The Packbats' Weblog

Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell was published in 2004, and everyone seemed to be enraptured by it, and ... well, the name Packbat didn't exist until 2005, but someone who would take that name in a year read it and thought it was kind of adequate but not great. The worldbuilding was interesting, and this was a time where they didn't tend to give up on books, so they did read it through? But the whole thing felt to that reader like a plot summary - maybe somewhere else there was a version of this story that was enrapturing, but we were reading the TV Tropes recap page of that story, and it was just dry.

Except when it wasn't. Because sometimes Jonathan Strange would try something, or someone else would try something, and it was like being dropped into a story that was happening now, not in a summary. There was dialogue, conversation, perspective. It was suddenly and unquestionably alive, and whoever we remember being "I" then loved it.

Anyway, this year a friend of ours mentioned another book, Piranesi, said it was really good, and we'd been looking for an excuse to go to the library so we checked our library catalogue. And there was a book called "Piranesi" in the catalog, by the same Susanna Clarke, and it was the book our friend was talking about, so we thought, "Maybe Clarke's learned something. Bits of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell were great, even if the book as a whole was a bit of a slog, so maybe this'll be better than that was."

If you liked Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, I apologize? We mean no offense, I know that two people reading the same book will have different opinions.

But Piranesi was terrific. It was alive, not in patches but from front to back. The fantastical was there - we were dropped into an endless house of statues, like Borges's Library of Babel for statues, with waves sweeping through its lower rooms and clouds through its upper - but the fantastical was seen through a perspective. We were dropped into the world of a person, a world he introduced us to and spoke eloquently about and cared about, and cared about in the specific way that he cared about it.

We picked up this book at about one in the afternoon from the library. By seven we were gushing about it in the DMs of our friend who recommended it. By nine-thirty we were through, and reeling.

We can talk about what happens if you like? There's some heavy stuff in there, so if you do want to read it, you might want to check first, see if it hits something that affects you strongly. We had to ask our friend for some content warnings, which it gave, and that was helpful, and assuming we get along we'll do the same for you if you ask ... but our friend also said the story benefits from reading with very little idea of what will happen, and the story does. It would perhaps be helpful if you came into it having heard of Battersea...? but even if you haven't, you'll likely figure things out quickly. The protagonist and narrator is not deceptive towards you or me.

It's currently four thirty in the morning, typing this. We'll go back to bed in a moment. But we couldn't lie just in bed waiting for all these thoughts to slip through our fingers into sleep.

And you don't have to read Piranesi by Susanna Clarke. It is just a book, two hundred and forty-five pages among uncountable billions, and you have other calls upon your time. But we have to gush about it for a minute, because we were hoping it would be alive and it was.

(We were also hoping it would last us longer than a day, but somehow I think we'll live.)

Someone turned us on to Trying Out Marriage With My Female Friend by Usui Shio (aka Onna Tomodachi to Kekkon Shitemita) and it's extremely adorable!

Minor content warning for hospitalization (spoilers inside for those who wish to skip it)

In Chapter 7 ("It's alright, I can endure this"), Ruriko has pain of increasing intensity, which she downplays because she doesn't want to ruin Kurumi's day ... but this means that it is only when Kurumi gets home that she learns her wife is in the hospital. (This is thanks to the couple's mutual friend Kuroda, who realizes upon calling that Ruriko is very sick and takes her.)

Ruriko's pain turns out to be appendicitis - fortunately a minor case, but she has to be on antibiotics through an IV for three or four days, time which is skipped over fairly quickly. The main thing that occurs here is Kurumi being distressed that Ruriko didn't tell her ("that ... that makes it seem like we're nothing more than friends...") and telling Ruriko, "There's nothing more important to me than you, Ruriko" when explaining that Ruriko should have told her and it wouldn't've been a bother.

(Instead of being able to verbally acknowledge this, Ruriko notices Kurumi's wet hair and tells her that she shouldn't forget her umbrella - "I don't want you to catch a cold." Kurumi accepts this as just the kind of person Ruriko is.)

Ruriko is discharged on page 00074, near the end of Chapter 8 ("What's important to me").

(Also, content warning for food - it's a recurring thing throughout - and occasional alcohol.)

This is slice-of-life in the most lovingly mundane form: the protagonists navigate chores, purchases, and differing dispositions, and the feelings and questions that spill out from these day-to-day things.

...but they also deal quite directly with amatonormativity. Their marriage does not fit the cultural model of romance and sex that surrounds them, but it also does not fit the model of "just friends" that they initially assumed it would. They care quite intensely about each other, are desirous of each other's company, and do their best to support each other through struggles small and great. Their approach to the whole affair feels much in the vein of relationship anarchy: dissecting their feelings and making decisions based on what works for each of them, finding where their joys lie and celebrating that in the face of the obliviousness of others, and talking to each other.

I don't know if their relationship as of now is more queerplatonic or ace romantic, and I don't know if the author plans to remain in this space for the rest of the story's run or to portray its metamorphosis into something else. But I do know their relationship is healthy, and nuturing, and sweet.

It's currently serializing in Japanese - Chapter 22 came out this month, looks like.

Someone on the fediverse shared a link to everest pipkin's massive "Open source, experimental, and tiny tools roundup", and I decided to go down the list and talk about the ones we've touched.

Firstly, the ones we've actually tried to make something - or even succeeded at making something - with:

( Read more... )

Secondly, the ones we've looked at but never tried to create in:

( Read more... )

I wish this was a proper review, but the book came out a good seven years ago - long enough for this to be awfully old news regardless.

I. Love. Moneyball.

I would say this, if I were cynical and funny: Moneyball is, ironically enough, a story about how storytelling is deceptive. But it's not true. There is a hint of that feeling when I read it - the story is such a good story that I'd want to believe it if the entire book was lies from cover to cover, and the book does warn against dreaming and making up expectations based on merely what you see - but I would do Michael Lewis an injustice if I said that. The man worked his butt off getting it right, and that dedication shows.

What is the material? Well, Moneyball is, perhaps, the perfect underdog story: a story about a baseball team (the Oakland Athletics) with a financial payroll tinier than almost any other in a sport where the richest teams spend many multiples more than the poorest ... that sets out to win, with a determination and intelligence that is an inspiration to behold. Moneyball is also a layman's introduction to that intelligence which, long ignored by the very people who would most benefit from it, finally found its instantiation in the Oakland A's: sabermetrics. And Moneyball is a story of this intelligence on this team reaching out to rescue an oddball collection of underrated players and give them the chance to give a bloody eye to the entire baseball establishment that didn't see how good they were.

And it's a story of how such a thing should ever happen - how mistakes were made and perpetuated and compounded upon, and how the visions found when that fog of confusion was pierced could take so long and strange a journey to where they deserved to play out: on the diamond.

It's a business book, a sociology lesson, a baseball story, and a hell of a good read. A nearer approach to perfection in nonfiction is rarely seen.

What? I asked.

It's a Japanese word that means a story that plays with the same characters, but different, my brother told me. Ninja Gaiden was a retelling of the story of Ninja, but different.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the difference between Whiteout (1998 comic) and Whiteout (2009 film). What killed the interest in this movie for the people who hated it was either (Theory 34) that Kate Beckinsdale's shower scene wasn't hot enough, or (Theory Changed) that it wasn't anything like the book. Both objections are correct ...

... but if the comic had never existed and the film had been simply written directly, it wouldn't have received anything like the opprobrium it is subject to. It's a thriller movie, set in Antartica, with a hot lead, lots of plot twists, good action scenes, kinda low-budget special effects but give them some credit, they work, and a satisfying ending. It's not a classic, it's not a tightly-written Chandleresque suspense novel with brilliantly stylized presentation, it's not forward thinking in any way - it's a popcorn movie, and a good one.

Whiteout Gaiden. Rating: 3 stars, buy cheap or rent.

Okay, so the headphones which were first predicted to ship Monday the 1st and then (after they showed up in the warehouse in Hebron, KY) predicted to arrive Friday the 5th, arrived today.

How do they sound?

Let's say that where the packaging says "revolutionary bass bliss" - well, I wouldn't be surprised if there were an unexpected mass uprising, because the rest of it is dead on. It picks up instruments in Joni Mitchell's "All I Want" (from Blue) that I didn't even know were there six minutes ago. The legendary bass riff from The White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army" comes through perfectly. Even bass-light tracks like Eva Cassidy's "Fields of Gold" benefit.

A+. Would buy again.

(Oh, man! "Omaha" from Counting Crows!)

("Mr. Jones"!)

In honor of the goblinpaladin's birthday (last month...), here is a review of What Science Offers the Humanities: Integrating Body and Culture by Edward Slingerland, 2008.

There's an old Isaac Asimov essay I recall reading where he discusses the implicit social hierarchy of different fields of study. You know, where math is more prestigious than physics, which is in turn 'above' chemistry, which is 'above' biology, et cetera. Asimov then asked (I paraphrase), "What's above mathematics?"

His answer was "the humanities". And he defended the answer with a little story, whose details I've sadly forgotten, but which essentially compared the reactions of the faculty at a school to (a) a student named Cicero failing rhetoric and (b) a student named Gauss failing mathematics. Asimov pointed out that all of them would laugh at the former (being as we all know Cicero was a great orator) but that only the math and science people would be amused at the latter (being as none of the humanities scholars would ever have heard of a mere mathematician, nor cared about his extraordinary influence upon mere math and sciences).

Sociologically, Asimov was probably just about right. Ontology, however, is Professor Slingerland's game, and he proposes just the opposite. And inverting this hierarchy - making the case for humanities as a higher-order level of explanation above neuroscience, psychology, biology, et cetera, the same way chemistry is a higher-order level of explanation above quantum physics, and just as dependent on its substrate - is the purpose of his book. It is so, he explains, because humanities is in desperate need of new life - it is visibly, clearly stagnating, as many scholars have observed, and Slingerland argues that an "embodied" or "vertically integrated" view of the humanities is necessary to move forward. Thus What Sciences Offers the Humanities seeks to open a new strain of humanities studies in close collaboration with scientific knowledge.

There. Now let us discuss what it does.

What Science Offers the Humanities, between introduction and conclusion, is divided into three parts. The first is a refutation of the objectivist and postmodernist views of humanity, the second his physicalist tertium quid based on modern cognitive science, and the third a defense of his view against a few anticipated objections. It is quite enough of a task for a bookshelf of books, and indeed Slingerland makes reference to at least that many along the way. Further, it is by its very nature difficult reading in many places - Slingerland in this book writes philosophy, and a modern philosopher must blaze a path through some of the harshest terrain in our mental landscapes.

(Incidentally, delicious little metaphors like that are featured prominently in Slingerland's "vertically integrated" model of humanity, described in Part 2. More on that anon.)

First, the refutations. Objectivism (which, in this case, contains a sort of Smullyan-logician theory of the person and the correspondence theory of truth) Slingerland spends comparatively little time with - while it is certainly not unpopular (I have strong inclinations in its direction myself), strong criticisms of it are well-established in the humanities, to whose scholars Slingerland addresses the book. Thus he deals his objections out quickly and competently (though not completely enough for my satisfaction - as I said, strong inclinations) and turns his attention to the other side.

Postmodernism, he explains, is a controversial term to use for what he describes. As he explains in the introduction, "virtually every [modern] postmodernist denies being one". Thus his treatment of postmodernism ends up extended over two chapters, with one dedicated chiefly to showing that, as he defines it, the appellation "postmodernist" still applies to many of the scholars he addresses, and only afterwards establishing the self-refuting nature of postmodernist theories. Naturally, for the non-postmodernist reader, these are among the most difficult chapters in the book - possibly by its very disconnect with experiential reality, postmodernist writing is almost invariably turgid. The density of the material is leavened by Slingerland's well-executed asides and rhetorical flourishes - his discussion of the Sokal hoax particularly struck my fancy - but those with an active disinterest in postmodernism may find it tiring. However, those coming from the humanities would be likely to profit much from these chapters - both by exposure to some basic objections to certain common lines of thought in the works of their peers and, if they share said lines of thought, by exposure to problems with their theoretical frameworks that need resolution or refutation.

Having thus cleared the ground, Slingerland turns to his own theory.

I will not attempt to elaborate his theory for him. The most central element of it is the theory of conceptual blending. This theory (originating, Slingerland says, with Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner) maintains that most (perhaps all) of human thought involves the mixing of properties from various already-existing ideas, as illustrated in expressions like "digging your own financial grave". This sort of combination (in the example, drawing the emotional content of the grave to accent the suggestion that a given financial plan is unsound), Slingerland argues, is a fundamental, universal part of how human beings work with ideas - he demonstrates its generality to analysis of cultural artifacts (a major part of humanities) with an analysis of the fourth-century B.C.E. Chinese Confucian work Mencius by blending theory.

After introducing his theory, much of the rest of the book deals with probable objections from the humanities tradition. (As a proponent of a minority theory, Slingerland is obliged to spend the main part of his book in its defense.) It is interesting material - defenses of pragmatism, refutations of common fears of reductionism, and the like - and competently presented, but it is certainly a decline from the excitement of the various introductions - of his theory, of postmodernism's weaknesses, of objectivism's weaknesses, and of the book entire.

It is not surprising when a book is exciting at the start and less so towards the end. What struck me in this case, however, is that there is a definite sense of the precise element lacking - and, ironically, that element is science. Slingerland is a fan of science, but he is a sinologist - student of Chinese culture - not a scientist. He has a breadth of scientific reading that does him great credit, a breadth far in excess of mine own, but his lack of depth in the specific fields shows. He quotes Dawkins and Dennett excellently, but he seems to need to. It is not a fault - he isn't a scientist - but the difference does make his very real contributions seem a little grayer in contrast.

What is the bottom line?

Slingerland's What Science Offers the Humanities is an excellent epistle to a world of humanities work in need of new insight - one with the understanding of the Academy whose lack prevents the Sokals, and even the Dawkins and the Dennetts, from engaging and not antagonizing its audience. It draws from the strength of the sciences to build a vision of a better university - for, as Slingerland points out in the conclusion, the sociological and psychological studies are rapidly approaching territory which requires knowledge of the humanities, just as they are - or should be - transforming the understanding of what the humanities contain.

As a popular science book, it is not. In its path, it alludes to a spread of important discoveries to understanding of the humanities, and of humanity, but its aim is not to bring true comprehension of these to the reader. Its aim is to show that the social sciences are relevant.

It shows this. That is enough.

(I'm getting up in under eight hours, so I must be quick.)

A few weeks (months?) ago, an article about President Bush mentioned a book he was reading (had read?) about the deposing of Neville Chamberlain and placement of Winston Churchill in his place. Although the article alone was amusing, I decided to read the book as well. So, I checked Lynne Olson's Troublesome Young Men: The Rebels Who Brought Churchill to Power and Helped Save England out of a local branch of the library.

I think it's a history book. At least, it shows many of the characteristics of history books, and while I am hardly well-informed about the time, it gives the impression of genuine scholarship. I suppose that qualifies.

It wants to be a thriller.

It is interesting how the conflicting urges of these two styles interplay in Olson's writing. She knows how to open her chapters in the middle of the action, how to develop the dramatic tension, how to pull the precise quote out of the historical record to make an impact. Against that, she knows that she cannot merely write what happens - each of her dramatic quotes are smoothly annotated, and when the presentation of related facts forces her to skitter back and forth in time, she invariably does so, however the suspense of the moment may be broken thereby. She takes the reader straight into the House of Parliament in the most visceral fashion to show the decisive vote - and lingers on there for a few chapters more past the climax, that we will not be ignorant of how things played out in the days, months, and decades to follow.

The reader - or, at least, this reader - bemoans the dreadful abuses Lynne perpetuates on her storytelling, and applauds them for the greater accuracy gained by their presence.

Troublesome Young Men is not what it hoped to be, perhaps. But it is easily readable, clearly informative, and even in places a page-turner. Would I buy it? I can't say. Would I read it? Absolutely.

I have to admit it. It's not something I'm proud of, but, well, one must learn to admit these things in oneself, that one may learn to let them go.

Remixes - cover versions of songs - they give me fits.

No, it's worse than that. Different versions of a song give me fits. If I hear the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young version first, then I get imprinted on it, and Joni Mitchell's take drives me nuts. Will for years. Maybe if I work determinedly, I can learn to stop hearing not-my-version and start hearing what she's actually playing, but that's if I work like the devil at it, and it's only because I love Joni Mitchell I'd give her the chance.

Knowing this, it's no surprise to me that so many people hated The Postman. They read David Brin's book, and the movie's just plain not it. But I would nevertheless urge every person who ever rejected it for not being their version, and every person who spurned it for the bad press it received, to reconsider.

( I'll do my best not to spoil it, but I necessarily must say a few things to explain myself. )

The Postman is a quiet sort of science fiction movie. Oh, there's fighting, and it's certainly set in a future, but no hyperintelligent computers or genetically-engineered beasts are to be found here, and what battles there are are muddy, dusty, confusing things, and far from glorious. It is science fiction like Watership Down is fantasy - the category is correct, but both are ultimately about people. And the important moments are those ones where these people act for each other.

I'm feeling silly. My roommate has a copy of Poolhall Junkies, which just watched for our movie night, and I'm going to grade it, category by category. Everything's on a scale from one to ten, with references for each category. (Obscure references, admittedly, but I have eclectic tastes.)

( The Scorecard )

Overall, though? I give this one a 8.5. Not a classic, but definitely choice.