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.
Who still uses the term “information superhighway”?
It’s the most 90s coinage ever. It was an attempt by boomer journalists — whose chief technology of teen liberation was the automobile, but who by the 90s were solidly middle-aged — to find a metaphor for digital networks that made sense to them. Hey guys! Let’s all get in our, uh, cybervehicles! We can roll down the windows and go cruisin’ on the Highway of Information.
As “the Internet” and “the web” took off, though, eventually people stopped using the “information superhighway”.
Or did they? In The Atlantic, Adrienne LaFrance analyzed Donald Trump’s fascinatingly incoherent use of “the cyber”, and along the way she noted one cohort that seems to constantly use dated digital slang: Politicians.
So it made me wonder — who’s the last politician to have uttered the phrase “information superhighway” in the Congressional Record?
Step forward, Erik Paulsen.
A reverse-chron search of the Congressional Record finds that Paulsen used the phrase on July 17, 2014, speaking in support of the Permanent Internet Tax Freedom Act.
To give Paulsen credit, it seems like he might be using the phrase specifically because of its historic echo of the 90s: “… grown the information superhighway to what it is today.”
Trivia: “Information superhighway” has been uttered 291 times in the Congressional Record. Interestingly, other recent-ish uses seem to be when politicians are talking about net neutrality — possibly because there, the highway metaphor is useful; it evokes tolls, fast lanes vs. slow lanes, etc. So maybe the phrase has got some life in it yet.
Me, I’m a fan! “Information superhighway” is much more metal than “the Internet” or “the web”, which are functional but now rather lifeless. Given my druthers, I actually prefer the full, florid coinage of “the global information superhighway”. I have been waging a dogged campaign on Twitter to revive it; I am failing.
(That photo above is from the Creative-Commons-licensed Flickr feed of Rep. Louise Slaughter.)
People tell political pollsters that the economy is going down the tubes; but with economic pollsters, they’re much cheerier. A Polish auto-body shop still uses a Commodore 64 (via boing boing). Here’s the “hello, world” example of the Google Books API, which I’m playing around with to make a potentially weird, fun toy. A hacker in Cairo makes a DIY robot for inspecting IEDs. Behold Cryptpad, a text editor where only the people collaborating on the document can see the plaintext; it’s inscrutable from any interlocuters and even the server itself. (Thanks to Nat Torkington for this latter one!)
The other day on Twitter, Benjamin Edwards posted a picture of some gorgeous milled-aluminum dice a friend made for him. In response, Eric Berlin pointed us to the work of his friend Eric Harshbarger, who designs insanely cool custom dice.
Above is one of Harshbarger’s creations: A set of dice for New Yorkers who are heading out to eat dinner but are paralyzed by the paradox of choice. The dice are labeled:
Die 1: West Village, Chelsea, EV/Nolita, LES, Soho, Roller’s Choice
Die 2: Italian, Roller’s Choice, Sushi, Mexican, Asian, Ethnic
Heh. Below, an even nerdier concept: Binary dice. I’m going to order a pair of these for my son to bring to his middle-school math class …
Here’s some deep meta — a die of polyhedral shapes:
And here are some DNA/nucleotide dice — useful for synthetic biologists want to add some randomness when they’re inadvertently creating unstoppable superbugs!
Below are perhaps my favorite — a pair of dice Harshbarger created after he posed himself a puzzle: “What is the greatest number of dots that can be removed from a die and it still be determinable what is rolled?”
His fuller explanation of how to read these:
- If the ‘center-side’ pip is face up, then a “6” was rolled, because that is the only number with a dot in that position.
- If the center-side pip is not visible anywhere on the die, then it must be face-down. Meaning you rolled a “1”.
- Otherwise, the center-side is on one of the four side faces. In this case, look for the ‘center-center’ pip (which, given its position relative to the center-side pip, must be the “5” face). If that center-center dot is face-up, you’ve rolled a “5”. If it is not visible, you’ve rolled a “2”. If it is also on one of the side faces, then you need to know that the 4-5-6 values are placed counterclockwise about their shared vertex (on Bicycle Dice); with that knowledge you can determine whether a “3” or “4” is face up.
This guy’s a genius. Check out the rest of the dice on his page; the ones here are only the tip of the iceberg.
What I love about Harshbarger’s work is how it leverages humanity’s longstanding fascination with randomness — a force that has long tweaked and teased society’s ideas about logic, reason, the will of God, the arc of life. Over at Aeon, Michael Schulson wrote a terrific essay on the situations where a random choice can be better than a reasoned one, and he opens by noting the peculiar allure of the random:
As moderns, we take it for granted that the best decisions stem from a process of empirical analysis and informed choice, with a clear goal in mind. That kind of decision-making, at least in theory, undergirds the ways that we choose political leaders, play the stock market, and select candidates for schools and jobs. It also shapes the way in which we critique the rituals and superstitions of others. But … [snip]
… As any blackjack dealer or tarot reader might tell you, we have a love for the flip of the card. Why shouldn’t we? Chance has some special properties. It is a swift, consistent, and (unless your chickens all die) relatively cheap decider. Devoid of any guiding mind, it is subject to neither blame nor regret. Inhuman, it can act as a blank surface on which to descry the churning of fate or the work of divine hands. Chance distributes resources and judges disputes with perfect equanimity.
A marketing agency says data show that the ideal length for a viral blog post is long — >2,000 words — and getting longer. A great name for this chatbot-crafting startup: Pullstring. When a space probe is intentionally crashed into a comet: “In a way, we’re just waiting for silence, and that is weird.”