uTopianTurtleTop

the burning deck on which the boy stood.

Those of us still on the burning deck of good usage believe that unique -- the paradigm of absolute solitude -- can never be modified with an insipid very, quite, rather, almost or practically. -- William Safire, "On Language," 6/24/2007, New York Times

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 5
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

The flames roll'd on­-he would not go
Without his father's word; 10
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud-­"Say, Father, say
If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay 15
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, Father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on. 20

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And look'd from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud, 25
"My Father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high, 30
And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound­-
The boy­-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around 35
With fragments strewed the sea!­-

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,
But the noblest thing which perish'd there
Was that young faithful heart! 40

Safire knows he's losing the usage war. His allusion to the poem -- which, I'm guessing, he may have learned in elementary school, back when people learned poems in school -- implies that the Father of Good Usage is always already dead, and his faithful sons (and daughters) can only cry for His guidance helplessly as they await their doom in the fiery battle.

This essay connects Alan Turing and his Turing test to the poem.

-- George Arnald (1763 - 1841), The Explosion Of L’Orient During The Battle Of The Nile

they played with Kronos.

con*tin*gent [kuhn-tin-juhnt] - adjective
1. dependent for existence, occurrence, character, etc., on something not yet certain; conditional (often fol. by on or upon): Our plans are contingent on the weather.
2. liable to happen or not; uncertain; possible: They had to plan for contingent expenses.
3. happening by chance or without known cause; fortuitous; accidental: contingent occurrences.
4. Logic. (of a proposition) neither logically necessary nor logically impossible, so that its truth or falsity can be established only by sensory observation.

Not that anybody asked, but this is what I believe.

I believe that the world -- the universe -- is out there, or rather, here, and that we are part of it.

I believe that the universe would continue to exist without human perception, and that it existed before human perception.

I believe that while human perception, imagination, and understanding can come to more-or-less accurate accounts of phenomena, two limits hem these accounts in: First, we have no way of knowing with absolute certainty which portions of our accounts are accurate; and second, nobody will ever have a complete account of phenomena, and not just because of temporal limits or Heisenbergian limits. I believe that uncounted phenomena will remain opaque to human understanding. For example, we may never understand what dark energy is or how it works. By contrast, we may learn that what we are presently calling “dark energy” is really something else altogether. Another example: Will we ever understand why it is that when two highly flammable gases -- hydrogen and oxygen -- fuse, they become something which smothers fire, and not something super-extra-fiery?

Michael Berube’s thoughts on the death of philosopher Richard Rorty prompt these reflections. As with quite a lot else, I first learned of Rorty in Kyle Gann’s Village Voice column, many years ago. Gann’s account of Rorty’s pragmatism seemed congenial to me, and I’ve never read Rorty, though just tonight I reserved his book Contingency, Irony, Solidarity from the library.

In his obituary, Berube states, “I was never quite convinced by Rorty's claims that the languages of the physical sciences were as contingent as any other form of language.” “Contingent on what?” you may ask, as Berube did of Rorty in a graduate seminar, to which Rorty replied: "Not contingent on anything, just … contingent."

Please forgive me if my ill-informed state leads me to blatantly blunder in asking this, but didn’t Pluto’s recent demotion from planet-status reveal the contingent nature of scientific language? Isn’t it contingent on the limits of present understanding and consensus? Hasn’t the language of science evolved over time even more drastically than than the language of poetry? Or am I completely missing the boat on the meaning of “contingent,” and stepping off the dock and into the drink -- in short, am I all wet?

As I reflect on the roots of my non-anti-rational skepticism, I realize I must have been influenced by Taoism. When I hitch-hiked across the country at the age of 19, I took the Tao Te Ching with me -- and maybe the Chuang Tzu as well. And now I don’t remember where I first heard about Taoism. In college? Probably. In a class? I don’t think so. From another student? Quite likely -- maybe my friend Jeff D.? From reading Alan Watts? And why would I have been reading Alan Watts? Not for a class -- because John Cage mentioned him? Does John Cage mention him? Quite possibly not! I would have been reading Cage because I was a music nerd (though not a music student).

Whatever the case may be, I seem to have lost my edition of Chuang Tzu, which disappoints me for a number of reasons. But in looking for a passage on language that I half-remembered, I found some relevant stuff that I’m sure I read as a teen-ager. Here are two passages from the chapter, “Discussion on Making All Things Equal,” in Burton Watson’s standard translation.

Suppose you and I have had an argument. If you have beaten me instead of my beating you, then are you necessarily right and am I necessarily wrong? If I had beaten you instead of you beating me, then am I necessarily right and are you necessarily wrong? Is one of us right and the other wrong? Are both of us right or are both of us wrong? If you and I don't know the answer, then other people are bound to be even more in the dark. Whom shall we get to decide what is right? Shall we get someone who agrees with you to decide? But if he already agrees with you, how can he decide fairly? Shall we get someone who agrees with me? But if he already agrees with me, how can he decide? Shall we get someone who disagrees with both of us? But if he already disagrees with both of us, how can he decide? Shall we get someone who agrees with both of us? But if he already agrees with both of us, how can he decide? Obviously, then, neither you nor I nor anyone else can know the answer. Shall we wait for still another person? . . .


Words are not just wind. Words have something to say. But if what they have to say is not fixed, then do they really say something? Or do they say nothing? People suppose that words are different from the peeps of baby birds, but is there a difference or isn't there?

The fish trap exists because of the fish; once you've gotten the fish, you can forget the trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit; once you've gotten the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning; once you've gotten the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can have a word with him?