I will now be publishing quotations to a tumblr blog (they didn’t have the venture capital for an E?), florillegium. The metaplasmus (intentional misspellingg) of the title = ill + florilegium. (So it matches ill-luminations.) [Plus the one-L domain was taken. Dang.] A florilegium is a book of ill shit you found out there, such as quotations, flower petals, doodles, whathaveyou: a Renaissance blog…

Time passes even in the past—things seem to become more obvious and understandable than they were in the present…

—Andrei Bitov, Pushkin House.

It’s bizarro-spring, here in New York. Cold crud weather, and almost May. I wonder. What is it about the darkness of a cloudy sky that terrifies us?

What is it about the ecotones between darkness and light—the syzygy of light bursting into darkness, of darkness sliming down over light—that can be both beautiful (awe-full) and absolutely dread?

We can see a frightful ecotone in every cloud (fluffy and light, but shadowing out the sun), and writers have for a long time captured different moments of cloud-dread.

Art critic and endearing madman John Ruskin was the most famous cumulophobic. He thought a mysterious “plague wind” was a sure sign that humanity is doomed:

For the sky is covered with gray cloud;—not rain-cloud, but a dry black veil which no ray of sunshine can pierce; partly diffused in mist, feeble mist, enough to make distant objects unintelligible, yet without any substance, or wreathing, or color of its own. And everywhere the leaves of the trees are shaking fitfully, as they do before a thunderstorm; only not violently, but enough to show the passing to and fro of a strange, bitter, blighting wind.

—John Ruskin, “The Storm-Cloud of the Nineteenth Century.”

More on Ruskin’s plaguesome clouds from Joel Segal.

From Cabinet.

Other great writers are more or less blunt about the doom, melancholy, and generally emo nature of clouds—all generally in contrast to the storybook associations of clouds with purity, innocence, and lightness.

Lampedusa mentions clouds after a long, bizarre scene of political discourse. The clouds block the sun. Obscuring God, future. Progress, metaphorically, is on hold—a mere trickle forward:

Day had just dawned: the little light that managed to pass through quilted clouds was held up once more by the immemorial filth on the windows.

—Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, Il Gattopardo (The Leopard), 1958.

Woolf uses clouds as a gate into dream—positive, progressive dream. But this passage comes during World War I, during the death of the protagonist, the agony of the family. The dream is a temporary respite, an illusion. The reality is the obverse of the cloud-shadow, the disturbance (frog, pebble) ever-ready to splash into the pool, shatter the mirror (the mind):

In those mirrors, the minds of men, in those pools of uneasy water, in which clouds for ever turn and shadows form, dreams persisted, and it was impossible to resist the strange intimation which every gull, flower, tree, man and woman, and the white earth itself seemed to declare (but if questioned at once to withdraw) that good triumphs, happiness prevails, order rules; or to resist the extraordinary stimulus to range hither and thither in search of some absolute good, some crystal of intensity, remote form the known domestic life, single, hard, bright, like a diamond in the sand, which would render the possessor secure.

—Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse.

And, extending cloud to air, we have the earlier notion of limitless freedom (a fluffy, unending march of clouds, a cloudless sunny day of unforgivably honest blue) as a trap, a plane on which to always be in-view, to always be caged, forever under the moon’s eye, without ground, falling:

The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages. Air above, air below. And the moon and immortality…

—Virginia Woolf, “An Unfinished Novel.”

Gass is more blunt:

…the shaded slopes of clouds and mountains, and so the constantly increasing absentness of Heaven (ins Blaue hinein, the Germans say), consequently the color of everything that’s empty…

—William Gass, On Being Blue, from that famous thundering-magnificent opening litany of blues—azures, royals, sadnesses, seedies, stockings, Prussians, Russians, bruises, forgettings, and, as here, absentness, emptiness, the Modern.

I’ve quoted Gass at greater length before; this passage is such an unreal mixture of precision (clouds do have shaded slopes) and surprising, breath-robbing melancholy. The increasing absentness. Of God. The empty silver throne. (”Emptiness has such a warm subtle sting… Heaven ain’t something someone else can give.” —Eyedea & Abilities, “Paradise.”)

So clouds block us from the Creator, remove us from the natural play of planets and suns. They are a kind of white-gray chaos, a litter of un-form across a plane we feel should be whole and formal, complete.:

And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had been infused into it concerning heaven and hell: and for the first time it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each side, and before it, it saw all around an unfathomed gulf: it felt the one point where it stood—the present; all the rest was formless cloud and vacant depth: and it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and plunging amid that chaos.

—Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre.

Of course, writing chaos is not a chaotic process. Expression of un-form requires immaculate form. There is no one better than Aira, whom I’ve also quoted before, before the clouds. The “clouds” sound out a one-two dance-step hoof-hoof cadencing. They track chaos through chaos, and a pattern emerges. Form from un-form. A midnight pattern, obscuring a high noon. Or a streak of off-white on a sliver-moon night. Syzygy and ecotone, imperfect and thus more fascinating to have the clouds there but not completely of one type. Even better to take the patterns of clouds and remove them from the sky:

Near the watershed, at an altitude of two thousand meters, amid peaks disappearing into the clouds, rather than a way of getting from point A to point B, the path seemed to have become quite simply a way of departing from all points at once. Jagged lines, impossible angles, trees growing downwards from ceilings of rock, sheer slopes plunging into mantles of snow under a scorching sun. And shafts of rain thrust into little yellow clouds, agates enveloped in moss, pink hawthorn.

—César Aira, An Incident In The Life Of A Landscape Painter.

Finally we arrive at the simple-lush prose of rancher-writer Verlyn Klinkenborg. He gets a dang Honourable Badge Of Merit because he writes boldly and artfully and simply and naturally. His cows come alive. (They were never not alive. I just didn’t feel much about cows until I read Verlyn Klinkenborg—and then Lydia Davis, in Electric.) Cloudy Klinkenwords, translating the pattern of the clouds into/onto birds:

What I see from the train should really be called a heronry, a village of well-built heron nests high in the trees. In winter, they stand out against the sky like dense clouds or puffs of dark smoke caught in the uppermost branches.

—Verilyn Klinkenborg, “Heronry,” The New York Times, 5 January, 2009.

And finally-finally—eliding the clouds themselves, because in his Wyoming the plains have stolen the clouds’ job, have skinned the clouds and wear their patterned drabness, setting out from the horizon; turning the birds back into darkness; the cows into symbolic darkness (here the light that stands out against mere “gloom,” ecotone); giving color heaviness and momentum; capturing this tectonic intermediate-ness of dawn, the beauty of that lack of grounding, lack of depth-of-field—the spark of my investigation, Klinkenborg’s “Out of Darkness,” from a recent Times:

When the sun finally rises, this will be a gray day, a great slab of flint laid across the plains. But the sun is still an hour off, and the snow is salting down just east of Riverton, Wyo. My eyes are straining for sight in the void out there, looking to see what emerges first from the darkness. The answer is the blackest objects — the old tires that ranchers sometimes place beside their cattle guards and the cattle themselves, black Angus stirring in a creek bottom. The cattle look as though they were bred black just so humans could find them easily in the gloom.

But mostly there are ravens, moving in singles and mated pairs, not so much gliding as fighting off the stiff north wind. They know the lights of this highway well, and I see them hopping into the ditches or flaring upward on the wind just out of my path as I hurtle by. To say the light is rising is to overspeak. I can just discern the seam between earth and sky…

The gray ahead broadens and seems to grow heavier, as if there could be no getting out from under it. And slowly color begins to emerge, what color there is… Out here on the plains, pressed beneath the sky, they seem to be blushing furiously but only by contrast with the immensity of the drabness that surrounds them. It is a mood, I know, the wan hour of morning that makes their beauty feel so hidden, so lost.

A friend at work sent me the Sam Harris talk, and I sent it to a friend I used to live with by the name of Luke Rodgers. Luke is a philosopher, and if you enjoy his thoughts on Harris, I encourage you to explore his blog, everything flows.

I sent Harris’s talk to Luke in part because I wanted to confirm my own biases: I agree with some of Harris’s thoughts, yet others annoy me. Luke’s reply is as thought-provoking as Harris’s lecture. Check out this off-the-cuff philosophizing:

First, the fact/value distinction is old, but also has been under attack at least since 1805 (Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit). There are many good reasons for believing that this distinction is not rigid, but there are also good reasons for, in some cases, not abolishing it altogether, I think.

Harris claimed that the moral core of every religion is ultimately about conscious experience. I think this may be deeply wrong, and that the opposite is probably true. Certainly Kant’s philosophy specifically eschews this approach, and it seems to me that Judeo-Christian morality, conceived of as a law issuing from without, is also exactly contrary to Harris’ conception.

The question of suffering may be a good one, and some philosophers in the 20th century sought to locate this question at or near the centre of ethics (Derrida does something like this in some places). There does seem to be a “fact of the matter” here, so I think Harris is at least partially right that science can contribute to this debate.

Even though he went out of his way to try to avoid coming across as racist/imperialist, the contention that “conferences like this” are only conceivable in certain parts of the world, as though that is evidence of some moral or developmental superiority, is utterly hypocritical and arrogant, insofar as conferences like TED are, at least within the parameters of the current global economic system, only conceivable on the basis of incredible inequality and suffering in other worlds. That is to say, it can only exist in the USA because it cannot exist in so many other countries.

The overall reductionism, this century to the brain, last century to psychology/genetics, the previous century to phrenology, is a stupidity that many Western philosophers and scientists have been trading in since the early modern period. I doubt we will stop making it any time soon, though anyone who is acquainted with the history of modern philosophy (as Harris obviously is not) would be less likely to make this blunder. Harris reveals the ultimate contradiction himself when, in the Q&A period he admits that brain states cannot be reliably interpreted without reference to the larger context. That is to say, things are not reducible to the brain, that is to say his basic thesis is inherently misguided.

The question of “how humans flourish” is totally abstract, and cannot be determined outside of particular contexts. It is incapable of a universal answer. Harris’ talk about “valleys and peaks” on the moral landscape, while not absurd, here functions merely as a screen for his actual thesis of convergence which, along with the utopian idea that borders between nation-states are already disappearing (plausible) and will eventually vanish (incredible), is an old liberal myth.

The notion that “certain opinions [on morality] must be excluded” and that an objective domain of expertise on how to achieve human flourishing will emerge strikes me not only as vastly improbable, but also extremely dystopian and proto-totalitarian.

So, in sum, “yes” to weakening the fact/value dichotomy and being open the possibility that science will *inform* moral debates, but a resounding “no” to the notion that moral debates will constitute a domain of experimental science, and also “no” to the naive brain reductionism.

§

With regard to the veiling and honour-killing &c., yes, I agree. In that sense, I am ethnocentric in the sense argued by Richard Rorty (one of my favourite pragmatist philosophers), which I see as the least contradictory and most sophisticated way of avoiding the pitfalls of relativism and absolutism. I believe (though perhaps in a less jingoistic way than Rorty did) in the superiority of democracy and (certain aspects of) the individualist/liberal and secular traditions, though I also believe that I have no ultimately foundational, or non-question-begging ways of supporting those beliefs (i.e. I don’t think it’s grounded in objective reason, or anything like that).

As to brain science, yes it is indeed gaining serious weight, and it’s hard to see what will replace it and supersede it, though something probably will in the next 100 years, at least in terms of what we consider to be the science best suited for understanding human nature. On the other hand, it is still seriously deficient in many ways (deficiencies which, I think, scientists are sometimes better able to recognize than the breathless philosopher sycophants), e.g., it’s explanatory language is still at a very early stage and relatively crude, it has basically no idea how many anti-depressants work, etc.

If you can find the essay by Alisdair MacIntyre called “Hegel on Faces and Skulls” it’s a good read on this topic

Also, with regard to genetics, I expect there are still some huge surprises in store for us which are potentially game-changing. For example, until recently we thought that a large amount of DNA was “junk,” i.e., didn’t code for any proteins, and I think we’re just now beginning to figure out what that junk DNA is for.

There is some research going on right now that shows how Lamarck was right in certain ways, that is to say that sometimes a genotype can actually be modified on the fly in response to certain environmental conditions in a way that makes the change heritable.

But yes, genetics may be approaching a level of maturity comparable to physics; i.e., we may find that in 100, 200 years, certain beliefs we have now about genetics are still held true—a situation I would say is fairly plausible, barring societal collapse.

An interesting book on this topic is The Social Construction of What? by Ian Hacking, in which he develops a sophisticated way of looking at the extent to which different things may be considered “socially constructed.”

From Juliet Macur’s “Coyote vs. Greyhound,” New York Times:

“When you get the dogs running in a dead run after a coyote, now that’s a sport,” [cattle rancher and ole skool coyote hunter John] Hardzog said before spitting snuff into a tiny gold spittoon. “The coyote is just about the smartest wild animal alive because they always have an escape route. I respect them. They can outsmart you. But greyhounds are smart, too. I think they’re the neatest dog ever made.”

Hardzog, who eschews seat belts and scoffs at “too many laws,” was 7 when he first hunted coyotes with his father. Now he has 40 greyhounds and greyhound mixes, some with scarred legs and faces, that he bred on his 318-acre ranch. Sometimes, they gnaw on stillborn calves and clean their teeth on the bones. He said he spent $600 on their monthly upkeep.

They have names like Matthew, Luke, Venus and Little Bit. Some are part Irish wolfhound, others part Saluki. All have a strong prey drive and hunt by sight.

Image by Justin Johnsen

Announcing my blog of illustrations and doodles, Ill Luminations. I have no idea how to draw, but I find it helps me write/stay awake/prevent one hand from fighting the other to the death (there can be only one). Most of these ill luminations are portraits of nonexistent people and animals, though sometimes it’s hard to say…

My man Verlyn Klinkenborg is all, “books will endure not (just) because they look and feel beautiful, but because they don’t offer distractions—no pop-ups, games, Flash modules, interactive doohickeys and gewgaws. ‘They do nothing.’” And, as usual, I’m all, “Dog, Verlyn is my dog. He’s right.”

People tend to a) think in dichotomies and b) set up the wrong dichotomies. I’ve often overheard subway readers muttering to one another about Kindles and Nooks, books and newspapers. They see a war between tactile and visual, old and new, elegant and multitaskable. What they should see is a play of information-filtration. Who’s filtering your media, and how? Nowadays, we mostly filter our own experience with books and news. We look up what we want on Google or Amazon and read it, buy it, or rent it. TV is on demand. NetFlix has brought the movies to our computers, to our whims.

But Google sorts what we filter. (We don’t flip through hundreds of screens to find what we want, most of the time.) There are two layers here. There’s a layer of basic, molecular, robotically sorted metachoice, then a conscious level of filtration. Given options [A-Z], we pick… whatever. (*I pick Z.)

That said, yes, the (immediate) future of the book is secure for a number of reasons. At the same time, not opposed in a dichotomy, but progressing plurally alongside book-ness, we have the Library of Congress saving our tweets for posterity. So books remain, and now so do our tweets. The once-solid becomes ephemeral, but does not disappear. The ephemeral becomes, not solid, but permanent…

As an addendum, I suggest all future-readers who dig poetry sign up for Knopf’s free Poem-a-Day emails. Check out “Mirror” by Mark Strand for a taste.

Wikipedia is a powerful artistic tool. It contains so much trivia, so many odd images and unexpected connections, that it’s never the same site, visit to visit. It’s a rippling pond of weirdness, and I love it.

One of the textual methods Wikipedia best captures for us is exhaustion. Wikipedian (Wikipedic?) lists return to the Renaissance encyclopedia-of-everything method of gathering information—including even things that don’t quite fit. Every story, every myth, every stray possibility gets its own subhead, its five seconds of obscure fame.

(Aside: The paradox of modern nerd culture is that it makes “famous” the niche; obscurity is denied to everything. In a perversion of Warhol’s maxim, people aren’t more likely to become truly famous, only to be denied the invisibility of the unappreciated outsider-creator. Today, an F. Kafka would be doing interviews with David Remnick and selling silk-screened HUNTER GRACCHUS shirts on Etsy.)

My favorite exhaustive list so far is the Wikipedical (?) list of methods of divination, which methods are stupendously legion in sheer number and in category (”selenomancy,” moon-scrying, being a spawner of many imitators). Here are a few faves:

• macharomancy: divination by swords or knives
• rumpology (also natimancy): divination by buttocks
• tyromancy: divination by cheese
• transataumancy: divination by things accidentally seen or heard
• cosquinomancy: divination by hanging sieves
• cephaleonomancy: divination by boiling a donkey’s head

How you divine the future using buttocks (yours? a handy assistant’s?), I don’t know.

But the donkey’s head thing sounds appropriately occult. Might be hard to convince the NYPD you’re just scrying the foggy shore of What’s To Come, of course, when they show up and ask about the missing donkey and the mysterious smell. But potentially worth it—esp. if the donkey’s head speaks to you (in Latin? backwards Latin?), telling your fortune/the fortune of your buttocks.

Patricia Cohen reports in “Next Big Thing” that literary criticism and psychology have merged, via technology, to form a hybrid science by which scholars are learning more about more about how we make memories, and what we think as we read.

Literature, then, may be headed toward a technological singularity along with the rest of human enterprise. Drat. Here I thought we’d be smoking meerschaum pipes and perusing cracked yellow tomes, even as the robohumans zoomed past us on their iFlyingWhales, listening to their crazy post-technocrunk…

Turns out instead we’ll be scanning our students’ brains and watching the screen flash green as they struggle through the texts we assign. This could be fun.