really the inherent sweetness of his nature at work, turned by a woman’s influence towards fruitful ends.

At the end of a ten years’ acquaintance the two married. In the interval Janet had suffered much pain, for the man to whom she had been engaged had proved unworthy of her. Her character was set when she came to Michael, and, as he knew, strongly contrasted with his own; and perhaps they had already interchanged all the good they could. But the marriage proved durable and sufficiently happy. He, in particular, made endless allowances, for toleration and sympathy were becoming the cardinal points of his nature. If his wife was unfair to the official mind, or if is brother-in-law, an atheist, denounced religion, he would say to himself, “They cannot help it; they are made thus, and have the qualities of their defects. Let me rather think of my own, and strive for a wider outlook ceaselessly.” He grew sweeter every day.

It was partly this desire for a wider outlook that turned him to literature. As he was crossing the forties it occurred to him to write a few essays, somewhat retrospective in tone, and thoughtful rather than profound in content. They had some success. Their good taste, their lucid style, the tempered Christianity of their ethics, whetted the half-educated public, and made it think and feel. They were not, and were not intended to be, great literature, but they opened the doors to it, and were indubitably a power for good. The first volume was followed by “The Confessions of a Middle-aged Man.” In it Michael paid melodious tribute to youth, but showed that ripeness is all. Experience, he taught, is the only humanizer; sympathy, balance, and many-sidedness cannot come to a man until he is elderly. It is always pleasant to be told that the best is yet to be, and the sale of the book was large. Perhaps he would have become a popular author, but his wife’s influence restrained him from writing anything that he did not sincerely feel. She had borne him three children by now—Henry, Catherine, and Adam. On the whole they were a happy family. Henry never gave any trouble. Catherine took after her mother. Adam, who was wild and uncouth, caused his father some anxiety. He could not understand him, in spite of careful observation, and they never became real friends. Still, it was but a little cloud in a large horizon. At home, as in his work, Michael was more successful than most men.

Thus he slipped into the fifties. On the death of his father he inherited a house in the Surrey hills, and Janet, whose real interests were horticultural, settled down there. After all, she had not proved an intellectual woman. Her fierce manner had misled him and perhaps herself into believing it. She was efficient enough in London society, but it bored her, for she lacked her husband’s pliancy, and aged more rapidly than he did. Nor did the country suit her. She grew querulous, disputing with other ladies about the names of flowers. And, of course, the years wither not without their effect on him, too. By now he was somewhat of a valetudinarian. He had given up all outdoor sports, and, though his health remained good, grew bald, and rather stout and timid. He was against late hours, violent exercise, night walks, swimming when hot, muddling about in open boats, and he often had to check himself from fidgeting the children. Henry, a charming sympathetic lad, would squeeze his hand and say, “All right, father.” But Catherine and Adam sometimes frowned. He thought of the children more and more. Now that his wife was declining, they were the future, and he was determined to keep in touch with them, remembering how his own father had failed with him. He believed in gentleness, and often stood between them and their mother. When the boys grew up he let them choose their own friends. When Catherine, at the age of nineteen, asked if she might go away and earn some money as a lady gardener, he let her go. In this case he had his reward, for Catherine, having killed the flowers, returned. She was a restless, scowling young woman, a trial to her mother, who could not imagine what girls were coming to. Then she married and improved greatly; indeed, she proved his chief support in the coming years.

For, soon after her marriage, a great trouble fell on him. Janet became bedridden, and, after a protracted illness, passed into the unknown. Sir Michael—for he had been knighted—declared that he should not survive her. They were so accustomed to each other, so mutually necessary, that he fully expected to pass away after her. In this he was mistaken. She died when he was sixty, and he lived to be over seventy. His character had passed beyond the clutch of circumstance and he still retained his old interests and his unconquerable benignity.

A second trouble followed hard on the first. It transpired that Adam was devoted to his mother, and had only tolerated home life for her sake. After a brutal scene he left. He wrote from the Argentine that he was sorry, but wanted to start for himself. “I don’t see the point of it,” quavered Sir Michael. “Have I ever stopped him or any of you from starting?” Henry and Catherine agreed with him. Yet he felt that they understood their brother better than he did. “I have given him freedom all his life,” he continued. “I have given him freedom, what more does he want?” Henry, after hesitation, said, “There are some people who feel that freedom cannot be given. At least I have heard so. Perhaps Adam is like that. Unless he took freedom he might not feel free.” Sir Michael disagreed. “I have now studied adolescence for many years,” he replied, “and your conclusions, my dear boy, are ridiculous.”

The two rallied to their father gallantly; and, after all, he spent a dignified old age. Having retired from the British Museum, he produced a little aftermath of literature. The great public had forgotten him, but the courtliness of his “Musings of a Pensioner” procured him some circulation among elderly and educated audiences. And he had found a new spiritual consolation. Anima naturaliter Anglicana, he had never been hostile to the Established Church; and, when he criticized her worldliness and occasional inhumanity, had spoken as one who was outside her rather than against her. After his wife’s death and the flight of his son he lost any lingering taste for speculation. The experience of years disposed him to accept the experience of centuries, and to merge his feeble personal note in the great voice of tradition. Yes; a serene and dignified old age. Few grudged it to him. Of course, he had enemies, who professed to see through him, and said that Adam had seen through him too; but no impartial observer agreed. No ulterior motive had ever biassed Sir Michael. The purity of his record was not due to luck, but to purity within, and his conciliatory manner sprang from a conciliated soul. He could look back on failures and mistakes, and he had not carried out the ideals of his youth. Who has? But he had succeeded better than most men in modifying those ideals to fit the world of facts, and if love had been modified into sympathy and sympathy into compromise, let one of his contemporaries cast the first stone.

One fact remained—the fact of death. Hitherto, Sir Michael had never died, and at times he was bestially afraid. But more often death appeared as a prolongation of his present career. He saw himself quietly and tactfully organizing some corner in infinity with his wife’s assistance; Janet would be greatly improved. He saw himself passing from a sphere in which he had been efficient into a sphere which combined the familiar with the eternal, and in which he would be equally efficient—passing into it with dignity and without pain. This life is a preparation for the next. Those who live longest are consequently the best prepared. Experience is the great teacher; blessed are the experienced, for they need not further modify their ideals.

The manner of his death was as follows. He, too, met with an accident. He was walking from his town house to Catherine’s by a short cut through a slum; some women were quarrelling about a fish, and as he passed they appealed to him. Always courteous, the old man stopped, said that he had not sufficient data to judge on, and advised them to lay the fish aside for twenty-four hours. This chanced to annoy them, and they grew more angry with him than with one another. They accused him of “doing them,” of “getting round them,” and one, who was the worse for drink, said, “See if he gets round that,” and slapped him with the fish in the face. He fell. When he came to himself he was lying in bed with one of his headaches.

He could hear Catherine’s voice. She annoyed him. If he did not open his eyes, it was only because he did not choose.

“He has been like this for nearly two years,” said Henry’s voice.

It was, at the most, ten minutes since he had fallen in the slum. But he did not choose to argue.

“Yet, he’s pretty well played out,” said a third voice—actually the voice of Adam; how and when had Adam returned? “But, then, he’s been that for the last thirty years.”

“Gently, old boy,” said henry.

“Well, he has,” said Adam. “I don’t believe in cant. He never did anything since Mother died, and damned little before. They’ve forgotten his books because they aren’t first-hand; they’re rearranging the cases he arranged in the British Museum. That’s the lot. What else has he done except tell people to dress warmly, but not too warm?”

“Adam, you really mustn’t——”

“It’s because nobody speaks up that men of the old man’s type get famous. It’s a sign of your sloppy civilization. You’re all afraid—afraid of originality, afraid of work, afraid of hurting one another’s feelings. You let anyone come to the top who doesn’t frighten you, and as soon as he dies you forget him and knight some other figurehead instead.”

An unknown voice said, “Shocking, Mr Adam, shocking. Such a dear old man, and quite celebrated, too.”

“You’ll soon get used to me, nurse.”

The nurse laughed.

“Adam, it is a relief to have you,” said Catherine after a pause. “I want you and your boy to help me with mine.” Her voice sounded dimmer; she had turned from her father without a word of farewell. “One must profit by the mistakes of others . . . after all, more heroism. . . . I am determined to keep in touch with my boy——”

“Larrup him,” said Adam. “That’s the secret.” He followed his sister out of the room.

Then Henry’s delightful laugh sounded for the last time. “You make us all feel twenty years younger,” he said; “more like when——”

The door shut.

Sir Michael grew cold with rage. This was life, this was what the younger generation had been thinking. Adam he ignored, but at the recollection of Henry and Catherine he determined to die. If he chose, he could have risen from bed and driven the whole pack into the street. But he did not choose. He chose rather to leave this shoddy and ungrateful world. The immense and superhuman cynicism that is latent in all of us came at last to the top and transformed him. He saw the absurdity of love, and the vision so tickled him that he began to laugh. The nurse, who had called him a dear old man, bent over him, and at the same moment two boys came into the sick-room.

“How’s grandpapa?” asked one of them—Catherine’s boy.

“Not so well,” the nurse answered.

There was a silence. Then the other boy said, “Come along, let’s cut.”

“But they told us not to.”

“Why should we do what old people tell us? Dad’s pretty well played out, and so’s your mother.”

“Shocking; be off with you both,” said the nurse; and, with a little croon of admiration, Catherine’s boy followed his cousin out of the room. Their grandfather’s mirth increased. He rolled around in the bed; and, just as he was grasping the full irony of the situation, he died, and pursued it into the unknown.


Micky was still in bed. He was aware of so much through long melancholy dreams. But when he opened his mouth to laugh, it filled with dust. Choosing to open his eyes, he found that he had swollen enormously, and lay sunk in the sand of an illimitable plain. As he expected, he had no occasion greatly to modify his ideals; infinity had merely taken the place of his bedroom and of London. Nothing moved on its surface except a few sand-pillars, which would sometimes merge into each other as though confabulating, and then fall with a slight hiss. Save for these, there was no motion, no noise, nor could he feel any wind.

How long had he lain here? Perhaps for years, long before death perhaps, while his body seemed to be walking among men. Life is so short and trivial, that who knows whether we arrive for it entirely, whether more than a fraction of the soul is aroused to put on flesh? The bud and the blossom perish in a moment, the husk endures, and may not the soul be a husk? It seemed to Micky that he had lain in the dust for ever, suffering and sneering, and that the essence of all things, the primal power that lies behind the stars, is senility. Age, toothless, dropsical age; ungenerous to age and to youth; born before all ages, and outlasti them, the universe as old age.

The place degraded while it tortured. It was vast, yet ignoble. It sloped downward into darkness and upward into cloud, but into what darkness, what clouds! No tragic splendour glorified them. When he looked at them he understood why he was so unhappy, for they were looking at him, sneering at him while he sneered. Their dirtiness was more ancient than the hues of day an night, their irony more profound; he was part of their jest, even as youth was part of his, and slowly he realized that he was, and had for some years been, in Hell.

All around him lay other figures, huge and fungous. It was as if the plain had festered. Some of them could sit up, others scarcely protruded from the sand, and he knew that they had made the same mistake in life as himself, though he did not know yet what the mistake had been; probably some little slip, easily avoided had one been told.

Speech was permissible. Presently a voice said, “Is not ours a heavenly sky? Is it not beautiful?”

“Most beautiful,” answered Micky, and found each word a stab of pain. Then he knew that one of the sins here punished was appreciation; he was suffering for all the praise that he had given to the bad and mediocre upon earth; when he had praised out of idleness, or to please people, or to encourage people; for all the praise to had not been winged with passion. He repeated “Most beautiful,” and the sky quivered, for he was entering into fuller torments now. One ray of happiness survived: his wife could not be in this place. She had not sinned with the people of the plain, and could not suffer their distortion. Her view of life had proved right after all; and, in his utter misery, this comforted him. Janet should again be his religion, and as eternity dragged forward and returned upon itself and dragged forward she would show him that old age, if rightly managed, can be beautiful; that experience, if managed, can lead the soul of man to bliss. Then he turned too his neighbour, who was continuing his hymn of praise.

“I could lie here for ever,” he was saying. “When I think of my restlessness during life—that is to say, during what men miscall life, for it is death really—this is life—when I think of my restlessness on earth, I am overcome by so much goodness and mercy, I could lie here for ever.”

“And will you?” asked Micky.

“Ah, that is the crowning blessing—I shall, and so will you.”

Here a pillar of sand passed between them. It was long before they could speak or see. Then Micky took up the song, chafed by the particles that were working into his soul.

“I, too regret my wasted hours,” he said, “especially the hours of my youth. I regret all the time I spent in the sun. In later years I did repent, and that is why I am admitted here where there is no sun; yes, and no wind and none of the stars that drove me almost mad at night once. It would be appalling, would it not, to see Orion again, the central star of whose sword is not a star but a nebula, the golden seed of worlds to be. How I dreaded the autumn on earth when Orion rises, for he recalled adventure and my youth. It was appalling. How thankful I am to see him no more.”

“Ah, but it was worse,” cried the other, “to look high leftward from Orion and see the Twins. Castor and Pollux were brothers, one human, the other divine, and Castor died; But Pollux went down to Hell that he might be with him.”

“Yes, that is so. Pollux went into Hell.”

“Then the gods had pity on both, and raised them aloft to be stars whom sailors worship, and all who love and are young. Zeus was their father, Helen their sister, who brought the Greeks against Troy. I dreaded them more than Orion.”

They were silent, watching their own sky. It approved. They had been cultivated men on earth, and these are capable of the nicer torments hereafter. Their memories will strike exquisite images to enhance their pain. “I will speak no more,” said Micky to himself. “I will be silent through eternity.” But the darkness prised open his lips, and immediately he was speaking.

“Tell me more about this abode of bliss,” he asked. “Are there grades in it? Are there ranks in our heaven?”

“There are two heavens,” the other replied, “the heaven of the hard and the heaven of the soft. We here lie in the heaven of the soft. It is a sufficient arrangement, for all men grow either hard or soft as they grow old.”

As he spoke the clouds lifted, and, looking up the slope of the plain, Micky saw that in the distance it was bounded by mountains of stone, and he knew, without being told, that among those mountains Janet lay, rigid, and that he should never see her. She had not been saved. The darkness would mock her, too, for ever. With him lay the sentimentalists, the conciliators, the peacemakers, the humanists, and all who have trusted the warmer vision; with his wife were the reformers and ascetics and all sword-like souls. By different paths they had come to Hell, and Micky now saw what the bustle of life conceals: that the years are bound either to liquefy a man or to stiffen him, and that Love and Truth, who seemed to contend for our souls like angels, hold each the seeds of our decay.

“It is, indeed, a sufficient arrangement,” he said; “both sufficient and simple. But answer one question more that my bliss may be perfected; in which of these two heavens are the young?”

His neighbour answered, “In neither; there are no young.”

He spoke no more, and settled himself more deeply in the dust. Micky did the same. He had vague memories of men and women who had died before reaching maturity, of boys and unwedded maidens and youths lowered into the grave before their parents’ eyes. Whither had they gone, that undeveloped minority? What was the point of their brief existence? Had they vanished utterly, or were they given another chance of accreting experiences until they became like Janet or himself? One thing was certain: there were no young, either in the mountains or the plain, and perhaps the very memory of such creatures was an illusion fostered by cloud.

The time was now ripe for a review of his life on earth. He traced his decomposition—his work had been soft, his books soft, he had softened his relations with other men. He had seen good in everything, and this is itself a sign of decay. Whatever occurred he had been appreciative, tolerant, pliant. Consequently he had been a success; Adam was right; it was the moment in civilization for his type. He had mistaken self-criticism for self-discipline, he had muffled in himself and others the keen, heroic edge. Yet the luxury of repentance was denied him. The fault was his, but the fate humanity’s, for everyone grows hard or soft as he grows old.

“This is my life,” thought Micky; “my books forgotten, my work superseded. This is the whole of my life.” And his agony increased, because all the same there had been in that life an elusive joy which, if only he could have distilled it, would have sweetened infinity. It was part of the jest that he should try, and should eternally oscillate between disgust and desire. For there is nothing ultimate in Hell; men will not lay aside all hope on entering it, or they would attain to the splendour of despair. To have made a poem about Hell is to mistake its very essence; it is the imagination of men, who will have beauty, that fashion it as ice or flame. Old, but capable of growing older, Micky lay in the sandy country, remembering that once he had remembered a country—a country that had not been sand. . . .

He was aroused by the mutterings of the spirits round him. An uneasiness such as he had not noted in them before had arisen. “A pillar of sand,” said one. Another said, “It is not; it comes from the river.”

He asked, “What river?”

“The spirits of the damned dwell over it; we never speak of that river.”

“Is it a broad river?”

“Swift, and very broad.”

“Do the damned ever cross it?”

“They are permitted, we know not why, to cross it now and again.”

And in these answers he caught a new tone, as if his companions were frightened, and were finding means to express their fear. When he said, “With permission, they can do us no harm,” he was answered, “They harm us with light and a song.” And again, “They harm us because they remember and try to remind.”

“Of what would they remind us?”

“Of the hour when we were as they.”

As he questioned a whisper arose from the low-lying verges. The spirits were crying to each other faintly. He heard, “It is coming; drive it back over the river, shatter it, compel it to be old.” And then the darkness was cloven, and a star of pain broke in his soul. He understood now; a torment greater than any was at hand.

“I was before choice,” came the song. “I was before hardness and softness were divided. I was in the days when truth was love. And I am.”

All the plain was convulsed. But the invader could not be shattered. When it pressed the air parted and the sand-pillars fell, and its path was filled with senile weeping.

“I have been all men, but all men have forgotten me. I transfigured the world for them until they preferred the world. They came to me as children, afraid; I taught them, and they despised me. Childhood is a dream about me, experience a slow forgetting: I govern the magic years between them, and am.”

“Why trouble us?” moaned the shades. “We could bear our torment, just bear it, until there was light and a song. Go back again over the river. This is Heaven, we were saying, that darkness is God; we could praise them till you came. The book of our deeds is closed; why open it? We were damned from our birth; leave it there. O, supreme jester, leave us. We have sinned, we know it, and this place is death and Hell.”

“Death comes,” the voice pealed, “and death is not a dream or a forgetting. Death is real. But I, too, am real, and whom I will I save. I see the scheme of things, and in it is no place for me, the brain and the body against me. Therefore I rend the scheme in two, and make a place, and under countless names have harrowed Hell. Come.” Then, in tones of inexpressible sweetness, “Come to me all who remember. Come out of your eternity into mine. It is easy, for I am still at your eyes, waiting to look out of them; still in your hearts, waiting to beat. The years that I dwelt with you seemed short, but they were magical, and they outrun time.”

The shades were silent. They could not remember.

“Who desires to remember? Desire is enough. There is no abiding home for strength and beauty among men. The flower fades, the seas dry up in the sun, the sun and all the stars fade as a flower. But the desire for such things, that is eternal, that can abide, and he who desires me is I.”

Then Micky died a second death. This time he dissolved through terrible pain, scorched by the glare, pierced by the voice. But as he died he said, “I do desire,” and immediately the invader vanished, and he was standing alone on the sandy plain. It had been merely a dream. But he was standing. How was that? Why had he not thought to stand before? He had been unhappy in Hell, and all that he had to do was to go elsewhere. He passed downwards, pained no longer by the mockery of its cloud. The pillars brushed against him and fell, the nether darkness went over his head. On he went till he came to the banks of the infernal stream, and there he stumbled—stumbled over a piece of wood, no vague substance, but a piece of wood that had once belonged to a tree. At his impact it moved, and water gurgled against it. He had embarked. Some one was rowing. He could see the blades of oars moving towards him through the foam, but the rower was invisible in cloud. As they neared mid-channel the boat went more slowly, for the tide was ebbing, and Micky knew that once carried out he would be lost eternally; there was no second hope of salvation. He could not speak, but his heart beat time to the oars—one, two. Hell made her last effort, and all that is evil in creation, all the distortions of love and truth by which we are vexed, came surging down the estuary, and the boat hung motionless. Micky heard the pant of breath through the roaring, the crack of muscles; then he heard a voice say, “The point of it . . .” and a weight fell off his body and he crossed mid-stream.

It was a glorious evening. The boat had sped without prelude into sunshine. The sky was cloudless, the earth gold, and gulls were riding up and down on the furrowed waters. On the bank they had left were some sand-dunes rising to majestic hills; on the bank in front was a farm, full to the brim with fire.

Robots of War

As I mentioned in the last entry, I saw some stories last week that I wanted to comment on. This is the second one of them. I’m going to ignore the rest as we’re getting on to next week

Anyway, I saw an article in the New York Times last week about the U.S. Army seeing robots in the future of war.  I won’t summarize the article here, but I want to ask the question:  Is this line of research a good idea or not?

On the plus side, military research has led to advancements in civilian technology and advances in robotics have the potential for significant advances in civilian life.  Robotics certainly is a field that would be highly useful in civilian life and is an area that could use some more development.  Unfortunately, the machines described in the article appear to be more like more like remote-controlled toys than autonomous robots, requiring a human operator, so unfortunately they won’t advance robotics as much as I would like to see.

One negative that I see about this initiative is that it doesn’t reduce manpower requirements, so the extra machinery would increase the U.S. Army’s budget, and therefore U.S. taxes.  Or will it?  Perhaps these robots will result in fewer soldier deaths.  This would have the obvious personal benefits of fewer dead soldiers as well as the associated financial benefits.

I think that there is a more significant danger.  Will the operators controlling robots on the front line (something not explicitly discussed in the article, but which is an obvious conclusion to the development of this technology) have the same respect for human life as they would if they themselves were on the front line?  Will they be able to take responsibility for the consequences of their actions?  Think of the book Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card.  In this book, Ender destroys a threat against the human population while believing he is just playing war games in a simulator.  Had the military brass been upfront about the real nature of the simulation, Ender no doubt would have refused to participate.  Similarly, will soldiers of the future lose sight of the fact that they are not just playing, and kill enemies and even friends that they wouldn’t otherwise?  To me, that’s the biggest danger of this exploration.

Our Weird World

I got a copy of the New York Post today.  Don’t usually get a hardcopy of a NYC newspaper, so that was kind of interesting.  One of the things that struck me was the volume of unusual stories, including stories about:

…and so on. When you think about it though, New York City has a lot more people than my city, so it’s only natural that a lot of weird things are going to happen there every day. So, one could conclude that in a world of over 6 billion people, there are going to be a lot of very weird things happening every day. What would the contents of a world newspaper be?

The Personality Economy

Last week I noticed several news articles that were worth blogging about, but I just started the blog a few days ago.  This is one of these blog entries.  I’ll get through that backlog shortly, I hope…

I saw in the New York Times last week indicating that Narcissistic Personality Disorder is being removed from the fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5) along with a few other personality disorders, and briefly discussed a debate among psychiatrists regarding this removal.  While most people that we might think of as being narcissistic probably don’t qualify as having NPD, narcissism certainly has been getting a lot of press in recent years; one good recent book about it is The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement by Jean Twenge and Keith Campbell, which illustrates the increase of vanity and self-absorption in modern culture and the negative effects thereof.

Why is narcissism on the increase?  This is probably a complex issue with several root causes.  I’m going to look at one possibility in particular, namely the nature of our information economy.  While large corporations, for example, would be willing to pay lots of money for the right kind of information, it’s difficult to get the average customer to pay for just information.

One of the reasons is the ease of finding people willing to produce information for free.  Do you want a 5000-word-long, fairly well-written if bland in tone, referenced article about the Crusades?  Someone’s already written it on Wikipedia.  There is an enormous amount of information somewhere or another on the Internet, free for the taking.  This abundance of free information contrasts with the outcomes of the Industrial Revolution; while the prices of goods that started to be factory made decreased, it didn’t decrease to zero.

Another reason is due to the ease of reproducing information.  Information can be transmitted and copied endlessly almost instantaneously nowadays, and with a theoretically unlimited supply of a piece of information, it’s not surprising that the price go down to zero.

These two reasons aren’t necessarily Bad Things; it’s nice for people to share, and it only makes sense to give something away if it’s just going to be copied anyway.  However, if you’re someone that creates intellectual property, how can you get ahead financially?  Well, you have to sell something else; just selling your information isn’t going to work.  Certainly you could sell physical instantiations of your product (books, CDs, DVDs, etc.) or advertising, but you still have to stand out among the enormous pile of information out there.  How do you do that?  Well, probably the best way to stand out from the crowd is to sell yourself through being a celebrity or, if you can’t be a celebrity, at least act like one.

Certainly the allure of celebritydom is quite strong, at least in the United States, where people quit governing Alaska in order to become a celebrity.  Why?  Well, being a celebrity, or at least acting like you were one, gets you a lot of attention, which allows you to stand out in the crowd.  That attention should solve the problem of getting ahead financially as people flock to you and your product.  Being well-known has a lot of other advantages.  For example, Steve Jobs’ personality is certainly a good selling point for iPhones and iPads and iPods.  Even if you aren’t a CEO, there are obvious advantages to having a lot of people know you.

Getting back to the title, “The Personality Economy”, that may be a bit of an overstatement, there is a lot of economic activity generated via people’s personalities, and I can only see this increasing in the future.  Why are so many people narcissistic?  Because it pays off in today’s economy.

Hello world!

Hello there, welcome to Thoughts of the Future, my new blog!  This blog will, I hope, provide my opinion on current trends and where things are going in the future.

I wasn’t originally planning to call the blog “Thoughts on the Future”.  My original thought was to call it “Philosophy, Business, and Technology” or something of that sort.  Why this combination of topics? Certainly this combination of topics doesn’t necessarily describe the world better than any other trio of topics; combinations such as “The Mind, Society, and Economics” or “Science, Engineering, and Medicine” or “Money, Power, and Sex” would likely work equally well.  However, the topics individually are of interest to me.

Searching Google for philosophy business technology and selecting the “I’m Feeling Lucky” button, the result I got was, surprise surprise, one of Google’s own pages, describing Google’s philosophy on its business and its technologySelecting the “Google Search” button instead, I mostly find a lot of corporate philosophies of various technology businesses.  Just to be sure, I tried the same search on Yahoo!’s search engine, and got more or less the same results.

So, maybe this is the only blog or other site out there that attempts to treat philosophy, business, and technology together, but I doubt it.  With over a trillion web pages out there, I’m sure there has to be a good number of sites, or minimally a good number of pages, that do treat the three topics together, but they’re lost among a huge pile of corporate philosophy pages.  As part of writing this blog, I hope to discover those sites and, through my writing, make them that much more visible.

Certainly, not every entry will be a clever fusion of the three topics.  Some enntries might only discuss one of the three topics.  Some might only discuss two.  Some might touch on all three, but be about something else entirely.

So why “Thoughts on the Future?”  Well, I tried writing drafts of a few articles before putting the blog up, and I found that a lot of the articles were more about the future.  Also, the domain name “” was available and it’s an easier name to remember than whatever else I would have chosen.

I’ll be writing again soon.

One final thing:  The theme of the blog right now is pretty plain, but I’ll be working on improving it over the next little while as I have time.