The funniest book of all time. That is all.
Why do putatively brilliant scientists insist on explaining simple shit to one another? Their sole purpose appears to be strolling out at key intervals of the story and expounding on pop science.
"Oh hi, did you know that according to Game Theory the most efficient cooperative strategy is reciprocal altruism?" Game theory may not be common knowledge, but it's hardly arcane either. The UK actually has
a TV show built around it.
Similar bleeding edge opinions on consciousness, neurology, and linguistics may sound recondite but are quite common even today, a century before the novel takes place.
One of the most hardcore sci-fi novels, Blindsight manages to be sometimes brilliant and often dull. It does so by telling the story from the perspective of a high-functioning sociopath, who is the best and worst of narrators. Mostly the latter.
There are two paths to equality: elevating some people, and breaking others. Actually, ignoring for a moment the second option (which is the theme of Vonnegut's story), the first is pretty divisive all by itself. All our modern political ideologies seem concerned with it, after all - the extent to which a society, a government, should be responsible for its people, and whether helping each other actually infringes on some inalienable right of not having to help each other.
The reality is that all this nonsense about how involved a modern civilization should be as a whole in helping people isn't an interesting question. The answer to the question: "Should we feed the poor?" is always Yes. That's the moral answer, though not always the practical one. There's nothing wrong with saying that we can't feed the poor right this second because we are also poor – that’s ok; it shows an understanding of both our responsibility and our shortcomings – but rationalizing amorality or selfishness or greed via sociopathic-grade egotism masquerading as philosophy, or whining about an ever-flexible definition of "property" (which notion, by the way, is only a temporary contrivance of a our scarcity-driven existence) is an excuse for barbarism.
Many will object, claiming that giving their money away to the poor is unfair. Good point. But suppose for a moment that you agree to live in a civilization, among other humans, and you agree to make the concessions necessary… Why would you ever do such a thing, you ask? Well, it’s impossible to be one billionth as grotesquely rich as many, many people are in a civilization without that civilization. In fact, someone like the CEO of Viacom, whom I understand to be – and forgive me if I’m wrong – not only physically weak but mentally challenged as well, would without a doubt be many times poorer all by himself out in the wild, with bears and wolves and insects for company…
Think about that for a second. Suppose we had not an anarchy, but a complete independence of each other. The richest man would be absolutely poor. Although, such a materially poor soul might actually be happier. And that’s the point actually: that having homeless people is pretty much the fault of having a society in the first place – like an unpleasant side-effect – because having a society means that you can purchase land (what a notion!) and soon be left with no place to build a house or make a little home.
In other words, poor people today are many times worse off than they would be without a civilization (compared to everyone else – the definition of wealth), while rich people today are many times richer than they would be without the modern civilization.
So you tell me, to whom falls the responsibility of maintaining civilization, of paying dues for its existence, of feeding the poor, if not those among us who benefit the most? Because trust me, if you’re poor, you know what I’m talking about: given a choice between living in the wild without technology, and being homeless today, it’s hardly a choice at all. Maybe you’d build a little home in the woods and plant a wee garden and grow tomatoes or something. Or you might starve to death. The point is, either way, you’d certainly be better off than sleeping next to a dumpster in Chicago.
So, end of tangent discussion of the first path to equality.
The second path, breaking others down so we are all equal, also bears a modern ideological parallel of social restriction.
Suppose someone doesn’t like marijuana, and as a bigoted corollary determines also not to like anyone who does like marijuana. I was thinking about this the other day. I don't do drugs personally (not because I think it's wrong, I simply can't afford them) but imagine someone who decides to smoke some pot, which I hear is an excellent drug, and other people found out. These other people would actually want to come into his house and arrest him. I know! Isn’t it hilarious?
I mean, wait! Here he is in his home, after a long day's work, and he decides that he’d like to inhale some harmless smoke and feel mellow. There are actually people out there, in our exalted government, who believe that the correct social response is to immediately burst into his house and arrest him. All this is done at great expense (something like 40,000 taxpayer money per year, per pothead).
So, instead of building schools and playgrounds and parks, they would rather lock people up to make sure, absolutely sure, that these criminals are no longer inhaling any more smoke.
It boggles the mind!
If you thought this was a nice moral age of reason, I’m sorry to break it to you, but we live in a barbaric world, full of savages and morons.
Alright, so abusing other people because they are different, which can be uncomfortable, is wrong. That’s part of Vonnegut’s point.
A more superficial warning is that there’s a difference between fairness, equal advantage, and equal disadvantage. Running a society based on social and genetic lottery is a stupid idea, but we don’t have the technological or moral know-how to do otherwise, and simply acknowledging that it’s a terrible thing we are doing is probably a good start.
I mean, it’s all a sort of evolution of our economic morality.
For the modern person, it goes something like:
* Libertarianism: a little smart, a lot stupid. Obviously, being successful under such a system, in contrast to some meritocratic alternatives, would be a matter of opportunity, not talent. But most notably, a libertarian society would forgo all regulations and standards, as things quickly fester into a sort of corporate feudalism, complete with separate cartels and a nice oligarchy, etc. Every day we forgo some freedoms in order to safeguard others. You give up the freedom to pee in the water supply, in exchange for the freedom to not have to drink pee, etc. But, libertarianism: some people like pee.
* Meritocracy: closer. Even if it were possible to actually reward effort based solely on merit, a meritocracy would still rely on some sort of genetic or environmental lottery. Clearly not the paradigm of moral evolution.
* Rawlsianism: seems the likeliest to produce a fair society.
Though personally, I’m rooting for a post-scarcity socialistic anarchy utopia. That’s just me.
I love these books, but if you don't, I understand. The series' uniqueness is both awesome and offputting; the sort of stuff you wish people would write, but then you find excuses not to read.
Reading the Culture novels is rarely the funnest thing you could be doing; but, when you're done, it can mean a whole paradigm shift - steps toward permanently dismantling whatever version of reality is currently trolling your existence.
***Warning: this review is not for the fainthearted.***
A video recently went viral of a Texas judge savagely beating his disabled teenage daughter with a belt.
Her mother tells her to "bend over and take it like a woman" moments after the man's sadistic promise to beat her "into fucking submission", to teach her obedience, hitting her while she begs from a corner of the room so all the camera can catch are her screams.
If only someone could walk into the scene and drag that man away - end him cleanly somewhere off stage. Not in punishment or revenge, but as a simple matter of course.
No such hope. Not in the justice system, which cannot prosecute him (statute of limitations being what it is - hey, it’s not like he did drugs or anything, he was just sadistically beating a child). Not even the mother in the video, who – both because of her husband’s behavior and in spite of it – exposed her children to his malice in the misguided faith that deep inside we are all essentially the same - that beneath her husband’s veneer of cruelty was someone ill and needy, someone she could change - that he could be a better man.
Of course, she was wrong.
Perhaps the most heartrending moment of the video is near the beginning, when in a tiny voice the girl cries out: “Dad...” an instant before he starts to hit her.
What do you get when you hollow a human of conscience? If there were no empathy, no guilt, no shame, no anxiety, no compunction... if impulse control simply meant
biding your time... if ego were all that mattered, a desire to dominate others, the shameless manipulation: quintessence of a creature with the mind of a man but the soul of an insect, no trappings of honor or personal responsibility (let alone personality). Well, you get things like human trafficking, plutocratic oligarchies, and Donald Trump.
Perhaps it occurs to you that even wife-beaters must love their wives, or why keep them around otherwise? Sociopaths don't always fake emotion or attachment. Family members are possessions, tears of loss for an important object their deepest sentiment. They do not love. They possess.
Children, for instance, are an irritation, products of the loins that may occasionally cause trouble, but which ultimately serve a purpose, useful in keeping up social appearances (if that fails, children can always be disowned). Sociopaths experience sorrow and cry for lost possessions in exactly the same way they would on finding their favorite automobile crushed by a tree in the driveway.
Without empathy, the ego becomes all-consuming. A sociopath is solipsistic to a degree that even Ayn Rand might find appalling (though she would herself score rather high on Robert Hare’s PCL-R test).
Factor 1: Personality, “Aggressive narcissism”
Glibness and superficial charm
The creepy superficiality that politicians ooze like body fluid is item one.
It’s true, we all act sometimes. At work you may not behave the way you do at home, but usually affectation takes a toll. Overdo it, and your guilt and shame could manifest into a full-blown existential crisis. That’s why so many young people are emotionally wrecked or altered by the modern workplace, where character is not only irrelevant, but actively winnowed along the corporate ladder. (There’s a preponderance of sociopaths at the top of the corporate and political food-chain.)
Grandiose sense of self-worth, narcissism, egomania
Pathological lying
Cunning and Manipulation
Shallow affect (genuine emotion is short-lived and egocentric)
Lack of remorse or guilt
Callousness; lack of empathy
Many hypothesize that Rush Limbaugh eats babies, or that he's the result of a human-pig crossbreading experiment gone terribly wrong. Or maybe, he's just a garden variety sociopath, who knows?
Failure to accept responsibility for own actions
Behavioral patterns include bullying others at a young age, sometimes torturing animals, reacting with clinical detachment to images of depravity and gore, emotionally preying on others for entertainment, promiscuity, short-term marital relationships, criminal versatility, etc.
Anxiety and shyness are the diametric opposite of psychopathy.
As you can imagine, Judge Adams would behave splendidly in public. He's a confident man, enjoys being called "sir" and flaunting his achievements, like all materially successful creatures. The real question, of course, is how he treats those over whom he has power. The understated answer is “badly.” Not being human himself, he's never quite sure how to treat other humans, except by observing and pretending to be one of them, a tiresome mimicry.
Of her psychopathic father, Hilary said: "I told him I had the video and he didn't seem to think anything of it, basically dared me to post it. I think he just really needs help and rehabilitation.”
She actually feels sorry for him. Incidentally, Judge Adams told reporters:
“In my mind I haven't done anything wrong other than discipline my child.”
You may think you are good at lying or rationalization, but you are nothing compared to a sociopath, whose favorite phrases include gems like:
“Look at what you made me do!” and the classic:
“Are you happy now?" yelled while abusing a victim,
"Is this what you wanted? Do you like disobeying me?”
"I was completely brainwashed and controlled," said the mother, "I leave the room, he’s telling me what to say, what to do."
You get the picture. Sociopaths are everywhere, between one and three % of the population, male and female, and not always violent. They are attracted to authority. It's something in their lizard brains, a vestigial will to power.
Also, psychopaths cannot tolerate disrespect. Sometime near the video's end, Judge Adams promises that so much as a questionable tone of voice from his daughter would result in even more severe beatings.
Factoid: the Texas Judge has a history of ruling child-abuse cases in favor of the abuser, saying that a child's testimony is void without video evidence, ironically.
Somewhat related empathy test developed by professor Baron-Cohen.
Dr. Nassir Ghaemi on The Colbert Report explaining why empathy, creativity, realism are so important in leaders.
Jon Ronson on the Daily Show.
I read this after
reddit's scifi book survey results.
And by favorites. I didn't expect The Culture Series to score so high, or be so loved. After the first few hundred pages though, I can see the appeal.
The writing style's great, and the whole story is cinematic. The main characters are, well, not exactly likable. The story sets up the universe for the rest of the saga, though I wish it had been written from another perspective.
Ah, the cultural cesspool of the 80s. The decade that produced enough good movies to count on the fingers of one hand with digits left to spare; when human hair grew in prominence and volume; when we sat indoors and played video games with fewer pixels and dimensions than the most primitive imagination.
I'm amazed that after so many pages of intense circle-jerking Ernest Cline could actually summon the strength to finish writing this book.
Silly and shallow. Includes Über Godzilla.
The Way of Shadows is so laughably bad, I thought it was satire. Let me give you an example. So, near the end of the book, the protagonist is about to express his love to this girl after like 20 years of lusting, and at this point in the story, there's been a little cursing, the violence is PG-13 and badly written, all very YA. So, our protagonist approaches his lady and says to her (this is a direct quote):
"I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And the purest. I'm not asking you to
fuck. But maybe some day I'll earn the right to ask you for something more permanent." He turned and facing her was harder than facing thirty Highlanders.
Ahh, Brent Weeks. I think he has a little Vogon in him.
And now it’s time to hand the baton on to you. Stories don’t end with the writers, however many started the race. So go. Run with it.
Make trouble.
Almost asleep with the illusion of paralysis, at the ingress of dreams, when a monster calls. . . the Yew tree outside the window is walking, walking.
Written for very young readers, with ordinary and simple language, the story itself is complex, and transporting, really. Try not to get beyond halfway in one sitting, or you'll be up late into the night.
One of the best action sequences in modern scifi:
Sarah was turning her aim on the figures beyond the wall when the second commando of the night appeared braced in the kitchen doorway and hosed her away with his assault rifle.
Still on my knees, I watched her die with chemical clarity. It all went so slowly it was like a video playback on frame advance. The commando kept his aim low, holding the Kalashnikov down against the hyper-rapid-fire recoil it was famous for. The bed went first, erupting into gouts of white goose down and ripped cloth, then Sarah, caught in the storm as she turned. I saw one leg turned to pulp below the knee, and then the body hits, bloody fistfuls of tissue torn out of her pale flanks as she fell through the curtain of fire.
I reeled to my feet as the assault rifle stammered to a halt. Sarah had rolled over on her face, as if to hide the damage the shells had done to her, but I saw it all through veils of red anyway. I came out of the corner without conscious thought and the commando was too late to bring the Kalashnikov around. I slammed into him at waist height, blocked the gun, and knocked him back into the kitchen. The barrel of the rifle caught on the doorjamb, and he lost his grip. I heard the weapon clatter to the ground behind me as we hit the kitchen floor. With the speed and strength of the tetrameth, I scrambled astride him, batted aside one flailing arm, and seized his head in both hands. Then I smashed it against the tiles like a coconut.
Under the mask, his eyes went suddenly unfocused. I lifted the head again and smashed it down again, feeling the skull give soggily with the impact. I ground down against the crunch, lifted and smashed again. There was a roaring in my ears like the maelstrom, and somewhere I could hear my own voice screaming obscenities.
I was going for a fourth or fifth blow when something kicked me between the shoulder blades and splinters jumped magically out of the table leg in front of me. I felt the sting as two of them found homes in my face.
For some reason the rage puddled abruptly out of me. I let go of the commando’s head and almost gently and was lifting one puzzled hand to the pain of the splinters in my cheek when I realized I had been shot, and that the bullet must have torn all the way through my chest and into the table leg. I looked down, dumbfounded, and saw the dark red stain inking its way out over my shirt. No doubt about it. An exit hole big enough to take a golf ball.
With the realization came the pain. It felt as if someone had run a steel wool pipe cleaner briskly through my chest cavity. Almost thoughtfully, I reached up, found the hole, and plugged it with my two middle fingers. The fingertips scraped over the roughness of torn bone in the wound, and I felt something membranous throb against one of them. The bullet had missed my heart. I grunted and attempted to rise, but the grunt turned into a cough and I tasted blood on my tongue.
“Don’t you move, motherfucker.”
The yell came out of a young throat, badly distorted with shock. I hunched forward over my wound and looked back over my shoulder. Behind me in the doorway, a young man in a police uniform had both hands clasped around the pistol he had just shot me with. He was trembling visibly. I coughed again and turned back to the table.
The Smith & Wesson was on eye level, gleaming silver, still where I had left it less than two minutes ago. Perhaps it was that, the scant shavings of time had been planed off since Sarah was alive and all was well, that drove me. Less than two minutes ago I could have picked up the gun; I’d even thought about it, so why not now? I gritted my teeth, pressed my fingers harder into the hole in my chest, and staggered upright. Blood spattered warmly against the back of my throat. I braced myself on the edge of the table with my free hand and looked back at the cop. I could feel my lips peeling back from the clenched teeth in something that was more a grin than a grimace.
“Don’t make me do it, Kovacs.”
I got myself a step closer to the table and leaned against it with my thighs, breath whistling through my teeth and bubbling in my throat. The Smith & Wesson gleamed like fool’s gold on the scarred wood. Out in the Reach power lashed down from an orbital and lit the kitchen in tones of blue. I could hear the maelstrom calling.
“I said don’t--”
I closed my eyes and clawed the gun off the table.
Yes, you read that. The author slowed down time and described bullet trajectories. Fucking awesome is right.
While the relationship between movies and books has always been symbiotic, it was never balanced. Action scenes are a purely cinematic contribution, and the results here are spectacular. Paired with a protagonist like Kovacs, what can go wrong? Well, just about everything, actually.