bears

nothings fun anymore

I don't really understand anything

Books: The Acid House
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tiredstars
I'm not sure how I feel about short stories. I find them very easy to read, but rather unsatisfying. This might be because I'm slow to empathise with characters and situations, so don't make those quick connections that are important for short stories. Or it might be that because they're short and easy they don't make me feel like I've done some serious reading.

I read an essay about Trainspotting once, before I'd read the book, that argued that while the film had its good points, it failed to present Renton & co.'s lifestyle as a viable alternative. Reading the Acid House, and in particular the novella A Smart Cunt, the contours of this alternative become more clear. It's a lifestyle designed to enable the acquisition and use of various drugs. The scale and urgency of use varies, but they are always an organising principle. Casual work, benefits, itinerancy, canny union reps, the erratic kindness of friends and family, petty theft and dealing, rent and tax arrears.

The characters in Welsh's stories live on the margins but their lives don't seem precarious. They have no careers, possessions, houses, happiness, dreams or people they really care about that they can lose. The lack of formal structure in their lives gives them resilience. The only things they really risk are their bodies, battered by drugs, police, thugs, friends, neglect.
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Books: Vineland
bears
tiredstars
Vineland is a bit of a mess of a book, but I really enjoyed it.
SPOILER ALERT for this post, if you're concerned.

Pynchon's world is a mix of the realistic, the exaggerated and the fantastical. Some feels like genuine people's history, buried histories of strike-breaking and radicalism. The extraordinary powers available to the villain Brock Vondt, as he sets up camp in California with a small army including helicopter gunships, are an exaggeration, although it's hard to know just how much of an exaggeration. The fantastical comes from the ninja death-touch used by one of the characters, or the skyjacking of passenger planes that don't pay the protection money.

Pynchon has been described as "zany", but that's a horrible, dismissive, description. It is a style deployed for amusement, but also with more serious purpose. The loose grasp of structure and reality that the book has fits its subject matter. That's not to say that the people in it are deluded, but many have some weird ideas. Pynchon probably doesn't want you to believe a lot of the stuff in the book, but if you accept it temporarily, it makes you more sympathetic to the protagonists, more likely to accept other ideas, that may not be wrong just because they're far-out.

What I find particularly interesting about the book is its look at the failure of the 1970s counter-culture and the fall-out from that. Maybe it's my own ignorance, but it's a subject that does not seem to get discussed a lot. Everyone knows a bit about the hippies, tends to regard their ideas as too naive, failing when confronted with reality. It's less common to pick up the people and ideas and trace what happened to them over the next decades. Adam Curtis does it quite a lot (particularly in AWOBMOLG). Pynchon sets this is in a longer context of resistance to corporate and government, back to the union-busting of the 1930s and 50s.

I like the descriptions of people and communities living out unusual and marginal lives in the heart of a first-world state. Whether growing marijuana or forming a community of those caught between death and life. There is potential implicit in the idea that you can do this, under the noses, so to speak, of the authorities. Vineland doesn't present a rosy picture though. The power of the US government is exaggerated, but the violence and calculated repression used on the hippy movement, from COINTELPRO to the National Guard, was real. The power of the state is always looming, sometimes approaching, sometimes receding, but always unaccountable.

In Foucault's Discipline and Punish, the purpose of prison is not so much to prevent crime but to create a class of people useful to the powerful. In Vineland the war on drugs has a very similar role. It is just as much a means as an end, creating endless opportunities to threaten people, influence them, turn them into informants, attack marginal communities and so-on. A block of cannabis too large to even fit through the door is 'found' in the house of one of the main characters, Zoyd, giving the authorities the power to take away his house, his daughter and his liberty - unless he can convince a judge that he is more trustworthy than the upstanding US marshalls who discovered the drugs. The plan of Brock Vondt is to use the war on drugs as a way of relocating large numbers of people to a secret camp (itself a leftover from Kennedy-era nuclear worries) where they can be indoctrinated into model citizens. In the end, this dream is dashed when the government finds that people are moving there voluntarily, finding their way from Vietnam, Central America, Mexico and so-on.

Another tool of social control, "the tube" plays an important role in the book, but I'm not sure quite what. One character remarks that the trouble with the generation of the 60s/70s is that they had no resistance to it. Maybe the volume of stories available on TV overwhelmed those told by people. The images that Frenesi's film collective take great risks to record are overwhelmed by a torrent of TV. However that seems to be reading too much in to what the book actually says.

Despite everything that has come before, the novel has a surprisingly warm conclusion. Any sense of defeat by the protagonists is mollified by the memories of others, a long-term and continuing struggle passed down from generations. They are reconciled at a family gathering. A sprawling, not particularly conventional family, but still a surprisingly traditional group in which to find a radical heart and refuge.

My biggest issue with the book was one of the central characters, Frenesi Gates. She starts off as a radical film-maker, but becomes an informant and, in events at a campus that has declared itself to be the independent People's Republic of Rock & Roll, is involved in bringing about the murder of its key figure. After this, she briefly settles and has a child with the hippy Zoyd Walker, before returning to the federal fold for a life of undercover informant work in a witness protection program. As I was reading I was thinking "my opinion of this book will strongly hinge on how plausibly her motivations are explained." I was disappointed. She seems to be driven by little more than lust towards the villain, Brock, and maybe early on a desire to redeem him (though this is barely mentioned). Is it symbolic of people's need to have authority figures? Except for a last-minute urge in Frenesi's daughter, none of the other characters seem to have this drive.

Perhaps even worse than this is the glossing over of sexual violence and threat. It crops up occasionally, and there are regular mentions of officers taking opportunities to cop a feel of students during round-ups. This never builds above harassment to a sense of menace though. The main relationship between power and sex is of women's desire for (or willing submission to) powerful men. Maybe there is a certain gentleness in the whole of the book though; violence is more threatened than actually experienced by the characters.

Although I enjoyed it, I did find Vineland unusually hard to follow. It's not just the narrative jumping between years without making the chronology very clear, or the fact that at one point I had to check back to make sure that a character who was talking really had been killed some years earlier, or even the idioms and speech patterns used by the characters. I often found it hard to follow what was going on, from paragraph to paragraph, and I don't really know why that was. There were also bits that I simply didn't get. What was going on in the minor subplot around Takeshi's loss adjusting work passed me by completely. I see now that the Thanatoids, with their 'karmic imbalance', are people who can't move on because of hangovers from their past - just like the main characters. Even if I'd grasped that straight-off, I think they'd still have puzzled me.

Sooner or later I'll probably pick up some more Pychon, probably either Gravity's Rainbow or Mason & Dixon. I can see myself re-reading Vineland at some point in the future, too.
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Books
bears
tiredstars
sometimes I think I'm just pretending that I actually understand or really learn anything from books.
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Books: V for Vendetta
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tiredstars
Continuing my attempt to write something about every book I read.

V for Vendetta starts off with a bit of a puzzle. By page three of four, V has blown up the Houses of Parliament, an event you see for about one panel. Apart from laying claim to Guy Fawkes' legacy (the blowing up bit at least, not the catholicism), this sets up an immediate question. Even if it were just a jump-start for the character and story, it should be more dramatic.

Dom's comment is that it is because V is very un-comic book. The art eschews spectacle. Most panels are close-in of a couple of characters. Typically there's little movement other than characters walking around, and what physical action there is is short and sharp. He also pointed out to me that the original was in black and white, making such spectacles harder.

Another factor is that in the Britain the comic portrays, Parliament no longer exists as a political body so lacks significance for the regime and the people. But if this is the case, why is it a target for V? The important point is a rejection of the political past. V is not attacking the existing regime so that the England can return to enlightened parliamentary democracy; he is a lot more radical than that.

All that aside, I think it's simply something that is not handled especially well in the comic.

Anyway. V for Vendetta is unusual in its explicit advocacy of a political ideology. Large-scale anarchism seems particularly difficult to fit into any recognisable fictional narrative structure, as it's inherently decentralised, not centred around key characters. A story which features a superhero, of a kind, must strike a particularly fine balance between this individual driving events and showing the empowerment of the broader populace.

The masterstroke of V is to make the hero both an individual and also faceless and replaceable, someone we could all be (a statement with multiple meanings). All the same, I'm not sure how convincing it really is. Had V not had truly exceptional capabilities from the start, then surely things would have been very different. He is only replaceable once his plan has reached fruition. The script of the play has run its course and the audience are left to take up the actor's roles, but where would they be without that prologue?

Moore's psychological view of liberation is (surprisingly?) a fairly crude one. There are two processes. One is the exposure to the masses of the regime's weakness. This is straightforward and unoriginal. In the comic's terms, show the system is a charade, and let everybody become an actor.

The other is that which liberates V, Evie and Rose Almond - being abused until their fears are stripped away to a fearless core. I'll just pick up one issue with that - that empirically it is a very questionable idea. While Libya and Syria provide contemporary examples of people who say that they have simply been pushed too far and found dignity and freedom stronger urges than life and fear, the holocaust provides us with the example of learned helplessness. I don't think many go through incarceration and torture and come out psychologically stronger than before.

A strident call for anti-authoritarianism and independence, then, but a problematic model to follow.
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Books: Titus Groan
bears
tiredstars
I find it hard to believe that I last read Titus Groan when I was thirteen or fourteen. I always meant to re-read it, but never did. (My parents' copy of Titus Groan went missing, which didn't help.) So while I'd say it's a favourite and important book to me, it was half my life ago that I read it.

Titus Groan is still not quite like anything else I've read. Strangely, it reminds me slightly of JG Ballard, though I can't say why. The exaggerated, slightly hallucinatory quality, perhaps.

When I first read the book I found it very hard to read. The prose of Titus Groan is like its setting: ornate, sometimes tortuous, often obscure. This time round, I found it much easier going, though there was still the odd word I didn't know ("hanger"). I also found it exceptionally strange and unrelentingly dark.

The biggest changes in my experience of the book were in the humour and the characters. I think the first time I was so submerged by the darkness that I didn't appreciate the humour. This time I realised how genuinely funny some of the characters and absurdities are. On a number of occasions I was chuckling out loud.

In a similar way I appreciated the characters better. Some are clearly evil or vile, both enabled and constrained, by their situation. Others are unusual, certainly, but pushed to extremes to cope with their situation. The Countess' withdrawal from human contact as a way to withdraw herself mentally from the drudgery of ritual and those whose company she is forced to keep. The twins' nature encouraged into spite and ignorance. Flay, taciturn and hard, but loyal and even dear to those who know him.

Most of all though, the doctor and Fuschia. Despite aloof, affected appearances, the doctor is a thoughtful, compassionate man. As he himself thinks, the others have responsibility towards ritual, but he has responsibilities towards them and their wellbeing. Of all, Fuschia is most tragically trapped. The doctor's intellect at least provides an escape of sorts. Fuschia feels the oppression of Gormenghast, but has only childish escapes, no-one to teach her or provide an example to follow, and no-one to offer or receive the tenderness that would relieve her (save, in all counts, the little Prunesquallor can offer). All this leaving her horribly vulnerable to Steerpike's manipulation. The book leaves you with a sense of foreboding for these two. If the Gormenghast is bad, the realisation of Steerpike's ambitions would be worse.

The adult characters all the characters either suffer a withering of the spirit, or restrain and canalise it, into brutality, birds and cats, an obsession with being a lady. It's this prospect that faces Fuschia. And it's this that is made physical in the Bright Carvers and their sudden decline from vibrant youth to premature age.

Of Steerpike himself, I am not sure how much there is to see beyond the fact he is a psychopath.
Steerpike is not alone in feeling nothing for other people. His success rests on the fact that he cares nothing for the system. For all the other characters, good and bad, Gormenghast is a part of them, just as they are part of it. Steerpike is constantly referred to as an outsider, even though there is no hint of anything odd in his origins (just a kitchen boy). Rather, he is an outsider because people subconsciously realise he cares nothing for Gormenghast.

The only other character to want (in a vague way) to throw down the system like this is Fuschia, and it's what makes her seem so vulnerable to Steerpike. On the other hand, he is unable to recognise the casual cruelty that repulses her and counteracts his efforts to charm.

There is an ambiguity in the book here, that only the most heartless character is able to challenge a heartless system. Does respect for others mean respect for the system, either for itself or for their sakes? Are all revolutionaries cruel, or even psychopathic? Or is Steerpike simply the only person with all the right characteristics - intelligence, art, luck, motivation?

One thing that made me prevaricate about reading the book a little was the feeling that it was a cold, dark winter book. That's not really true though. Titus Groan crosses many seasons and weathers. The only common feature of the weather is that it conspires to oppress the characters; it is always overwhelming either in its violence, like the titanic downpour during Swelter and Flay's confrontation, or in its relentlessness. Even more than the harsh, sparsely described landscape, the weather provides an expressionistic accompaniment to, or rendering of, the events.

Perhaps the weirdest thing about re-reading Titus Groan is that I found that literally all the events I remember from the trilogy come from the first book. Flay and Swelter, Flay's cat-throwing banishment, the burning of the library, the death of Sepulchrave. I am wondering what on earth goes on in the second book that I have forgotten, and whether it will be familiar to me when I read it.

One thing that hasn't changed is that I still can't describe the book in a satisfying way, in a way that really gets across how it feels.

(no subject)
bears
tiredstars
On the riverside walk, tucked beneath the overhang of Bevan Britten. The river is a dark jade, with ripples like badly blown glass. No gulls bob on the surface. A trail of small white torn-out feathers on the paving. In the corner, by the basement ventilation grates, a bloody pink worm of intestine.

Books: the Good, the Bad, and the Multiplex
bears
tiredstars
I got this book by Mark Kermode for Christmas. I think I must have first heard Mark Kermode when I started listening to Radio 1 when I was 12 or so. I feel like he was on Mark & Lard's show that I used to listen to in bed after ten or ten thirty, but perhaps that's just because everyone on the program seemed to be called Mark.

Anyway, Kermode is "Britain's most trusted film critic" which, as he points out, means he's trusted by some tiny proportion of the population. The fundamental point about this book is that Mark Kermode loves cinema. Whereas I, on the other hand, have never been a cinephile. The cinema itself has never been a place I'd go to hang out with people, or head off for an evening. Films themselves I am hesitant to sit down and start watching. So Kermode's paeons to the glory of film don't hit an emotional chord with me.

The book is written in what you could call a conversational style. By which I mean walking the line of being annoying. Also, being unnecessarily long-winded. Some of his stories or asides are entertaining, like his obsession with Zac Efron's hair and his daughter's put-downs. A lot of the time they're just a bit tiresome, and Each of the six chapters could probably be condensed down into a mid-length essay. At least they're quick to read.

The chapters deal with: the terrible state of multiplexes, why blockbusters should be better, the inevitable decline of 3D, what film critics are for, the "british" film industry, and how bad remakes of foreign-language films are.

The chapter on blockbusters may have been the most interesting. I always thought that 3D was a way for the film-industry to squeeze out more money, I'm well-versed in disliking remakes, and the British film industry has never filled me with concern. What I didn't know was that it's pretty much impossible for a big, blockbuster film to lose money. If it's terrible, the PR will go on about how much money it cost, and people will watch it to see where all that money went. Between cinema receipts, worldwide takings, DVD sales and tie-ins, a film will make its money back. Blockbusters don't lose money and sink studios like they used to, they just "underperform" (although maybe that can be dangerous enough in a leveraged world).

In which case, Kermode asks, why can't they make good blockbusters? Why do we get more Pearl Harbours and not more Inceptions?

A good companion piece is this article which argues that what movies get made is now determined by marketing. And one thing marketers love is a definable audience. That's why so many movies are sequels, tie-ins, 're-boots' or whatever. The marketers can go "100 million children had he-man toys/65 million people watched transformers 5/whatever", decide what percentage of that group see the film (and how to advertise to these people) and they can propose a sure-fire hit.

In the studios eyes, stars aren't bankable any more, nor are directors or scripts. This is why 2014's Stretch Armstrong is a certain money-marker, but films like Inception - with a good script, a big-name director, and one of the world's most famous actors - or The Departed - with one of the world's greatest directors, and a batch of stars - are regarded as surprise hits. Of course, Inception 2, now there's a film studios will queue up to make...
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Books: What's Left?
bears
tiredstars
What's Left is Nick Cohen's polemic against the state of the left. I was a bit apprehensive coming to it. I'd consider myself on the left, even if I'm uninvolved. So criticisms of it are personal. On the other hand, because I am uninvolved, it is easy for me to pick and choose, ignoring bad things and people, rather than having to commit to actions and groups.

The jacket of the book doesn't help. On the front is a picture of a man wearing a suit, with a keffiyah covering his face, holding a peace symbol placard in one hand and tossing a grenade idly in the other. (The original hardback cover is better.) On the back are supportive quotes from Philip Hensher in the Spectator, Peter Oborne in the Observer, James Delingpole in the Mail on Sunday and Martin Amis in the Sunday Times. Not a set of commentators to inspire confidence.

Cohen's argument for how and why the left lost its way ranges from consumerist politics to Virginia Woolf, but it's mostly about the left's response to tyrants, and more specifically to Saddam Hussein.  Saddam Hussein was a monstrous tyrant; we all know this (or should do).  Just how bad he was might have passed people by - I certainly didn't have a clear idea.  Cohen reminds people of this without dwelling on it.  The first case in Cohen's thesis is Kanan Makiya, an Iraqi who in the 1980s wrote a devastating account of the brutality of the Iraqi regime.  He was a hero to the left when Western governments were ignoring Saddam's crimes.  Then the First Gulf War came and Makiya argued that the coalition should push on to Baghdad and overthrow the regime.  The left disowned him.  Saddam carried on murdering the people of Iraq.

Cohen asks: 
Even if the United States invaded Iraq just to get its hands on the country's oil, the result would still be better than Saddam Hussein.  The Iraqi regime was a totalitarian fascist regime.  Why didn't the left support its overthrow?
His answer is that the left has forgotten that there are worse things than liberal democracy. I would add, though Cohen doesn't, that there are worse things than war.  The left has lost the ability to criticize the bad its own governments do while supporting the good.  It is heading towards a manichean worldview where anything the West does is bad and anyone who opposes it can't be all bad.  As a result, the left is starting to support the far right (dictators and Islamists), both passively and actively.

How did this come about? The history of warfare and the left, according to Cohen, goes something like this. It started in the 1930s, with opposition to fascists in the Spanish Civil War. The left had some issues about war with Germany, but came good in the end. Then things were peaceful for 45 years, until the first Gulf War. Umm.

Instead of dwelling on events like, say, Vietnam, Cohen turns one of the left's criticisms on itself. It's a left-wing trope that for Western governments there are deserving and undeserving victims. Cohen suggests the same applies for the left. When Hussein was being supported by the West, Iraqis were deserving victims; after the First Gulf War they became undeserving victims. Pre-eminent among the deserving victims are Palestinians, oppressed by US-ally Israel.

When asked why he spends most of his time attacking the US and its allies, Chomsky has a simple answer: because as a citizen of the US he has more responsibility for its behaviour than for that of any other country. It's not that he doesn't care about the people of North Korea. I doubt he has a good word to say about the North Korean government, but he's not responsible for it, and he has very little control over it. As Chomsky points out, it didn't take a war to get the Indonesian military to withdraw from East Timor after 25 years and tens of thousands of deaths. It just took pressure from Indonesia's allies, like the US and Australia. Pressure like not actively supporting the murderous Indonesian military, for example.

There are even bigger problems with Cohen's argument. These are the very broad label of “fascist” and the tricky question of what is the left.

Cohen argues that the great virtue of the left used to be recognising and fighting fascism. For Cohen, the Iraqi regime, Al-Qaeda, Zimbabwe and presumably other organisations and regimes are “fascist”. Just like in the 30s, this justifies all means necessary, up to and including war. We have to fight Saddam Hussein and we have to fight Al-Qaeda, because they're fascists. I actually think the emotional reaction this is intended to create is ok, if lazy.

The less obvious challenge is this: in the 1930s, were people really arguing for military intervention in Spain, Italy or Germany? There's a difference between a civil war, defending one state against another and intervening militarily within a state. Italy and Germany had the will and the means to attack other countries. Saddam Hussein never attacked another country except when he thought it was ok with the US (thought wrongly, in the case of Kuwait).

The Iraqi regime certainly had a horrible ideology, as Al-Qaeda does. But they are different ideologies. In fact, they were conflicting ideologies. Al-Qaeda's goal of an Islamic Caliphate had no place for Baathist Iraq. By classing both as fascism, Cohen implies that the invasion of Iraq was also a battle against Al-Qaeda, a conflation that would make Blair and Bush propagandists proud. It's hardly a radical view that the invasion of Iraq helped Al-Qaeda. We've the authority of MI5 to support that view.

You could certainly argue the case that a stable, democratic Iraq will help fight Al-Qaeda. Cohen doesn't bother to do that. When he talks about “fighting” Al-Qaeda, it's actually not really clear what he means. In fact, he's very hazy on Al-Qaeda and “Islamism”. Is the military regime in Egypt justified to keep the Islamic Brotherhood in check? Should we be fighting various low-intensity but (inevitably) nasty wars in various countries in the world? These difficult questions aren't addressed.

The easiest criticism of the book is that the examples don't really represent “the left”. Here are two examples. Cohen lays into relativism, but I don't think I've ever actually met or read anyone who believes in it. He also highlights the SWP's role in the Stop the War protests. His criticisms of the party and George “I salute your indefatiguability” Galloway seem correct. Yet Cohen himself says that most people involved in protesting the war didn't care about the SWP. He doesn't go on to say that if opponents of the war were inspired by politicians, it was more moderate or respectable ones like Robin Cook and Clare Short. The SWP won a seat in parliament in 2004, before losing it again in 2009 , when they received 33,251 votes, an eighth of the votes the Green Party got.

Which is not to say Cohen doesn't get anything right. Getting rid of Saddam Hussein and his regime was probably the only good reason given for the invasion of Iraq. It's quite possible the anti-war movement ignored this. I still think the war was wrong, but I also think the left does not have a clear idea of how to deal with dictators. War is not supported except in exceptional cases, with strong international support. "Engagement" is sometimes supported, sometimes not. Sanctions are usually supported, but rarely effective.  It is entirely possible that different approaches are required for different cases, but I don't think I've ever seen a clear discussion of this.

To an extent the left has internalised the system of states and international institutions. This system makes a big a distinction between fighting to liberate Kuwaitis from the Iraqi Baath party and fighting to liberate Iraqis from the Iraqi Baath party. (Though it is certainly not the only distinction.) It should be hard for the left to attack the mendacity of states one minute and look to the UN to legitimise things the next. It's not wrong to go against “international opinion” if you're right.

Look for grand visions in the left and you'll probably be disappointed. Of course, this is because grand visions have disappointed. The left's lack of a cohesive vision is in part a tactic. Whether it is a good one is open for debate.

Blaming Cohen for using straw men and misrepresenting the left is so easy I started wondering “what does Cohen think of as 'the left'?” What is it he's lamenting the loss of? I went back to the definitions in the introduction. “The left” is defined with a conscious fuzziness - “you know it when you see it” - but notably it does specify that it is aligned with the trade unions. Trade unions crop up from time to time in the book, in a positive light. On the whole, though, they're not discussed. If they're not the elephant in the room, they are at least lurking just outside.

I think what Cohen is really lamenting is the loss of a left which:

  • is radical but still able to work within the system
  • has a cohesive organisation and political programme, but is not authoritarian
  • is committed
  • is linked to the working class, or at least the trade unions.
With those conditions in mind, it's easier to be sympathetic, but it doesn't make the book any better. You'll find little insight into the fall-out from the 60s & 70s counterculture, the decline of trade unions and class politics; the weight falls decisively on Iraq, Cohen's own moment of revelation. Perhaps he should have written a more personal book about his relationship with the left first, and then attempted this book.

Books: Kuhn vs Popper
bears
tiredstars
Continuing my attempt to write something about every book I read. Even though this book's fairly short, this post goes on a bit as I try to get to grips with the most important parts.

The dramatic subtitle of Kuhn vs Popper by Steve Fuller is: The struggle for the soul of science. I don't know much about Thomas Kuhn or Karl Popper. What I was expecting from this book was a brief and accessible introduction to debates about the scientific method, using the tension between the two as a hook. What it actually turns out to be is a bit of a hatchet job on Thomas Kuhn. For example, one chapter explains why Heidegger cannot escape some responsibility for Nazism. The next asks "Is Kuhn the American Heidegger?" Leaving you thinking, "did Fuller just call Kuhn a Nazi?" Probably the book is best read by someone with a basic grounding in the subject already, something I don't have, but it was still clear enough to be worth reading.

Roughly speaking, Popper and Kuhn's approaches are as follows. For Popper, to decide between rival theories, scientists must set a test. Each theory makes a claim, and whichever is falsified fails the test should be discarded, regardless of its longevity or authority. (If your claim is unfalsifiable, it's not scientific.) Popper's vision is one of constant challenge for scientific theories, and regular failure, but scientists themselves have to be protected from the consequences of being wrong.

For Kuhn, scientists work within "paradigms". "Normal science" is an incremental advance. It increases the power of a paradigm but also brings up problems. When the collection of problems gets too great, a successful new paradigm emerges and a scientific revolution occurs. Most famous scientists engaged in "revolutionary science" rather than (boring) "normal science".

A paradigm is a sort of worldview. Here we run into some problems. Kuhn has been criticised for not having a clear definition of "paradigm" and using the term in different ways. What is probably the key feature of paradigms is that they are "incommensurable". "Incommensurability" is an even more problematic term. Incommensurable theories are radically different, like newtonian vs relativistic vs quantum physics. They are very different ways of looking at and describing the world. You will not understand newtonian physics if you assume that all particles are also waves, with indeterminate position and momentum.

What I think is the key to incommensurability is that it is impossible to clearly judge between two theories (at least, initially). There is such a gap between them that it is impossible to translate a claim made by one theory into terms that can be used to verify the other. In addition, while the new theory solves problems of the old, according to Kuhn, some information is always lost. Naturally, there will be also be things the new theory can explain, but has not yet explained. Faced with this situation, there can be no conventionally "scientific" contest between the two theories. I think Kuhn would go as far as saying that even in retrospect it is impossible to scientifically judge between paradigms. They can only be understood and validated in their own terms, which by definition(?) invalidate other paradigms. Instead there is a fracture in the scientific community, which is not entirely healed until supporters of the losing theory 'die off'. (Einstein never really reconciled himself to quantum mechanics.)

Whether this is really true is open for debate. Late last year, Errol Morris wrote a series of blog posts titled "The Ashtray Argument" in which he attacks the concept of incommensurability. In an interview, Kuhn claimed that incommensurability was "easy" - he got it from mathematics and used it as a metaphor. In maths, incommensurability refers to the fact that irrational numbers cannot be expressed as rational numbers of fractions. Pi as a fraction would be infinitely long. Supposedly, the guy who revealed the existence of irrational numbers was killed by the Pythagoreans for threatening their mystical worldview. They could not make the conceptual change from a world of rational numbers to one where some fundamental numbers were irrational. However as Morris points out: 1) this almost certainly never happened; 2) irrational numbers arguably supported the Pythagorean view; and most importantly 3) it wasn't the case that the Pythagoreans couldn't understand or judge the validity of incommensurability. Kuhn's founding metaphor appears to undermine his own theory.

Anyway, to round this off, when a new paradigm takes over, scientists rewrite history and make it look like science was always heading their way, in its inevitable march towards truth.

There is certainly a valid attack on the 'whig' interpretation of scientific history here - the view that science is always advancing and improving, in a fairly straight line. However it has a number of negative effects. One is to break science into a multiplicity of specialised paradigms. These are insulated from criticism from outside, both of their correctness and their value. In fact, Fuller argues, it served the Cold War military-industrial complex. It persuaded scientists to work on incremental improvements within the constraints of a paradigm ("normal science") rather than to think freely. It protected scientists from criticism of their political and military role - and from thinking about it for themselves.

Popper was initially linked with the Frankfurt School and critical theory. However while he kept a lot in common with them, he also disagreed on some major points. In particular, his political programme was more provisional, experimental and (arguably) democratic, compared with the Frankfurt School who launched something like a(n unsuccessful) propaganda war against capitalism. Popper was much more engaged with politics and his critics than Kuhn, and it may be that his reputation suffered as a result. In contrast, Kuhn wrote no significant books other than The Structure of Scientific Revolutions and answered criticisms only very erratically. This ties in with Morris' picture of Kuhn as someone who forbade him from attending rival lectures and threw an ashtray at him when he challenged incommensurability. (Though Morris' story has been challenged, most notably by Thomas Kuhn's daughter.)

All this might seem a largely irrelevant argument, while science continues successfully on its way. In fact, one of the chapters is titled 'Why philosophers get no respect from scientists'. It's not easy to summarise - I'm not sure it's entirely clear - but part of the reason is that science tends to relegate failed thinkers to "philosophy" while adopting successful ones as "scientists" (eg. Newton vs Descartes). Most scientists working within their specialised niche see no value in thinking more broadly. If they do conduct such "philosophical" speculation it tends to be after they have had their great scientific successes and have entered a "fallow" period.

The Kuhnian position actually relegates philosophers to "underlabourers" working at fringe problems to support scientists. It is quite explicitly uncritical. In fact, it calls for both a non-judgemental history from the perspective of the subjects, and a heroic history aimed at inspiring contemporary scientists. By contrast, a Popperian history of science builds normative assumptions into its story, highlighting how science has deviated from them.

The importance of this is twofold. First, in judging what is good and bad science epistemologically. For example, Popper and his followers had issues with evolutionary science and its ability to claim any change as making an organism "fitter". Evolutionary biology is probably in a better state today, but it has spawned the very dubious field of evolutionary psychology. The movement of physics away from experimentation and observation and into ever more abstract mathematics is another case where scientists methods need to be questioned. I wonder whether this relegation of philosophy has actually encouraged the growth of pseudo-science and non-science. It makes people (both specialists and not) unfamiliar with criticising methodologies. It also looks like science it is itself shielded from criticism, making it appear one among a range of belief systems which cannot be criticised or compared.

Secondly, the philosophy of science is required to make ethical judgements. Some would pretend that science is simply an amoral search for knowledge, but this is clearly not true. Think for example about a virologist choosing whether to research a cure for HIV or to research new biological weapons. In the 20th century scientists were involved in some great ethical questions, most notably the development of nuclear weapons. The fact that the ethics of this project were and are still not clear does not mean scientists can evade responsibility. It might appear that much contemporary science is far removed from ethical questions, but the example of German scientists is instructive - in 1914 they swung behind Germany, including shifting focus from physics to "the epistemologically inferior" chemistry. (The great exception was, of course, Einstein.)

One thing about this book is that I came out feeling I had a much better understanding of Kuhn's philosophy than Popper's. It did leave me wanting to find out more about Popper, but his own works seem quite daunting. I'll have to look out for an introduction.

"How can a mere philosopher devise criteria distinguishing between good and bad science, knowing it is an inutterable mystic secret of the Royal Society?" - Imre Lakatos (1973)

Books: Excession
bears
tiredstars
Some lighter reading now. The other two Culture novels I've read left me with the impression that (spoiler alert) the Culture always wins. The Culture is a tremendously advanced, post-scarcity, civilisation; the most powerful in the galaxy. Excession poses the question: what happens when it encounters something that seems more powerful than it is? That it doesn't understand. For which it has no frame of reference. That might challenge it.

Tied into that is the story of the Affront, a species that enjoys cruelty and refuses to reform, and the tales of the human characters. Even more than the other books I've read, the events in this story are driven by AIs. The humans (and drones) are manipulated, commonly with care and compassion, but with little control over wider issues.

I suppose if there's a common theme running through the book it is - when should we interfere? If we think other people, societies and civilisations are doing themselves or other harm, should we intervene? The Culture is an AI-managed utopia; should we feel disconcerted by this? Or is it the crowning achievement of a civilisation to create something better than they are?

Anyway, that aside, the book is a good read. Like the ships they live on, Banks cares about his characters, and somehow he saves a number of funny bits for the end of the book. If the idea of a book told in large part from the perspectives of artificial intelligences puts you off, then you need to broaden your horizons.
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