Category: Misc

An Experiment

I have long said that The United States of America is an experiment, that democracy itself is an experiment.  There is no guarantee this is going to last.  There is no guarantee this is going to work.  I often ask myself why we stay together as a nation when everyone hates each other as much as we do.
Buford Lister (personal communication)

 

I remember hearing about The Great Melting Pot when I was in grade school.  We all said our Pledge of Allegiance every morning; then we learned about how different America is because we mix all races and creeds to form one nation.  I have been thinking a lot about that recently.

Is The United States a melting pot?  Ask that to the people in Little Italy, or Chinatown, or a Slavic Village; the kinds of places you find in any big city.  Then stumble through that city’s neighborhoods and let me know how many have a melting pot character.  I doubt you will find many.  I sometimes wonder if the vast majority of people prefer others that look like them and think like them.  Just because I enjoy interacting with people from differing backgrounds doesn’t mean that other people do.

I have come to view the melting pot theory of America as false.  Indeed, it is easier to argue for its veracity on the coasts, but middle America doesn’t seem too interested in such things.  In fact, they seem to embrace the opposite.

What does this say about the experiment that is The United States?  I think the false melting pot idea can tell us a lot.  I also believe that a little history can inform this discussion.

A long time ago, a very long time ago, I was an archaeologist.  Archaeologists have a different perspective on lots of things.  Many (if not most, or all) of the great civilizations we studied reached their apex long before the idea of The United States was conjured up.  As we explored the rubble left behind (because that is all that was left behind), it wasn’t that big a leap to imagine what might happen in the future.  It seems likely that any world power will have its run and then will be surpassed.  When you broaden your time perspective, that is simply the way of the world.

Anyone objecting yet?  Do you agree with that assessment?  We only have to look back a couple of decades to see the collapse of The Soviet Union.  One day they were there, fighting a cold war with the West, and then they were gone, dissolved, a mere figment of a troubled experiment.

Author’s Note: I will never forget what happened one day in a seminar I was taking at Harvard.  The course, on the relationship between technology and utopian ideals, was taught in the History of Science department.  We were meeting when The Soviet Union officially fell.  The professor, a man of deeply held convictions, cried in the classroom as he talked about the collapse.  He was tremendously disappointed; he viewed capitalism with disdain, disliking the advantage those with power had over the others.  His position was well thought out; Harvard University is not the kind of place where people run around shouting slogans without having the substance to back up their claims.  He was an interesting man, and yes, he most certainly was a Marxist.

So, what of our democratic experiment?  As you know, the tone of discourse in the USA today is not polite and intelligent.  From what I can tell, you are either a hawk or a dove, a conservative or a liberal, or a Republican or a Democrat.   We are fighting an Uncivil War with the definition of what it means to be American at the heart of the battle.

People are fundamentally a Republican, a Democrat, or an Independent.  I believe that very few people are identifying as generic Americans.  Politicians are indeed guilty of this.  Often, the people on the other side of an issue are viewed as un-American or worse.  Perhaps most disturbing is that anyone who disagrees with you is an idiot,  a blubbering idiot, or a fascist.  There is no room for nuance; there is only emotion.  Such are the products of an Uncivil War.

The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that The United States of America could easily break apart.  I am not sure what binds the educated professional living in a big city on one of the coasts with the uneducated people populating the middle.  Of course, I realize this is a broad generalization, but you know exactly what I mean; look at a Red and Blue map of any recent Presidential election.  I would argue that a lot more separates those that identify as Red from those who consider themselves Blue than unites them.  I don’t see where the idea of America and its phantom melting pot meet.

Suppose we are to dissolve the union in my lifetime. In that case, I think that abortion might be the single topic that pushes individual states over the edge.  Everything is in place; there is a strong chance that Roe will be overturned.  I am reasonably sure the case for the Supreme Court is already in place.  If (or when) that happens, the relationship between the Red and the Blue states will become even more fractured.

Suppose the abortion issue does not literally split us apart. In that case, I think there are several more topics we need to consider.  These have to do with an educated electorate, the inevitable coming of intelligent robots, and growing income inequality.

I have a friend living in California.  He doesn’t make a lot of money, so the California health care system charges him around $20 a month for full coverage.  He is originally from Texas.  I asked him if Texas succeeded from the USA if he would go back home or stay in California.  He didn’t even hesitate; he said he would move back to Texas, too many liberals with their socialist policies in California for his tastes.  I didn’t ask him how much he was willing to pay for health care to “live free.”  I assure you it would be more than $20 a month, almost certainly more than $20 a day for what might be inadequate health insurance.

I know a young woman who does not make much money.  She has a job in the restaurant industry.  She enthusiastically voted for Trump.  Why?  Her primary issue was that she wanted abortion to remain safe and legal.  If you didn’t catch that, let me repeat her position.  She voted for Trump because she wished to keep abortion safe and legal.  When I tried to explain to her that she misunderstood his position, she blew me off as an uninformed bumpkin.  Sigh…

I know a retired man in his 70s.  He also voted for Trump because he is convinced that the Democrats are out to take away everyone’s social security.  According to him, they want to stop his payments, money he needs to survive.  I also heard this story from an older woman when Obama was running.  She insisted that, if elected, Obama was going to take her monthly check.  Once again, sigh…

My point is simple; we need an educated electorate for this country to survive.  Without this, we will keep electing leaders who do not believe in the value of Science and Mathematics.  We will have more leaders who say that pandemics are only liberal conspiracies.  Basic scientific facts are merely opinions, no better or worse than the ignorant view of anyone else.  The dissolution of The United States awaits us at the end of this path (the one peppered with alternative facts)  if we choose to continue to walk down it.  There are forks in the road, but I am pessimistic that we will take any of them.  It is much easier to remain angry and ignorant than to get educated and admit that views held for a lifetime are flat out wrong.

Author’s Note:  I have spent a lot of time around brilliant people and even more time in the company of not so smart people.  The town I grew up in (and now live in) consists of non-college-educated people; college graduates make up less than 5 percent of the population.  My mom was a coal miner’s daughter, and (after some research) it sure looks like my dad wasn’t only the first person in his family to graduate high school; he was the first even to attend.  That means that I have some interesting relatives from the hills.  Yes, both sides of my family are composed of “Sons (and Daughters) of the Soil.”  When one of them was told I was going to study at Harvard, he replied, “What’s that?”  When he learned it was a university, all he could say was, “Dey have a good football team?”  Even though a very small percentage of my aunts and uncles graduated from high school, many of my younger relatives have pulled themselves out of the cycle of ignorance.  Even though the odds were very much against them, they got a college education and are now contributing to society in ways their ancestors could never have imagined.

With my unusual background in mind, I can tell you that one set of people has very little in common with the other.  Of course, it is living as an American that binds them together, right?  Actually, I have never seen any evidence of a common thread between the two somewhat naively created groups.  I know for certain that my professors at Harvard did not see the world in the same way as some of my uncles.  I doubt the sky was even the same color.

So, is there still a chance the experiment can have a positive outcome?  I am pessimistic.  Rationality seems to have gone missing.  Math and Science are viewed with suspicion by a large percentage of the population.  The discourse, such as it is, has devolved into nothing but insults and angry slurs.  I don’t see a clear path out of this mess.  The easiest thing might be to call it a day and let the Red states form a union while the Blue states go their way.

There are a couple of other problems that we need to face.  The robots are coming.  Not a big deal, you say?  Did you ever see the Spongebob episode where Mr. Krabbs fired Spongebob because he realized he would make an extra 5 cents a week if he did the work himself?  Businesses in this country are going to do the same.  They will quickly replace humans not with Mr. Krabbs but with robots.  I don’t think there is much to debate on this issue.  And these robots are going to be extraordinary; I suspect they will replace many professionals.  Machine Learning algorithms are becoming more sophisticated every day.  Even some mathematicians think they might be replaced by computer code.

Perhaps a more immediate problem is the vast differences in income we see in this country.  If our current trajectory continues, we will have a nation of 30,000,000 lords and 270,000,000 serfs.  This situation will cause even more discord.  Will such a split in wealth help or hurt the experiment?  I don’t see how it helps.  I know it seems that the surfs are cheering the lords on, but I don’t see that continuing.  When the top ten percent of the population controls 90 percent of the wealth, such a situation’s sustainability becomes untenable.  Does anyone think that it is a good idea to let this happen?  I hear people talk about it, but no one is doing anything about it.

Sadly, the only thing that unites most of us as Americans is the historical accident of our birth.  In this era of social networking, where any and every crackpot idea is readily on display, the close proximity of our birthplaces will not provide a strong enough tie.  As the gulf between the rich and the poor, the educated and the ignorant, and the religious and the secular grow, so will the probability of our demise.  The idea to keep in mind is that it might very well be for the best.  Is it worth having a country where about 50 percent of the population despises the other half?  That is the fundamental question I am asking, Why should we stay together?  What is it about being American that will end the hate and discord?  What connects and unites us?

Take a close look around you.  Listen to what others are saying.  If your ears are keen and your mind is clear, you just might come to the conclusion that the correct answer is that there is nothing substantial uniting us.  If you must ask if a person is a Republican or a Democrat before you can decide if their behavior is criminal or not, perhaps we are beyond hope.  I don’t feel bad writing that; I think that the preponderance of evidence is in my favor.  Perhaps, one day, when future archaeologists are pawing through our rubble, they will come to the same conclusion.

 

 

 

 

A Writer’s Dilemma

How is your life going?  Do you wake up every morning wondering how many problems you are going to face that day?  Do you worry about how many fires you are going to have to put out?  Do you like living like that?  Do you ever wish life could be something other than one continual set of serial problems?

Many of us live our lives that way, especially now that Covid has decided to mutate on an accelerated schedule.  I hate to say this, but I heard from many knowledgeable people that there is a real chance that wearing masks and social distancing will be with us for a long time.  Some think it may be permanent.

So, what exactly is the dilemma for a writer here?  Most writer’s like to escape into the world they create.  Some like to idealize the world that is conjured up on the page.  People who write about Utopias do this.  They can slide right into the world they made and sit next to their favorite characters at a dinner table.

Of course, there is a problem.  No one wants to read about characters who don’t have any issues, who don’t have any obstacles they need to overcome.  If you are a writer and have a character you really like and admire, you have no choice; you have to have terrible things happen to them.  They can’t be allowed to skip through life without a worry.  How can anyone know what they are made of if their mettle is never tested?

This is how it goes; every main character has to have an arc. The central character has to change from the beginning to the end of the story.  If a character is going to start as a terrible human being on a trajectory toward redemption, many times, the beginning of the story has to be rewritten.  Why?  Often, the character is not lousy enough at the beginning.  The writer needs to adjust the character’s behavior to be more despicable at the beginning of the story: the bigger the arc, the more significant the impact.

There is one more writer’s trick that is necessary.  The main character has to want something.  Kurt Vonnegut (the late, great Kurt Vonnegut) once said that the character has to want as little as a glass of water, but they must want something.  He went on to say that the next step is to have terrible things happen to that person.  Deny them the water, make them work for it.  Make the reader root for that tall, cold glass, knowing they won’t get it until they pay some serious dues.

So, what’s the problem?  It is not easy to write a book with a world that a writer would want to escape to.  I recently told Buford Lister that I couldn’t change his backstory; I couldn’t give him a do-over.  I told him that no one would be interested in his story if everything came free and easy to him.  Who would care to read about his life if he never faced any dire straits?  Who would want to read about a guy born with a silver spoon who gets everything he ever wanted and dies happy?

The point is I can’t escape into the world of Buford Lister and Piper Pandora Pennington to get some relief from the daily grind of this Covid infested world.  The problems I face in the real world are used as inspiration for the nasty things that will happen to the fictional Iroquois County inhabitants.  I don’t get a sense of relief doing this; there is no outlet.  It is not a stress reliever.

Until the last couple of years, I would lace up my shoes and run for an hour or an hour and a half.  That is how this writer dealt with the stress of living in two exhausting worlds.  As I have written before, I can no longer run.  My right hip needs to be replaced.  It is getting worse by the day.  This unfortunate fact has created a lot of problems for me.

I wrote almost all of The Athena Chapters while running.  I thought up almost everything I have ever written while running.  I have a path through a cemetery, so I never had to worry about traffic.  I could listen to music and think about the stories I wanted to tell.  I can’t do that anymore.  The best I can do is jump on my Nordic Trak skier and hope I can make it an hour or so before my hip insists I stop.

Maybe one day, I will write a Utopian tale.  All the inhabitants will be happy and healthy.  No one will work themselves to death, and everyone will have plenty to eat.  Education will be free, and everyone will get as much of it as they want.  No one’s body or mind will ever betray them.  War and poverty will be long distant memories.  Now that I think about it, who would want to read that story?  What if I made it a futuristic dystopian tale of…

Well, you get the idea.

King of the Comma Splice

What is the most crucial factor if a person wishes to become a productive and successful writer?  Discipline? The fortitude to read lots and lots of books?  Education in the way of words?  Plenty of interesting and unusual life experiences? While all those things are important, I think there is another answer to the question.  Look no further than a competent and thoughtful editor.  Writing without an editor is very difficult, I know; I have never had one.  I have always had to edit everything myself.  That is, until recently…

I bought the Grammarly program a year or so ago.  It is fantastic.  It picks up many of the things I might miss while tapping away at the keys.  I will never write without it.  I wish I had it years ago; it would have made my life a lot easier.

Grammarly is a sophisticated program.  It asks for the style of writing you are striving for and then adjusts its comments accordingly.  And without it, I would never have known that I am the undisputed King of the Comma Splice.  After I finish the first draft of anything I am writing, and I tend to write very sloppy first drafts, I stop to read all of Grammarly’s suggestions.  The number one issue is always the comma splice.

A comma splice is a misuse of the comma.  The standard definition is that two independent clauses are improperly joined by a comma.  An independent clause is a group of words that can stand alone as their own sentence.  Here is an example:

Koala bears are not actually bears, they are marsupials.

I took this directly from the Grammarly website.  Of course, as soon as I typed it, my Grammarly program flagged it as a comma splice.  I like this example because I don’t see much wrong with the sentence.  It is the type of sentence I tend to write in first or second drafts.  The issue is that there is a consensus that the comma is not appropriate to use in this situation.  Grammarly always suggests that I replace it with a semicolon or split the sentence in two.

Here is another example from a couple of paragraphs ago:

I wish I had it years ago; it would have made my life a lot easier.

As soon as I typed that sentence, it was flagged.  The message was polite, more polite than my mental response.  Yes, of course, it is a comma splice.  Isn’t every sentence I write a comma splice?  As you can see, I chose a semicolon over splitting the sentence in two.  Nothing more than personal preference, nothing else to see here.  Let’s move along.

So, I have made it pretty clear that I know how to write with comma splices, and I also know how to edit my writing and fix them.  The title of this post says it all.  What you don’t know is that there is a Queen of the Comma Splice, and she writes far more of them than I could hope for.  The thing is, she leaves them in.  She does not take them out or massage her sentences in any meaningful way.  What is the big deal?  Well, millions of young people read her books, and she has tremendous influence over them.  Ostensibly, they are learning how to write while they are reading.  Her name is JK Rowling.  If you have been living on the moon, she wrote the Harry Potter books.

As I was researching the comma splice, I came across a bunch of angry and concerned English teachers. They have strong feelings about Rowling’s writing.  They are very upset at all the comma splices that can be found in her books.  Apparently, they number in the thousands.  I have never read her books, so I can’t speak to what may or may not be in there.  Other people, though, have gone through the texts and counted the comma splices.  I guess she really likes them.  I must admit I find it curious that she uses them.  I find it even more curious that her editor does not insist the sentences be changed.

There are instances where comma splices can be used to significant effect.  You can use such sentences to create specific moods if you are so inclined.  I think the type of mood being implied by a comma splice will get 10 different answers from 10 different writers.  I think most writers would just insert a semicolon and move on to the next paragraph.

In this post, we have learned that I am the King of the Comma Splice. Still, I must bend the knee to the undisputed Queen, the prolific and wealthy creator of Harry Potter and the world he inhabits.  It really is curious, isn’t it?  Maybe one day, she will ask to write a guest post on my blog explaining her position. We all know that is not going to happen, she will never make such an offer.  And yes, that last sentence is a comma splice.  I just can’t help myself.

 

 

Roman, Arabic, and…Cistercian?

 

We’ve all seen Roman Numerals.  For some reason, I was taught those letters at some point in grade school.  The odd thing is, none of my teachers ever taught me to add or subtract in that format.  How about multiplication or division?  If you ever tried it, you know that Roman Numerals do not lend themselves to such tasks.

The number system we use is typically called the Arabic System.  It includes a zero, and we can manipulate the numbers with ease. I’ll bet that it has never occurred to anyone reading this essay to try to do any math with Roman Numerals.  We can all agree that the approach we use is far superior.

During the Middle Ages, the Arabic System competed with Roman Numerals for dominance.  Roman Numerals are fine if you are writing dates or numbering the pages in a preface; other than that, they have little utility.

 

*****

 

Piper Pandora Pennington descended her attic room’s steps and landed outside the bedroom of her six-year-old sister, Susie.  She took a quick peek inside before she determined her next course of action.  She quickly decided that she needed to get to the kitchen for a bottled water and an apple before tackling the strange site in her sister’s room.

One quick trip later, Piper landed back at her sister’s door.

“Permission to enter, please.”

“Pi!.” Susie picked up Melvin, the stuffed octopus, and moved him side to side in a fit of excitement.

“Melvin, should we let Pi in?”

A muffled, poorly disguised voice said, “Sure, that sounds fine.”

At that moment, Dogzilla started a wrestling match with Pi’s left foot.  Before she could stop him, Dogzilla had removed her sock and was doing his best to eat it.

“Hey, stop that.  Dogzilla…No!”

He ignored her and kept at the sock.  He paused when Susie tapped her blackboard with a piece of chalk and announced, “Attention!  Attention!  Class come to order!”

Dogzilla, as if on cue, dropped the sock and sat down on the floor beside Melvin.  Piper found a place on the floor and waited with anticipation.

“Ok, class.  Today we will learn about a numbering system, and it’s not Roman Numerals or the Arabic one.   It is something different, and it is very cool.”

Piper got curious.  She knew nothing about another number system; she had never thought about it.  As she pondered this mystery, it occurred to her that Susie was capable of acting twenty years older than she actually was at times.  Most times, she was simply a six-year-old girl, but this was not one of them.

 

*****

 

During the Middle Ages, there was another, competing number system; a system few have ever heard of.  I just recently learned of its existence; it never came up when I was getting a graduate degree in the history of science at Harvard.  Nor did it turn up in any history of mathematics classes I have taken since I left Cambridge.  I was surprised when I recently came across The Cistercian System.  It is a bit odd and just as useless as Roman Numerals when it comes to manipulating numbers, but it has its charms.

 

*****

 

Susie took her piece of Hagoromo chalk and started drawing on the board.  Piper and Melvin sat at strict attention as Dogzilla sprinted to attack Susie’s foot.

“Ouch!  Dogzilla, stop it.  We can play in a little bit, but first, you need to hear this.”

Piper grabbed the furball and held him as Susie regained her composure.  Susie turned and drew a beautiful figure.

“That class…is 5863.”

Piper turned her head slightly to the left. “Really, little sis? I have never seen that before.”

“Yep, I saw it on a video, and I knew I better tell everyone.”

“Can you write out some more numbers?”

“Sure can Piper-o.”

Susie turned fully around in an attempt to disguise the drawing until it was done.  After a few moments, she turned and struck a pose.

“Ta-dah!”

“What is that one?” said Piper as she narrowed her eyes and concentrated.

“Mmmm…1234.”

“You mean one thousand two hundred and thirty-four?”

“Yep.”

As Piper studied the drawing,  she heard a buzz coming from the black box on Susie’s wall.  Karen, the girl’s stepmother, had hit the call button on the Raspberry Pi controlled intercom and said, “Susie, are you there?”

“Yep!”

“Susie, Mama Rose, and Papa Joey say they need your help with something.  They want you to go over there right now.”

Susie, feigning surprise, hit a dramatic pose, leaned in, pressed the button on the wall, and said, “Yep.”

Susie grabbed Melvin and ran into Piper’s arms. “Gotta go, sister-o.”

Piper kissed the top of her head and sent her on her way.  As she watched Susie and Melvin bound down the stairs, Pi was ambushed by Dogzilla, who was hiding under a dresser.  Piper picked him up and took the furball to her room, where they both were going to research this strange and mysterious Cistercian Number System.

 

*****

 

Who were The Cistercians?  You have probably heard of the Benedictine Monks; they are a well-known order of the Catholic Church.  The Cistercians are an offshoot of the Benedictines.  Basically, they thought that the Benedictines partied too much.  They weren’t quite aesthetic enough, or sufficiently fundamentalist, for the Cistercian’s tastes.  There are very few of them to be found nowadays, but they are not extinct.  Of course, they left behind this interesting and obscure numbering system.  Not a bad legacy.

 

*****

 

Piper placed Dogzilla on the floor.  She took a few chew toys off her desk and tossed them across the room.  She almost smiled as she watched Dogzilla attack the bone and rope.

“Alright, let’s get to work,” she said to no one.

She typed “Cistercian Numbering System” into Google and sat back as the results quickly populated her screen.

“Hmmm, I’ll be.  See that, Dogzilla?  There is such a thing.  Who knew?”

She looked at Dogzilla rolling on the floor with the rope, oblivious to the conversation she was trying to have with him.

“Well, I can see you are not going to be of much help.”

She read all there was to read about the numbering system.  Within about 30 seconds, she had a complete understanding of how it works.  It took her another second to dismiss the system as useless for her needs.  Still, she took a little more time to look at the construction of the numbers.  Really cool.

 

*****

 

The Cistercian System is best learned by studying examples of the numbers.  It is unnecessary to get into the mechanics of how the system works; there is not much to be discovered from that.  For instance, the system will not allow any number larger than 9999.  Like the Roman System, it makes no sense to try to add or subtract Cistercian Numbers.  About the only thing they are suitable for is numbering pages and writing dates.

I decided to write a post about these numbers because I was surprised to learn about them.  I don’t know how they have spent all this time eluding me.  I spent many years studying medieval science and mathematics, and I don’t understand how I missed this number system.  It doesn’t make any sense.

I will end this post with a few more examples of numbers written in Cistercian form.  Why?  Piper Pandora Pennington and her sister, Susie, are right.  These numbers look really cool.

                                    

     4892        5555         8321          6751

 

 

 

A Few of my Favorite Things

I have often written of my love for The Simpsons.  I still faithfully watch the television show, having never missed an episode.  The latest offering, aired just a few days ago, is one of my favorites.  This short post is about why I liked that 22 minutes more than most.

I usually try to avoid trailers of The Simpsons.  I don’t read the little blurbs about what the future episodes are supposed to be about; I like to be surprised.  Last Sunday, though, I was caught off guard when I found out that night’s program was not airing at its regular time of 8:00 PM.  Instead, my sources were telling me it was coming on at 9:00 PM.  Quite unusual.

Armed with this knowledge, I decided to try to find out why Fox fiddled with the time slot.  Was this a special episode?  Was the content a little more adult than usual?  As it turns out, the show was moved so that Fox could premiere a new show at The Simpsons’ normal time.

As I was researching the time change, I came across the description of The Simpsons’ episode being aired at 9:00 instead of 8:00.  When I saw that one of the guest stars was Bob Balaban, I took particular interest.  Balaban is one of the actors who shows up in Wes Anderson’s films.

Anderson tends to use the same cast of actors in his films.  Balaban is one of them.  People such as Jeff Goldbloom and Bill Murray are counted among the others.  I found it noteworthy that Balaban was guest-starring on The Simpsons.  I wondered what that was about.

Not long ago, Family Guy did a parody of Wes Anderson for part of its show.  Peter and the gang moved through an Anderson inspired space, speaking in an Anderson-esque way.  I was hoping that Balaban’s appearance meant that The Simpsons were going to do something similar.  I was not disappointed.

Near the end of the show, Homer and Marge were tasked with finding the childhood home of Jeff Albertson, aka Comic Book Guy.  Jeff had retreated to his family’s estate, leaving behind his wife and comic book shop.  When they arrived, the Wes Anderson parody/homage began.  It was well done.  I was surprised and pleased to see it.

I was most happy to know that the people working on The Simpsons have a high opinion of Anderson’s work.  After all, they never would have made that episode if the producers and writers didn’t find his work worthy.

2020 is over; I know everyone hopes that the new year brings better times for us all.  I have always seen January 1^st as just another day, not a time to turn over a new leaf or to resolve to do this or that.  The 3^rd of June is as good as any other day for such things.  I will say this, the episode of The Simpsons I just saw was better than anything I experienced in 2020.  Perhaps that episode will foreshadow better things for 2021.  If our lives were novels, and I was writing the stories, that might be something I would conjure up…and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

 

The Worst People in the World

I really, really hate those guys.
Buford Lister, personal communication

I have a list of the worst people I have ever known; it is not a written list.  I have it committed to memory; I will never forget who they are.  I don’t dwell on it, but I use it as inspiration for many of the things I write.  A few of those people could not help themselves; they simply didn’t know better.  Some of them were victims of circumstance; others were too self-centered to think of anyone other than themselves.  One of the people was a mean-spirited drunk, and he was always drunk.  Oddly, most of them are (or were) near Youngstown, Ohio.

This isn’t a post about those people; I don’t know what purpose such an essay would serve.  It is enough to see that they show up in one form or another in the stories I write.

This post is about a group of people, a loosely connected consortium, who share a love for one math problem.  These people are known as The Trisectors, and count yourself lucky if you have never met one.  They are often referred to as cranks, crackpots, and naïve ignoramuses.  And those remarks are among the kinder things said about them.

The story begins in 1837.  Pierre Wantzel, a French mathematician, published a complicated proof showing that the trisection of an arbitrary angle with just an unmarked straightedge and a compass is not possible.  No matter how hard you try or how smart you think you are, all attempts are doomed to spectacular failure.  Of course, The Trisectors ignore this nasty little fact.

This trisection problem dates back to ancient Greek mathematics.  You may have even heard about it in school.  Uninformed math teachers often tell their students that no one has ever been smart enough to trisect an arbitrary angle.  Ignorant of Wantzel’s proof, they send some unlucky students down a path of despair.  Not only is it impossible, but it is a tremendous waste of everyone’s time to make any attempt at all.  There is nothing to be gleaned from failed trisections.

Think of it this way, if I were to send you off with the task of finding two even numbers, any two, that when added together give you an odd number, what would you do?  Would you spend decades trying to find the elusive answer?  Perhaps you would realize what a terrific waste of time the question is, and you would quickly move on to something else.

What if I asked you to think really hard about finding a power of 2 that is evenly divisible by 3?  It is not possible; there is no such number.  In very simplified terms, this is why the type of trisection we are talking about is impossible.

Underwood Dudley, a mathematician with a great name, collects as many of these attempts at trisection that he can find.  He has written a book about The Trisectors, including advice about what to do when you run across one.  The book is called Mathematical Cranks, and I hope he is writing part two as I write this post.  The world deserves nothing less.  By the way, the best advice seems to be to run as fast as you can in any direction when confronted by a Trisector.

It has been a while since I have come across a true Trisector.  They are probably laying in wait, polishing up their “proofs,” binding them in leather, preparing for the opportunity to spring them on me.  The next time I meet one, I will tell them that what they are trying to do is impossible.  After they argue for a bit, I will tell them about Wantzel’s proof.  The bottom line is, if they want any chance for their “proof” to be considered, they must first find a mistake in Wantzel’s work.  Try as they might, they won’t find one.

So, we have a mathematical proof that it can’t be done, but that does not stop The Trisectors.  They waste vast amounts of time writing and then rewriting their “proofs.”  It is an embarrassment.  One thing they are fond of doing is sending their indecipherable work to math departments all over the world.  After all, who else could possibly recognize their genius?

I will end this post on a positive note.  I hope everyone smiles when they hear what math departments do with the goofy, impossible “proofs” they receive on a weekly basis.   Let’s say that Fred Gorman sends in a 150 page “proof” of his brilliant trisection to the math department at Reederstock University in Iroquois County.  A couple of days later, Laszlo Crump sends in a “proof” of his brilliant approach to the trisection problem.  Now that the stage is set, consider the following letters that the department secretary sends out a few days later…

Dear Mr. Gorman,

Thank you for your proof.  As our department does not have anyone expert enough to vet your mathematics, we would like to put you in touch with an expert in your field.  Laszlo Crump can be reached at…

Dear Mr. Crump,

Thank you for your proof.  As our department does not have anyone expert enough to vet your mathematics, we would like to put you in touch with an expert in your field.  Fred Gorman can be reached at…

Odds are that both men will report back to the math department that the other guy is crazy and talked nothing but nonsense.  What is certain is that as long as Underwood Dudley is alive, he will be receiving recycled, unintelligible “proofs” from naïve ignoramuses.  The Trisectors and their band of slack-jawed yokels are going to die hard.

 

A Problem with a Goat and a Rope

I heard some news the other day.  A man named Ingo Ullisch, a German mathematician, has solved The Tethered Goat Problem.  Does that mark a significant achievement in the advancement of science?  Probably not, but Ullisch did some excellent work.

The problem seems pretty straightforward.  You are presented with a goat that is tethered to a fence post on the edge of an enclosed circular space.  In this case, the grazing area is precisely 1 acre.  The question is: How long a rope do you need such that the goat can graze on exactly ½ of the available land?  I have included a figure below.

Download (PDF, 125KB)

Oddly enough, I had never heard of this problem.  I decided to sit down to see if I could solve it.  I used analytic geometry to come up with my answer.  It didn’t take me long, I got the answer on my 6^th attempt of informed estimation.  Of course, there is a problem; my answer is considered an approximation; it is simply not good enough for the Mathematical Gods.  They tend to be sticklers for precision.

Ullisch used Complex Analysis to get his answer.  He has imaginary numbers floating around his equations in an “imaginative” way.  This strategy leads him to what mathematicians call a Closed-Form solution to the problem.  Now The Gods are happy, and life can get back to normal.

That is about it for this little problem.  I will say this, without a computer and a piece of software written to do analytic geometry, I would never have attempted to find a solution.  After all, The Collatz Conjecture is still out there, mocking me and everyone else who has heard of it.

 

 

The Art of the Eavesdrop, Part Two

 

Something extraordinary happened to me the other day.  I decided to write a  post to let everyone know exactly what happened.  It was confusing; I remain astonished.

My story begins at The Red Cat Café, one of Iroquois County’s finer dining establishments.  I was sitting alone in a corner booth.  I was wearing my homemade headphones, Mozart blasting through the wires leading to my ears.  I had in front of me a draft of a novel I am trying to finish.  I guess it was the tenth draft of this project.  I remember thinking that I might be getting to the point where the novel was not getting any better; it was simply becoming slightly different.  For me, that is the hardest thing about writing, knowing when a novel is done, knowing when the draft I am working on should be the finished product.

I was deep into a sentence.  It didn’t sound right to me; there was something about the cadence that seemed off.  When that happens, the best thing to do is rewrite it and get on with your life.  Almost always, that means that I chop it up; one long sentence becomes two or three smaller ones.  I was busy trying to make such a decision when I felt someone walk toward my table.  When I looked up, I saw a figure sitting across from me.

“Hello.”

“Man, can’t you see I am busy.  As you know, this work is important.”

“Trust me; I know its value.”

“Then why are you disturbing me?  Some might think you a bit rude.”

“I suppose, but we need to talk.  I have a request.”

“I don’t do requests.  You know that.”

“I understand.  I am asking you to set a meeting.  That is all.  I will make my intentions known to the other party.”

“The other party?  Are you serious?  Your level of respect is about ten rungs below where it should be.”

“Are you going to do it or not?”

“If I do set this meeting, I want you to know I am doing it only out of morbid curiosity.  I am not in the business of doing you any favors.  You are becoming more of an annoyance than anything else.”

“Not much I can do about that.”

“You are correct.  You ready to meet right now?”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

Have you ever been in a situation where you can predict precisely what is going to happen?  Perhaps a couple of your friends come together.  You know what the conversation will be about based on their personalities.  You might even be able to predict the sentences.  How about if two people come together as a couple, and you know the relationship will be a slow-motion train wreck?  Ever seen that?  I knew exactly what was going to happen, but I set the meeting anyway.

The next day I was back at The Red Cat; this time, I had my computer out on the table.  I had decided that the novel I was working on, which was creating more problems for me than it was going to solve, needed to be put away for a while.  That is another common strategy.  I always try to let projects sit before they near publication.  I am in no hurry.

One moment I was alone; the next, I was joined by Buford Lister.  Once again, he sat across from me.  He looked disheveled and disoriented.  If I didn’t know better, I would think he had been up all night working on some project or working on the beginning of an epic bender.

“Is he coming?  Did you set the meeting?”

“Set it yourself.  You are a powerful man.  You have lots of money; I am sure you could buy a meeting if you really wanted one.”

“You know I can’t do that.  He would never, ever take a call from me.  That is just the nature of reality.”

“Your reality, mine is much different.  I would have thought you would know that.”

The old man became more and more agitated as he reached into his green backpack, removed a large can of beer, and started to drink.

“Sir, excuse me Sir, but you can’t drink that here.  What made you think you can bring your own beer into this restaurant when we sell it.”

The server looked the old man over, her disgust growing stronger with each passing second.

“Young lady, just put the corkage fee on my tab.”

“What’s that?”

“Ahhh, go ask a manager.  I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“Miss, Buford Lister here is referring to the special relationship he has with The Red Cat.  I haven’t seen you before, so I know you must be new.  When did you start?”

“I have only been here for a few days.”

“Just go have a chat with a manager; they will explain what you need to do.  And if I may, we are expecting a guest.  You will recognize him by his pork pie hat and checkerboard Vans.”

“What is a pork pie hat?”

“OK, just keep a lookout for the shoes.”

As she walked away, I could see Ryan-Tyler N. Mason approach.  I quickly moved to an adjacent table to give the two men some privacy.  I didn’t want to hear this; I was too embarrassed for Buford Lister to listen to what was about to happen.  I did, though, record it.

BL: Good to see you.  I am glad you agreed to see me.

The transcript reveals around 30 seconds of uncomfortable silence.

RTNM: So, what do you want?

BL: I wanted to talk to you; I need to speak with you about a couple things.

RTNM: I am listening.

BL: I want a do-over.  I want to do the whole thing again, but I want to do it right.

RTNM: Good luck with that.

BL: Please, I am not one to beg, but I will beg if you make me.  You have it in your power to…

RTNM: Unbelievable.  Truly astonishing.  What makes you think I can do this?  Not that I would, but what makes you think I have that kind of power?  You are surprisingly clueless.

BL: I am certainly not clueless; I am desperate.

I remained silent.  At this point in their conversation, I had predicted the content and their individual word choice with 100% accuracy.  I ordered a celebration size beer, room temperature, and settled in.

RTNM: Are you, the great Buford Lister, telling me that you have regrets?  Are you trying to say that you want me to make you young again so you can be famous for being a world-class mathematician instead of a ridiculous poker player? Good luck.

BL: I know you can do it.  I am humbly asking for some help.

RTNM:  Perhaps you are looking to change your personal history.  Would you like to go back in time and lock a particular gun cabinet, thereby saving the life of your young wife?

BL: Please, help me.

RTNM: You don’t get it.  The only reason you are of interest to anyone is because of the things that eat at you every day of your life.  It is your tragic and conflicted nature that allows you to live.  If you were a happy person who had lived a fulfilling life, no one would care.

BL: That is not true.

RTNM: It most certainly is.

At this point, I was ready to go home.  My beer was empty, and I was becoming embarrassed for both of them.  I decided to intervene.

THE WRITER:  All right, enough of this nonsense.  You both are confused and ignorant.  I will try to enlighten you.  Sit back and listen.  There is a person called the author.  That is usually one person, but it doesn’t have to be; people do collaborate.  After that, there is someone called the implied author.  You can read my books, but you don’t ever really learn anything about me.  You only learn what the implied author allows you to know.  Then, of course, is the pen name, the nom de plume, the writers’ quintessential mask.   You, Buford Lister, while you may be asking a legitimate question, are asking the wrong person.  Your salvation is not to be found in Ryan-Tyler N. Mason, nor is it to be found in me.

RTNM: How is that a legitimate question?  He is asking to be made young again.  He wants his story changed.  He wants a second chance.  No one gets a do-over simply because they ask for it.

THE WRITER: Possibly.  As for you, your problem is specific to people in your line of work.  You have no clue how easily you can be replaced.  You might walk out that door and be mauled by a bear, the one who just made its way out of the woods and is walking down the middle of Main Street.  If some type of tragedy were to befall you, life here, in this universe, would go on seamlessly.  No one would even take a second to mourn your passing.  I can’t think of a single person that would care.

RTNM: Well, I don’t…

THE WRITER: You don’t what?  You don’t agree with my analysis of the value of your life?  Tell me, what exactly are you going to do about it? I’ll sit right here while you do your worst.  Go ahead, I am waiting. C’mon, conjure up something good.

RTNM: I am trying, but I can’t think of anything. I’ve got nothing, nothing at all.

“Oh, my gawd!  Look, it’s a bear!”

The patrons turned to look out toward Main Street.  Sure enough, there he was, a young adult brown bear walking down the middle of the street like he owned it. Within moments, groups of townspeople came running out of the buildings to hurl objects at the critter.  Batteries, stones, cans of food, whatever they had.  The bear picked up speed, rounded a corner, and was gone.

“Someone should call the police.”

“In all my life, I have never seen a bear in this town.”

“Well, now, I have seen it all. A bear walking down Main Street.”

The people in the café were in no mood to settle down and go back to their meals.  After all, they had just experienced something highly unusual.  Even though the authorities knew that young adult male black bears were coming in from Pennsylvania, they didn’t necessarily want that fact to become common knowledge.  The bears were not aggressive, and if left alone, they wouldn’t pose any problem.

THE WRITER: Well, you should probably head on out there to make sure that bear is safe.  We wouldn’t want any of the locals to hurt him, would we?

RTNM: You have got to be kidding me.

BL: I’ll go.

THE WRITER: You will do no such thing.  Listen closely, Buford Lister; in your life, you have been through the pit of Hell and back.  You have had several terrible things happen to you.  At this point, having you get attacked by a bear would be gratuitous.  It would be totally unnecessary, it would serve no purpose, and it would tend to make people very angry.

BL: Why’s that?

THE WRITER: People like happy endings.  They do not want to see a man suffer most of his life only to endure more pain at the end.  People live off hope.  Human beings believe in redemption.  They have to; without the belief in a brighter future, many would give up.  They would die long before they are dead.  So, you, Buford Lister, can remain seated.  You, Ryan-Tyler N. Mason, can go check on the bear.  Take a good look around, see if anyone will tell you which direction he went.  We really want to keep that bear safe.

RTNM: Sure.

As he left, I turned my attention back to Buford Lister.  I took a good look at him.  He was getting old, his body had started betraying him years ago, but I knew that wasn’t his biggest concern.  Any mathematician will tell you that their most productive years come when they are young.  The phrase “aging mathematician” is never used in a positive context.  An old mathematician like Buford Lister can spend a lot of time lamenting their declining mental abilities.  That is simply the way of the world.

BL: What’s going to happen to him, to RTNM?

THE WRITER: I don’t care.  I’m sure he will search for the bear.  Maybe he will find it, and perhaps he won’t.  It really does not matter.  These stories are about you and your more or less tragic life.  More catastrophic at the beginning, I think, than at the end, but that remains to be seen.  I can not predict the future.

BL: So, there is nothing you are willing to do for me?

THE WRITER: You still don’t get it; there is nothing I can do for you.  Think about it this way, use a simple rule- “I can’t do something for you that I couldn’t do for myself.”  Think about that before you approach me in the future.

It is time to go, that unwelcome intruder, that nasty interloper, has just shown up, and I am in no mood to deal with more nonsense today.  Do us all a favor, when you come across an Omniscient Narrator, run for the hills.  Those things have no respect for anyone’s privacy.

 

The Art of the Eavesdrop, Part One

There once was a famous course taught at Harvard University by three very well-known professors.  The course was called Thinking About Thinking, and the professors were Stephen Jay Gould, Alan Dershowitz, and Robert Nozick.  The course was taught at The Science Center, a building outside Harvard Yard that looks like an old-fashioned Polaroid camera placed on its side.  Way back when, during the time I was wandering around the campus, there was a café on the first floor.  Our story begins in that café.

One day I was sitting in the café, drinking a large diet coke and minding my own business, when the three professors sat down at a table right next to me.  What was I supposed to do?  They were grabbing a bite to eat before their class started, and I was sitting within easy earshot.  Of course, I settled in and listened.  I didn’t make it too obvious; I just made sure my internal audio antenna was pointed in their direction.

The next week I went back to see if they would appear again.  They did, and, once again, I was sitting right beside them.  This went on for much of the semester.  None of the discussions were scientific, legal, or philosophical in nature; they were all about baseball.  What else were they going to discuss?  They had to save the good stuff, the thinking about thinking stuff, for the classroom, right?

Author’s Note:  The following story is true.  I happened to witness the whole thing.  Once again, I was sitting alone in a booth at The Red Cat Café (minding my own business, as usual) when Buford Lister and Piper Pandora Pennington sat down beside me.  I was wearing a pair of homebuilt over-ears headphones that not only were noise-canceling but, at the flip of a switch, transformed into spy speakers.  I don’t really want to explain why I built such a device; it is not central to our story, but I will say the headphones acted much better than any hearing aid you might get from a doctor.  Oh yeah, they also have Bluetooth recording capabilities.  As I already stated, you don’t need any details.

Buford Lister looked the young girl over.  He checked off each part of her uniform.  White Daniel Johnston “Hi, How Are You?” t-shirt.  Check.  Black yoga pants at least a size too small. Check.  Checkerboard Vans, no socks. Check.  Old school Oakley sunglasses with built-in mp3 player.  Check.  Black backpack nearly as large as she is.  Check.  Ratty, black Bad Brains hat turned backward.  Check.

“All right, young lady. What’s up today?”

She sat silently.  I could hear the ruffling of some papers.  I wasn’t at a booth where I could see them.  I could only listen to what was going on.

“Well, if you don’t have anything to say, I might as well head home and take a nap.”

“I just read that mathematicians might be totally replaced by computers.  Pretty soon, computers are going to be able to do proofs.”

“And your question is…”

“Duh! I don’t have a question.  That was just an observation.”

“Yes.  A very interesting one.  I have thought for a long time that computers are eventually going to replace almost everyone.  That is just part of the deal.”

“I didn’t make any deal.”

“No, but one was implied when your presence graced the world.  You didn’t have a choice; it is just part of the human experience.”

“What am I supposed to do?  Do I stop studying math and take a deep dive into programming the computers that are going to take over?”

“I want to tell you a little story.  We are going way back in time for this one.  I have memories of watching the original Star Trek TV series many, many decades ago.  What caught my attention about that show was that they rarely mentioned money.  It soon dawned on me that those on the ship were not doing a job for pay; they weren’t working to accumulate wealth.  There was something else going on.  One day it dawned on me; they were working to improve themselves.  That was the point of their existence.  They wanted to make themselves better, thereby making those around them better.  That was the point. “

“And your point is?”

“My point is an important one.  Those fictional characters offer an example for all of us.  We should all try to make the world a better place.  It seems to me that the easiest way we can do that is by learning as much as we can and then applying that knowledge in the best way we see fit.  The hope is that by improving ourselves, we can elevate everyone.”

“Yeah, playing poker is an honorable way to spend one’s time, isn’t it?”

“My story is not an average story.  It does not apply due to lots of different circumstances.”

“You mean like the ones in this book?”

“I haven’t read it.  I know exactly what happened.  I don’t need to read some outsider’s account of my life.  I lived it.”

“Well, duh!  I guess your life has been a bit unusual, but that still doesn’t explain why you waste so much time playing poker.”

“Luckily, I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“I guess not, but it would be OK if you did.”

“Unfortunately, we are not evolved enough as a species as the people in Star Trek were.  My grandfather used to say to me, ‘People say money isn’t everything but just you try living without it.’ Of course, he was right.”

“What did your grandfather do for a living?”

“Coal miner.  He had a hard life.  He would be happy to know you don’t have such struggles with money.”

“Yeah, yeah.  My dead mother left me a lot of money.  Would he be happy about that?  Would he be happy about how I got to be rich?”

“OK, listen.  The point I am making is that the answer to every question in the world is the same.  I don’t care what the question is; ask any question you like.  The answer is always money.  Money will usually be the direct answer, and sometimes it will be the indirect answer.  Look close, and you will find it.”

“So that is why you play poker, money?”

“That is the only reason I play.  I am very, very good at it.  I make lots of money.  Dump trucks full of money.”

“Ptttfff…you just said…”

“I said that we as a species are not yet evolved enough to give money up.  And I’ll tell you one thing – for me, money is freedom.  It gives me the free time to work on my math problems, to meet with you, to do all the other things I want.”

“So, you are not wasting time by playing poker?”

“Oh, I am certainly wasting time.  I can’t think of any other place that is a bigger waste than sitting at a poker table.  Unfortunately, I need to do it.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Look, physicians make a difference every day.  Most people in the medical field do.  Their life’s work is an accumulation of all the good they do throughout their careers.  Every night they can go home knowing that they made the world a better place.  If you choose to be a physician, that is the kind of life you will lead.”

“Why would I do that?  They are going to be replaced by computers, just like everyone else.”

“I think that is correct.  Geneticists will take over for the family doctors, and then the computers will replace the geneticists.  Surgeons will lose out to the robots, and on and on we go.”

“So, what am I supposed to do?”

“The good news is that hopefully, this will free us all up to live in a society more like the one on Star Trek.  Maybe we can all work to improve ourselves instead of wasting time working to accumulate wealth.  I certainly won’t live to see it, and you might not either, but I hope that we eventually get there.”

“Uhhh…”

“I can help guide you; I can nudge you, I can point you in different directions.  I can steer you away from dangerous bunny holes like The Collatz Conjecture. Still, I can’t know what ultimately inspires you.  I can only throw darts and hope that something sticks.”

“I’m a dartboard?”

“You are a twelve-year-old genius that I am hoping does not decide to lead a life of destruction.  I know how angry you are, and I have seen what anger can do to a person.”

“People are so stupid…”

“I understand that.  If only everyone were as smart as you…”

“Then, the world would be a very different place.”

“Yes, it would.  Unfortunately, you are special.  And as such, you have an obligation to make a contribution to humanity.”

“I don’t owe anything.”
“So you say.  My hope is that as you get older, your attitude will change.  Maybe you will end up at Harvard in a few years.  There you will be surrounded by people who feel that responsibility and they just might rub off on you.”

“Pfffttt…”

“You are young, rich, brilliant, beautiful beyond words, and white—most people living in the world today experience things much differently than you do.  For them, this is a very different planet.  Even in this country, most people live paycheck to paycheck.  Their struggle is real.”

“Yeah…well…”

“Tell me…how many poor people do you know?”

“I see them all the time; they are always around the library.”

“You mean, the homeless.”

“Yes.”

“And how many of those people do you know?  How many have you sat down with and had a nice talk?”

“Well, duh!  None, and you know it.”

“You need to understand the world is a different place for different people.  Your view is from a privileged space.  You need to understand your obligation to those homeless people, to the poor people struggling to feed their families. I hate to tell you this, but you certainly do have a duty to all those people.”

“Yeah, what if I play poker instead.  What if I am a gastropod, like you?”

Author’s Note:  All that followed was laughter.  Buford Lister thought it was pretty funny that little Pi has called him a gastropod.  He was confused about why she used that particular word.  How did she know that calling someone a gastropod was his go-to playful insult?  If he had read The Lister Affair, he would have had his answer.  The term was referenced throughout the book.  There was even a section about the trouble a group of mathematicians had trying to get an exact translation of gastropod into their native tongues.  The discussion broke down into a drunken brawl.  The story was included in the book because a man named Ichabod Won Torino had a chair smashed over his back.  As the chair hit him, he had a flash of insight into an obscure Set Theory problem he had been working on for years.  Ichabod screamed, “Eureka,” the brawl stopped, and everyone sat as Ichabod started writing on the blackboard.  Estimates have it that several hundred papers resulted from those scribbles.  The conference went down in history as The Gastropod Meeting. The obscure area Ichabod Won Torino became famous for studying is now known as Gastropod Theory.

“You, young lady, should be very grateful that I like you.  I wouldn’t let just anyone call me a gastropod.”

The recording, at this point, is a bit hard to understand.  As I played it over and over, I almost think I heard a snort and a giggle from a twelve-year-old girl.  I know I must be mistaken; Piper Pandora Pennington does not snort or giggle in public.  The only confirmed cases of such things happen when she is with her sister, Susie.  When she is with her, it is at times hard for her to stop smiling.  The face she shows the world is a very different one, and I don’t blame her at all.  She is under the impression that there is an inverse relationship between intelligence and happiness.  I think the issue isn’t yet settled, but she has research to back up her position.

So, I guess there wasn’t a whole lot to be learned from their interaction—no deep insights into humanity or anything like that.  I will mention that as they parted, Pi told Buford Lister that she was off to the library to spend the next couple of days working on The Collatz Conjecture.  All I heard on the recording was a “Pfffttt!,” followed by what sounded like a backpack zipper.  I casually, cooly, and silently watched them leave.

 

 

I am going to tell you a story.  It is not a long tale; it will only take a couple hundred words.  The setting is Harvard’s campus, probably in the mid to late 80s.  It is hard for me to remember exactly when this happened, but I will never forget what happened.

It was summer; most people do not know that summer classes at Harvard are open admissions.  People come from all over the world to study for a couple months.  High school kids also show up, really smart ones.  The youngsters have to apply; there is a rigorous process they go through before their parents are allowed to fork over a basket of cash.  At least, that is the way it used to be.  It has been so long since I have been there that they may have moved the campus to San Diego.  Doubtful, but you get my point.

I was taking a seminar in The History of Science Department.  I can’t remember exactly what; it was probably something relating to medieval science, either that or the course topic was the PreSocratic philosophers.

There were 7 or 8 students in the seminar.  One particular person of interest was a man in his mid -20s.  He was from Germany, and his English wasn’t the best.  I guessed he probably read the language much better than he understood or spoke it.  That is not uncommon with academic types.

As the semester went on, the young man appeared to be getting nervous.  I thought that I would be nervous too if I were taking a Harvard seminar in a language other than my native tongue.

One day, as always happened in these types of classes, someone asked the professor about the paper we were to write for our grade.  There were never any exams in these classes.  We wrote and then wrote some more.  The question was always pretty much the same, “How long should our paper be?”

I knew John Emery Murdoch, the professor of the seminar.  I took 5 or 6 classes with him.  He was one of the most passionate people I have ever met.  He loved his job.  He was a scholar’s scholar.  I could tell that there was no place he would rather be than in a classroom talking about the history and philosophy of science.  His response to that question was always the same…

“Well, brevity is the soul of wit, but also, I am brief; therefore, I am obscure, so somewhere between 4 and 40 pages.”

After he said his standard line, he did something extraordinary, something totally unnecessary, and something exceptionally kind. He looked over at the German student and said, “You can write your paper in German.” I thought the young man was going to cry.

“Really?”

“Sure, I can read it. It is not a problem.”

“Thank you!”

If someone were to ever ask me if I have seen the weight of the world magically lift off a person’s shoulders, I would reply that I have indeed seen it.  I will then tell them the story I just told you. I will tell them about the kindness shown to a German student by the late, great Professor John Emery Murdoch.