“Bat men discovered on the moon”, an original piece of fake news, from 1865. Cloud life: About 20% of the bigger-sized particles in clouds are microbes, and they’re probably responsible for a lot of rain. What’s it like for a kid who grows up living in a NYC library? The ozone hole seemed like a terrifying threat to humanity, but international co-operation mostly repaired it. Stephen Wolfram wrote a fantastic account of being the scientific advisor to the movie Arrival; among other things, he wrote on-screen equations and his son wrote Wolfram code that appeared on-screen and actually, in real-life, analyzed the alien communications.
A design tool for making wind instruments that have nearly any external shape. “Enclothed cognition”, or, why wearing a white lab coat makes people more attentive in their work. So, who has actually read all four volumes of Donald Knuth’s The Art of Computer Programming? Historical data suggests that pop music predominantly hovers around 120 BPM, but science can’t yet explain why this tempo is so seductive to us.
Why are writers such terrible procrastinators? Wow, footage shot on the 1987 Fisher-Price PXL-2000 camera is creepy. Here’s “The Imperial March” from Star Wars, and the “Cups” song from Pitch Perfect, scored for a cello. In 1826, Mary Shelley followed up Frankenstein by publishing The Last Man, a book about a 21st-century global pandemic. Only a few large cities are driving the US’s rising murder rate, or, “why it’s good to know the difference between median and mode”.
What can humans do that machines can’t? The pessimistic view, in a world of advancing AI and robotics, would be “less and less every day”. While researching this today I ran into an interesting historical perspective — the view from 1951.
It’s a paper called “Human Engineering for an Effective Air Navigation and Traffic Control System,” written for the National Security Council by Paul Fitts, a psychologist known for studying human factors in technology. He was most famous for his work trying to figure out how to automate air travel to make it more safe, and that’s where this report comes in. It’s a long, elegantly-written attempt to tease out the distinctions: Which aspects of airflight could best be managed by machines, and what by humans?
The fun begins on page 6, where Fitts asks …
He argues that our “sensory functions” and “perceptual abilities” are more sensitive than machines — which is arguably less true today than it was back then, given innovations in everything from LIDAR and 3D imaging to olfaction. He also argues we meatfolk have the edge on “reasoning” — which, again, is certainly true but probably much less true than in 1951, when it was considered pretty rad to get a vacuum-tube computer to play a simple peg game.
But then Fitts points out a unique human cognitive advantage: “Flexibility”.
Now, this distinction seems still very solid! AI and robotics are remarkably more advanced than in 1951, but even the most advanced machine is still pretty narrow in its function. “General” AI is still nowhere in sight, and robots are still simply terrible at navigating and manipulating the everyday human environment: Google’s Go-playing computer creamed the world’s champion at that game, but it couldn’t pick up the game pieces by itself. In any individual intellectual and physical skill, you could create (or soon create) a machine that would best us, probably. But human ability to adapt to new situations and tasks makes us the cognitive Swiss Army knife in this corner of the universe.
(We could extend Fitt’s list by adding a bunch of areas in which humans still trounce machines, by the way — like empathy and creativity. Fitts didn’t include these, possibly because he didn’t see them as related to airflight control, though I could make the case they’re necessary in that field.)
This point about flexibility reminds me of Robert Heinlein’s dictum:
A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.
If I’d written that list I’d probably have included a bit less fighting and invasion-planning, but otherwise it’s a pretty solid CV. Of those twenty-one skills, though, I’m only confident of my ability in fifteen.
Go download that whole paper by Fitts — it’s a fun read! (That awesome image at the top of this post is from the paper, BTW.)
How to use a rubber band to produce a sketch with 2-point perspective. The grey goo of climate change will be insect infestations — as Tehran is currently discovering. Hurricane Sandy tore a huge scar in the New York coastline, but it turns out ecologically to be have been a boon. Oh, and that malware that’s been infecting Internet-of-Things devices worldwide? Here’s the source code.
The art of Atari. A one-page Linnean tree of species, exquisitely zoomable and fractal. “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” by Donald J. Trump (a parody, bien sur). Whoa: Skylab had private suites for each astronaut!
When people found out what I was doing, they often claimed it was aesthetically bonkers. Isn’t it uncomfortable and weird, they wondered, to read such a massive book in tiny screenfuls? You can’t fit many words on a single screen. Indeed, I tend to blow my font-size up pretty big, so there’s barely one or two hundred words on each Kindle page.
But the thing is, this made the experience oddly retro. Visually, a Kindle screen on a mobile phone harkens back to … the early days of novels.
Back in the 18th and 19th century, people often read novels that were printed in the teensy “octavo” format. It made books extremely portable, so they were, in way, much like the iphones of the premodern period: Pocketable culture. Here’s a page from Conjectures on Original Composition, a book from 1759 by the English poet Edward Young:
Looks rather like a iphone Kindle screen, doesn’t it?
At any rate, today I discovered an essay by Sarah Boxer describing her even more Olympic feat of novel-phone-reading: The entire 1.2-million text of Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu. (That’s the first page, above, on my phone.)
Boxer did an even better job of describing the peculiar aesthetic delights of reading a ginormous book screen by screen. Let me quote it here at length:
Soon you will see that the smallness of your cellphone (my screen was about two by three inches) and the length of Proust’s sentences are not the shocking mismatch you might think. Your cellphone screen is like a tiny glass-bottomed boat moving slowly over a vast and glowing ocean of words in the night. There is no shore. There is nothing beyond the words in front of you. It’s a voyage for one in the nighttime. Pure romance.
In a curious way, I think reading Proust on your cellphone brings out the fathomless something in the novel that Shattuck calls “the most oceanic—and the least read” of 20th-century classics. It makes you feel like Jules Verne’s Captain Nemo in his submarine, which is just right. As Benjamin Taylor notes in his biography, Proust: The Search, this is how Jean Cocteau described the writer at work in his bedroom, the cork-lined retreat on Boulevard Haussmann that Proust called “a little bottle stop” muffling the sounds of the world.
Although Proust knew exactly where he was heading when he put together his masterwork—he began with the first and last parts, then turned to the middle—the same cannot be said for his readers, no matter how they tackle his text. They are at sea. This is what makes reading the novel such hard going, particularly in the middle. It is also what makes the experience extraordinary.
Knowing where you are, physically, in a bound book keeps you from feeling this oceanic feeling quite so much. It keeps you grounded. But reading the book on your cellphone emphasizes your own smallness, your at-sea-ness, in relation to the vast ocean. There you are, moving along without any compass. How brave you are in your little dinghy, adrift and amazed.
That’s such a great metaphor: The book as an ocean, the e-reader as a tiny porthole!
It reminds me of the way I look at paintings in galleries: I zoom in as close as I can, so I can examine the tiny individual brushstrokes in as much detail as possible.
I once read a piece by an artist noting that painters experience their painting in two modes — up super-close, and from far back. A lot of the time they’re hunched over the canvas, going stroke by stroke. So, as the artist pointed out, if you want to see what that experience was like, you want to get as close as physically possible to the completed painting, and study it from barely an inch or two away. (As you can imagine, shoving my nose right up to a canvas does not make me super popular amongst art-gallery guards; I’ve nearly been tazed at the Art Gallery of Ontario, trying to get myself with microns of Tom Thomson’s The West Wind.) But as the artist went on to note in his article, painters also frequently stand back ten or twenty feet to appreciate the overall scope of what they’re doing — so you too ought to zoom out often as you’re absorbing a painting. The painter’s experience of their own painting is simultaneously a) brushstroke by brushstroke and b) twenty feet away.
It occurred to me once, while nose-close with a painting, that novels (and other forms of longform writing) have a bit of the same dual-focus aspect: The writer composes word by word, sentence by sentence — but also has the entire text in mind. We readers experience the whole book both as a single bolus of culture and a collection of individual thrilling sentences or passages.
Boxer’s lovely metaphor comes the closest I’ve seen to evoking that literary duality.
Why is there a Nobel Prize for chemistry and physics, but not for ecology? Behold the super unsettling, Cronenbergian art of Simon Stålenhag. The history of grep! On Dec. 28, 1973, the three astronauts aboard Skylab went on strike, protesting their brutal workload. “Cahoots” is a great word, and here’s the Google ngram chart of its usage. A useful and unsettling coinage: “climate redlining“.
A breathtaking closeup view of a comet, taken just before the Rosetta probe crashes into it. Cross-stitched isometric “3D” blocks. A cute little robot that can open a door handle, then nudge the door open like a dog. In 2008, I reported on how electronic touch-screen voting machines were a buggy, crufty mess; it’s even more true today. A book on “video games as a spiritual pursuit”.
I’m claustrophobic and afraid of heights, so the idea of going to space in a tiny can seems basically nuts.
I was thus intrigued to discover the 2012 NASA book Psychology of Space Exploration, a collection of essays about what going to space does to you — mentally, emotionally, spiritually. It’s freely downloadable here, and I spent tonight reading it.
One thing I learned? Going to space might be “salutogenic” — good for one’s overall well-being.
Some of reasons are what you might imagine. Hey, those spectacular views! Astronauts return aglow from the experience. There’s an phenomenon known as the “overview effect” — the feeling of whoa-dude connectedness-with-all-humanity that astronauts get from gazing at the Earth. I actually wrote a separate essay about this two years ago, but the effect is discussed in this volume too. They note how astronauts become enraptured with taking pictures of the planet: Of the 200,000 Earth pictures taken on eight missions aboard the International Space Station, 84.5% were “crew-initiated”. As Space Shuttle astronaut Kathryn D. Sullivan said, “it’s hard to explain how amazing and magical this experience is.”
But it’s deeper than that. Data suggests that after coming back from flight, astronauts are mentally healthier in the long run, because the trip made them more self-reliant (which is saying something, given that astronauts are awfully self-reliant to begin with):
Studies of the mental health of cosmonauts conducted two or three years after their return to Earth found that they had become less anxious, hypochondriacal, depressive, and aggressive. The most plausible explanation is that during their stay in tough environments, people develop coping skills, that is, ways of dealing with challenge and stress that continue to serve them well long after they have returned from their expedition.
This effect has also been observed in crew members who return from long missions to Antartica — where, as with space-station flight, they’re stuck inside tiny quarters for months. Indeed, the more obnoxiously bad the Antarctica mission, the better their long-term wellness. As one researcher found …
… a depressed mood was inversely associated with the severity of station physical environments — that is, the better the environment, the worse the depression — and that the winter-over experience was associated with reduced subsequent rates of hospital admissions. He and others have speculated that the experience of adapting to the isolation and confinement, in general, improved an individual’s self-efficacy and self-reliance and engendered coping skills that they used in other areas of life to buffer subsequent stress and resultant illnesses.
Intriguing. But Elon Musk can look elsewhere; I’m still never gonna volunteer for space flight.