History of Religion

Today I was watching a young person sidetrack a discussion on religion by pointing out the uses to which it could be put (enthusing an army, controlling the people, directing the social order etc). It was amusing in its own way.

But the main thing about religions is that they are the formal structures set up once the fluid narrative of life has begun to set. Just as young trees develop woody structures and young animals develop hard bones, so too does the protoplasm of human experience develop as attempts at some sort of rigour are made.

For a book to be the word of a god, symbolic representation of words must be invented. Writing and the reading of what is written must be developed. The oral tradition must become ossified, fixed as canon. And so on.

Much of this has nothing to do with the uses to which religion might subsequently be put. In fact, one might argue that you need a long lead time, historically speaking, before any religion can be used on the scale of armies, city-states and social movements.

That's not to say, on the other hand, that such uses never existed. The historical evidence tells us that such use has been plentiful and pervasive.

Religion can be self-policing, but about 80% of it is policed badly and leads to effects other than intended. I estimate this is true because of the amount of time spent in religious texts admonishing the faithful against such practices; obviously, these must have been a problem even then, right at the point of codification!

The problem is that deep probing shows that all human thinking tends to act this way, and even more so if it is democratic or scientific. That's because adherents of such otherwise rational philosophies can hide behind two potent defences: the defence of the majority and the defence of the reasonable.

After all, everyone knows that what the majority agrees to must be good, right? Hoho... modern religiosity.

All Shall Be Well

As the blessed dame Julian of Norwich said, "All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well." And she also said, "Let nothing disturb you. Let nothing frighten you. Everything passes away except God." And thus did I conclude that the blessed dame had a habit (haha) of saying all manner of things in trinities.

So too it is with the most puissant Argonaut, who in days past counselled me saying, "In our island are the evils of (parental) insecurity, (student) inadequacy, and (teacher) incompetency. It is certain that someone should profit from this insanity. Let it therefore be us, for at least we are competent, conscientious, and clever."

Half a day ago, I had lunch with several very kindly and decent fellow professionals. I learnt a lot about things I had guessed were true, and of which I had heard rumours. The whole thing was painful because it forced me to remember things best forgotten; and yet, it was a good thing because sometimes we must face that which we most dislike.

But all shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well. And if not, one might still have recourse to the extended vocabulary of one's ancestral legacy. Whatever that might be.

=====

Note: The good friar tells me that 'twas not Julian of Norwich but Teresa of Avila for the second quote. Blessed, both.

Thoughts on Game 2 of the World Chess Championship (2010)

"Strong contradiction which ruins all the illusions," said GM Sergei Shipov after Chess World Champion GM Viswanathan Anand played his knight to b4. With that, the overly aggressive and hence unsound play of the challenger, GM Veselin Topalov, was refuted.

In life, sometimes our views of reality can be rudely exposed as illusions. Moses was a murderer (and kept that tendency even after 'Thou shalt not murder' was given to him), David was a cunning physicist who wrote psychopathic lines into his psalms, Abraham (as mentioned before in several posts) was a ruthless warlord. Newton was a mystic, Einstein was religious, Hawking is afraid of aliens.

The bare facts are incontrovertible in each case. Yet the mythic versions of our own narratives continue to compel. Until, of course, 'strong contradiction ruins all the illusions.'

Diktat

And so it came to pass that in the year of the Earthen Cow, a proclamation went out from the throne at the Estuary of Dour, that a census should be taken for the sake of the Imperial Health. For those whose names were not written in the Book of Doom, they should be cast out into the ways of the world to find their own sustenance.

=====

Well, it wasn't quite like that. But as part of my very deep research into the lives and times of the rich and infamous, I have come to realise that some people are dangerous because they are venal, corrupt and incompetent. Actually, it only takes one of these things to make someone an angry and/or frightened person whose sole aim in life then becomes the intimidation and exaction of tributary sycophancy from all who will hear.

I eagerly await the unfolding events of the next 15 months. If they unfold as predicted, my fortune is made; if not, then in the spirit of true research, I will have to adjust my hypothesis... heh.

The Plan: Part I – Criterion 1 Situational Appraisal (Reprise)

When I wore a younger man's shoes, as the song goes, I had an odd ambition. I wanted to one day become somebody like my school principal; someone with a sense of rightness, a systematic and deliberate approach to planning, a keen feel for the true priorities in life, the ability to deliver morning devotions every day without repeats or loss in quality, the ability to speak his mind in flawless and considered prose. He was an inspiration, and in his usual deliberate way, he set out to share that with us.

I remember how he would always support the head prefect in public, and speak with him man-to-man in private. I remember that he dealt with all men as equals, with secular regard for their positional status and with respect only for their character. Yet, he assumed that there was always good to be gained from people, to be drawn out from them – and that was the essence of education, that drawing out of virtue to a place and state of being where it would become character.

He used to summon individuals with problems and difficulties for quiet chats in his office, where face to face across a covered desk, he would interrogate them as to their well-being and prospects. He was never one to flinch from debate, but always one to be generous and kind. You could sit and watch him spin a problem slowly in his hands as he looked up at the ceiling. You knew he was trying his best to do the right thing in the right way. He was that kind of man.

I remember him saying to a teacher, "You're a graduate! You should be able to learn things for yourself!" Yet he held us all to a code of learning from others, no matter who or what they seemed to be. And he would always ask us to test what we had learnt, and to be a man about it, fearless, exact, courteous. It did not rule out 'intimidating' or 'sharp' or 'sarcastic' – but he was at pains to stress that this was not the aim, but a side-effect which we should try to ameliorate.

The other day he spoke, and someone near me who had never known him said, "That's how a principal should sound." Indeed. I have often gone back to visit him in his office, for he has never retired despite being into his eighth decade. And every time I speak with him, I know that he is my principal, and with a leader like that, anyone would do better than they otherwise would.

Memetic Breadth

My friend the Projectilist recently commented that a top-class education results in three main things:

1. Networking
2. Public service
3. Memetic breadth

It might be a simplistic view, superficially speaking, but on close inspection of many top high schools, these are indeed the three 'gifts of the Magi' which lesser schools do not provide.

The reasons are clear. Top schools are often the home of top-class alumni with networks of their own and a higher likelihood of their offspring entering the school and renewing or maintaining old ties. The professionals, politicians and administrators of a nation tend to be drawn from these same schools, so public service (and eventually, the ideas that drive the nation) will also be a marker as to the reputation of a school. Finally, in an environment where people are expected to be different and do things differently, memetic proliferation becomes the rule rather than the exception.

And true to form, I have been hit by one such meme, from the Dancer. I am supposed to describe five material desires (with some chance of actually being fulfilled) and then tag five people. So here goes...

1. I want a library. Six rooms with aged teak shelves, indirect lighting, and 24-hour climate control, at least 4 km of shelf space (and at least 15" deep) and enough floor space to have writing desks and workstations in each room. The walls are panelled with oak, engraved with cryptic little details from 'The Secret History'. Glass panes are made from bulletproof, UV-filtering material, faceted in the traditional English style.

2. Speaking of which, my existing notebook – the PowerBook G4 known as 'Nemo' – has now entered its fourth year of sterling service. I would love to have an upgrade, one of those eight thousand dollar machines, but with a one-piece titanium shell randomly electro-oxidised to a subtly iridescent gleam. Hopefully, this one will have key markings which don't succumb to the remorseless creeping acidity of my fingers.

3. I already have a complete Jack Vance – a lovely integrated edition. What I would like is a complete James Branch Cabell as well, also in an integrated edition. Most people don't know about Cabell; Michael Swanwick (see item 2) has something to say here.

4. I want a blue-light laser pointer. Unfortunately, such items are banned in Singapore. A fun runner-up in this slot would be a bunch of Acrobots instead... In fact, ThinkGeek.Com is one of the most amazing sites for making me think of stuff I would love to have.

5. I want a lifetime's supply of aromatic high-cacao dark chocolate. I'll settle for smaller quantities, though. Although I am certain that Godiva doesn't make the best ever chocolates, they do make very good assortments. Here is one place to begin with if you intend to indulge me.

And now to tag a few people:

• AnonymousNoises
• KenT
• Wolfberry
• Lavender's Blue
• La Femme Blanche

There you are. You know who you are even if other people don't. Enjoy!

Stew

The world is full of stupid people who waste your time. There are a few kinds, and there are some that are misleading.

The first kind does things that somehow involve you spending time to a) rectify matters, b) avoid events, c) expiate sins, d) compensate losses.

The second kind offers to do something which could be useful and you find out eventually that is useless. This is called bait-and-switch.

The third kind somehow thinks they have a lien on your time. That is to say, they think they own your time. This is because they happen to be related to you, have contracted you for some service, or have paid/are paying you. They then proceed to become the first kind, but with threats and menaces involving money and work.

The fourth kind remove your time without your connivance, collaboration or cooperation. They do things like disable or injure you, blow up your belongings, firebomb your city, nuke your country. You cannot treat them as you might treat the first kind, for resistance is probably futile.

Sometimes, my students think they are wasting my time or that I am wasting theirs. The latter is more likely. I think it is my professional duty to spend time on students, and besides, I like it or I wouldn't be doing it. However, it is still possible to waste my time, normally by acting like one of the four kinds listed above. But I normally give a few 'free' tries first.

As for me wasting their time? Well, it could be avoided, I suppose, if students told me that what I was providing so cheerfully was not what they wanted at all. I would then either excuse myself or excuse them, or perhaps just stop teaching. Whatever it is, I do want very much not to waste anyone's time, so I wish they'd let me know.

=====

Edit: Just a thought which the Dancer provoked – some expenditure of time is necessary, and such necessary expenditures are not waste. So if people spend my time and that expense is necessary, they aren't wasting it.

A Blade For The Fox

I have seen the special 360 people in this particular year of my life, watched them, written stories about them, thought about them sometimes perhaps as a spatial 360°, listened and quietly empathized with them, been stern with them, been kind to them. I will miss them all, every single one, including the ones who don't quite know me, never wanted to know me, will possibly not ever know me – or I them. My last post was about blades. I was thinking about this when I wrote that post...

=====

"It's all a matter of blueness. You have to get it just right, the way you hold the edge to the flame, watch the colours curl across the metal as it changes. You see, since all things have fire in them, you must see clearly as it responds to flame. Then you will know what sort of blade it can be. People are like that too."

I kept my gaze trained on the fire. The man crouched next to the great hearth blew gently along the grain. Wisps of breath-fog steamed, making twisty patterns on the hot steel. The steel turned over in his grasp; the rough gloves he wore seemed unaffected by the heat.

"There's also the smell of it. A metal sweats when hot: some essence of it rises with the wind of the fire. Some metals smell poisonous, and their stench will make a man ill, spoil his seed and curdle his blood. Some metals smell sweet, or warm—but they may be just as easily poisonous. We choose the woods to be burnt for the flame; we choose them carefully, that their own vapours may mingle with and destroy the evil in the metal."

A bright green smell came into the room. The blade seemed brighter for a brief moment. I peered into the light to see what was happening, but I saw nothing strange.

"And that is the testing of the blank, even before one does anything craftworthy to it. As with a man, the testing by closeness to fire shows much. When you have done it, though, you can begin to think about how to temper the metal. What you quench the hot metal in is very important—some metals will shatter in the quench, some will weaken or be brittle in time to come."

He turned, rising, dark and serious.

"Making a knife is like making a man. Can you do it?"

Rainfall Feedings

This is going to be an odd post. I have to say that all these people are legally imaginary but mythopoetically real. You can ask them about it if you want to, and if you are genuine enough. All events really happened, but if you are like Trivandrum (see below) and cannot leave well enough alone, you know they might not have quite happened the way they are described.

=====

The average rainfall in Eden is zero. There is no rain at all, just a mist which rises in the night and waters the land, disappearing in the dawn. Perhaps Eden no longer exists, in damned Mesopotamia or ruined Ceylon, and I should speak in the past tense. But even after Eden, no rain – the separated waters were a vault, an astrological crystal dome, an hieromancer's crystal sphere. But now, in this fallen world, it rains.

I am remembering one particular day. It might have been today, it might be tomorrow – it resonates of all the rainy days I've had. Consciousness was a heavy burden and perception worse. My percipience was like a leaf-blade, sharp on both edges, thin as paper and without a hilt. I cut myself badly on that deadly lamina. Everything was so acute that I almost felt my nerves telling each other that they would kill me if I hit the caffeine again within six hours.

I had several meals. The first was with the General. Nobody calls him that, of course, and a barking snort of derisory laughter would probably greet any attempt. But he looks like a general of the old and diplomatic kind, with a warmonger's taste balanced with a warrior's honour. He speaks at least four languages and teaches one, a dead waste of talent if I ever saw such. But who cares about him? Not his boss, who routinely hazards his career with a carelessly shouted phrase or two.

A shadow's heartbeat later, as we stewed over noodles and traded historical fragments, the Stork dropped in. Not the progenitive or paragenitive Stork of legend, but the tall and elegant one given to much whimsy and the occasional sly jibe at the ill-considered silliness of the time. Stork was in fine form. The friends appointed for morning-meal had decided not to show at the moment assigned. Stork preferred the company at our table, and I didn't mind.

Time passed and my irascibility was dispersed and dispensed across my long-suffering acolytes for a while.

Then was time for payback. Gnomus was always busy rubbing his diet (metaphorically, of course) in my face. So I tried behaving like him for a while. Along the way, we picked up a little audience and some victims. The god-daughter suffered silently and fairly not-so-unhappily as we plucked the balls from little boys with no common sense and set them aside on a rainy day. We were aiming for five, but the quality of the soccer fraternity produced three excellent samples.

God-daughter had experienced tragedy in Twelfth Night, which is unusual but not unheard-of. The play is second only to The Merchant of Venice in being misapprehended with consequent misfortune for all associated. We advised that tragedy should be left to goats, and left it at that. Very often, I wish that the young and prone-to-misfortune could be shielded somewhat from the consequences of others' awkward ideas. But that kind does not come out except by fasting and prayer.

Off again to chastise the acolytes. Not an excellent chastisement this time, for the second group were a hard-working bunch of toilers, affording sophisticated amusement but lacking the vim and pepper of the first (well, mostly). I spent some time in the adjoining room pretending not to eyelid a bat, and generally being odd.

And then it was lunch with excellent little slices of roast pork in rich stock and angel-hair pasta (I wanted fettucine, but no dice). There were two sub-sections of this meal: the first was with a bunch of the charming young men (who reminded me of the gang in our time) and the second was with the charming young ladies and two of the lads with the nice eyelashes. [Oh dear, I suppose at this point I must assert my heterosexuality once and for all just in case my (have I really written such an odd paragraph?) writing stirs aspersions and indignities are visited upon me.]

God-daughter was there, and also the Lioness. Romana, Trivandrum, and Angster (arbitrary names just for this particular post) were also there. Plenty of entertainingly mindless fun was had by all – games of 'confuse the compass' and 'which lad is the lady most like' were played. Sweet milky tea was imbibed while others consumed chunky chips and watched the words sail overhead. Gnomus was his usual capricious intelligent self, making copious scatological (sociological) notes in a little book. We had fun.

The sad part, of course, is that this might well have been the last hurrah. It must end soon. Perhaps it already has. It is a very fin-de-siécle feeling.

After that I and the Disciple went off to thrash the younger gentlemen at cards. Won handily. Not our finest hour, but a good time was had by all. Of course, no money exchanged hands. No hands exchanged money either.

What a day. So few of such pass our way, with equal measure of pain and pleasure and sadness and joy all rolled into a wet blanket of the kind Noah would have appreciated. I am happy for now.