The ant however had understood the lecture perfectly.
When she returned to her hole she called a meeting.
Comrade ants, she began, last night I had a glimpse of the future. There is something new in the world of humans called Augmented Reality. It allows them to superimpose images of things that do not exist over the top of things that do, in order to see what they would look like if they were different.
Does it have any useful applications? asked a serious young ant, from the front row.
Not for humans, but there's a great spinoff for us! said the ant excitedly. Free toenails!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Augmented Reality
So, first things first. I have to trim my nails. But they're already really short. I ask Pliny if toenails will do as well. He says the ants will probably like them better.
That's easy. Now I have a little handful of toenail parings, I need to find my ant hole. It's been raining a lot and the ants are underground. But later in the afternoon the sun comes out and I find a promising ant hole. I scatter my toenail parings near the hole and wait to see what happens.
An ant comes out and looks around. She goes back in. This is lucky really because I haven't made a proper plan to catch her yet. I run inside and find a glass. The ant emerges once again. This time she goes up to the biggest toenail clipping and starts to drag it towards the hole.
Quick as a flash, I drop the glass over the labouring ant, who is now my prisoner, along with a piece of toenail. Now all I have to do is extricate the toenail from the ant and the ant from the glass and then suspend the ant by some means or other around my neck.
A thought occurs to me. Does the ant have to be alive to effect a cure? I ask Pliny. He thinks it probably does. Otherwise, he says, the disease cannot be transferred to the ant.
What! I say. Does this poor ant have to take on my disease? Of coure it does, says Pliny, don't you know how sympathetic medicine works?
Well, I'm none too happy about it but I've gone too far to give up now. And my sore throat isn't really all that bad, I tell the ant. The ant looks at me as if to say, whatever, but you'll never take this toenail away from me.
So, to cut a long story short, I go out that evening to a lecture on Augmented Reality, of all things, wearing around my neck an angry little ant pendant that tickles and scratches and scrapes and nips, in a most distracting fashion, and I fail to learn anything useful.
Later Pliny tells me he's remembered that the ant cure is only good for malaria.
That's easy. Now I have a little handful of toenail parings, I need to find my ant hole. It's been raining a lot and the ants are underground. But later in the afternoon the sun comes out and I find a promising ant hole. I scatter my toenail parings near the hole and wait to see what happens.
An ant comes out and looks around. She goes back in. This is lucky really because I haven't made a proper plan to catch her yet. I run inside and find a glass. The ant emerges once again. This time she goes up to the biggest toenail clipping and starts to drag it towards the hole.
Quick as a flash, I drop the glass over the labouring ant, who is now my prisoner, along with a piece of toenail. Now all I have to do is extricate the toenail from the ant and the ant from the glass and then suspend the ant by some means or other around my neck.
A thought occurs to me. Does the ant have to be alive to effect a cure? I ask Pliny. He thinks it probably does. Otherwise, he says, the disease cannot be transferred to the ant.
What! I say. Does this poor ant have to take on my disease? Of coure it does, says Pliny, don't you know how sympathetic medicine works?
Well, I'm none too happy about it but I've gone too far to give up now. And my sore throat isn't really all that bad, I tell the ant. The ant looks at me as if to say, whatever, but you'll never take this toenail away from me.
So, to cut a long story short, I go out that evening to a lecture on Augmented Reality, of all things, wearing around my neck an angry little ant pendant that tickles and scratches and scrapes and nips, in a most distracting fashion, and I fail to learn anything useful.
Later Pliny tells me he's remembered that the ant cure is only good for malaria.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Pairings
Le Bon David writes well, says Pliny the Elder admiringly. I liked his first edition. He combines a skill in philosophical argument with a pleasing facility of description which you would do well to emulate.
Thanks, Pliny, I try, but I'll never be as good as him. I liked the way he drew our attention to the little white fingernail shells, and the crunching sounds they made when the bicycle went over them.
Yes, and the repetition of the image in the description of the foam, that was masterful.
It was. Do you know the sort of shells he was referring to, by the way?
I believe I do. The bivalved molluscs known as Pipi. They remind me of fingernails too. Which reminds me to ask, are you feeling poorly this morning? I see you have been wearing a big black scarf wound twice around your neck indoors. And sitting with a blue polar fleece decorated with dolphins folded double and tucked around your middle. That is not like you.
Well spotted, Pliny. Yes I have the beginnings of a sore throat and I'm trying to ward it off by keeping warm. But why did fingernails remind you to ask me that?
Because, says Pliny, I am reminded of a cure which magicians used to say would never fail.
What is it?
They recommend the parings of fingernails be thrown at the entrance of ant holes, and that the first ant to come out and try to draw one into the hole should be captured and attached to the neck of the patient. They say the patient will then experience a speedy cure.
Thanks, Pliny, I try, but I'll never be as good as him. I liked the way he drew our attention to the little white fingernail shells, and the crunching sounds they made when the bicycle went over them.
Yes, and the repetition of the image in the description of the foam, that was masterful.
It was. Do you know the sort of shells he was referring to, by the way?
I believe I do. The bivalved molluscs known as Pipi. They remind me of fingernails too. Which reminds me to ask, are you feeling poorly this morning? I see you have been wearing a big black scarf wound twice around your neck indoors. And sitting with a blue polar fleece decorated with dolphins folded double and tucked around your middle. That is not like you.
Well spotted, Pliny. Yes I have the beginnings of a sore throat and I'm trying to ward it off by keeping warm. But why did fingernails remind you to ask me that?
Because, says Pliny, I am reminded of a cure which magicians used to say would never fail.
What is it?
They recommend the parings of fingernails be thrown at the entrance of ant holes, and that the first ant to come out and try to draw one into the hole should be captured and attached to the neck of the patient. They say the patient will then experience a speedy cure.
Velosophy
Welcome to the first edition of Velosophy. I am David Hume, Le Bon David, as the French are pleased to call me. In this magazine my friend Voltaire and I intend to explore some of the fascinating philosophical issues that arise when a man rides a bicycle. I shall go first.
Here is a man, riding his bicycle along a beach. Or let us say, there is such a man. For now all there is to prove that there is a man riding his bicycle along a beach are the tracks that his tyres make in the sand.
And here is the sun. But he may not look at the sun. All that the man has to prove there is a sun in the sky is a shining path upon the sea, all aglitter, and the miniscule shadows of the tracks of his tyres in the sand.
And now the man is thinking of a pretty puzzle. What are the colours of the sea? He may only describe the colours in terms of the impressions that they make upon his senses. And what if he has never seen anything the colour of the colours that he sees make up the colours of the sea? He must do his best. Let us listen to his thoughts:
(But we cannot listen to his thoughts. All we have are the tracks of his bicycle tyres in the sand, and a shining path of glittering light leading from our eyes across the water to a point on the horizon that is directly below the position where we imagine that the sun he may not look at is in the sky.)
We must imagine his thoughts. We must also imagine that he is riding south, with the sun on his shoulder, if we wish him to come up with better colour images than shiny, and grey. No, he must be riding south, and look! he must be crunching these tiny white fingernail shells as he goes, crunch crackle crunch. He looks at the sea, the thick sensuous roll of foam like boiling sugar. It spreads and forms a lacy bridal train that dissolves into flecks of disappointed bubbles.
The wet sand is blue, the shallows like the juice of lemons. The water deepens fast, becoming plum. Farther out, it looks a virulent pondweed green. White fingernails of foam rise and run. Beyond the green, it's inky blacky blue.
But with what degree of certainty can he claim this to be true?
*
Next week my good friend Voltaire will venture to amuse you in his new persona as The VeloDrone. Until then, happy cycling!
Here is a man, riding his bicycle along a beach. Or let us say, there is such a man. For now all there is to prove that there is a man riding his bicycle along a beach are the tracks that his tyres make in the sand.
And here is the sun. But he may not look at the sun. All that the man has to prove there is a sun in the sky is a shining path upon the sea, all aglitter, and the miniscule shadows of the tracks of his tyres in the sand.
And now the man is thinking of a pretty puzzle. What are the colours of the sea? He may only describe the colours in terms of the impressions that they make upon his senses. And what if he has never seen anything the colour of the colours that he sees make up the colours of the sea? He must do his best. Let us listen to his thoughts:
(But we cannot listen to his thoughts. All we have are the tracks of his bicycle tyres in the sand, and a shining path of glittering light leading from our eyes across the water to a point on the horizon that is directly below the position where we imagine that the sun he may not look at is in the sky.)
We must imagine his thoughts. We must also imagine that he is riding south, with the sun on his shoulder, if we wish him to come up with better colour images than shiny, and grey. No, he must be riding south, and look! he must be crunching these tiny white fingernail shells as he goes, crunch crackle crunch. He looks at the sea, the thick sensuous roll of foam like boiling sugar. It spreads and forms a lacy bridal train that dissolves into flecks of disappointed bubbles.
The wet sand is blue, the shallows like the juice of lemons. The water deepens fast, becoming plum. Farther out, it looks a virulent pondweed green. White fingernails of foam rise and run. Beyond the green, it's inky blacky blue.
But with what degree of certainty can he claim this to be true?
*
Next week my good friend Voltaire will venture to amuse you in his new persona as The VeloDrone. Until then, happy cycling!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The VeloDrone
No, I don't, said Pliny crossly. But I suppose you are going to tell me anyway.
Not unless you want me to, I replied.
Hmm, said Pliny. Alright then, tell me who was the winner of your absurd the Tour de France.
Alberto Contador, I said, followed by one of the Schlecks, and Lance Armstrong.
Yes of course, said Pliny, I know that, but what happened to the members of your Team Philosophe? Rousseau was last seen pedalling furiously up Mont Ventoux. Did he get to the top?
Oh yes, he did. And in record time. He would have been King of the Mountain, but he went flying down the other side and headed straight for Paris without stopping, so he was disqualified. He was livid. He claimed no one had told him he was meant to catch the train to Montereux.
What about Voltaire and Hume? asked Pliny. Did they finish well?
Well, they finished, I said. But not too well. They got into a very deep conversation about the cyclical nature of history and the cogs of human understanding, and they forgot all about trying to win the race. They were philosophical about it though. They're going to give up racing and publish a cycling and philosophy journal together.
Oh really? said Pliny, looking interested. I must watch out for it. What is it to be called?
Hume wants to call it Velosophy, but Voltaire thinks it will be more amusing to call it The VeloDrone.
Not unless you want me to, I replied.
Hmm, said Pliny. Alright then, tell me who was the winner of your absurd the Tour de France.
Alberto Contador, I said, followed by one of the Schlecks, and Lance Armstrong.
Yes of course, said Pliny, I know that, but what happened to the members of your Team Philosophe? Rousseau was last seen pedalling furiously up Mont Ventoux. Did he get to the top?
Oh yes, he did. And in record time. He would have been King of the Mountain, but he went flying down the other side and headed straight for Paris without stopping, so he was disqualified. He was livid. He claimed no one had told him he was meant to catch the train to Montereux.
What about Voltaire and Hume? asked Pliny. Did they finish well?
Well, they finished, I said. But not too well. They got into a very deep conversation about the cyclical nature of history and the cogs of human understanding, and they forgot all about trying to win the race. They were philosophical about it though. They're going to give up racing and publish a cycling and philosophy journal together.
Oh really? said Pliny, looking interested. I must watch out for it. What is it to be called?
Hume wants to call it Velosophy, but Voltaire thinks it will be more amusing to call it The VeloDrone.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Stop at the Top
Jean-Jacques Rousseau pedals furiously up the slopes of the mighty Mont Ventoux, his caftan flapping, Sultan yapping in his little basket, the crowds leaning forward dangerously close to cheer on the oblivious rider. Suddenly....
Stop! cries Pliny the Elder. Stop writing at once!
Why? I ask him, innocently.
This is nothing but nonsense. There is no Team Philosophe in the Tour de France. Rousseau, Voltaire and Hume would never qualify as riders. You have made every bit of this up.
You started it, I reply. You said you were following Rousseau's Twitterfeed and that he was doing pretty well.
Alright, I may have been misled, admits Pliny. Perhaps it was Nicolas Rousseau, from team Ag2R, that I was following.
It couldn't have been, I say, because he isn't in it this year either. Maybe you were following a fake Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
A fake Jean-Jacques Rousseau! How can that be?
Easily. I'm following several fake people on Twitter. They're often better than the real person. Fake Penny Wong, she's much funnier than the real Penny Wong. Although I sometimes wonder whether she's the real Penny Wong pretending to be fake Penny Wong so that she can say what she really thinks without getting into trouble with her parliamentary colleagues, or the press.
You've lost me now, says Pliny.
Good, I say. Now do you want to know who wins, or not?
Stop! cries Pliny the Elder. Stop writing at once!
Why? I ask him, innocently.
This is nothing but nonsense. There is no Team Philosophe in the Tour de France. Rousseau, Voltaire and Hume would never qualify as riders. You have made every bit of this up.
You started it, I reply. You said you were following Rousseau's Twitterfeed and that he was doing pretty well.
Alright, I may have been misled, admits Pliny. Perhaps it was Nicolas Rousseau, from team Ag2R, that I was following.
It couldn't have been, I say, because he isn't in it this year either. Maybe you were following a fake Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
A fake Jean-Jacques Rousseau! How can that be?
Easily. I'm following several fake people on Twitter. They're often better than the real person. Fake Penny Wong, she's much funnier than the real Penny Wong. Although I sometimes wonder whether she's the real Penny Wong pretending to be fake Penny Wong so that she can say what she really thinks without getting into trouble with her parliamentary colleagues, or the press.
You've lost me now, says Pliny.
Good, I say. Now do you want to know who wins, or not?
King of the Mountain
Voltaire and Hume are riding disconsolately at the back of the peloton. Rousseau is nowhere in sight.
Voltaire: Jean-Jacques has gone off his head!
Hume: Again.
Voltaire: Accusing me of not sharing my Power Bars and sports drinks! Outrageous! And now he's sulking most absurdly and threatening to pull out of the race.
Hume: You offered to share them, no doubt.
Voltaire: Of course. But you know him. He won't accept anything that smacks of charity. He insisted on paying me for them there and then. So there he was, rummaging around in his jersey pockets for some bits of change, and wobbling all over the road. You can imagine how I laughed. And of course that drove him to distraction. And then there was the drama with his irritating dog.
Hume: He should have left it at home. He was up all night cleaning up its mess. No wonder he's in such an evil mood today. Where is he anyway?
They look behind them. A strange sight meets their eyes. Rousseau is pedalling towards them at a phenomenal rate, clad in a long flapping Armenian caftan and a fur hat, Sultan well ensconced in a basket attached to the front of his bicycle.
Rousseau ( in passing): Farewell my enemies! I am commencing an undertaking hitherto without precedent, and which will never find an imitator! I intend, without the aid of anyone, to become King of the Mountain on Mont Ventoux!
Voltaire: Jean-Jacques has gone off his head!
Hume: Again.
Voltaire: Accusing me of not sharing my Power Bars and sports drinks! Outrageous! And now he's sulking most absurdly and threatening to pull out of the race.
Hume: You offered to share them, no doubt.
Voltaire: Of course. But you know him. He won't accept anything that smacks of charity. He insisted on paying me for them there and then. So there he was, rummaging around in his jersey pockets for some bits of change, and wobbling all over the road. You can imagine how I laughed. And of course that drove him to distraction. And then there was the drama with his irritating dog.
Hume: He should have left it at home. He was up all night cleaning up its mess. No wonder he's in such an evil mood today. Where is he anyway?
They look behind them. A strange sight meets their eyes. Rousseau is pedalling towards them at a phenomenal rate, clad in a long flapping Armenian caftan and a fur hat, Sultan well ensconced in a basket attached to the front of his bicycle.
Rousseau ( in passing): Farewell my enemies! I am commencing an undertaking hitherto without precedent, and which will never find an imitator! I intend, without the aid of anyone, to become King of the Mountain on Mont Ventoux!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Rousseau's Dog
Phil Liggett: Well, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, what do you think of your chances after today's time trials?
Jean-Jacques: Not so good Phil. I've had a terrible day, thanks to my so-called team mates letting me down badly yesterday.
Phil: Ah yes, David Hume seemed to be riding for himself, I noticed. He took off up the Col de Romme like a man possessed.
Jean-Jacques: The devil take him! He doesn't believe in the connection between cause and effect. That the sun won't rise tomorrow is to him just as likely as that it will. He rates the destruction of the universe equally with the scratching of his finger. But I blame myself. I should have known he wouldn't be a team player.
Phil: And what about your other team mate, Voltaire? You seemed to be as thick as thieves yesterday. What went wrong there?
Jean-Jacques: Voltaire! I detest him! He is the one who said every man is guilty of the good he did not do. Hah! Then he is guilty of not sharing his Power Bars and electrolytic drinks with me after I had tragically dropped mine and they were consumed by a dog!
Phil: Tragic indeed!
Jean-Jacques: Particularly as it was my own dog. And now poor Sultan has the flux! Voltaire of course, found the situation absurdly funny, and rode off laughing.
Phil: All in all, a couple of bad days for you then, Jean-Jacques.
Jean-Jacques: It's the story of my life. Disloyalty, persecution, you name it. I'm looking at a completely new team next year. Jean-Paul Sartre is interested. I'm sure I'll get on better with an existentialist. He'll just do what he has to do.
Phil: Well, better luck tomorrow, Jean-Jacques, and all the best to Team Philosophe.
Jean-Jacques: Thanks, Phil. Now I'm off to spend some quality time with dear old Sultan.
Jean-Jacques: Not so good Phil. I've had a terrible day, thanks to my so-called team mates letting me down badly yesterday.
Phil: Ah yes, David Hume seemed to be riding for himself, I noticed. He took off up the Col de Romme like a man possessed.
Jean-Jacques: The devil take him! He doesn't believe in the connection between cause and effect. That the sun won't rise tomorrow is to him just as likely as that it will. He rates the destruction of the universe equally with the scratching of his finger. But I blame myself. I should have known he wouldn't be a team player.
Phil: And what about your other team mate, Voltaire? You seemed to be as thick as thieves yesterday. What went wrong there?
Jean-Jacques: Voltaire! I detest him! He is the one who said every man is guilty of the good he did not do. Hah! Then he is guilty of not sharing his Power Bars and electrolytic drinks with me after I had tragically dropped mine and they were consumed by a dog!
Phil: Tragic indeed!
Jean-Jacques: Particularly as it was my own dog. And now poor Sultan has the flux! Voltaire of course, found the situation absurdly funny, and rode off laughing.
Phil: All in all, a couple of bad days for you then, Jean-Jacques.
Jean-Jacques: It's the story of my life. Disloyalty, persecution, you name it. I'm looking at a completely new team next year. Jean-Paul Sartre is interested. I'm sure I'll get on better with an existentialist. He'll just do what he has to do.
Phil: Well, better luck tomorrow, Jean-Jacques, and all the best to Team Philosophe.
Jean-Jacques: Thanks, Phil. Now I'm off to spend some quality time with dear old Sultan.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Les Philosophes
Somewhere near Annecy, towards the back of the peloton, Voltaire and Jean-Jacques Rousseau are gaining steadily on David Hume.
Voltaire: Life is sown thickly with thorns, and there is no better remedy than to pass quickly through them. Watch out there!
Rousseau: Thanks! The world of reality has its limits.
Voltaire: Look at fat Hume up ahead there, wobbling all over the road. All styles are good, except for the tiresome.
Rousseau: Hee, hee! Happiest is the person who suffers the least pain. Hume will never make it up the Col de Romme.
Voltaire: Optimism is the madness of insisting all is well when one is miserable. Look, he's slowing down to take on more food.
Rousseau: Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. Let's go!
Voltaire: It is the flash which appears, the thunderbolt will follow!
They pick up speed, and soon draw level with the fat Scottish philosopher.
Hume: Everything in the world is purchased by labour. I do not intend to lose.
Voltaire: Too bad! It is hard to free fools from the chains they revere.
Rousseau: Wheeee! Blame yourself for this, Hume!
Hume: I have no enemies, except indeed the other riders in Team Philosophe.
He grabs his food bag, slings it over his shoulder, and picks up speed at an astonishing rate.
In moments, he draws ahead of his two rivals once again.
Voltaire and Rousseau ( in unison ) : Sacre bleu!
Hume: A purpose, an intention, a design, strikes everywhere even the careless, most stupid thinker. So long boys! What is the greatest number? Number one!
Voltaire: Life is sown thickly with thorns, and there is no better remedy than to pass quickly through them. Watch out there!
Rousseau: Thanks! The world of reality has its limits.
Voltaire: Look at fat Hume up ahead there, wobbling all over the road. All styles are good, except for the tiresome.
Rousseau: Hee, hee! Happiest is the person who suffers the least pain. Hume will never make it up the Col de Romme.
Voltaire: Optimism is the madness of insisting all is well when one is miserable. Look, he's slowing down to take on more food.
Rousseau: Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. Let's go!
Voltaire: It is the flash which appears, the thunderbolt will follow!
They pick up speed, and soon draw level with the fat Scottish philosopher.
Hume: Everything in the world is purchased by labour. I do not intend to lose.
Voltaire: Too bad! It is hard to free fools from the chains they revere.
Rousseau: Wheeee! Blame yourself for this, Hume!
Hume: I have no enemies, except indeed the other riders in Team Philosophe.
He grabs his food bag, slings it over his shoulder, and picks up speed at an astonishing rate.
In moments, he draws ahead of his two rivals once again.
Voltaire and Rousseau ( in unison ) : Sacre bleu!
Hume: A purpose, an intention, a design, strikes everywhere even the careless, most stupid thinker. So long boys! What is the greatest number? Number one!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Confessions
Surely your mother did not say anything so vulgar! said Pliny sternly. Not to mention that she seems to have spoken uncharacteristically in rhyme.
Of course she didn't, Pliny. I just couldn't resist it, and it serves you right for boasting that you're friends with Coleridge. I bet you only googled him. I bet you're only friends with him the same way I could say that I'm friends with Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
Oh? And in what way are you friends with him? asked Pliny, with a sniff.
I'm reading about him. I just finished Rousseau's Dog. Now I'm reading his Confessions. I feel I know him very well indeed.
Imagine that, said Pliny. I myself am following him on Twitter. He appears to be doing very well in the Tour de France.
But Pliny, he's a philosopher.
Indeed he is, and a very witty one. Only this morning he tweeted this gem: Man is born free but is everywhere in chains. A reference to his bicycle, do you see?
Of course she didn't, Pliny. I just couldn't resist it, and it serves you right for boasting that you're friends with Coleridge. I bet you only googled him. I bet you're only friends with him the same way I could say that I'm friends with Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
Oh? And in what way are you friends with him? asked Pliny, with a sniff.
I'm reading about him. I just finished Rousseau's Dog. Now I'm reading his Confessions. I feel I know him very well indeed.
Imagine that, said Pliny. I myself am following him on Twitter. He appears to be doing very well in the Tour de France.
But Pliny, he's a philosopher.
Indeed he is, and a very witty one. Only this morning he tweeted this gem: Man is born free but is everywhere in chains. A reference to his bicycle, do you see?
Monday, July 20, 2009
The Aeolian Harp
What was your mother saying about the Aeolian harp? asked Pliny. And the seagulls?
Is that all you can say after reading my lovely description of the sea? I countered, somewhat miffed. What did you think of my spiders' legs stew? And my greygold waves backlit by the sun?
Jiggery pokery! said Pliny. I prefer a plain description. But I will acknowledge that you were trying very hard to paint the sea in words. Perhaps you should buy yourself a camera. However, I am interested in this Aeolian harp, and why it was silent on a windy day.
I don't know, Pliny. It used to hum noticeably when it was first constructed. I remember walking underneath it and thinking it might drive people mad. Perhaps it did. Perhaps they had to tighten up the wires and shut it up.
Ha ha, laughed Pliny. These Aeolian harps are never any good. A foolish Greek invention. I remember some lines of Coleridge:
...................this Aeolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
That's impressive, Pliny, you knowing Coleridge like that.
Oh yes, I am good friends with Coleridge. But what was it your mother said about the harp?
The seagulls never used to sit on it, but now they do
For see! the harp is covered with white seagull poo.
Is that all you can say after reading my lovely description of the sea? I countered, somewhat miffed. What did you think of my spiders' legs stew? And my greygold waves backlit by the sun?
Jiggery pokery! said Pliny. I prefer a plain description. But I will acknowledge that you were trying very hard to paint the sea in words. Perhaps you should buy yourself a camera. However, I am interested in this Aeolian harp, and why it was silent on a windy day.
I don't know, Pliny. It used to hum noticeably when it was first constructed. I remember walking underneath it and thinking it might drive people mad. Perhaps it did. Perhaps they had to tighten up the wires and shut it up.
Ha ha, laughed Pliny. These Aeolian harps are never any good. A foolish Greek invention. I remember some lines of Coleridge:
...................this Aeolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
That's impressive, Pliny, you knowing Coleridge like that.
Oh yes, I am good friends with Coleridge. But what was it your mother said about the harp?
The seagulls never used to sit on it, but now they do
For see! the harp is covered with white seagull poo.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Transfiguration
I'm at Hove on Sunday afternoon. I'm wearing another jacket. I don't like this one either.
It's brown corduroy, with faux fur trim around the hood. And it's too short.
I'm going for a walk with my mum and Nostradamus. We walk to the Brighton jetty. Let's go on the jetty, says my mum.
It's windy on the jetty. The aeolian harp feature is mysteriously silent. One of the coloured sails is torn to shreds, flapping. The red and white one. It's sunny. The sun is low and slanting, and the sea is like heaving phlegm.
We only get half way. My mum thinks it's too windy after all. And the seat she meant to sit on is too dirty.
We're walking back now, towards the esplanade. She is saying something about the aeolian harp, and the sails. I'm transfixed by the sea, on the northern side of the jetty where it's now backlit by the sun. No longer monochrome, it heaves in patches of animal colour, green black and brown, like a stew of spiders' legs; the waves, semi translucent, greygold, topped with foam, outraced by their tumbling shadows.
Well, maybe not transfixed, but it does take my mind off my wardrobe.
It's brown corduroy, with faux fur trim around the hood. And it's too short.
I'm going for a walk with my mum and Nostradamus. We walk to the Brighton jetty. Let's go on the jetty, says my mum.
It's windy on the jetty. The aeolian harp feature is mysteriously silent. One of the coloured sails is torn to shreds, flapping. The red and white one. It's sunny. The sun is low and slanting, and the sea is like heaving phlegm.
We only get half way. My mum thinks it's too windy after all. And the seat she meant to sit on is too dirty.
We're walking back now, towards the esplanade. She is saying something about the aeolian harp, and the sails. I'm transfixed by the sea, on the northern side of the jetty where it's now backlit by the sun. No longer monochrome, it heaves in patches of animal colour, green black and brown, like a stew of spiders' legs; the waves, semi translucent, greygold, topped with foam, outraced by their tumbling shadows.
Well, maybe not transfixed, but it does take my mind off my wardrobe.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sea Silk
I am a visitor, said Pliny the Elder. Yet you have never offered the use of that jacket to me.
It is a ladies jacket, I replied. But you are welcome to wear it whenever you like. As for me, I shall only be wearing it on very dark nights from now on.
It looks alright to me, said Pliny. I don't understand why you've taken against it.
The baleful child, I said darkly.
There could be many reasons why a little girl might grimace in the circumstances you describe. Her mother may have placed her on the stool in order to punish her, or she may have had an itching sensation in her nose.
It doesn't matter now, I said. She was simply the means by which I became aware of my own feelings towards the jacket.
Well, said Pliny, I still think it's a fine jacket. A Roman woman would have envied you for possessing it. It appears to be made of sea silk.
Sea silk. No, I think it's made from polyester. What's sea silk, Pliny?
A luxurious fabric highly prized in my day. It was obtained from a mollusc, the pinna nobilis, that attached itself to rocks by means of fine strong fibres, called byssus. These were collected, treated with lemon juice, and woven into a cloth with a beautiful golden sheen that would never fade. Unfortunately it used to attract moths.
If my jacket had attracted moths, it would have saved me some embarrassment, I said. But tell me Pliny, how would you feel about wearing this jacket yourself?
Well, said Pliny, it is not what I would normally wear, but late at night it would certainly keep out the chill. I shall borrow it sometimes, if I may.
Fine Pliny, but remember, it's a slippery slope.
It is a ladies jacket, I replied. But you are welcome to wear it whenever you like. As for me, I shall only be wearing it on very dark nights from now on.
It looks alright to me, said Pliny. I don't understand why you've taken against it.
The baleful child, I said darkly.
There could be many reasons why a little girl might grimace in the circumstances you describe. Her mother may have placed her on the stool in order to punish her, or she may have had an itching sensation in her nose.
It doesn't matter now, I said. She was simply the means by which I became aware of my own feelings towards the jacket.
Well, said Pliny, I still think it's a fine jacket. A Roman woman would have envied you for possessing it. It appears to be made of sea silk.
Sea silk. No, I think it's made from polyester. What's sea silk, Pliny?
A luxurious fabric highly prized in my day. It was obtained from a mollusc, the pinna nobilis, that attached itself to rocks by means of fine strong fibres, called byssus. These were collected, treated with lemon juice, and woven into a cloth with a beautiful golden sheen that would never fade. Unfortunately it used to attract moths.
If my jacket had attracted moths, it would have saved me some embarrassment, I said. But tell me Pliny, how would you feel about wearing this jacket yourself?
Well, said Pliny, it is not what I would normally wear, but late at night it would certainly keep out the chill. I shall borrow it sometimes, if I may.
Fine Pliny, but remember, it's a slippery slope.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Sad Mustard in the Pumpkin Patch
I knew this mustard jacket made me look peculiar. Today I had confirmation.
I bought it two years ago, on Ebay.
In the photograph the mustard jacket had looked smarter than it turned out to be. When it arrived in the post my heart sank. When I tried it on I looked like Paddington Bear. I vowed I would never, ever wear it. I would, however, keep it in the wardrobe, in case we had a visitor who hadn't brought a jacket and wanted to go for a walk one cold evening.
We never had that visitor.
But the jacket was so warm. I took to wearing it on night time walks. More recently I've worn it in the daylight. At least two members of my family have said, You know, that jacket looks alright.
And so I was wearing it today, in the city. It was cold. I had a long brown scarf on, and was carrying a black handbag with an umbrella poking out.
I went into Pumpkin Patch, a shop that sells childrens' clothes. In Pumpkin Patch a little girl was sitting perched on a high stool while her mother looked at clothes. When she saw me, she wrinkled up her nose.
I bought it two years ago, on Ebay.
In the photograph the mustard jacket had looked smarter than it turned out to be. When it arrived in the post my heart sank. When I tried it on I looked like Paddington Bear. I vowed I would never, ever wear it. I would, however, keep it in the wardrobe, in case we had a visitor who hadn't brought a jacket and wanted to go for a walk one cold evening.
We never had that visitor.
But the jacket was so warm. I took to wearing it on night time walks. More recently I've worn it in the daylight. At least two members of my family have said, You know, that jacket looks alright.
And so I was wearing it today, in the city. It was cold. I had a long brown scarf on, and was carrying a black handbag with an umbrella poking out.
I went into Pumpkin Patch, a shop that sells childrens' clothes. In Pumpkin Patch a little girl was sitting perched on a high stool while her mother looked at clothes. When she saw me, she wrinkled up her nose.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Differences
We've just been to the Central Market. We're walking down Flinders Street on our way back to the car.
Nostradamus is carrying the pineapple, the potatoes, an onion and a large bag of oranges, in two bags, a green one and a yellow one. Pliny is carrying tomatoes, broccoli, a red pepper, pears, apples and grapes, in a blue bag.
The sun is shining but it's cold in the long shadows of the tall city buildings. The sky is blue and full of fast moving clouds.
Through the glass windows of a gym Pliny sees men doing laps in the pool. On the road just out from the footpath she sees a pigeon strutting in the opposite direction on bright orange legs.
You are lucky, says Pliny to the pigeon. You never have to carry any shopping.
You are lucky, says the pigeon. You have a great deal of food.
You are luckier, says Pliny. You can fly up into those clouds which are the best clouds I have seen in a long time. The lower ones are cotton woolly, puffy and fast. The upper ones are like tiny ripples on the surface of a pond, and appear not to be moving at all.
Its cold up there, says the pigeon. And if I could go anywhere I would rather be inside the gym.
Nostradamus is carrying the pineapple, the potatoes, an onion and a large bag of oranges, in two bags, a green one and a yellow one. Pliny is carrying tomatoes, broccoli, a red pepper, pears, apples and grapes, in a blue bag.
The sun is shining but it's cold in the long shadows of the tall city buildings. The sky is blue and full of fast moving clouds.
Through the glass windows of a gym Pliny sees men doing laps in the pool. On the road just out from the footpath she sees a pigeon strutting in the opposite direction on bright orange legs.
You are lucky, says Pliny to the pigeon. You never have to carry any shopping.
You are lucky, says the pigeon. You have a great deal of food.
You are luckier, says Pliny. You can fly up into those clouds which are the best clouds I have seen in a long time. The lower ones are cotton woolly, puffy and fast. The upper ones are like tiny ripples on the surface of a pond, and appear not to be moving at all.
Its cold up there, says the pigeon. And if I could go anywhere I would rather be inside the gym.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
15% Hetero
Well, I think I have sufficiently dug myself out of that hole. Or further into it. Time to change the subject.
Today I'm going to tell you how I learned to say "Oh! That's good!" in Swedish.
Many people turn up their noses at Twitter, but I like it. It encapsulates the comedie humaine, and sometimes gives you a surprise. One of the people I follow is Stephen Fry, who has over half a million followers, and does not follow me.
Yesterday he posted a link to stockholmpride, who will analyse your Twitterfeed and tell you how hetero you are, by looking at the words you use. I clicked on it, entered my Twitter name and was astonished to see the percentage counter fall rapidly to 15 %, and to read, "You're barely hetero at all. Don't you whish you've just got a few more points? To spice things up a bit? No? Alright."
I was very taken with this. The words I'd used that helped me gain that score were supa, Beulah, cabaret, broad and biscuit. These must not be words that hetero people use very much.
I received a black badge with my name, a rainbow, and "15 % hetero" on it, and the option to post it on my Facebook, which I did. It looked good amongst my relatives' Scrabble and Farkle scores, and their family snaps.
So pleased with it was I that I decided to draw further attention to it by posting a comment underneath. But what to say? Obviously something in Swedish. I don't know any Swedish, but you can google "Swedish for that's good", and get an answer. And that is how I learned to say "Oj! Det var bra!"
Today I'm going to tell you how I learned to say "Oh! That's good!" in Swedish.
Many people turn up their noses at Twitter, but I like it. It encapsulates the comedie humaine, and sometimes gives you a surprise. One of the people I follow is Stephen Fry, who has over half a million followers, and does not follow me.
Yesterday he posted a link to stockholmpride, who will analyse your Twitterfeed and tell you how hetero you are, by looking at the words you use. I clicked on it, entered my Twitter name and was astonished to see the percentage counter fall rapidly to 15 %, and to read, "You're barely hetero at all. Don't you whish you've just got a few more points? To spice things up a bit? No? Alright."
I was very taken with this. The words I'd used that helped me gain that score were supa, Beulah, cabaret, broad and biscuit. These must not be words that hetero people use very much.
I received a black badge with my name, a rainbow, and "15 % hetero" on it, and the option to post it on my Facebook, which I did. It looked good amongst my relatives' Scrabble and Farkle scores, and their family snaps.
So pleased with it was I that I decided to draw further attention to it by posting a comment underneath. But what to say? Obviously something in Swedish. I don't know any Swedish, but you can google "Swedish for that's good", and get an answer. And that is how I learned to say "Oj! Det var bra!"
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The Unexamined Life.
Pliny's right. There is no one who is not afraid of spells. And Socrates is right. The unexamined life is not worth living. Time to examine my life.
Have I ever used a spell to affect the life of another? Yes, if wishing is a kind of spell. Once I wished that someone would fall down the stairs. He was a prominent business man. He didn't fall down the stairs, but not for want of me wishing it very hard. Fourteen years later it was in the paper that he died. He was really old by then. I gave myself some credit, though.
Another time, I didn't like our neighbours. They were a working couple and at that time they didn't have any children. They'd invited us to dinner once and it had gone rather badly because they hadn't expected us to bring our children with us. After that, our relationship was rather frosty. It was embarrassing when we saw them in the garden. I wished that they would move away. After a few months they did move away, but only into a new house that they had built on an adjoining block. I counted this as a very weak success.
There was another neighbour though, that I wished away completely. He used to walk down along the side of his house in the mornings and stop and look into my bedroom window. Sometimes I would be at the window making use of the natural light to examine my face in a mirror. If he saw me, he would wave and grin. This was insupportable. Then one day I realised that I hadn't seen him for quite some time........
Have I ever used a spell to affect the life of another? Yes, if wishing is a kind of spell. Once I wished that someone would fall down the stairs. He was a prominent business man. He didn't fall down the stairs, but not for want of me wishing it very hard. Fourteen years later it was in the paper that he died. He was really old by then. I gave myself some credit, though.
Another time, I didn't like our neighbours. They were a working couple and at that time they didn't have any children. They'd invited us to dinner once and it had gone rather badly because they hadn't expected us to bring our children with us. After that, our relationship was rather frosty. It was embarrassing when we saw them in the garden. I wished that they would move away. After a few months they did move away, but only into a new house that they had built on an adjoining block. I counted this as a very weak success.
There was another neighbour though, that I wished away completely. He used to walk down along the side of his house in the mornings and stop and look into my bedroom window. Sometimes I would be at the window making use of the natural light to examine my face in a mirror. If he saw me, he would wave and grin. This was insupportable. Then one day I realised that I hadn't seen him for quite some time........
Monday, July 13, 2009
Spells
Very impressive, said Pliny this morning, folding up the newspaper. I see that Kim Jong-il is, for want of a better word, ill.
What do you mean impressive? I asked. You surely don't think I had anything to do with it?
You are wise to deny it, said Pliny. Don't worry, I shall say nothing to anyone.
Thanks Pliny, but I really don't think it has anything to do with me. He has apparently been ill for quite some time. It just happened to be in the news last night and this morning. But you know, I do I feel a little guilty, all the same.
Of course you do, agreed Pliny, helpfully. What kind of spell is it, if you don't mind me asking?
No kind! I don't believe in spells.
There is no one who is not afraid of spells, said Pliny.
What do you mean impressive? I asked. You surely don't think I had anything to do with it?
You are wise to deny it, said Pliny. Don't worry, I shall say nothing to anyone.
Thanks Pliny, but I really don't think it has anything to do with me. He has apparently been ill for quite some time. It just happened to be in the news last night and this morning. But you know, I do I feel a little guilty, all the same.
Of course you do, agreed Pliny, helpfully. What kind of spell is it, if you don't mind me asking?
No kind! I don't believe in spells.
There is no one who is not afraid of spells, said Pliny.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Shame
That was excellent chicken soup you made yesterday, when your mother came to lunch, said Pliny the Elder.
Thank you, Pliny. Sometimes I succeed in doing good things.
Meaning? prompted Pliny.
Meaning sometimes I do things that could be judged to be bad, I replied.
Go on, said Pliny, looking interested.
Well, for example, on Saturday I expressed a wish that two of the world's greatest despots would die, I said.
That doesn't sound like you.
I know. It happened like this. My daughter asked me what I would like for my birthday. She asked what I wanted most in the world. I couldn't think of anything I wanted personally, so I said the deaths of Robert Mugabe and Kim Jong-il. Failing which, I added, I would like something frivolous from a smart London shop.
Pliny looked shocked.
Thank you, Pliny. Sometimes I succeed in doing good things.
Meaning? prompted Pliny.
Meaning sometimes I do things that could be judged to be bad, I replied.
Go on, said Pliny, looking interested.
Well, for example, on Saturday I expressed a wish that two of the world's greatest despots would die, I said.
That doesn't sound like you.
I know. It happened like this. My daughter asked me what I would like for my birthday. She asked what I wanted most in the world. I couldn't think of anything I wanted personally, so I said the deaths of Robert Mugabe and Kim Jong-il. Failing which, I added, I would like something frivolous from a smart London shop.
Pliny looked shocked.
For your birthday? he said, incredulously.
Yes. I regretted it afterwards, because of course it was morally indefensible.
It was indeed, agreed Pliny. What did your daughter say?
She said I should have asked for peace in Zimbabwe and North Korea, and that I would never make it as a pope, because I had no idea of spin.
No, I meant about the frivolous present, said Pliny. Why didn't you ask for something useful?
Saturday, July 11, 2009
1966
Your poem is based upon a false notion, said Pliny the Elder.
How's that? I asked.
Our Roman architects were not ambivalent in matters of direction.
I know, I said, but it just struck me as funny that was all. All your famous structures make use of arches and domes, and they look the same whichever way you look at them.
They do not, said Pliny severely. You are forgetting about up and down. It was a good decision you made in 1963. You were clearly not suited to the study of vectors.
Actually, I have a confession to make Pliny. It wasn't 1963, it was 1966. But nothing rhymes with 1966.
Fiddlesticks, said Pliny.
How's that? I asked.
Our Roman architects were not ambivalent in matters of direction.
I know, I said, but it just struck me as funny that was all. All your famous structures make use of arches and domes, and they look the same whichever way you look at them.
They do not, said Pliny severely. You are forgetting about up and down. It was a good decision you made in 1963. You were clearly not suited to the study of vectors.
Actually, I have a confession to make Pliny. It wasn't 1963, it was 1966. But nothing rhymes with 1966.
Fiddlesticks, said Pliny.
Poem -----> Pliny
The buildings built in ancient Rome,
The arch, basilica and dome,
Stood up because
The feeling was
That an erector
Stumped by a vector
Would do no worse
If he built in reverse.
This worked for aqueducts and arches,
And roads for long imperial marches.
But it didn't work for me
Back in nineteen sixty three.
That's why I switched to Chemistry.
The arch, basilica and dome,
Stood up because
The feeling was
That an erector
Stumped by a vector
Would do no worse
If he built in reverse.
This worked for aqueducts and arches,
And roads for long imperial marches.
But it didn't work for me
Back in nineteen sixty three.
That's why I switched to Chemistry.
Friday, July 10, 2009
New Directions in Vectors
Vectors! snorted Pliny. I need no introduction to the topic of vectors. Vector is a Latin word. We Romans invented vectors. Without them we could not have built our famous aqueducts.
Oh, sorry, Pliny. I hadn't thought of that. That's lucky really, because I was never any good at vectors. In fact, when I studied vectors in Physics, at school, I only learned one thing about them.
And what was that? asked Pliny.
It was that you can use them to work out something about a horse pulling a barge down a canal. And that you do it by drawing a triangle with arrows. And that no matter how long you look at that triangle, and no matter what answer you come up with, the answer is always the opposite.
The opposite of what? asked Pliny, looking a little vexed.
Exactly! I said. The opposite of what? I don't think I ever got one right.
You shouldn't have given up, said Pliny. It sounds to me as though you were on the right track. If you knew that the answer was always the opposite, all you had to do was give the opposite answer to what you had come up with.
Yes, but Pliny, you always had to show your working out.
That need not have been a problem. Having completed the working out, you would only need to write it out again, but in reverse.
Gosh, Pliny, I see why you Romans were so good at using vectors.
Indeed. Romans have always been practical people.
Oh, sorry, Pliny. I hadn't thought of that. That's lucky really, because I was never any good at vectors. In fact, when I studied vectors in Physics, at school, I only learned one thing about them.
And what was that? asked Pliny.
It was that you can use them to work out something about a horse pulling a barge down a canal. And that you do it by drawing a triangle with arrows. And that no matter how long you look at that triangle, and no matter what answer you come up with, the answer is always the opposite.
The opposite of what? asked Pliny, looking a little vexed.
Exactly! I said. The opposite of what? I don't think I ever got one right.
You shouldn't have given up, said Pliny. It sounds to me as though you were on the right track. If you knew that the answer was always the opposite, all you had to do was give the opposite answer to what you had come up with.
Yes, but Pliny, you always had to show your working out.
That need not have been a problem. Having completed the working out, you would only need to write it out again, but in reverse.
Gosh, Pliny, I see why you Romans were so good at using vectors.
Indeed. Romans have always been practical people.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Some Degree of Gravity
Pliny, I said, this isn't like you. Why are you being so dismissive of Newton?
I've been working too hard, said Pliny. I apologise, to you and to Newton. His laws are fine laws, with the charm of simplicity, at least as presented by you.
True, Pliny. Although I think I had the second law the wrong way round. Which would answer your objection about clouds.
Let us not go into reverse, said Pliny, pleasantly. I am looking forward to your explanation of the Law of Universal Gravitation.
Another simple one, I said airily. It states that all objects with mass attract one another. That includes everything. For example yesterday, I was at a Tea and Symphony concert and at the end all the ladies gravitated towards the scones.
Wait, said Pliny, I assume that the degree of attraction depends on the size of the objects in question ?
Yes, Pliny, That's why when we drop things they fall to the ground.
Well then, shouldn't the scones have gravitated towards the ladies, rather than the ladies gravitating towards the scones?
In a perfect world, Pliny, I expect that is what would have happened. I see that I shall now have to introduce you to the topic of vectors.
I've been working too hard, said Pliny. I apologise, to you and to Newton. His laws are fine laws, with the charm of simplicity, at least as presented by you.
True, Pliny. Although I think I had the second law the wrong way round. Which would answer your objection about clouds.
Let us not go into reverse, said Pliny, pleasantly. I am looking forward to your explanation of the Law of Universal Gravitation.
Another simple one, I said airily. It states that all objects with mass attract one another. That includes everything. For example yesterday, I was at a Tea and Symphony concert and at the end all the ladies gravitated towards the scones.
Wait, said Pliny, I assume that the degree of attraction depends on the size of the objects in question ?
Yes, Pliny, That's why when we drop things they fall to the ground.
Well then, shouldn't the scones have gravitated towards the ladies, rather than the ladies gravitating towards the scones?
In a perfect world, Pliny, I expect that is what would have happened. I see that I shall now have to introduce you to the topic of vectors.
This Excellent Newton
Catch up Pliny, I said. Don't you know Sir Isaac Newton, the famous 18th century mathematician, physicist, natural philosopher, astronomer and alchemist? The inventor of the Laws of Motion, the Law of Universal Gravitation and Differential Calculus?
Oh, that Newton, said Pliny, off-handedly. Yes, I am afraid I have skipped him, in my studies of modern science so far. I was keen to gain an understanding of relativity, string theory, neutrinos and quarks.
Well, Pliny, I think you ought to spend a little time on Newton. Otherwise how will you understand how these new ideas have developed?
Run me through it then, said Pliny, not seeming to be as interested as I expected.
That put me on the spot. I wasn't sure I could remember the Newton's Laws of Motion. I knew they were something to do with motion though, so I decided to have a go.
The First Law is that a body is either at rest or moving at a constant velocity, I said.
Nonsense. said Pliny. Look at you. You're sitting down, and you're moving.
Maybe that's wrong, I said, but I remember the Second Law. Force equals mass times acceleration. That means that the bigger something is, and the faster it's moving, the bigger the collision it makes.
No, said Pliny. One only has to think of clouds. What is the third of these Newton's Laws of Motion?
Action and reaction are equal and opposite, I said confidently, certain this one was right, and unassailable.
Rubbish, said Pliny. How then is anyone to win an argument?
Oh, that Newton, said Pliny, off-handedly. Yes, I am afraid I have skipped him, in my studies of modern science so far. I was keen to gain an understanding of relativity, string theory, neutrinos and quarks.
Well, Pliny, I think you ought to spend a little time on Newton. Otherwise how will you understand how these new ideas have developed?
Run me through it then, said Pliny, not seeming to be as interested as I expected.
That put me on the spot. I wasn't sure I could remember the Newton's Laws of Motion. I knew they were something to do with motion though, so I decided to have a go.
The First Law is that a body is either at rest or moving at a constant velocity, I said.
Nonsense. said Pliny. Look at you. You're sitting down, and you're moving.
Maybe that's wrong, I said, but I remember the Second Law. Force equals mass times acceleration. That means that the bigger something is, and the faster it's moving, the bigger the collision it makes.
No, said Pliny. One only has to think of clouds. What is the third of these Newton's Laws of Motion?
Action and reaction are equal and opposite, I said confidently, certain this one was right, and unassailable.
Rubbish, said Pliny. How then is anyone to win an argument?
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Disappearance of Indigo
As much as I admire your jumper, said Pliny thoughtfully, I prefer the colour indigo, which is a darker shade of blue. We ancients valued it highly. We imported it from India, in the form of a blue pigment, and used it extensively in painting and dyeing.
I like indigo as well, I said. But nowadays it's considered by most modern colour scientists not to be a separate colour at all.
Surely not! said Pliny, looking shocked.
Oh yes. Indigo has a wavelength between 420 and 450 nanometres, and anything with a wavelength shorter than 450 nanometres is classified as violet.
Outrageous! It looks nothing at all like violet.
That is probably what Newton thought. Although, apparently when he first identified the colours in the optical spectrum he only differentiated five. It was only later that he added orange, and then indigo.
After he had looked a little more carefully, nodded Pliny.
No, after he had decided that there ought to be seven colours in the spectrum, to match the number of days of the week, the number of notes in the major scale, and the number of planets that were known at the time.
Aha, said Pliny. I see. Now that makes perfect sense. Who is this excellent Newton?
I like indigo as well, I said. But nowadays it's considered by most modern colour scientists not to be a separate colour at all.
Surely not! said Pliny, looking shocked.
Oh yes. Indigo has a wavelength between 420 and 450 nanometres, and anything with a wavelength shorter than 450 nanometres is classified as violet.
Outrageous! It looks nothing at all like violet.
That is probably what Newton thought. Although, apparently when he first identified the colours in the optical spectrum he only differentiated five. It was only later that he added orange, and then indigo.
After he had looked a little more carefully, nodded Pliny.
No, after he had decided that there ought to be seven colours in the spectrum, to match the number of days of the week, the number of notes in the major scale, and the number of planets that were known at the time.
Aha, said Pliny. I see. Now that makes perfect sense. Who is this excellent Newton?
Sunday, July 5, 2009
More Truths About Blue
Did your friend give you that jumper? asked Pliny the Elder, who had noticed it was blue.
No, she didn't, I said crossly. And you are the second person today to ask me that question. I've had it for years and I chose it myself.
It's a very pleasant shade, said Pliny. What would you call it, azure?
I might call it azure, I replied. But nowadays I prefer to call it Classic Windows Blue.
My goodness, so it is, said Pliny. Classic Windows Blue. Why do you hardly ever wear it?
Because I don't really like it any more.
Then why are you wearing it today?
I'm not sure. I think it was a subliminal choice, to do with my hair, and the Doppler effect. And you know, when we went to visit my mother this afternoon, and I was sitting at her dining room table leafing through the pages of The Australian Womens Weekly, she leaned forward and said, I can see the auburn in your hair now, under this light.
So you were happy that you wore the blue jumper?
Well I was at the time, but later on she asked me if my daughter had bought it in London.
No, she didn't, I said crossly. And you are the second person today to ask me that question. I've had it for years and I chose it myself.
It's a very pleasant shade, said Pliny. What would you call it, azure?
I might call it azure, I replied. But nowadays I prefer to call it Classic Windows Blue.
My goodness, so it is, said Pliny. Classic Windows Blue. Why do you hardly ever wear it?
Because I don't really like it any more.
Then why are you wearing it today?
I'm not sure. I think it was a subliminal choice, to do with my hair, and the Doppler effect. And you know, when we went to visit my mother this afternoon, and I was sitting at her dining room table leafing through the pages of The Australian Womens Weekly, she leaned forward and said, I can see the auburn in your hair now, under this light.
So you were happy that you wore the blue jumper?
Well I was at the time, but later on she asked me if my daughter had bought it in London.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
The Truth About Blue
I wonder why my hair looked blue, when I'd just coloured it red? Perhaps it was a kind of Doppler effect. You perceive a redshift when a light source moves away from you, and a blue shift when it moves towards you. The question is, was I moving towards my mother when she made her observation? I think I was.
Not that I have anything against the colour blue. In fact I would go so far as to say it's my favourite colour. I did go so far as to say it once, although it isn't strictly true.
Some years ago my friend Li Feng asked me to name my favourite colour. She was learning the English names for colours at the time. I thought it best to give a definitive answer, so I said blue. Then I asked her what her favourite colour was. She said she didn't have a favourite colour; sometimes she liked one colour and sometimes another depending on the circumstances.
I was taken aback. It was what I would have said, had I told the truth. Now every Christmas and every birthday she gives me something blue.
Not that I have anything against the colour blue. In fact I would go so far as to say it's my favourite colour. I did go so far as to say it once, although it isn't strictly true.
Some years ago my friend Li Feng asked me to name my favourite colour. She was learning the English names for colours at the time. I thought it best to give a definitive answer, so I said blue. Then I asked her what her favourite colour was. She said she didn't have a favourite colour; sometimes she liked one colour and sometimes another depending on the circumstances.
I was taken aback. It was what I would have said, had I told the truth. Now every Christmas and every birthday she gives me something blue.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Resolution
A paradox! I said, derisively. The spleen can't make you laugh!
It can, said Pliny. You say you know your Shakespeare. In Twelfth Night, Maria says " If you desire the spleen, and would laugh yourself into stitches, follow me." Here is evidence that Shakespeare himself thought laughter was governed by the spleen.
Pliny! Have you been reading Shakespeare? Good for you!
Not exactly. I have been googling Shakespeare. It saves a deal of time.
You miss a lot that way, I remarked.
Indeed, said Pliny, there is far too much to read these days. But tell me, are you convinced?
Hmmm. Perhaps. It may explain something that happened yesterday. I met my mum in town.
We walked out of David Jones into the bright sunlight on North Terrace. She asked me how my hair had turned out. She knew I'd just put a new colour in it. No different, I said, although it's supposed to be 3 toned. She looked hard at my head. I can't see any chestnut, she remarked.
But it looks a little blue.
Does this have anything to do with the spleen? asked Pliny, looking lost.
It may. I felt mightily ill-humoured, but I laughed a silly laugh.
It can, said Pliny. You say you know your Shakespeare. In Twelfth Night, Maria says " If you desire the spleen, and would laugh yourself into stitches, follow me." Here is evidence that Shakespeare himself thought laughter was governed by the spleen.
Pliny! Have you been reading Shakespeare? Good for you!
Not exactly. I have been googling Shakespeare. It saves a deal of time.
You miss a lot that way, I remarked.
Indeed, said Pliny, there is far too much to read these days. But tell me, are you convinced?
Hmmm. Perhaps. It may explain something that happened yesterday. I met my mum in town.
We walked out of David Jones into the bright sunlight on North Terrace. She asked me how my hair had turned out. She knew I'd just put a new colour in it. No different, I said, although it's supposed to be 3 toned. She looked hard at my head. I can't see any chestnut, she remarked.
But it looks a little blue.
Does this have anything to do with the spleen? asked Pliny, looking lost.
It may. I felt mightily ill-humoured, but I laughed a silly laugh.
Paradox
I always thought the spleen was associated with ill-humour, or melancholy, not with silly laughter. I know my Shakespeare. How did Pliny come up with that idea? I'd better ask him.
Pliny, I've just looked up spleen in the dictionary, and it says, ill-humour, melancholy. How do you explain that?
Let me see, says Pliny. Ah, well, the spleen you know is the repository of black bile. The spleen's job is to prevent the onset of melancholia by containing the fluid that produces the mental state. A person's ability to laugh shows that their spleen is working well.
What about the person who exhibits silly laughter ?
That is caused by an excess of black bile in the spleen.
Well what causes excessive melancholy then?
That is also caused by an excess of black bile in the spleen.
How do you account for that?
Most easily. I account for that by calling it a paradox.
Pliny, I've just looked up spleen in the dictionary, and it says, ill-humour, melancholy. How do you explain that?
Let me see, says Pliny. Ah, well, the spleen you know is the repository of black bile. The spleen's job is to prevent the onset of melancholia by containing the fluid that produces the mental state. A person's ability to laugh shows that their spleen is working well.
What about the person who exhibits silly laughter ?
That is caused by an excess of black bile in the spleen.
Well what causes excessive melancholy then?
That is also caused by an excess of black bile in the spleen.
How do you account for that?
Most easily. I account for that by calling it a paradox.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Going Over
Thank you, Pliny, that was very interesting. And you managed to fit it into twenty lines, as well.
No, I do believe I went a little over.
Only because you started to grumble about having to stop. The last two lines don't really count.
Really? Then I could have made a short digression on the spleen?
Yes, I suppose you could have. What would you have said?
I would have said that the spleen was considered by Aristotle to be unnecessary. Indeed the Greeks recognised that both animals and men are able to run faster without it. This led to the practice of athletes having their spleen cauterized before a race.
That's hard to believe, Pliny! Are you sure?
Do you doubt me? Furthermore, it is known that the condition known as splenomegaly makes a person susceptible to silly laughter. Splenectomy, therefore, results in the cessation of laughter and the subsequent development of a serious look.
Oh Pliny! Would that be why athletes generally have a very serious look when they are running?
No, I do not think the practice has continued to the present day.
No, I do believe I went a little over.
Only because you started to grumble about having to stop. The last two lines don't really count.
Really? Then I could have made a short digression on the spleen?
Yes, I suppose you could have. What would you have said?
I would have said that the spleen was considered by Aristotle to be unnecessary. Indeed the Greeks recognised that both animals and men are able to run faster without it. This led to the practice of athletes having their spleen cauterized before a race.
That's hard to believe, Pliny! Are you sure?
Do you doubt me? Furthermore, it is known that the condition known as splenomegaly makes a person susceptible to silly laughter. Splenectomy, therefore, results in the cessation of laughter and the subsequent development of a serious look.
Oh Pliny! Would that be why athletes generally have a very serious look when they are running?
No, I do not think the practice has continued to the present day.
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