Category Archives: Dear Jim

Dear Jim… (#21) Re: On Space

 

The mathematician’s patterns, like the painter’s or the poet’s must be beautiful; the ideas like the colours or the words, must fit together in a harmonious way. Beauty is the first test: there is no permanent place in the world for ugly mathematics.” – G. H. Hardy

Dear Jim,

So at the end of your letter on time you asked for a letter about space. Conveniently, space – in its broadest sense – is what Measurement by Paul Lockhart is about. I will come back to that. First allow me a series of digressions.

(The Greeks treated all of mathematics spatially. Three was a line three times longer than a line of length one. To add you put the lines end to end, to subtract you cut away a stick of the relevant length. They did all their maths in this way, shapes were vital.)

As may have come up in these letters before: I was a religious kid. I don’t think that my dislike of mathematics has featured; so cliff notes are that I found maths to be too algorithmic and formulaic – in all of the ways – to be of interest at school. Another thing unlikely to have come up is that I find the song Amazing Grace very sad, and somewhat discomforting, especially the final verse.

Consider all this to be foreshadowing.

(Geometry is ye olde Greeke for measuring the Earth. Plato’s Acadamy had a sign behind the bar that read ‘Let No One* Ignorant of Geometry Enter’, but in ye olde Greeke.)

When I was but knee high to a woodlouse I had the disconcerting feeling of coming upon infinity in a deeply disturbing way. I was small and so this memory is probably a composite of several moments but my brain has been somewhat fried by my travels in time (and indeed space, especially the space enclosed by the pint glass). The way I remember it is as a conversation with my mother in church regarding Heaven and the unending nature of it. What started as an innocent question ended in tears as my mother explained that there was no end, that every day would be followed by another; that at the edge of space there would have to be something else beyond, some sort of nothingness.

(They also believed the universe was infinite in all directions, and that ideas existed in a very real but very abstract way. They also believed that their complex and varied beliefs spanning several centuries and most of the Eastern Mediterranean would be over simplified and bled of all nuance so I could make word count.)

The result was physical discomfort.

(In their maths however, they avoided infinity. Largely thanks to the confusions introduced by Zeno and his tortoises. They also didn’t have a numeral for zero. No one did until the Indian’s started using it. Nothing and infinity are tied up by the idea of the infinitesimal – a fragment that takes up no space but has a value. Something we only really started to get to grips with in Newton / Leibniz’ work.)

I sympathise. The idea that like that extra day after infinite others, there was another mile of space after the infinite miles behind it. It was an emotion I haven’t really had about anything else. It was a real horror, but wasn’t fear. It wasn’t about scale or feeling small. It was about something more abstract. Something about existing in the infinite something about having something definite but completely unknowable.

(Of all the scientific disciples, I’ve been told that mathematicians are the most likely to be religious. This seems weird when their field is about such refined and precise logic which seems kind of incompatable with the non-rigourous thinking implied in the word ‘faith’.)

It hurt my gut, but not in the way sadness does. It was unpleasant, and I sat for a long time wanting to cry. Then I did cry for a bit. Then the whole congregation rose to sing Amazing Grace which ends with the verse:

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright Shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise,
Than when we first begun.

This was all a bit much for me and I had to be taken outside.

(Then again, there is clearly something in the abstraction of the subject that overlaps with the spiritual. Especially in the Abrahamic tradition where God is not so much a personality as a concept.)

Anyways. I was reading Measurement. So the book is Lockhart’s way of teaching maths that isn’t everything that turned me off maths when I was at school. His approach is to teach methods of proof, then to lay down questions or problems that are to do with applying mathematical argument. There are no answers.

He urges the reader to treat maths as a creative endeavour. Find a proof, work on it, polish it like you would a poem. Make it shine. Then try and find a better one, or an alternative one.

The emphasis is on getting you to discover maths. You won’t be the first to prove there’s only so many platonic solids. But the discovery can be totally original to you. It is genuinely thrilling. This maths is out there, existent in a perfectly objective way. Nothing comes closer to Plato’s world of ideals than mathematics.

Some of it feels kind of arbitrary. It is logic so you take a bunch of assumptions and you run them as far as they will go, see what happens. It doesn’t matter how long your first stick is, as long as you can work out how long it is compared to something else.

But somehow it produces specificity. (Pi emerges, e emerges, sine and tangents, the primes.) These things have a realer than real existence. They are necessarily true. They are capital-T Truth. And that is easy enough to understand, but understanding is not feeling and when I finished Measurement I got a hint why so many mathematicians are religious.

In his discussion of (how e emerges), I started to have that infinity feels again. The discomfort. Here was a glimpse of the sun, of real objects, after watching the procession of shadows on the wall. It was also the closest thing I’ve had to a genuine religious experience since being slain in the spirit as a kid.

It was – appropriately – (transcendent).

I didn’t cry this time. Much. But I would still recommend the book.

This has all got rather highfalutin, why don’t you do something about something low next week: Low-life, low-brow, low-culture, low-lands – Whatever, I leave it up to you.

Yours finitely,

(Jon)

P.S. *’No one is not one word… Don’t quote me on that.‘ – J. S. Loveard

Leave a comment

Filed under Dear Jim, Reading, Science

Dear Jon . . . (#20) Re: Reading, Time and Tide

It was somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like ‘I feel a bit light headed, maybe you should drive…’ And suddenly there was a terrible roar and all around us the sky was full of bletters reading:

“Dear Jon,

It’s true, I talk a lot about re-reading. One of the reasons I prefer to buy a book than take it out from a library is because the thought occurs that I might want to re-read such a such a book. But it is more talk than action. I very rarely re-read books. This truth is documented. Records – those held in the Archives, walled up in a secret underground facility near Ultima Thule – suggest that the last book I actually re-read was Lawrence Durrell’s Tunc(1968) in April 2015. So not recently. Because, no, apparently 2015 isn’t recent anymore. Time flies…”

Click here for the rest.

Leave a comment

Filed under Dear Jim, Reading

Dear Jon (#18) Re: This Is Not For You

BY JON PILL

I am in a strange street, empty of people but full of voices. A light rain forms a mist into which the two ends of the street vanish. Neon signs hang and hum along with insect light-traps and one of them sparks as a moth meets its end.

The voices are under the street calling out a garbled message: ‘Dear Jon,’ they say. ‘Be gone buzz words. Buzz off buzz words. Bzzzzzzzt.

There is a pause and I step underneath a shop’s doorway to shake the earwigs from my cochlear canals they slither down a drain and the psychic audio bletter becomes clearer:

‘Let’s talk attitudes, because there’s another aspect to deal with. There’s one attitude which you talk about, I should read, listen to, look at x. One side of the groat there. The other side of the groat: but it’s not for me, it’s not for people like me, it’s for other people…’

The voice trails off. The sign above me reads: ‘CLICK HERE TO READ THE REST.’

Leave a comment

Filed under Dear Jim, Reading, Writing

Dear Jim… (#17) Re: On Converting The Philistines

BY JON PILL

I think reversing one’s position, or changing one’s mind – or in this case, maybe the idea of an ‘aesthetic education’ might be worth discussing. But I’ll leave you to flesh that out…” – Jim

Dear Jim,

In your last letter you gave me the broadest of briefs. To throw out a few thoughts on changing one’s mind or – you said, as if the two things were obviously linked – ‘aesthetic education’. I’ll deal with the latter because although less interesting to me it won’t spiral into a ramble. A tight 500 is the goal. This bletter needs sending today and I left it all until the final countdown.

Cue music:

 

In terms of aesthetical edugogy, I think it’s a valuable thing for one to do to oneself. But I’d be tentative about getting super evangelical about it. While there are somewhat weak arguments about art engaged humans being better citizens, I think liking art is more of a self-help thing than a social responsibility. With that caveat in mind, here’s what I think.

The general goal of the court mandated aesthetic education, as put together by Minister for Art Appreciation for Jon Pill would be, I think, to get the student – i.e. me  – to think about art intentionally. I think this is what is meant by that buzz word ‘engage’.

The human brain can engage with art at all sorts of levels, but the zeroth level that we all do pretty instinctively will always be: Do I like it? And here is where it is easiest to stop. With the Yes/No answer.

I come from a family of readers, my Dad read to me before I could read and listening to him read remained a family activity, especially on holiday where The Hobbit and the Harry Potter saga often made short work of train journeys.

Reading for myself was encouraged and there would be a regular exchange of cheap second hand paperbacks between the various members of the family. Redwall and Alastair MacLean, Jack Higgins and The Phantom Tollbooth. Stuff like that.

So there were books. But there was also a general air of philistinism. The first question I am asked whenever I say I have read Classic Book X or Epic Poem Y to a family member is always: ‘But is it actually any good? Or is it just one of those books your supposed to read?’

The inherent assumption behind the word ‘good’ is that it be enjoyable*. There was no room for a book to be challenging, the unpleasant, the interesting, the beautiful, unless it came with a good plot. In a house full of Austen lovers, I am the only one who likes Emma [Edit: My Dad has corrected me on this. He also likes Emma. Like father, like son.]. People hate Emma because they dislike Emma. That’s was all it takes: an irritating character that rubbed you up the wrong way. Never mind that her irritating faults are the driving force of a series of engaging dramas, never mind the amusing ironies her faults breed, never mind the impressive skill involved in what is pretty much the invention of the close-third narrator.

That is a difficult attitude to shake. Because good = enjoyable is a massive barrier between art and artee. A key part of that aesthetic education is just shedding the idea that an immediate sense of pleasure is the only positive response to something.

So interrogating Do I like it? with intentionality would level one of converting the barbarians. Once you have your yes or no follow it up with: Why do I like/dislike it? What do I like about it? What is it making me feel? What thoughts is it giving me?

I never learned to ask these questions formally. It’s been a slow trial-and-error sort of thing mostly through talking about film with friends, and more recently through reading widely, going to galleries, watching plays. And I’m still not always great about thinking like this. But, you know, fail better and all that. #selfhelpisnotselflove.

There are, of course, a ton of other ways of engaging with art, but cultivating this kind of self-aware thoughtfulness is the basis for all the rest of it. The basis of a lot of living well. #unexaminedlives. We’re not talking about turning  into a – hold back the sick – literary theorists after all. Just helping them get a bit more out of swirls of paint or lines of ink.

What the next stage in an aesthetic education might look like I’ll leave to you, someone who has spent five years formally studying fiction-books, in your next bletter.

Yours appreciatively,

Jon

P.S. *This issue of enjoyment vs. other stuff, Greene’s entertainments versus novels, and genre versus literature is all something we’ll have to come back to some day. For now though, I will leave that can of worms on the shelf beside the baked beans and Spaghetti-Os.

3 Comments

Filed under Dear Jim, Reading, The Silver Screen, Writing

Dear Jon . . . (#16) Re: Crime and Punishment, Trials and Castles

BY JON PILL

The digital flap rings out, and a writhing mass of bletters slap down onto the mat, each one struggling against the dark red elastic band that binds them to each other.

A bletter gets loose and wriggles away so, in order to keep it from slipping down the hole in the skirting board chewed long ago by an ancient king-rat’s many teeth in many heads, you skewer it on the end of your bletter harpoon and chew away the edible flaps to reveal the words etched into the skin of the bletter in rattlesnake venom.

Dear Jon,” the bletter begins. “Being, shall we say, terminally unhip – I too had an angst canon, though the bulk of it came out of the late 1800s rather than the late 1900s. Specifically, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Crime and Punishment, Demons, The Brothers Karamazov. Yet, the connections with your canon are there, no? Instead of a murderous Manhattanite, there’s the axe-wielding Raskolnikov killing old women in St Petersburg…”

To read the rest of the bletter turn to page 34, or click here .

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Dear Jim, Reading

Dear Jim . . . (#15) Re: Angst and Anxiety

BY JON PILL

‘Rules are for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of fools.’ – Douglas Bader

Dear Jim,

Christmas came and went. 2016 came and went. I hope it came and went well. I have a horrible feeling 2017 will be a time of reaping what 2016 has sown. But it also looks like it might be pretty good for you and me on a professional level.

As you guessed in your letter, I have been fiddling with the odd reading list for the coming year. You asked a bit about what guides my instinct re reading. I’m not sure I have a very interesting answer to that. I am rarely coming to a book cold, years of Google, Wikipedia and long conversations with book mad friends like you means I have a general sense of who and what out there will fit my given needs.

Plus my reading lists are almost always for a purpose, however broad. Catching up on the classics, research for the novel, sometimes its just: read more stylists, more plot, more nonfiction, more James Bond novels.

There is a certain amount of the should’ves on my lists, but I don’t know how sophisticated a gut instinct is needed to know one should have read some Dickens if you want to be a writer.

 

Your other question re teenage reading is a little more interesting, and one we’ve discussed several times. When you’re a teen you’re in that weird tension of wanting to be part of the group and to be an individual, different. If one of those things wins out you end up as either Molly Ringwald and Emilio Estevez or Judd Nelson and Ally Sheedy. Or that nerdy kid or the janitor. Or something*.

The compromise of being a goth or hipster or whatever is to belong to a little group that dresses funny. Same-same but different.

My cod-sociological theory is that the angst canon of books teenagers read is a way of revelling in that specialness. The Molly Ringwalds opt for manifest destiny as their reason for being weird, so Harry Potter and Star Wars for them. The Ally Sheedy’s are more likely to have a copy of Camus poking ostentatiously out of their pocket. Or as in my case Chuck Palahniuk. Judd Nelson didn’t read very much at all, I suspect.

For me the books that I read and reread (along with Michael Crichton’s whole oeuvre) were: American PsychoFight Club and The Beach. All in some ways were aspirational wish fulfilment. All three are books about outsiders who exercise power (and often violence) in their own sphere. It probably doesn’t hurt the appeal that they all get laid and enjoy freedom from authority (it is no coincidence that the British boarding school produced the inventors of the concentration camp).

What is also odd is that they are all also about mentally ill characters. And I do remember having a very romanticised notion of what it meant to have poor mental health. Think of the pop culture crazies like Donnie Darko and Hannibal Lector dictated my images of madness at the time. Being a teenager is often to be locked in several forms of mental breakdown anyways: , a barely developed sense of empathy, constant crises of identity and purpose, or else monomania and narcissism. or persecution complexes, anxiety, insecurity, paranoia, body dysmorphia, mood swings, sexual obsession and perversion, your average teenager is a grab bag of pages out of the DSM and Dr Levick’s notes on penguins.

The nihilism and existentialism (both in the most vague and colloquial sense) in the Ellis and Palahniuk reflected, and probably intensified, my personal philosophies at the time and that the books reflected and reinforced my dislike for those who feel entitled to authority.

I don’ know exactly how much I saw myself as Patrick Bateman or Tyler Durden (though it would not be beyond my cognitive dissonance to have seen myself as both), but I enjoyed for those years a total condescension and contempt towards all people everywhere. And although I was a very shy child, and am a pathologically anxious adult, in my mid-teens for a few years I felt very little shame or self-consciousness at all. It was around then that I was reading those books.

I still like those books. I haven’t read them in a long time, but their film versions have jogged my memory from time to time. But I like them for completely different reasons**. Where I used to admire Bateman, I feel pity instead. What was revelled in as wish fulfilment as revel as a teen reads as a satire now. Nice flat, expensive suits, and taking what he he couldn’t buy at the end of a nail gun, everything seemed perfect back then. Now he looks desperate and trapped. The horror isn’t in the gore, its in the empty relationships and impersonal flat.

These books are no longer my favourites. But they are still interesting as much because of my personal history with them as anything else. That as a writer is something that is probably impossible to account for in your readers. But interesting to ponder.

I’d be interested to hear about your own teenage readings. But I also wonder if there are any artworks in whatever form, that you’ve had a similar revisions or reversals of your feelings about a text or play and what they were?

Sincerely Yours,

The Breakfast Club

* P.S. I know and also don’t care that the movie was about how they’re not all that different you and I.

** P.P.S. I deliberately avoided talking about The Exorcist, because I could write a whole bletter just on that. Every time I have watched that film, it has seemed to be about something totally different. But that is because the film has so many ambiguities, and so much of the story happens off screen that it allows for interpretive shift. They all feel like natural readings of that movie. American Psycho, on the other hand, I find hard to imagine  missing how unhappy Bateman clearly is. Which I definitely did at the time.

Leave a comment

Filed under Dear Jim, Reading

Dear Jon . . . (#14) Re: On Waste Lands of Straight People

BY JON PILL

‘You’ve got mail,’ said the computer electronically.

‘Read it to me, computer,’ I spoke organically.

‘So many,’ it quothed digitally.

‘So many what?’ queried I fleshily…

I had not thought death had undone so many. -T.S. Eliot

Dear Jon,

Well, I hope you had a merry Christmas time. One way to address your question is to refer you to my very early reading this year in which I made a sally into the 1700s. I read Robinson Crusoe, I read Gulliver’s Travels, I read Tristram Shandy. And the last of these showed me clearly that the madcap and what might be called ‘the experimental’ is inherent to the canon. That cray was there, all the time… Click HERE for the rest of Jim’s bletter.

Leave a comment

Filed under Dear Jim, Reading