GENIUS: They say - well, it was said by someone, and oft-repeated by others - that genius is a hair's-breadth away from madness. It occurs to me that genius may, in fact, be a form of madness - perhaps a symptom, perhaps the full monty. The true genius, the freakishly intellectually gifted, is set so far apart from the rest of us mortals as to be marching not just to the beat of a different drum, but dancing to the music of an entirley different symphonia. Da Vinci had a maniacal way of considering the impossible before breakfast, and Einstein understood the cosmos. Hawking conceived of a universe that in expanding at ever-increasing speeds, and of fuzzy black holes. (The fuzziness of black holes is important. Without it, you wouldn't have drawn your first breath. True.) But in order to conceive of the inconceivable, your intellectual and emotional kitbag must be so very different from those the rest of us carry around.
Ergo, and quod erat demonstradum - you're bonkers. Barking. Doolally.
I've had the pleasure of listening to a couple of solo albums over the past couple of days. One is Roger Waters' "Amused to Death", the other is David Gilmour's "On An Island". You'll have spottede the connection - both Pink Floyd boys. Apparently they had a falling out, and have kind of reconciled, as long as they live in different counties. But they should know they're butthole buddies. Both albums are Pink. One is Pink Floud, the other is Pink Flood - or perhaps Floyd Light. Flood Light? Sorry.
Listening to Waters' album, I kept on expecting someone to ask the immortal question "How can you expect any pudding if you don't eat your meat?". Listening to Gilmour's album, I kept on checking the horizon for a floating giant pig.
Myself. It irritates me that people are using this word instead of that good old two-letter word "me", and the ever solid one-letter word "I".
"The team was made up of Tommo, Freddo, Billo, and myself." "Roger and myself like the new Roger Waters album."
It's always used in conjunction with a proper noun: no-one, as yet, is saying "Myself likes the new Roger Waters album," but it's a matter of time. Thus endeth the dribble about my most hated modern speech-ism. I promise I shan't mention apostrophes today.
LISTENING TO: Well, you already know. Gilmour, right now. Actually, I like it, even if it is Floyd Light.
READING: "The Death and Life of Superman". They call it a graphic novel, but really it's just the collected comic books. As I've never really been fond of the big blue boy scout, an involuntary cheer left my lips as he carked it. Now, I have another 300 pages of comic book to read before he inevitably, Mithras, Christ, and that Egyptian chap with the alligator's head-like, comes back to life. If it happens on the third day I'm-a gonna scream.
WORD OF THE DAY: Grief. I was chatting with a 94-year old woman today. She's in agony: her parents ands grandparents all got telegrams from some royal knob to celebrate their 100th birthdays. She's anticipating another 6 years of pain, and boy is she tired of it. She daily grieves for her youth.
More Rats.
On the day the first ANZAC troops, volunteers all, landed at Gallipoli, Arthur was having a few problems of his own.
Grampa Smith had acquired a Model T Ford, just six months ago. Not a new one, you understand. The old man’s wallet wasn’t that thick. And not to go gallivanting around in, either, young Arthur! For one thing, the old man’s eyesight was pretty shot by this time. He couldn’t see much more than a yard or two in front of his face, and his days of reading were gone to him completely.
No, the old man had bought the vehicle because he understood it was the future. That within Arthur’s lifetime, the demand for a skilled farrier and ostler would diminish beside the need for a good motor-car mechanic.
So, he bought the Model T, and took it apart. Then, he put it back together again. Then he had Arthur take it apart, and rebuild it. Now, for the third time, Arthur was putting the damn’ thing back together.
And, because of the eathquake, he was in trouble.
He’d jacked the right hand front corner up, and removed the wheel, and then lowered the axle onto a triangular stand. Then, he’d done the same to the left hand front corner.
The car’s axle was an easy two feet off the ground, and Arthur gave it a nudge to make sure it was stable. Then, he backed himself under the car, to look at the wiring.
“I don’t know why they left this wire here, Grampa,” he grumbled to himself. Grampa had gone back to the house to boil the kettle, and make a brew. His timing was beyond awful.
Arthur muttered some more, his throat dry. A good cup of gumboot tea’d hit the spot right fine. “It’s open to all sorts of damage from rocks being tossed up by the wheels. I reckon I’ll make a plate and bolt it on to protect – what in the name of God’s that?”
That, in the name of God, was an earthquake. Arthur heard it at first. A deep, mournful grumbling, God’s bellyache, a howl from the depths of the earth.
The earth shook. Then the shed shook. Tools dropped, clattering and harrumphing, from the wall. And the car rocked on its supports.
“Damn,” said Arthur. “I knew I should have made them like a bloody pyramid.”
The left stand buckled first, folding like wet cardboard. Arthur was on his back, his hips and legs sticking out from the front of the vehicle. His right arm shot up, elbow slammed into the oil-soaked soil, and his hand caught the axle as it dropped. The ground shook again, like an old cat coughing up a fur-ball. The stand on the other side of the car crumpled, and Arthur’s left arm took the position.
The weight of the car was now bearing directly downwards on his wrists and forearms.
Arthur filled his lungs, and yelled “Grampa!”
Showing posts with label Einstein. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Einstein. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The three Es
I was browsing the bookshelves the other day. I have a reader who is a fan of boigraphies, so I was on the 2nd floor, checking for something she'd like. I was stunned by a strange little juxtapositioon: three books, cheek by jowl, cover to cover: Eichmann, Einstein, and Eisenhower.
What a collection! One who changed the world by his deep understanding of the cosmos: he summarised it into E=MC2. Every now and then I dig out the book entitled "The Biography of E=MC2" and read it. It's a solid four hour read, and for an instant - no more than 10 seconds - I actually understand the formula. If anything could be likened to knowing the mind of god, then actually understanding E=MC2 would be it.
Using Eistein's equation, a terrible weapon was developed, and Eisenhower authorised its use. The arguments about the morality of the weapon's use are great and varied, and far better minds than mine disagree on the morality of the Atomic Bomb. The citizens of Hiroshima and Nagasaki will / should never forget it. The world should never forget it.
Just as the world should never forget the third member of this trio: Eichman. This is the person who is the embodiment of the truism that there is no need for Satan in our mythology: man can do perfect evil without recourse to any supernatural being.
Three men, contemporaries. One who saw the beauty of the cosmos, one who was driven to use the astonishing power of creation in the most destructive fashion, and one who was, quite simply, evil.
Side by side, on my library shelves.
Listening to: Art Garfunkel, "Angel Clare".
Reading: Still with the Lancaster book.
Word of the Day: Jo. I've never figured out whether my friend Jo is a concept, or a work of art. I hope I come to some sort of understanding before my brain turns to Pea Soup.
RATS continues.
“She wouldn’t be the first, Grampa.”
“Dunno as I likes it this year, though. Setting it off when we’re at war and everything. Seems to me that shooting off a cannon’s not right. There are boys dying over there.”
The old man was the town’s only Quaker. Actually, he wasn’t too sure about his Friendly status: his was a Society of one in Northridge, but he stuck to the teachings he’d learnt as a lad, seventy and more years ago. He studied his Bible, his work-roughened fingers scratching across the onion-skin paper as he followed the words. Of late, though, the old man had found reading by the light from candle and oil-lamp difficult, so Arthur had taken the book and read out loud. Coincidentally, the declaration of war had been made within a day of reading the Sermon on the Mount, and the conversation between the two men had been spirited, culminating in both admitting they had no understanding of the biblical passage at all, and quite possibly never would.
But there had been no debate about the most important question: the rightness or otherwise of the war. Both men, young and old, put their faces against the very notion of warfare, and that, they said, was that.
Of course, nothing is ever quite that easy, and further questions had arisen in the nearly three months since the declaration of war in Europe. Already, the idea of conscription was being raised in Wellington, but it seemed that it wouldn’t be adopted as policy for a long while yet: the army was having trouble coping with the number of volunteers that had come boiling out of the small nation’s hinterlands. From boys as young as 14 to men in their 50s, they had come to the Recruiting Offices in their scores, and the Sergeants had a richness of choice. Many had been turned away as being too young or too old. Other had been rejected for medical reasons; short-sightedness, flat feet, rickets. One plucky youngster had made it through the first intake before it was discovered he had a wooden leg.
“If you think setting off the mortar’s a bad idea, Grampa, you should tell her.”
“And feel the edge of her tongue? Not bloody likely, boy.”
They enjoyed an easy relationship, strengthened by mutual respect and love. Their conversation was often punctuated by long periods of silence, as each allowed the other time to formulate and hone their thoughts. The old man’s devotion to the younger man was fierce, but he was equally hard on Arthur, especially if he made a weak argument in the matter before them. Often, either one would act as the devil’s advocate, taking a contrary position simply in order to thoroughly thrash ideas out. The talk around the blast furnace wasn’t the rough men's talk out-of-towners may have expected, for the old man was a disciple of Socrates, and kept a well-thumbed copy of Plato’s “Republic” on the small table beside his easy chair. On any given evening it was a toss-up as to what book he’d pick up first: Plato, or the Bible. Discussions on any given subject could and would ricochet around the workshop for days, often culminating inboth men admitting they'd need to consult with either their own library, or the small thousand-volume public library Old Man Smith, Jayne Francis, and Whetu Ngamoki from down the pa had established at the back of the General Store.
The mortar thumped for the fourth time that evening, and Arthur cleared his throat and asked “Exactly what is a Callithumpian, Grampa?”
“A Callithumpian, boy, is – well, a Callithumpian is –“
“You don’t know, do you?” Arthur grinned, his teeth white in the gloaming.
“No, but I do suspect that it has an awful lot to do with making loud noises, and drinking beer and whisky.” The old man scratched his chin, and continued. “That’s what I think, anyway.”
“Sounds fair. An English thing?”
“American, I believe.”
“Ah.”
What a collection! One who changed the world by his deep understanding of the cosmos: he summarised it into E=MC2. Every now and then I dig out the book entitled "The Biography of E=MC2" and read it. It's a solid four hour read, and for an instant - no more than 10 seconds - I actually understand the formula. If anything could be likened to knowing the mind of god, then actually understanding E=MC2 would be it.
Using Eistein's equation, a terrible weapon was developed, and Eisenhower authorised its use. The arguments about the morality of the weapon's use are great and varied, and far better minds than mine disagree on the morality of the Atomic Bomb. The citizens of Hiroshima and Nagasaki will / should never forget it. The world should never forget it.
Just as the world should never forget the third member of this trio: Eichman. This is the person who is the embodiment of the truism that there is no need for Satan in our mythology: man can do perfect evil without recourse to any supernatural being.
Three men, contemporaries. One who saw the beauty of the cosmos, one who was driven to use the astonishing power of creation in the most destructive fashion, and one who was, quite simply, evil.
Side by side, on my library shelves.
Listening to: Art Garfunkel, "Angel Clare".
Reading: Still with the Lancaster book.
Word of the Day: Jo. I've never figured out whether my friend Jo is a concept, or a work of art. I hope I come to some sort of understanding before my brain turns to Pea Soup.
RATS continues.
“She wouldn’t be the first, Grampa.”
“Dunno as I likes it this year, though. Setting it off when we’re at war and everything. Seems to me that shooting off a cannon’s not right. There are boys dying over there.”
The old man was the town’s only Quaker. Actually, he wasn’t too sure about his Friendly status: his was a Society of one in Northridge, but he stuck to the teachings he’d learnt as a lad, seventy and more years ago. He studied his Bible, his work-roughened fingers scratching across the onion-skin paper as he followed the words. Of late, though, the old man had found reading by the light from candle and oil-lamp difficult, so Arthur had taken the book and read out loud. Coincidentally, the declaration of war had been made within a day of reading the Sermon on the Mount, and the conversation between the two men had been spirited, culminating in both admitting they had no understanding of the biblical passage at all, and quite possibly never would.
But there had been no debate about the most important question: the rightness or otherwise of the war. Both men, young and old, put their faces against the very notion of warfare, and that, they said, was that.
Of course, nothing is ever quite that easy, and further questions had arisen in the nearly three months since the declaration of war in Europe. Already, the idea of conscription was being raised in Wellington, but it seemed that it wouldn’t be adopted as policy for a long while yet: the army was having trouble coping with the number of volunteers that had come boiling out of the small nation’s hinterlands. From boys as young as 14 to men in their 50s, they had come to the Recruiting Offices in their scores, and the Sergeants had a richness of choice. Many had been turned away as being too young or too old. Other had been rejected for medical reasons; short-sightedness, flat feet, rickets. One plucky youngster had made it through the first intake before it was discovered he had a wooden leg.
“If you think setting off the mortar’s a bad idea, Grampa, you should tell her.”
“And feel the edge of her tongue? Not bloody likely, boy.”
They enjoyed an easy relationship, strengthened by mutual respect and love. Their conversation was often punctuated by long periods of silence, as each allowed the other time to formulate and hone their thoughts. The old man’s devotion to the younger man was fierce, but he was equally hard on Arthur, especially if he made a weak argument in the matter before them. Often, either one would act as the devil’s advocate, taking a contrary position simply in order to thoroughly thrash ideas out. The talk around the blast furnace wasn’t the rough men's talk out-of-towners may have expected, for the old man was a disciple of Socrates, and kept a well-thumbed copy of Plato’s “Republic” on the small table beside his easy chair. On any given evening it was a toss-up as to what book he’d pick up first: Plato, or the Bible. Discussions on any given subject could and would ricochet around the workshop for days, often culminating inboth men admitting they'd need to consult with either their own library, or the small thousand-volume public library Old Man Smith, Jayne Francis, and Whetu Ngamoki from down the pa had established at the back of the General Store.
The mortar thumped for the fourth time that evening, and Arthur cleared his throat and asked “Exactly what is a Callithumpian, Grampa?”
“A Callithumpian, boy, is – well, a Callithumpian is –“
“You don’t know, do you?” Arthur grinned, his teeth white in the gloaming.
“No, but I do suspect that it has an awful lot to do with making loud noises, and drinking beer and whisky.” The old man scratched his chin, and continued. “That’s what I think, anyway.”
“Sounds fair. An English thing?”
“American, I believe.”
“Ah.”
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