RIP Robert Anton Wilson

He made me laugh. He made me think.

Get Back To Ya

Chromosomal breakage can result in transposition, inversion or gene duplication. In addition to events like meiotic crossing over and mutation, chromosomal breakage explains how genetic information changes incrementally yet persists through time.

My other summer projects have priority over my pleasure reading. Thus, I didn’t have time to finish David Mitchell’s, Cloud Atlas, before it was due back at the library. This was an interesting read. Six short stories spanning eras but bound by themes and perhaps genetics. The prose of a couple of the stories took some getting used to. To compound the matter, Mitchell interrupts the first story, not only mid-thought, but also inexcusably mid-sentence. At first I thought it was a printing error. I turned the page. It was blank. Then a google search informed me that this was Mitchell’s intention.

A, B, C, D, E, F, E, D, C, B, A.

Okay, I get it. It’s like a Stravinsky inversion. The themes refer to among others, Marx, Nietzsche and The Police. The structural gymnastics and the diversity of style are mostly engaging. At times, however, it was just annoying. I’ll update this in September when I get around to reading the last section.

Roof, Roof

I readily buy into fiction. Give me a character with whom I can even partially identify, and you’ve got a pretty gullible subscriber. Carolyn Parkhurst, in The Dogs of Babel, needed only to introduce Paul, a depressed linguistics professor, and I was hooked. Paul fell in love with Lexy, his recently departed wife, for her spontaneity, creativity and inability to filter her emotions through socially conservative screens. These qualities are quite contrasting to Paul’s. He is methodical and stoic. Her death, however, triggers a scientifically and morally questionable project. It is a grind watching Paul struggle to find patterns where perhaps none exist and hope for outcomes that will assuredly never happen. In his effort to piece together his wife’s last moments, his own life falls apart.

Isn’t It Ironic

Michael Cunningham, in his novel Specimen Days, presents three stories that are separated in time but are bound by common themes of alienation and class struggle. The stories also share characters that recite Whitman in order to make sense of the world around them. Someone should have gotten those boys some Marx.

I’ll have to read it again. I’m not sure if I liked it or not.

Dispassionate Rendering

I’ve always been a sucker for the detached stoic ones. Kazuo Ishiguro’s, Never Let Me Go, is the story of Kathy H, a woman reflecting on life after her friends have lost theirs. Her matter-of-fact descriptions of friendship and love, at first seem trivial and well worn. She grew up in a boarding school. She made friends. She had crushes. She admired some teachers, feared others. Wait a minute. Wasn’t I put onto this book by a review in the journal Nature? (A braver, newer world, Nature 435, 427-427 (26 May 2005))

By the time I’d remembered that I was reading a science fiction book about the ethical issues presented by the progress of science and medicine, I had already invested in the idea that this was just a story about a woman who was trying to make sense of her life after her friends’ pre-determined early death. Ah, there they are. As I read about Kathy, Ruth and Tommy, I suppressed information that set them apart. Why die early? Were their deaths really pre-determined? Was Kathy’s controlled, measured and dispassionate rendering of her life a defense or truly an indication of her nature? They were, after all, so familiar. So ordinary. Or so I allowed myself to believe.

Misssster O'Leary

Sorry for the inside joke, but I ran across this passage in Kazuo Ishiguro’s, Never Let Me Go, and it stirred some slumbering synapses. Kathy H. was thinking back to how she was recruited into a secret guard for a favorite teacher:

When it came down to it, though, I don’t recall our taking many practical steps towards defending Miss Geraldine; our activities always revolved around gathering more and more evidence concerning the plot itself …

… Most of our “evidence” came from witnessing the conspirators at work … we watched from a second-floor classroom Miss Eileen and Mr. Roger talking to Miss Geraldine down in the courtyard … Miss Geraldine said goodbye and went off … we kept on watching, and saw Miss Eileen and Mr. Roger put their heads closer together to confer furtively ...

“Mr Roger,” Ruth sighed on that occasion, shaking her head. “Who’d have guessed he was in it too?”

Odd that I don’t remember any guy named Kazuo from my hometown.

On Pirates and Scientists

They are fashionistas, epicureans, gullible and a little shy around pretty girls. They are also the pirates of Gideon Defoe’s comic fiction, The Pirates! In an adventure with SCIENTISTS. Captain Pirate leads his crew, including pirate with a scarf and pirate with an accordion, through a bit more swashing than buckling.

“So, there’s two pirate boats sailing towards each other, and one of the boats is carrying all this blue paint. And the other pirate boat is carrying all this red paint. They crash, and you know what happened?”

Though you probably don’t need to read the book to guess the answer, give it a look anyway. It has all the ingredients for a nice summertime diversion, right? Well, Defoe throws in for good measure a young socially awkward Charles Darwin and Mister Bobo, his man-panzee. Says Darwin, one of science’s founding fathers, on the distracting charms of the fairer sex,

“Damn women, with … with their hair … and their faces …”

Seems scientists and pirates might have more in common than previously thought. Thanks to Profgrrrl's sidebar for the book suggestion. It made today’s commute.

Summer Reading Index

Last Update, 07/28/05, 01:49 am

TITLE	AUTHOR	COMMENTS
Cloud Atlas	Mitchell, David	07/28/05
The Historian	Kostova, Elisabeth	none
The Dogs of Babel	Parkhurst, Carolyn	06/29/05
Saturday	McEwan, Ian	none
Assasination Vacation	Vowell, Sarah	none
Specimen Days	Cunningham, Michael	06/16/05
Never Let Me Go	Ishiguro, Kazuo	06/12/05
Pirates! In an adventure with SCIENTISTS.	Defoe, Gideon	06/09/05
Opening Skinner’s Box	Slater, Lauren	none
No Ordinary Matter	McPhee, Jenny	none
The Piano Tuner	Mason, Daniel Philippe	none

Gumption

date: 04/02/05
time: afternoon
weather: 51 ºF, light rain, wind S/SE at 28 mph
mileage: today-10, week-18, year-105.7
resting (bpm): 63
after workout (bpm): 116
weight: +28

comments:

Pirsig, in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, wrote about gumption and the things that sap it. An unfavorable environment and the state of ones tools are two such gumption leeches. Both were present today, promising a hard slog ahead if I hoped to get in some miles.

It was windy, cold and raining. I haven’t put in enough miles to acquire the level of weather immunity that I’ve had in the past. I still dress too warmly for the weather, and it has been a while since I’ve checked on my rain gear. I would need a water resistant outer shell and bright or reflective colors to ensure that these suburban Saturday drivers could spot me. I could feel the probability of my run decreasing.

Absent tools or tools present but not ready-at-hand also can decrease enthusiasm below activation energy. I checked my gym bag for a windbreaker. I haven’t been to the gym since I let my membership expire two years ago. Great, another lock whose combination I’ve forgotten destined to the recycle bin. I pulled out a yellow piece of plastic, the yellow surely the work of a drug influenced mind, thinking that it was my favorite mal-weather running top. Instead, it was a jumbo poncho designed to fit over a hiker wearing a full pack. The poncho was tucked in the side bag compartment along with a half eaten bag of chips. That the bag of chips was in there for two years did not surprise. That I let a bag of chips go unfinished is. Contrary to what some of you might think, I did not finish it off. The first three or four chip fragments proved too stale. Okay, I decided to go with the nearly fluorescent poncho. White running shoes with reflective decals, check. White utility gloves purchased at 7-11, check. Wind pants? Wind pants? Darn, they’re nowhere to be found. Black bicycle shorts were in the laundry. Cotton sweatpants would get soaked and cold. The only thing left was a set of blue spandex tights. This run just wasn’t happening, was it?

I got dressed and convinced myself to get out there for ten minutes. I could decide then to turn around or continue on. So, there I was lopping down the block, yellow poncho flapping, blue tights clinging and white shoes, gloves and painter’s cap punctuating my ensemble. Yeah, at least I’ll be seen through the weather. Ten minutes passed, and I felt good. I turned onto a usually well-traveled bicycle path. No bikers, no runners. I passed a couple walking, but that was about it. It’s rare to find yourself alone on this island. I fell into a steady rhythm and before I knew it, I hit five-miles. I turned towards home knowing that I was going to accomplish much more than I intended. Hot chocolate, a warm shower and fresh clothes greeted me upon arrival. Oh, and I passed the century mark for the year. Gumption busters? HAH!