Examples of folly--- struggling on when any rational hope of success has gone---are, to borrow a splendid word from the Bible, legion. Barbara Tuchman wrote a book about them, called The March of Folly: from Troy to Vietnam. Her book was written in 1984, towards the end of a brilliant life. The March of Folly has all Tuchman's trademark clarity, attention-retaining personal details, and her characteristic sweeping overview, but it has something missing. When I first read it nearly twenty years ago, it felt flabby, especially in comparison the astringency of her other books, such as The Zimmerman Telegram. Thinking about it now, I realize that she needed less history and more psychological insight into why people, and not just world leaders, act as they do when confronted with their own personal Trojan Horse.
So, why do people persist in follies, when the mistake is as plain as a pikestaff to everyone except them? In a new book, Mistakes Were Made (But Not by Me): Why We Justify Foolish Beliefs, Bad Decisions, and Hurtful Acts, two psychologists explain that it's basically down to cognitive dissonance (surely one of the most enduring theories in a discipline not noted retaining theories for very long). We form an image of ourselves and believe that image to be 'true', in the sense that there is no dissonance between our actions and the self-image who performed those actions. Confessing a mistake is difficult because it means that our self-image has cracked, perhaps why America treated its Vietnam veterans so badly: they are living reminders of a mistake.
If we grant that we subconsciously exclude the possibility of a mistake from our current thinking about ourselves, can we extend the concept back in time? Humans are notoriously selective about which memories are kept and which are thrown out, or hidden, and this is perhaps why. We retain memories which reinforce our self-image as a caring and thoughtful mother, or whatever structure on which we have built our idea of ourselves. Memories which create dissonance are suppressed. The desire to retain certain memories is manifest in the desire to retain certain objects which have the power to trigger the warming flow of a pleasant memory. I was thinking about this when my sister Mary reminded me about a family photograph I'd forgotten about. Just the thought of the photograph was enough to allow me to relive a delightful day.
In a new book, Memory: An Anthology, Harriet Harvey Wood and A.S. Byatt present the study of memory from two vantages: literature and science. I found the discussion of public memory fascinating, especially Sudhir Hazareesingh's exploration of French public memory. How could a nation which tore itself apart over the Dreyfus affair have allowed the camp at Drancy and the deportation to death of so many of its citizens? These memories, dissonant with the French self-image of themselves as world-leaders in enlightenment and civilisation, have only recently allowed back into the national history.
Space in the brain is limited, and we can't remember everything, so we toss out memories which are unlikely to be needed in the future. This has an evolutionary origin, not hard to see. Why remember places where you failed to catch your dinner? Instead, remember the place and the circumstances under which you did catch your dinner, and the people you ate it with. Perhaps this is why many of our warmest memories are those in which food is shared. The pleasant memories link us back through the generations to those early hunters and their pleasure in knowing that they had succeeded in feeding their family.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Sunday, January 6, 2008
The Edwardians
The longer we live in Canada, the more I appreciate the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, which runs, at least on radio, some really interesting programmes. I don’t know about the TV because I can never get to watch it, what with younger members of the family claiming precedence. Last Sunday, the science show, Quarks, featured a discussion about information and how it flows. Teleportation came up, and one scientist mentioned that there had been a successful teleportation of a beryllium atom. Can a person be next? Quite possibly.
If we can be teleported across a spatial dimension, could we also be moved across time? If so, would you like to travel backwards or forwards, or remain firmly rooted in the present? I guess it depends on being sure that you could come back to the present. Perhaps before your Mum knew you’d been off somewhere without telling her. If she only knew!
I’d like to go back to the era of the Edwardians, that gilded time, in Britain at least, between the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 and the First World War in 1914. I suppose a reaction to the severe propriety of the Victorian times, ruled over by the ‘widow of Windsor’, was only to be expected---but, boy, did they go for it! Led by the new King, Edward, who had been waiting for the throne for sixty years, there was a sort of louche vulgarity which I find appealing in its honesty. Those people just had a good time without worrying about what other people thought. It reminds me a bit of Hong Kong: sometimes flashy and tasteless (to some people at least) but with no inhibitions at all. There is something fresh and vital about the approach to life. Go for it!
There’s an excellent book by Roy Hattersley (The Edwardians) which is full of amusing details about this short era. For example, the ‘Thunderer’, or the London Times, discussed the well-known moral failings of the new king, saying that he had been ‘importuned by temptation in its most seductive forms’ and had no doubt prayed ‘Lead us not into temptation with a feeling akin to hopelessness’.
This must have been an intoxicatingly confident time to be alive, with still the Benthamite thought in the air that a better world was possible. No world wars, still the belief in the essential goodness of man. And then came the Kaiser, and the lights really did go out all over Europe, as Sir Edward Grey had so presciently predicted. And then came Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Pol Pot and their ‘willing executioners’. It’s hardly surprising that Existentialism started life in the Europe immediately after the Second World War, and hasn’t spread much beyond that continent. In comparison, much of North America seems stuck in time, still believing in Providence, with what appears as an almost child-like naiveté. Good books on this: Tony Judt’s Postwar; AC Grayling’s Being Good; and Barbara Tuchman’s The Proud Tower. Tuchman in particular writes with a clarity and such deft touches that history really does seem to come alive. I think she must have almost abandoned herself to living in the times she describes so well. In her introduction, she mentions her regret at having to discard so much good material. She feels the figures from the age ‘crowding around me now as I write’. Me too.
If we can be teleported across a spatial dimension, could we also be moved across time? If so, would you like to travel backwards or forwards, or remain firmly rooted in the present? I guess it depends on being sure that you could come back to the present. Perhaps before your Mum knew you’d been off somewhere without telling her. If she only knew!
I’d like to go back to the era of the Edwardians, that gilded time, in Britain at least, between the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 and the First World War in 1914. I suppose a reaction to the severe propriety of the Victorian times, ruled over by the ‘widow of Windsor’, was only to be expected---but, boy, did they go for it! Led by the new King, Edward, who had been waiting for the throne for sixty years, there was a sort of louche vulgarity which I find appealing in its honesty. Those people just had a good time without worrying about what other people thought. It reminds me a bit of Hong Kong: sometimes flashy and tasteless (to some people at least) but with no inhibitions at all. There is something fresh and vital about the approach to life. Go for it!
There’s an excellent book by Roy Hattersley (The Edwardians) which is full of amusing details about this short era. For example, the ‘Thunderer’, or the London Times, discussed the well-known moral failings of the new king, saying that he had been ‘importuned by temptation in its most seductive forms’ and had no doubt prayed ‘Lead us not into temptation with a feeling akin to hopelessness’.
This must have been an intoxicatingly confident time to be alive, with still the Benthamite thought in the air that a better world was possible. No world wars, still the belief in the essential goodness of man. And then came the Kaiser, and the lights really did go out all over Europe, as Sir Edward Grey had so presciently predicted. And then came Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Pol Pot and their ‘willing executioners’. It’s hardly surprising that Existentialism started life in the Europe immediately after the Second World War, and hasn’t spread much beyond that continent. In comparison, much of North America seems stuck in time, still believing in Providence, with what appears as an almost child-like naiveté. Good books on this: Tony Judt’s Postwar; AC Grayling’s Being Good; and Barbara Tuchman’s The Proud Tower. Tuchman in particular writes with a clarity and such deft touches that history really does seem to come alive. I think she must have almost abandoned herself to living in the times she describes so well. In her introduction, she mentions her regret at having to discard so much good material. She feels the figures from the age ‘crowding around me now as I write’. Me too.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
A raccoon on my front lawn
The other evening, I looked out of my bedroom window and there was a raccoon on the front lawn. Bold as brass, he was. I called the rest of the family who said he looked very cute. But if the animal on the front lawn had been a biggish rat, would the family reaction have been so taken with our visitor?
A while ago, an Italian told me that friends who come and stay in your house are like fish. Welcome at first, but after three days rather smelly and should be got rid of. Perhaps it’s the same for the animals who live with us in cities. Harry Eyres from the Financial Times makes the same point but in reverse, discussing why sparrows might have left London. He puts out seeds and tries to encourage birds into his garden. He’s only recently moved in, and he says that the birds make him feel right at home. He goes on to describe the significant loss of bird species that the planet is experiencing, and that loss is down to human activities.
On the same theme, the CBC recently carried an interesting radio programme about how we, as humans, relate to the other animals we live with. I say ‘live with’ but perhaps I should say ‘we have come to live among’ because it is we have moved into their habitat. That raccoon on my lawn might have been justified in thinking ‘who is that visitor peeping at me?’ Incidentally, the presenter mentioned that the raccoon had been most successful at taking advantage of human occupation. They come out mostly at night, so they don’t attract too much attention. And their fur is marked with bands of white, making them somehow seem cleaner—especially when compared to a rat.
The programme also dwelt at some length on the changing fortune of the pigeon. I had thought that somehow the dove and the pigeon were different species, but I was put right. The dove of the Bible is a messenger of peace, and still carries that message. We talk of ‘hawks’ and ‘doves’. Until fairly recently, it was considered quite acceptable to feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, and somewhere there is a photo of my brother aged about three doing just that. He had put his head down on the ground to say hello to the pigeons, eye to eye. Now the pigeons are considered vermin, are scared off with birds of prey, and feeding them is an anti-social act. Their role as carriers of messages during the First World War is an interesting story. There is a story, which I haven’t checked, that a pigeon won an award for bravery in that war.
A while ago, an Italian told me that friends who come and stay in your house are like fish. Welcome at first, but after three days rather smelly and should be got rid of. Perhaps it’s the same for the animals who live with us in cities. Harry Eyres from the Financial Times makes the same point but in reverse, discussing why sparrows might have left London. He puts out seeds and tries to encourage birds into his garden. He’s only recently moved in, and he says that the birds make him feel right at home. He goes on to describe the significant loss of bird species that the planet is experiencing, and that loss is down to human activities.
On the same theme, the CBC recently carried an interesting radio programme about how we, as humans, relate to the other animals we live with. I say ‘live with’ but perhaps I should say ‘we have come to live among’ because it is we have moved into their habitat. That raccoon on my lawn might have been justified in thinking ‘who is that visitor peeping at me?’ Incidentally, the presenter mentioned that the raccoon had been most successful at taking advantage of human occupation. They come out mostly at night, so they don’t attract too much attention. And their fur is marked with bands of white, making them somehow seem cleaner—especially when compared to a rat.
The programme also dwelt at some length on the changing fortune of the pigeon. I had thought that somehow the dove and the pigeon were different species, but I was put right. The dove of the Bible is a messenger of peace, and still carries that message. We talk of ‘hawks’ and ‘doves’. Until fairly recently, it was considered quite acceptable to feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, and somewhere there is a photo of my brother aged about three doing just that. He had put his head down on the ground to say hello to the pigeons, eye to eye. Now the pigeons are considered vermin, are scared off with birds of prey, and feeding them is an anti-social act. Their role as carriers of messages during the First World War is an interesting story. There is a story, which I haven’t checked, that a pigeon won an award for bravery in that war.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
A sad day for John-Paul
One can’t help feeling that a little (or perhaps a lot) of the image of the French has been lost today---fumeurs are now forbidden to light up at will in cafes. Some ingenious methods have been suggested to get round this tiresome new law. A cafe-owner in Lyon, Liberation reports, will himself pay the fines of his smoking clients, financed by the sale of used ashtrays over the Internet. The ashtray becomes a work of art, but one wonders just how many people will buy such ‘art’, with a reserve price of 200 euros.
I smoked my first pipe on my sixteenth birthday, having been enthralled since about the age of ten by a series of George Simenon’s detective novels Maigret on the television. My father used to watch Maigret with regularity on the hand-me-down black and white set we had, and sometimes we kids could sit in on the show. In the introductory part of each episode, you see Maigret walking down a little cobble-stoned alley in foggy darkness, pause, light a match using the sole of shoe, get his pipe going, then walk on. It was extraordinarily romantic. I don’t smoke with any regularity at all now, but I still have some pipes in a drawer. I can’t remember whether this early Maigret was dubbed or made by a British company. Certainly it wasn’t in French.
There is a newer version (in French), starring Bruno Kremer. The pipes are still smoked but the match-striking has gone. You can still watch some of the series on MySpace. Incidentally, at the end of the war, Simenon was worried about being labelled a collaborator because three of his books had been made into films by a German company. Nothing happened, of course.
From experience, I can say that drawing on a well-lit pipe does seem to promote a reflective state of mind, but that might be that there is little else you can do with a piece of briar stuck in your mouth. But the question remains: if we lose the ability to smoke in cafes, do we lose some of the insights that might go along with the smoke? Think of John-Paul Sartre, puffing away at the same table year after year, thinking and writing the most original of thoughts. What if we could carry on smoking?
There are two main objections to smoking: the habit causes respiratory diseases, and some people don’t like the smell. Now, try this thought experiment: let’s say that the combination of genes that allow lung cancer to develop can be identified and ‘turned off’, meaning that I could smoke with impunity. Would I go back to my pipes? Would anyone have any reason to stop me?
I smoked my first pipe on my sixteenth birthday, having been enthralled since about the age of ten by a series of George Simenon’s detective novels Maigret on the television. My father used to watch Maigret with regularity on the hand-me-down black and white set we had, and sometimes we kids could sit in on the show. In the introductory part of each episode, you see Maigret walking down a little cobble-stoned alley in foggy darkness, pause, light a match using the sole of shoe, get his pipe going, then walk on. It was extraordinarily romantic. I don’t smoke with any regularity at all now, but I still have some pipes in a drawer. I can’t remember whether this early Maigret was dubbed or made by a British company. Certainly it wasn’t in French.
There is a newer version (in French), starring Bruno Kremer. The pipes are still smoked but the match-striking has gone. You can still watch some of the series on MySpace. Incidentally, at the end of the war, Simenon was worried about being labelled a collaborator because three of his books had been made into films by a German company. Nothing happened, of course.
From experience, I can say that drawing on a well-lit pipe does seem to promote a reflective state of mind, but that might be that there is little else you can do with a piece of briar stuck in your mouth. But the question remains: if we lose the ability to smoke in cafes, do we lose some of the insights that might go along with the smoke? Think of John-Paul Sartre, puffing away at the same table year after year, thinking and writing the most original of thoughts. What if we could carry on smoking?
There are two main objections to smoking: the habit causes respiratory diseases, and some people don’t like the smell. Now, try this thought experiment: let’s say that the combination of genes that allow lung cancer to develop can be identified and ‘turned off’, meaning that I could smoke with impunity. Would I go back to my pipes? Would anyone have any reason to stop me?
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