Revolution and its ghosts

I wrote this a coupla years ago. Today, as the Republic, aka the lyceens, gather in the streets to face down repression, I'm thinking about revolution and haunting.  

"In the world of epiphenomena, the haunt is king.

This sentence, believe it or not, forced itself upon me at 6:45 a.m this morning, as I was arising from bed to go empty my bladder. An old man in a dull month, or a dull man with an old prostate – one of those moments.

Well, yesterday I had to finish up some editing work, and in the evening we were scheduled to go to La Rotunde and chow down, but in between times I was thinking about haunting. In particular, haunted houses. Houses in which what happened in the house forms the nucleus of the story.

Haunted houses have been mocked in the cultures that claim to be children of the Roman Empire since Lucian of Samosata was a pup. In fact, Lucian’s dialogue, Philopseudès, or The lover of lies, is one of the great documents of the Hellenic enlightenment, written maybe a decade before Tertullian, in another part of the Empire, began vigorously damning peeps like Lucian. Renan compared Lucian to Voltaire – and Voltaire also compared Lucian to Voltaire. The lover of lies is a dialogue that contains a dialogue, a conversation between philosophers, so called, at gathered around the sick bed of an evidently wealthy man named Eucratès. They commence to talking about miracle cures, phantoms, and other such business, to the disgust of Tykhiadès, who takes the view, sometimes taken by Voltaire and lesser philosophes as well, that superstition is just stupidity. How can anybody be so dumb as to believe in ghosts haunting houses?

This kind of one dimensional positivism is still around. And it has its fragment of veracity: if we believe in something we call “cause”, much of these superstition visions seem to call for explanations rooted in local causes – like fear of the dark – rather than in cosmological causes – like an afterlife from which these phantoms come.

Our anthropological liberalism, too, searches for causes, but not in the stupidity of the credulous, but in cultural practices that we study while withholding our own cultural biases – an epoche that is either tolerant or patronizing.

Haunting, of course, as hauntology and all the rest of it, became a modish object of reflection after the fall of the wall. Helped along by Derrida’s Spectres of Marx, the idea of something haunting something else - the way Communism haunted Europe, or the way Hamlet’s dad haunted Hamlet – became a model for thinking about our own neo-liberal ghostliness.

Myself, as a citizen of Paris, think about haunting as a matter of urban history. And certainly Paris is a haunted and hunted city – we walk past old torture chambers and the ghosts of faits divers, here, as we go to Carrefour and get the meat and veggies and wine.

Paris has always been a central place for occultists, sex magic theorists, Gurdjeffians, far right white magic dudes, clairvoyants, and situationists. Yet, in the Paris media, the ghosts and haunted houses are usually somewhere else. There’s a whole mythology of Britain as a ghost-haunted place, and Brittany too. Whereas if such beliefs creep into Saint-Germain, they are intellectualized – its all surrealists and serious searchers in the Kabbalah.

In Southern France, “folk beliefs” are everywhere. Recently there’s been an excellent scandal in a village near Montpellier. The mayor of Agde, Gille D’ettore, felt that he needed a connection on high. He needed God. Or some spirit. So he searched around to contact the big OTHER, and had the misfortune to contact a corrupt clairevoyant, Sophia Martinez. Here’s the story in brief from the Midi Libre:

“Medium and healer, she is alleged to have used a stratagem with the Mayor of Agde and numerous other interlocutors: in using a masculine and raw voice on the telephone, she made them think she was in contact with a supernatural being from the Beyond. This voice incited them to take good care of the voyante, including materially.

Suddenly, she was able to pay, by means of Gilles D’ettore, for a veranda, a jacuzzi, a sumptuous wedding, airplane tickets for herself and her friends, etc.”

Such little things the beyond wants from us! D’ettore was not the only seeker after advise – some real estate broker is suing Martinez because he gave her ten thousand euros to speak to his late mother, which he did on the telephone – although the voice at the other end might, just might have been Martinez’s own.

If corruption there must be, I’m rather happy that it went into making sure a clairevoyante from Agde could soak in a jacuzzi after expending enormous spiritual energy connecting with the beyond. I get it."

Pour des lyceens!

 I haven't tuned into the NYT gurgling their macronist responses to the police violence against the Lyceens yet. But I have seen a lot of the videos - including a video of an insane police charge at our school, Voltaire - and I've seen the vids of heartening demonstrations of support by parents and workers that are now all around - except of course on French fox tv, which is a phantasmagoria of redfaced racists yelling shit.

Tuesday is the day when the unions and the parents and the high school kids - the lyceens - are taking to the streets. I've been officially informed that we are going out in the streets too.

We are obviously at a dead level in this weird century - the American president, convincted of rape, sending his love out to the Cornell rapists, and the French president, who never met a cop thug that he didn't love, cheering on the flying squads as they take down protesting 16 year olds. At least in the latter case, however, I'm pretty sure that things are going to wind up like they did for the Gilets Jaunes - that is, Macron will try to bribe his way out of this situation while guarding the only thing he really cares about, i.e., making sure the superwealthy are not ever really taxed.

Dead levels everywhere. But we are not dead yet. Meanwhile I'm going to listen to the Who's Baba O'reilly (teenage wasteland) this fine morning.

A rape kit

Shame of the Universities, II : the Droit de Seigneur in America

August 23, 2019

There are scandals that fascinate but don’t educate. And then there are the other scandals, the ones that x-ray a social order, the ones that, in one flash of light, penetrate under the skin of the ruling class and show us the gaudy, gory connections that make up its structure and substance.

The Jeffrey Epstein scandal, from his supposed suicide (the suicide of a man who spent 12 hours a day in his jail, meeting in a special meeting room with his lawyers; the man who supposedly despaired that the jig is up, without the thought crossing his head that he might have information that he could use to bargain with the prosecutors; the man who supposedly knelt and leaned so hard against the sheets conveniently provided for him by the prison system and tied to his bed post that he broke bones in his neck; that suicide) to his donations and friendships, showed what money can buy in America. It showed, even more, what money has bought in America: it has bought unaccountable private power that now rules us in ways that would astonish the aristocracy in 18th century France.

Or maybe not.

I've been thinking of the scandal about Beaumarchais’s Marriage of Figaro, known to all opera lovers. The plot concerns Figaro’s master’s desire to assert the droit de seigneur on Figaro’s bride-to-be: that is, the right of the master to have sex with the bride of the vassal on the first night of the marriage. A fiction, historians say. In Beaumarchais’s day, it was a common enough trope – considered archaic, but evidence of the ghastliness of feudal times. In the play, the Count has already renounced the droit de seigneur in his own marriage – but he seeks to reassert it with Suzanne, Figaro’s bride-to-be, by buying her consent.

“Tired of prowling among the rustic beauties of the neighborhood he returned to the castle… and endeavors, once more, secretly to purchase from her, a right which he now most sincerely repents he ever parted with.”

Napoleon, famously, called the play “the revolution already in action”. I don’t think anybody will call the Epstein affair the revolution in action, since we seem to be at a deadpoint in history where reaction rules on all sides. But the revolution, like the kingdom of heaven, can’t be said to be here, or there, but explodes – so who knows.

In my last post about the shame of the universities, I showed a streak of moderation that, a week after writing it, I am rather ashamed of. Before I rundown the farce of irresponsibility that is unspooling before our eyes, I should say, in my most dictatorial voice, that the larger scandal is that there is no SEC like regulatory body to police the concentrated private power of tax exempt universities. What regulation exists consists of mere nudgery. We have no body to force universities to be wholly transparent about their donations. We have no body to investigate the responsibility of the administration in covering up not only insalubrious relationships, but crimes. We allow universities and colleges an incredible leaway to investigate sexual assault, to investigate inside dealing by faculty, to allow deals with for profit corporations, etc. Just as allowing billionaires to flourish is like inviting dinosaurs to your five year old’s birthday party and expecting them not to eat the cake and the kiddies; similarly, allowing Harvard or Yale or any U. to be judge and jury of their own doings is not an invitation to corruption, it is corruption in action.

Yale, for instance. Let’s take the recent news about Yale. It too involves sexual assault and an island in the Caribbean – but, at least so far, without an Epstein in it. Instead, it involves Eugene Redmond, a professor at the medical school, who as long ago as 1994 was credibly accused of sexual abuse of students. These students were invited to study on St. Kitts Island, where Thomas seemed to run a private foundation. After hearing that Redmond was tricking students into having sex with him, this is what Yale, in its glory and its power, did:

“… the Yale School of Medicine launched an investigation in 1994 after students from Redmond’s summer internship program reported that he sexually molested and harassed two students. Redmond was reprimanded and signed a settlement agreement that required him to eliminate the program, cease recruiting and any supervising of students in St. Kitts and that he abide by a separate housing policy, the report said.”

If you rub your eyes and think, wow, a cab driver that isolated a customer and raped him would not only be fired by the cab company, but turned over to the police – you obviously do not fit in America. In America, Dr. Eugene Redmond was with Yale. And Yale is no mere cab company, but a trainer of, well, our Supreme Court. So what happened was a stern interdiction of sleeping together. And with that, Yale slapped together its mighty hands. Case solved!

Except that since 1994, Redmond didn’t eliminate the program and Yale did nothing except whistle for 15 years. Cause there was no power on earth prodding Yale to do squat. The state of Connecticut isn’t going to take on Yale. St. Kitts isn’t going to take on Yale. And as for the Feds, they only go to Yale to get educated, and then contribute to its endowment. Its all a little bubble, isn’t it?

If you read the papers about this, it is not: Yale covers up crime. It is about “Yale lapses”. It is not about Connecticut lapses, lapses in U.S. law, because, as we know, the government has delegated its power to Yale. The headlines, as usual, say more than they know.

This news was rather overshadowed by the continuing fallout of MIT’s Jeffrey Epstein connection. Epstein was such a valued contributor to MIT that he was even sent a little trophy, the same type of token they awarded people who were “disruptors”, speaking out about, say, sexual harassment. That must have pleased Epstein – here these metoo feminists were, and here he was, and they got the same award.

The latest letter of non-apology apology comes from MIT professor Seth Lloyd. The letter was obviously penned with some help from the PR department, which has studied the “nerd tunnel vision” defense of George Church’s apology and decided it needed tweaking. So Lloyd comes out firmly, very firmly, in a parenthetical aside, against raping children. It is almost heartwarmingly moral, and makes me want to curl up in MIT’s lap. Here’s the entire, bizarre-orama quote:

When I learned of Mr. Epstein’s arrest and subsequent conviction, I was deeply disturbed. (I should have been equally disturbed by his plea bargain. His crime was termed “soliciting prostitution.” Children are not prostitutes.) But upon reflection, I decided to visit Mr. Epstein during his prison term in Florida. I believed, at the time, that I was doing a good deed. Mr. Epstein expressed remorse for his actions and assured me that he would not re-offend.

After Mr. Epstein’s release, I resumed attending the discussions that he convened with other scientists and accepted two grants from his foundation, one in 2012, and a second in 2017. These were professional as well as moral failings.

I for one wonder greatly, greatly about the “upon reflection”. What was that reflection like? Epstein, who loved to fund neuro-sounding shit, would probably have enjoyed the shit out of Lloyd’s distance-putting. The suicide went to his death knowing for a fact that if he could make it through his problems in NYC, the universities would quietly come calling again – after a suitable ‘upon reflection’ period.

Of course, the dribble of apologies (which will accompany many university president heralded investigations, leading to nothin) will all contain boiler plate language about being “horrified” by Epstein’s crimes. This is to laugh. In the New Republic, Eugeny Morozov, a tech guru, published an email he received from John Brockman (a literary agent and general connector for high profile sci and tech people, who runs the Edge.org). Here’s what Brockman was saying in 2013:

Jeffrey Epstein, the billionaire science philanthropist showed up at this weekend’s event by helicopter (with his beautiful young assistant from Belarus). He’ll be in Cambridge in a couple of weeks asked me who he should meet. You are one of the people I suggested and I told him I would send some links.

He’s the guy who gave Harvard #30m to set up Martin Nowak. He’s been extremely generous in funding projects of many of our friends and clients. He also got into trouble and spent a year in jail in Florida.

If he contacts you it’s probably worth your time to meet him as he’s extremely bright and interesting.

Last time I visited his house (the largest private residence in NYC), I walked in to find him in a sweatsuit and a British guy in a suit with suspenders, getting foot massages from two young well-dressed Russian women. After grilling me for a while about cyber-security, the Brit, named Andy, was commenting on the Swedish authorities and the charges against Julian Assange.

“We think they’re liberal in Sweden, but its more like Northern England as opposed to Southern Europe,” he said. “In Monaco, Albert works 12 hours a day but at 9pm, when he goes out, he does whatever he wants, and nobody cares. But, if I do it, I’m in big trouble.” At that point I realized that the recipient of Irina’s foot massage was his Royal Highness, Prince Andrew, the Duke of York.”

Isn’t that cute? As Xeni Jardin (one of the editors of Boing Boing) says: they all knew. (go to her twitter account – which is digging much deeper than, say, the NYT, which has still not reported on the story that its business journalist, Landon Thomas Jr., took 30,000 bucks from Epstein – while reporting on him. @xeni)

You can’t combine a social democracy – even of the mild New Deal/Great Society type – and a pre-1929 economic order. I should add a codicil: you can’t have a social democratic culture and a plutocracy. The squeeze operated by the upper one percent effects more than “social mobility” – it effects our most basic freedoms. It closes off emancipation with a chopper. We need to open it again – even if it takes a chopper.  

A rape kit - rapes and frats, the tip of the iceberg: Baylor https://www.pbs.org/.../former-baylor-frat-president...; Cornell http://abcnews.com/.../cornell-fraternity-member.../story...; University of Minnesota https://abcnews.com/.../cornell-fraternity.../story...; Temple alpha epsilon pi https://www.nbcwashington.com/.../temple.../2028707/; UCLA 1996 https://www.latimes.com/.../la-xpm-1996-06-05-me-38229...; UCLA 2015 https://abc7.com/.../rape-allegations-surface-at.../506276/; USC https://www.latimes.com/.../usc-protests-intensify-after...; Sigma Chi MIT https://police.mit.edu/.../sexual-assault-sigma-chi...; Johns Hopkins https://www.theguardian.com/.../johns-hopkins-rape...; American University https://www.theatlantic.com/.../the-dark-history.../361056/; et fucking cetera. Abolish frats.

some remarks on Pascal

 I understand the relic-mania of the Middle Ages, for I like relics myself. Not that I collect them – I don’t really have that collecting vibe in my life. I’m a great thrower-outer, too great in fact. I have regretted certain trips to the dumpster. However, I do like the idea of seeing a great man or woman’s tomb, or seeing their handwriting, or the chair they sat in. I like to follow the footsteps of some figure from history, donning my psychogeographical mook’s outfit – or more simply, taking pictures with my cell phone – as I find their address and try to imagine, through archives of newspapers, what they saw on their street. I like having a destination. I especially like this in Paris, which is an infinite universe of destinations. The great metropolises contain their chronographic essence in ways that tickle the sensitives among us, the ones for whom the past is an ESP ambush. Who see and dicker with the ghosts.

Lately I’ve been thinking about Pascal. I have not really read Pascal in decades; he never became my life companion, like Montaigne. But Pascal was so obviously that rare thing, the mooncalf genius, the boy who at 6 or 7 went through Euclid and did the proofs himself, that he retains a very distinct freak sparkle for me.

One day this spring I was walking down Rue des Minimes and thought, this is where Pascal and Descartes met. They met and talked for almost three days at the Couvent des Minimes, a building that is now a private Catholic school. They argued about the vacuum, with Pascal maintaining that nature does not abhor a vacuum and Descartes holding the classical Aristotelian position, although borrowed to function in Descartes cosmological system of vortices.

In 1647, Pascal made a famous experiment to show that the air has a weight and that it has less weight higher up – which was an essential insight into the constitution of the atmosphere. He used 2 tubes of glass 40 feet high, which he had installed on Puy de Dome, and compared the level of the mercury in them to the level of mercury in tubes put in a place of lesser elevation. From the heights of the mercury Pascal not only deduced the weight of the atmosphere but, as well, a more general notion of a vacuum.

As he put it: “nature has no repugnance for the vacuum, that it makes no effort to avoid it, and admits it without pain or resistance.”

In that phrase one sees something much larger that was happening in the 17th century: the scientific discarding of nature as a recognized actor. Nature, unlike the elements, or fluids, or matter in its forms, has no scientific profile whatsoever. This was the conclusion, latter in the century, of Boyle, and science has gone on this way ever since. Nature is "law bound" - or in other words, corresponds to our formulation of forces. It is never supervenient on its "laws".

So when Descartes met Pascal on 24 September 1647, he was meeting, in a sense, the future. That was too much for Descartes. If nature didn’t abhor a vacuum, what good was it?

2. Psychogeography, and the random walk, perculate up in the interstices of ordinary life under the reign of deathdrive capitalism. I’d call them all adventures in oppositional nostalgia. We can walk about where natural philosophy started turning our cosmovision upside down – and in that walk, number 12, Rue de Minimes, has a privileged place.

3. Pascal’s vita, in the hands of his sister Gilberte and his comrades at Port Royal, became the story of a God infested man. There were scores of god infested men in the 17th century. Few, though, were also mathematicians, natural philosophers, and experimentalists. Pascal was a prototype, in these respects, of what later came to be that familiar enlightenment figure, the philosopher.

Take, for instance, what Pascal made of his experience of Paris. We do know that the year of his death, the year when the ecstatic state described in the Pensees was reaching its peak, he was also involved in a prescient attempt to provide Paris with a bus service.

We don’t have the dense tableaux of Paris from his time that we have in the Paris chroniclers of the 18th century, like Mercier. But we do have certain documents – for instance, the Lettre d’un sicilien a un de ses amis, which was probably written between 1681, when its writer, Giovanni Paolo Marena settled there, and 1693, when he died, which are devoted to describing aspects of the metropolis. Like Pascal, Marena took a carriage now and then. This is how he describes them: “there are an infinite number here, which are all worn out and mudsplattered and seem to be instruments to kill living things. The horses that pull them eat while they work, like those that pulled Seneca [in the Roman Empire] to the country, for they are boney and mangey. The coachmen are so brutal, they have such horrible harsh voices and clack their whips so much to augment the general noise level that it seems like the Furies are in movement to make Paris into a hell. These cruel vehicles are payed for by the hour, a custom surely invented to abbreviate our days in a time when life is short.”

Pascal and the company he formed addressed what they saw as a need, in the pedestrian and coach crowded streets, to create some order that would allow even the poorer inhabitants to travel throughout the city. Pascal’s proposal would have made certain spots on the street carriage stops, which would be regularized according to a schedule and would be parts of a line that would extend in this or that direction through Paris. The price was to be five sols. The company received a license from Parliament and then a brevet from King Louis XIV – with a codicil that effectively eliminated the potential pool of users, as the court forbade the use of such carriages to “soldiers, pages, servants, manual laborers, etc.” Interestingly, this interference by a hierarchical social order that seeks to maintain the privileges of those on top has gone on to infest every scheme to organize public transport to our day: the wealthier and more powerful are not only wary about according mobility to the lower classes, but are also determined to keep their transportation privileges in place even if that means undermining the speed and reliability of public transport.

4. Pascal’s body was a subject of debate in 1792.

Pascal was buried in Eglise Saint-Etienne-du-Mont on August 21, 1662. He’d died just up the street in the home of his sister, Gilberte. Fifty priests assisted at his funeral. The family donated 20 francs for the services.

And thus it lay for more than a century when, during the time of the French Revolution, the Eglise Saint-Etienne’s neighboring church, Saint Genevieve, was nationalized by the state and turned into the Pantheon. The Eglise Sainte Genevieve was recent, actually – it was finished in 1790, and had been inaugurated by Louis XV in 1744, to pay homage to the saint who he had prayed to in an illness. The Pantheon was conceived as a temple to the great men of the Revolution and the enlightened men who had led up to it – Mirabeau, Voltaire, Marat, Rousseau. As the anti-Catholic vogue became more intense in 1793, the Eglise Saint-Etienne was renamed the Temple of filial piety, and the two great men buried there, Pascal and Racine, were marked for removal to the Pantheon. This never happened – it was buried under the politics of the time. It may well have been the last time that Pascal’s resting place was still identifiable.

Now – and by now I mean last week, when I visited the Eglise Saint-Etienne – we have only an approximate idea of where Pascal’s ashes are stored (against his resurrection, of course). It is somewhere under a pillar in the chapel of the Virgin.

The cult of the virgin, in Pascal’s time, certainly had its fervent devotees, but it was in the 19th century that the cult became more fundamental to the Church. In 1854, the Pope issued a bull affirming the immaculate conception of Mary. This had an unusual afteraffect on the Eglise Saint-Etienne. The archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, was in the Church on January 3, 1857 when he was approached by an ex-priest, Jean-Louis Verger, who was a fanatic opponent of the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception. Verger took out a knife and stabbed the archbishop to death while screaming: “no goddesses! Death to the goddesses!”

This might be the most patriarchal moment in all of history. Or, maybe not. In any case, I do wonder what the spirit of Pascal made of it all. Pascal did have strong Jansenist sympathies. But he was no prisoner of that creed.

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On sidewalks, cities, corruption and laterality

 

 

1. I drove in Ireland on the right side – instead of the American left – this summer. I drove down country roads that are so narrow that one is always confronting the situation of who concedes, the driver coming towards you or you yourself? It all depends on if there is a space carved out to let the other driver pass. Or vice versa.

 

When my brother drove, and I was in the passanger seat watching the hedges rush past us, like some nightmare of coming accident mixed in with a roller coaster thrill.

 

I read the Bureau while I was in Ireland, Eoin McNamee. The book is about a band of smugglers and crooks operating on the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic. The book contains a lot of driving, obviously, often on dark narrow roads. Having seen with my own peepers the bright narrow roads of Sligo county, I had a lot more respect for the fictitious thugs. McNamee has learned to transpose Delillo dread (from the early period, Running Dog, the Names, etc.) to the farms, gambling shops, and gasoline trucks of Ulster. It is hard to do dread for too long. McNamee has mastered the half-finished joke, the camera shot flyby, and I do like it.

 

2. Paris sidewalks

 

The French philosophes made a cult out of all things English, from Newton (whose science was taught to Voltaire by his lover, the Marquise du Châtelet), Locke, the school of psychology founded by Hartley, and the threefold division of powers as envisioned by Montesquieu. So it is not surprising that D’alembert and Diderot’s Encyclopedie is full of Anglophilia, even in the farther corners. For instance, in the entry entitled Trottoir, or sidewalk (which may have been added when the Encyclopedie was re-edited in 1825), we read this: “The city of London has been the one that most commodiously instituted the use of sidewalks. It owes this advantage to the almost entire reconstruction of the old part of the city that was consumed in the great fire of 1666. All the streets were retraced on a vast plan, all aligned and cut at right angles.”

This of course is a fantasy, a fanta-fact, but it floated before these dreamers who longed to be the Great Fire themselves, purging the old and crooked from the City.

In the meantime, in 1787, the administration of Paris, which was at that time headed up by Baron de Breteuil (the unfortunate who was named prime minister of France by Louis XVI a week before the storming of the Bastille), sent a letter discussing a new street template. In 1783, the administration of Paris had ruled that all streets should be 30 feet wide; but this created dissatisfaction. In new proposal before the city administration was to make all new streets 36 feet wide, with 6 feet on either side being reserved for sidewalks. That would make the vehicular area 24 feet wide. At no point in the discussion that is reproduced in L’etat de Paris en 1789 is there a discussion of what these widths referred to: the width of the standard carriage? The width of two people standing side by side on the sidewalk? This is probably related to the fact that standardization came in after the 18th century, with the rise of factories – at which point the street scheme of centuries was already in place.

The effect of these obscure discussions are with us today. I can walk down Rue Charlot, which is next to our apartment, and see exactly what the Baron de Breteuil was talking about – streets with a with of 36 feet, with two sidewalks taking up twelve of those feet. Of course, the new street provision was amended, ignored, or forgotten in the next hundred years. In all the industrialized countries, the advent of the automobile brought a new and more dangerous element into the mix of pedestrians and riders. But at no point, to my knowledge, did this lead to experiments about what would be the safest mix – how much for instance per lane would lead to minimizing accidents? How about standardizing exits and pass-throughs? And what size is optimum for pedestrian traffic flow on sidewalks?
In Paris, at least, sidewalks are plentiful (much more so than in Los Angeles, for instance), but they are crowded, bumpy, and imperfectly protected from intrusion by motorcyclists and others. The sidewalks are a part of contemporary life that is sort of hidden – while any Paris mook will know about Haussman, that famous cityscape arranger, it is the rarer urbanite who knows about the father of the Parisian sidewalk, le Comte de Chabrol, who was appointed by Napoleon as the administrator of Paris and began wracking up the “dallage” – pouring sidewalks – as part of his remit. George Sand, latter, accused him of corruption for favoring rock from Volvic – quarried, that is, from his own home territory. Pierre Estienne, in a history of Volvic, sums it up as follows:

Thus we understand the program of Chabrol-Volvic, prefect of the Seine from 1812 to 1830, for discovering other outputs for the stone – in this case, a Parisian clientel: it needed his influence, his power, to impose a stone which had neither the robustness nor the clear and war colors of Paris’s subsoil limestone. “it would have been more economic to pave paris with five france lengths of stone than bringing in the Volvic volcanic stone,” notes a skeptical contemporary. What to make of this sad stone which possesses a darkness that accentuates with age, which decays quickly with use, and should not form paving, much less sidewalks? Chabrol required a rare stubbornness in order to have his friends and most likely associates, the Brosson who were in Pont-du-Chateu, bring in the Volvic stone, cut it, deposit it on ships in the Allier that was almost unnavigable, and finally to have it carried on the canal de Briare up to Paris, and with the price of the rejects that one can only imagine, fill orders. In fact, up to 1830, F. Brusson had obtained the monopoly for supplying lava stone for the sidewalks of the capital, thanks to Chabrol’s protectrion; he even had a permanent sales office on the banks of the Saint-Martin canal.”

A city, as Balzac knew, is not just branded with corruption – corruption often literally drives the creation of the street and the sidewalk. Which in turn has unexpected consequences for the pace of the city, and its politics.

 

3. I got curious, like, about this matter of left handed driving versus right handed driving. A list of the countries that embrace the LHD traffic flow – that is, those where the driver’s side is on the right – is provided by a dry as dust tome by a certain Nicolae Sfetcu – has a rundown. The fact that the Continent, in general, and the Americas are almost all RHD, while the UK, Ireland, and many of the former colonies are LHD is a curious testimony to colonialist laterality. A rather charming election was held in Sweden, which was at the time LHD, to decide on which side of the street to drive on. Overwhelmingly, Swedish drivers selected the pattern they were familiar with – LHD. The Swedish parliament went over the head of the popular will and on 5 a.m. Sunday, September 3, 1967, all traffic had to switch to the right hand side of the street. The NYT noted the change:

 

“Just before the change-over, severely reduced speed limits will be placed into effect, and all but emergency vehicles will be banned for four hours before and one hour after the change-over.”

 

In Sweden it was called H day – for Hoegertraffik, or right handed driving.

 

Chris McManus, in that wonderbook, Right Hand, Left Hand (which will, some day, rank up there with the Anatomy of Melancholy), took up the lateral driving norm and shows that the stories accruing to why one side or the other is preferred rely on various myths. In actuality, up  until the eighteenth century, in most areas of Europe driving was done on whatever side the driver happened to prefer. The code of the road caught the administrative eye only as road traffic started to become dense – in synchronicity with the industrialization of travel brought about by railroads.

 

To show how second nature feels like first nature, McManus quotes a bit from Lolita, where Humbert Humbert, after murdering Clare Quilty, writes: “So I crossed to the left hand side of the highway and checked the feeling. The feeling was good … nothing could be nearer to the elimination of basic physical laws like driving on the wrong side of the road.”

 

The word wrong jumps out at me. Wrong as in error, wrong as in sin. The wires cross in “wrong”, the traffic goes haywire. McManus provides a helpful map of the countries mandating LHD, and a study of how Canada, a RHD country, was actually heterogenous at one time. British Columbia and the Maritime provinces were LHD countries until they were administratively steered right. There is, indeed, something about that administrative fiat that feels like even physical law is under the rule of the state.  In fact, Hitler’s government, after taking over Austria in the Anschluss, ordered Austrians to drive to the right – reversing their previous left handed norm.

 

McManus does not show the roots of the driving preference, but he does suggest that laterality is a bordercrossing thing – if neighboring countries are driving to the left, then there is a high likelihood that your country will drive to the left. We are all immigrants and so are the directions we drive in. The wrong side is the side the horde does not choose.  

Mr. Grice's progeny

 The automatic writing of the Surrealists was miles behind the true weirdness of certain crochets of the analytic philosophers in their prime, between the 50s and the 90s. A whole career, back in those glorious days of wine and Sputniks, could be spent pondering some aberrant sentence in English.

It is  this set of “suspect examples” that wash through the papers and (rare) books of Paul Grice.  In Studies in the Ways of Words, his magnum opus, he considers quite a few before getting to the gist of the book.

Among them are phrases involving the English verb try.  If I say, for example, that I tried to write that last sentence, I would score one hundred on the truth meter. I did try. I even succeeded. Which is the oddity of the case. As any parent knows raising any child in the primary school stage, the word trying is often used to denote – something not done. As in, I tried to do my homework! Hearing a child say, I tried to do my homework, one can be dead certain that said homework was not done. But that inference can’t be based on what we know, definitionally, about trying, which is neutral on the success of failure of the thing tried.

Or – to take a “suspect example” that I simply love: what about remember? If I sign a document, I am entirely entitled to say: I remembered my name. But if I did say so, it would make one immediately suspect that the ‘signing the document” scenario is a little off. Am I senile? Have I suffered from amnesia? Nothing in saying I remembered my name tells us, on a semantic level, that such suspicions could be raised. Every time I sign an email I can justly say that I remembered my name; but in saying it, I put into question some linguistic “instinct”. I am giving information that is, though true, inferentially overtrue, so to speak.

Grice, being English, calls this odd. And it isn’t just an anomaly. Rather, it points to a whole structure of inferences built into our discourse, or as he calls it our conversational use of language. These suspect cases are the entering wedge from separating language as the logician conceives it from the ordinary language studied by the socio-linguist: the pragmatics of language.

The key here is that language is used to imply. Grice devoted his philosophy of language to tease out the dimension of implying – of implicature – and to give it a canonical form. “Echoing Kant, I call these categories Quantity, Quality, Relation, and Manner.” All of which are utterly dependent on the big C – circumstances. Scenarios, stories, uses.

The rules that compose these categories are very Britishy, and one might phrase them differently – but they do a good job of making us feel implicature

Take for instance Quantity. “The category of Quantity relates to the quantity of information to be provided, and under it fall the following maxims:

1. Make your contribution as informative as is required (for the

current purposes of the exchange).

2. Do not make your contribution more informative than is required

 

This then takes care of the suspect example of remembering your name when you sign a document. The excess of information leads to other problems in the big C. It leads, I think, to literature.

I won’t go through Grice’s table. But a remark about implicature is relevant to my larger purpose – which is to link AI to its basis in computing. The table and its maxims are very much structuring principles – and not logical deductions. Implicature seems to resist the computerization that we can accord, say, sorting, or any conventional set based logic.

This gets us to the Large in Large Language Models. The way to force the computerization of implicature, it was seen in the eighties, by people working on Expert systems, was by sheer expansion of the corpus of data. That expansion is, of course, energetically costly. Even as, under the watchful eye of Moore’s law, chip size got smaller, the energy for creating a C large enough to accommodate implicature still seemed pragmatically difficult.

Well, of course, it turned out it is. Which is why we have this amazing energy suck that consists of building data centers to contain the universe of C – which consists of all human representations, audio, scriptorial, pictorial, etc. It is a matter of implicature without experience.

 Can experience be mimicked through recursion? My own feeling is that the universe of C can’t expand that much.  The apocalypse does not, to my mind, mean robot overlords – it means the exhaustion of planetary energy.

And so it goes in our odd faux-Gotterdammerung times.

Les Rita: mon amour

 

Back in the 00s, I needed a lot of cheering up. Coincidentally, Youtube appeared. This expanded the field – of my own musical appreciation, to say the least.

And it is through Youtube that I discovered Les Rita Mistouko. When I put a link up to one of their videos, the friend of my blog, Amie – the late great Amie, whose death was a shock to my system that stayed a shock – turned me on to other songs, and to some history of the group.

Catherine Ringer and Fred Chichin were the two elements of that molecule – which was not only music, but dance and spectacle. They fully embraced the cinematic side of the enterprise. Some of their songs were silly – especially when matched up to their video – until, upon repeated listening, the silliness became an initiation to a certain combative aesthetic joy.  Prisoners sing for many reasons; one of them is that the song is not imprisoned. That is combative joy.

Fred Chichin died of cancer. And now Catherine Ringer has died of cancer.

To the me me me writing this, Catherine Ringer represented, in a way, a certain French culture that I rather fetishize. It is the culture of the paysan de Paris – it is a culture of metis, practical jokes, and a tough view of morality, one that emphasizes respect and freedom as a synthesis rather than a hostile truce.

Oh Catherine!

This is a song Amie sent me a link to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUOYXlBEjGI