Literature, Genre Fiction, Pulp, &c.

I’ve been working my way through Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One. I have this really bad habit of reading negative reviews on Goodreads while reading a book. If I love the book, I can make fun of the idiots who “cant even right gud.” If I hate the book, I can commiserate with the brilliant like-minds who saw through the crap. The negative reviews of this novel got me thinking about a few things related to genre.

Some people claim all the 80’s geek and pop culture references make this a trashy genre novel. Some say it even stoops to pulp fiction levels. Some call it nostalgia. I want to first show why this isn’t a good argument, but then I want to try to clarify how I define these different types of books.

We start with the excessive references. I don’t think Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow would be considered genre fiction or pulp by anyone. It is a monster of literary fiction if there ever was one, but the novel is full of pop culture references (from a specific period). The purpose there is not nostalgia or to make it “more entertaining” or whatever else the negative reviews think Cline is doing.

I’ll cover my bases here and say that I don’t think that Cline’s use of pop culture is the same in intent or effect as Pynchon, but the fact that such literature exists shows that one needs a more complete argument than the mere use of pop culture references. Is Infinite Jest genre or pulp fiction? What about The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay? This technique has been used in literary fiction for a long time with great success.

To me, the term “genre fiction” merely refers to a novel that stays strictly within the accepted genre conventions. This means the plot follows a known formula. In modern days, the characters fit into a few tropes, and the tenor of the prose is pitched at a certain level.

This means that something like “romance” genre fiction could be extremely well-written and explore serious literary issues and be worth everyone’s time to read (I’m thinking of something like Henry James’ Portrait of a Lady). Genre fiction doesn’t automatically mean pure fluff and vacuous entertainment; genre means it follows a formula, and these formulae have a lot of give to them.

I think a lot of people conflate genre fiction with pulp. Pulp fiction, as I see it, is pure fluff and entertainment. It is often poorly written, not as a matter of definition, but mostly because the authors of this style need to pop out a large number of words per month in order to make a living. Pulp is pretty much a subset of genre fiction, again, not as a matter of definition, but because it is easiest to write quickly if you follow a formula.

To recap, genre fiction can be literary, but it can also be pulp. Genre fiction doesn’t tell us much about the quality of writing or redeeming characteristics or depth or content. Someone could spend a life reading high-quality genre mysteries without encountering pulp.

And before continuing, I don’t want to place value judgment here. I’m not saying it’s “bad” to read pulp. You probably won’t contemplate your own mortality, but escapism is healthy in moderation. No one thinks working sixty hour weeks with no vacation is healthy. It’s sort of weird that people think reading only heavy literary fiction with no fun mixed in is healthy. So go relax with a fun novel every once in a while when you feel that urge to veg in front of the TV.

What I think I’m trying to say is that often times there is a ton of crossover between all of these things, and it isn’t easy to tell. The one certain takeaway is that pop culture references do not make something pulp. Pulp is pop culture but not the other way around. In fact, if there are lots of references, it is probably a metafictional device, and this pulls you clear out of pulp.

That being said, I think Ready Player One actually is pulp, because the references do seem to be purely nostalgic. The book has few themes, and all are thin, classic good/evil tropes. I’m not sure I can call it genre fiction, because I can’t pin a genre down. I guess it falls into dystopian fiction. I don’t often hear this referred to as a specific genre, but it clearly has a form: one person, in a horribly oppressive futuristic world, must fight through a series of trials to take down the oppressor.

This wasn’t meant as a book review, but I’ll end by saying Ready Player One is pure entertainment through and through, and it really works at this level. I don’t recall the last book I enjoyed this much. It is so much fun for people around my age who grew up the geek. I highly recommend it if that sounds interesting, but don’t expect anything deep to come from it or you might be leaving one of those one star reviews.

Examining Pro’s Prose Part 11

Today we’re going to look at the prose of J. M. Coetzee. He is a South African writer and is known for his controversial topics. His 1980 work Waiting for the Barbarians is about a town magistrate that takes on disturbing power by preying on the fears of the people about an incumbent attack by the barbarians. This novel is now seen as an eerie and accurate premonition of the events in the U.S. after 9/11 that led to the 2003 invasion of Iraq and the forfeit of our freedoms in the name of safety.

The novel I actually want to look at is his more recent 1999 novel Disgrace. The main character is a disgraced English professor who loses his job after having sex with a student under dubious circumstances. He moves in with his daughter in the countryside to recover from the affair and try to turn his life around. While there, the two suffer a brutal attack coming from lingering apartheid tensions.

I won’t give more away, but a hallmark of Coetzee’s writing is how much he packs into so little space. This novel is short, more like a novella, yet it contains more plot and emotional content than many 90,000 word novels. And this is where I’d like to start with his prose. If you’ve never read him, I highly recommend taking one or two days to go through one of his novels. The bare and exposed prose breaks every rule we’ve been taught, yet it suits his subject matter perfectly. It is unlike anything I’ve read. I can’t even compare him to other people.

To set the scene, the professor has just called Melanie, the student, at her house. Her mother answered and has left the phone to get her.

Melanie—melody: a meretricious rhyme. Not a good name for her. Shift the accent. Meláni: the dark one.


In the one word he hears all her uncertainty. Too young. She will not know how to deal with him; he ought to let her go. But he is in the grip of something. Beauty’s rose: the poem drives straight as an arrow. She does not own herself; perhaps he does not own himself either.

The first segment is the professor’s thoughts. Part of the slimness of Coetzee’s writing comes from how he slides into and out of the head of the main character with no frills. No italics. No “he thought” to punctuate and emphasize what is already obvious. I like this style, and find some writer’s overemphasis on pointing out character’s thoughts as needless distrust of the reader’s comprehension.

The punctuation through this segment is brilliant. It also allows Coetzee to do away with excess words that the professor wouldn’t be thinking anyway. It flows quickly like actual thoughts would. It’s word association rather than something logical.

Then we get to the actual words. He notes the rhyme between Melanie and melody. But the brilliant thing is calling it a “meretricious” rhyme. This word does so much work in the passage. On the face of it, he wants the rhyme to be deceiving because he doesn’t want a melodic girl but a devious one. The word meretricious doesn’t merely mean deceiving though; it has the archaic meaning “of, like, or relating to a prostitute,” exactly how the professor views the student in that moment.

In four sentences, we, as readers, feel so much. We get to watch how the professor thinks about this student. We watch how his mind turns things around. We see how he starts to justify his actions to himself. In context, these four sentences give us a sense of revulsion at the main character’s true self that we wouldn’t get from a mere surface description of the act. There’s something deeper and more disturbing about the scene playing out this way.

After she answers the phone, the point of view shifts out of his thoughts, but things only get worse. Now we see that he understands that what he is doing is wrong. He understands that he needs to leave, but the narrator joins in on the justification. He’s out of control. She’s out of control.

As a reader, we start to feel helpless. Even the narrator is pushing the act along, and we learn that we cannot trust the narrator to show us the moral condemnation we hope for. We want to shout, “No! He does own himself! Stop making excuses for him. Lust is not reason enough to lose control of one’s actions.”

Shakespeare is quoted with “beauty’s rose,” reemphasizing the fact that the English professor knows his stuff, but it is more significant than that. This comes from Shakespeare’s first sonnet, and this is the first scene to start the plot of the novel. The full sonnet is about an older man who self-destructs under his selfish and gluttonous ways. That brief phrase “beauty’s rose” is a deep foreshadowing into the rest of the novel.

This is what makes Coetzee such an experience to read. His sparse prose strikes immediate emotional response into readers with no analysis necessary. But upon a deeper reading, we can find a shocking amount of extra information layered in through precise word choice.

Confounding Variables and Apparent Bias

I was going to call this post something inflammatory like #CylonLivesMatter but decided against it. Today will be a thought experiment to clarify some confusion over whether apparent bias is real bias based on aggregate data. I’ll unpack all that with a very simple example.

Let’s suppose we have a region, say a county, and we are trying to tell if car accidents disproportionately affect cylons due to bias. If you’re unfamiliar with this term, it comes from Battlestar Galactica. They were the “bad guys,” but they had absolutely no distinguishing features. From looking at them, there was no way to tell if your best friend was one or not. I want to use this for the thought experiment so that we can be absolutely certain there is no bias based on appearance.

The county we get our data from has roughly two main areas: Location 1 and Location 2. Location 1 has 5 cylons and 95 humans. Location 2 has 20 cylons and 80 humans. This means the county is 12.5% cylon and 87.5% human.

Let’s assume that there is no behavioral reason among the people of Location 1 to have safer driving habits. Let’s assume it is merely an environmental thing, say the roads are naturally larger and speed limits lower or something. They only average 1 car accident per month. Location 2, on the other hand, has poorly designed roads and bad visibility in areas, so they have 10 car accidents per month.

At the end of the year, if there is absolutely no bias at all, we would expect to see 12 car accidents uniformly distributed among the population of Location 1 and 120 car accidents uniformly distributed among the population of Location 2. This means Location 1 had 1 cylon in an accident and 11 humans, and Location 2 had 24 cylons and 96 humans in accidents.

We work for the county, and we take the full statistics: 25 cylon accidents and 107 human accidents. That means 19% of car accidents involve cylons, even though their population in the county is only 12.5%. As an investigator into this matter, we now try to conclude that since there is a disproportionate number of cylons in car accidents with respect to their baseline population, there must be some bias or speciesism present causing this.

Now I think everyone knows where this is going. It is clear from the example that combining together all the numbers from across the county, and then saying that the disproportionately high number of cylon car accidents had to be indicative of some underlying, institutional problem, was the incorrect thing to do. But this is the standard rhetoric of #blacklivesmatter. We hear that blacks make up roughly 13% of the population but are 25% of those killed by cops. Therefore, that basic disparity is indicative of racist motives by the cops, or at least is an institutional bias that needs to be fixed.

Recently, a more nuanced study has been making the news rounds that claims there isn’t a bias in who cops kill. How can this be? Well, what happened in our example case to cause the misleading information? A disproportionate number of cylons lived in environmental conditions that caused the car accidents. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. There wasn’t bias or speciesism at work. The lack of nuance in analyzing the statistics caused apparent bias that wasn’t there.

The study by Fryer does this. It builds a model that takes into account one uncontroversial environmental factor: we expect more accidental, unnecessary shootings by cops in more dangerous locations. In other words, we expect that, regardless of race, cops will shoot out of fear for their lives in locations where higher chances of violent crimes occur.

As with any study, there is always pushback. Mathbabe had a guest post pointing to some potential problems with sampling. I’m not trying to make any sort of statement with this post. I’ve talked about statistics a lot on the blog, and I merely wanted to show how such a study is possible with a less charged example. I know a lot of the initial reaction to the study was: But 13% vs 25%!!! Of course it’s racism!!! This idiot just has an agenda, and he’s manipulating data for political purposes!!!

Actually, when we only look at aggregate statistics across the entire country, we can accidentally pick up apparent bias where none exists, as in the example. The study just tries to tease these confounding factors out. Whether it did a good job is the subject of another post.

Year of Giant Novels Part 7: 2666

I don’t remember how I learned of the existence of 2666 by Roberto Bolaño. When it released in English in 2008, it took the literary establishment by storm, winning multiple best book of the year awards. But even so, I’d wager that most people haven’t heard of it. I know I paid attention to these things in 2008, but this wasn’t when I heard about it.

When I started the novel a few weeks ago for the giant novels project, I wasn’t convinced of its greatness. The novel is broken into five large parts, and each of these is broken into little page-length segments. There aren’t any chapters apart from these segments. These little vignettes read almost like Baudelaire stories, and indeed, Baudelaire is quoted at the start.

The first part follows five academics who study an obscure writer. They get into little love triangles and fights with each other. The stories certainly build into a coherent part, but I didn’t really see the point. There was a strange allure that kept me coming back, but I couldn’t pinpoint anything that struck me as particularly interesting or compelling.

The next two parts go off on seemingly unrelated sets of stories. I got 350 pages in, and I started to lose my grounding. There didn’t appear to be any central glue to these disparate stories. I again was reminded of Baudelaire, because something like Paris Spleen is a collection of unrelated vignettes that combine together to give a wider portrait and worldview.

When I thought in these terms, a few threads appeared. Two ordinary people quickly turn to disturbing violence when they beat up a cab driver. An artist’s self-portrait involved a gruesome chopping off of his own hand. A disturbing boxing match. Murder. Violence. The whole of human history consisting of beating each other to death over the dumbest things.

These segments made their appearances so quickly and sparsely so as to almost not be noticed in such a grand and complex novel whose plot revolves around other ideas. But they came and made their impression, and the magnitude of what they pointed to started to weigh as I approached Part IV.

I’m not sure anything can prepare someone for Part IV of this novel. Part IV is essentially 300 pages of graphic depictions of murders of women that all happened in the town of Santa Teresa, Mexico (though fictional, it is based on Juarez, a real place in which over 370 women have been murdered and 400 more have gone missing since the 90’s). To read 2666 is a powerful and changing experience because of this section.

I think we have to take a step back and consider Bolaño’s achievement here. He could have just published Part IV as the whole novel, but no one would read it. I know I would have gotten through the first few, and then put the book down as a tedious and gruesome exercise. But as I’ve pointed out, Bolaño works on your subconscious for those first three parts, and he gets you mentally prepared to experience it. It is a brilliant move to put this section in the middle like this.

The final part gives the reader a chance to decompress after the experience. I wouldn’t say it ties up loose ends or becomes happy or anything. It more gives the reader time to digest and reflect on the horror.

The novel is not a genre mystery where the murder cases get solved. In a sense, this would be offensive to all the victims and their families who don’t get closure in real life. It doesn’t offer solutions. I’d see this as giving false credence to the politicians who oversimplify issues like this and offer clean solutions that can never work.

The book remains complex and difficult, and in doing so, presents the problems and issues in the only mature and realistic way conceivable. This makes it art. The novel is a testament to what great art can be. Tidy, easy stories can still move you, but it takes novels like these to change you. It’s a reminder that “literary” and “experimental” doesn’t have to be synonymous with dull and unengaging. Sometimes breaking the traditional form is the only way shock someone into understanding what you are trying to say.

PC Game Hidden Gems and Some That Aren’t

I had trouble coming up with a succinct title for this post. I wanted to go through some underrated games and some highly rated games that weren’t very good, because it’s been awhile since I’ve done any sort of game review post.

Tactical RPG’s

Underrated: Massive Chalice

Massive Chalice has a similar combat system to XCOM. It initially got some very poor reviews because of this comparison. Many called it XCOM-light or a less deep and easier version of that game. This is an unfair comparison, because most of the strategy and depth comes from the other part of the game.

Massive Chalice has you set up bloodlines from your characters. You know a bunch of traits and character flaws of the characters, and then you must marry them to produce children. There are so many factors and risk/rewards that must go into this.

Do you retire your best fighter so that in 20 years you have several of his children on the battlefield only to find out he couldn’t produce any children? Do you risk a sharpshooter with an alcohol problem staggering around the battlefield? Do you trust the numbers given to you by an overconfident person?

This game might not get you the 200+ hours that many put into XCOM, but put it on ironman hard mode and you’ll be in for a tough challenge. It has a lot of character and humor too. The initial hate it got was unwarranted.

Overrated: The Banner Saga

I know I’ll get hate for this one. This game has overwhelming positive reviews. I think they are unwarranted. This game claimed to have the big three things I’d look for in a game: great story, great art, tactical strategy.

It had one of those; the art is fantastic. I thought the story was thin. It mostly felt like a series of excuses to get to the gameplay. Travel, camp, stop at a town, sometimes drama, repeat. It is very Oregon Trail-like in this respect. I wanted something more than an excuse to be fighting, and that’s all it felt like to me.

The gameplay itself is quite poor. There is a tactical aspect, but it is largely irrelevant. Whether you collect resources or not, you’ll be fine. No matter how you level or play the characters, you’ll be fine. No matter how you position, you’ll be fine. Once I found this out, I stopped trying, and just attacked from wherever I was and won.

But the most important part where this game failed for me was how separate everything was. Story-driven games need to integrate that aspect into the gameplay for a rich and seamless experience. The story and the gameplay were completely separate, which created a disjointed play experience.


If you are a longtime reader, you’ll know this is kind of my genre, so I’ll do two underrated games. For the most part, it takes a ton of time and feedback to make a great roguelike. This means most aren’t really worth sinking time into unless they are well-known. Here’s two that are well worth the time despite not being talked about as much.


This is basically a humorous version of the famous Tales of Maj’Eyal (ToME). To be fair, ToME is a more complicated game, but I think Dungeonmans improves on the ToME idea in several important ways.

First, it has a simpler skill tree system. This makes it more manageable for people who don’t want to spend 100 hours just learning what the different things do. It also has less classes/races, again, an improvement.

Dungeonmans has a randomly generated overworld. This makes repeated playthroughs more interesting than going the same places in the same order like in ToME. It implements an interesting persistence mechanic too. This makes the game beatable for more casual players (but there is an “ironmans” mode for the hardcore permadeath fans).

Longtime fans of ToME might not find what they want in this game (though I did!), but I highly recommend this game for the roguelike-curious who are scared off from giant learning curves like ToME.

Sword of the Stars: The Pit

This is one of the only truly modern roguelikes out there. It is hardcore in the most classic sense of the genre except for ASCII graphics. The game consists of pure dungeon diving. You go to the bottom of the pit to win. What makes the game so great is its inventory management.

Planning ahead and conserving weapons and understanding enemy movement is the key to success. Unlike Dungeonmnans, there is a good chance you’ll never win this on Normal mode (and there are still three difficulty levels above that!).

You have to become really good at the game to succeed. This takes patience and effort. This is what people like about roguelikes. If this sounds terrible, then this game isn’t for you. When you start, you will think the game is too hard to beat, but people who are good at this game can win on Normal more than 90% of the time. It’s not too hard—it’s you.

There is a “recipe” discovery mechanic that is pretty tedious, and this game gets a lot of negative feedback for it. I agree with that aspect of negativity, but it is a small matter that shouldn’t ruin the game.


Overrated: Unity of Command

This is a small title, so I’m not sure it’s “overrated.” I saw it pop up numerous times while searching for good PC strategy games. The player reviews tend to be very good too. I could not get into this game at all.

The concept of the game is to advance your front in specific battles while not losing access to your supply line. I’ll admit the concept is clever in how realistic a scenario this is.

The simplification of the war strategy game genre down to its essentials makes getting started easier, but I didn’t find it deep or satisfying. It uses weird turn limits to artificially increase difficulty (more like a puzzle than a strategy game). Randomness plays too big a role as well.

Underrated: Endless Legend

I’m not sure this qualifies as an underrated, because Rock, Paper, Shotgun named it 2014 Game of the Year. Still, the player reviews remain mixed and often negative, so I’m going with “currently underrated.”

This is a 4X strategy game similar to the Civilization franchise. Unlike Civ, this has a fantasy setting on an alien planet. The art is stunning. The backstory for each faction is buried within the game play. This is the type of integration of story and game I was referring to above.

Each faction plays differently. You can choose to enter tactical combat if you wish or you can auto-complete the combat. The large-scale strategy is almost endlessly deep (you see what I did there?) from what to research, whether to build up cities or expand outward, making alliances, spying, attacking, defending, trade routes, trading, marketplace, completing quests, exploring, assigning heroes, and on and on. Any fan of PC strategy games that hasn’t checked this out is really missing a gem with this one.

A Case Study in POV

Point of view (POV) is one of those things that is hardly noticed when done well but can ruin a story if done poorly. Today we’ll examine how POV affects Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead and Elizabeth Strout’s Abide With Me.

Never have I encountered such perfect novels for this case study. Gilead is widely regarded as a modern classic. Abide With Me is mostly unknown. Yet they both tell remarkably similar stories. Both have Protestant ministers as main characters in small town America in the 50’s. Both authors have won Pulitzer Prizes. They were published a mere two years apart (2004 and 2006). They deal with the same themes. Their lengths are roughly the same. So why the difference in reception? I think it can be completely attributed to Strout’s error in POV usage.

Gilead is told as a sequence of first-person letters from a Congregationalist minister to a son who will not know him. It is deeply personal and reflective to use this POV and serves as an excellent way to delve into discussions of faith in a broadly secular society, religion, theology, disappointment, judgment, fears, and so on. These manifest through conflict the minister has with his small town and what the minister sees as his own personal failings regarding his family.

Abide With Me is told in a very loose, meandering third-person (semi-omniscient) POV. The focus is still on a minister in a small town and his conflicts with the parishioners about theology and personal failings regarding his family. One could try to make an argument that Abide With Me focuses on the town itself as the main character, and this is the point of using a meandering POV. But I can’t get behind this. My guess is that over 80% of the novel is in a close third-person limited view of the minister, so the POV is wrong even for that argument. Also, all of the drama and emotional content come from the minister’s POV. To me, this novel would have been a much cleaner and powerful one if those few POV switches were cut or changed to the minister’s.

Let’s dig a little into why first-person worked so well in Gilead. Here’s a sample:

I get much more respect than I deserve. This seems harmless enough in most cases. People want to respect the pastor and I’m not going to interfere with that. But I’ve developed a great reputation for wisdom by ordering more books than I ever had time to read, and reading more books, by far, than I learned anything useful from, except, of course, that some very tedious gentlemen have written books. This is not a new insight, but the truth of it is something you have to experience to fully grasp.

We learn so much from this one brief passage. The pastor is modest and sympathetic. We get to hear his voice and see how he thinks. We learn how others see him and how he understands how they see him. He’s funny! His sense of humor comes through, because it is in his voice. When you read a whole novel like this, you feel like you personally know him, and I think this is why the novel resonates so well with people. It’s the POV, not the content. This is why Strout’s novel is not held in the same regard.

But Mrs. Slatin arrived for a visit, and took Lauren shopping for curtains, a bathroom rug, a crib, dishes with apples painted on them. And when Mrs. Slatin left, saying, “Well, you won’t be here for long, dear. This is just temporary,” Lauren said she wanted the horrid old place painted pink, she couldn’t stand it, and so Tyler asked the church, and then painted the walls of the living room and the dining room pink. “Perfect!” Lauren said. “I love you!”

Joy filled him, and trepidation, for the job of being pastor of this church was, for Tyler, an assignment of great seriousness. He was moved by the kindness of his parish, how they sometimes left notes for him by his office in the church, saying how his sermon had touched them.

I chose this passage, because I think it is trying to do a similar thing to the other one: establish how the pastor is received by the congregation and how he understands what they think. Look at that opening, though. It focuses on his wife’s POV. We get some of her character, but we’re kept at arm’s length by this distant third-person narration.

This distance is necessary to easily flow between points of view, but it leaves us feeling cold here. When we do switch to Tyler’s POV, we’re just told how he is received. We don’t get his voice. We don’t feel like we fully understand his thoughts. It is a one-dimensional description of his feelings and lacks his voice.

The whole novel reads this way, and it is a strange choice. I’m not sure why Strout chose to tell such a deeply personal story from such a distant and cold POV. There are few times in published literature where one can point to such a blatant mistake, but I think this is one of those times. I can only imagine what this novel could have been if a more personal POV was used.

Vote for Trump?

I tend to stay away from political posts (I think I’ve done around 5 in my last 800). I have some family members who have caught Trump fever, and when I ask them why they want to vote for him, the arguments confuse me a great deal. I know I’ll probably get death threats and whatnot for this, but here goes: the top five responses I hear when asking why someone should vote for Trump and why they make no sense to me.

Don’t misinterpret this post and say, “At least he’s better than Hilary.” I’m not trying to make a pro-Hilary or anti-Trump post. I’m merely pointing out that I haven’t heard a pro-Trump argument that makes sense to me (I was mostly asking these question in primary season when people presumably saw Trump as an actual good choice rather than a lesser of two evils choice).

1. He’s a great businessman, so he’ll be able to whip a stalled government into a well-oiled machine.

I understand this is the persona he plays, but I’m confused why people take his word for this. Aren’t Trump supporters the ones who say you can’t believe anything a politician says? If we apply this to Trump, we find that all signs point to the opposite.

Here’s a list of businesses started by or run by Trump that have gone under: Trump Vodka, Trump Casino, Trump Airlines, Trump Steaks,, Trump Mortgage, Trump Magazine, Trump University, Trump Ice (i.e. water), Trump on the Ocean, The Trump Network, Trumped! (talk radio show), and Trump New Media to name a few. There are others. Google it.

I get it. Starting a business is hard. Some of these go way back. You can defend a few of these failures using that logic. No one is perfect in their early years. The greatest business people all have embarrassments in their past.

But this only goes so far. At some point you have to look at the record and say: wow, that’s the track record of someone who has no idea what they’re doing. Bad luck alone does not produce that many business failures. Despite what he says, all the evidence points to the fact that he isn’t a very good businessman.

2. He’ll bring people together to get work done in Congress.

Did you just laugh a little? Are you incredulous that people have said this to me with a straight face? Well, they have. Again, I understand this is a talking point, but let’s look past that to the real world evidence.

Trump is so bad at bringing people together that he can’t even bring his own party together. Look at the never Trump movement. He’s so divisive that there’s talk of the RNC stealing the nomination from him. Look at Paul Ryan’s comments. Is that the type of rhetoric we’d expect to see from someone who can unite? He might be the most divisive person I’ve ever seen run for office. How is he going to bring Democrats and Republicans together if he can’t even bring Republicans together?

3. He’ll build a wall.

Let’s tackle the obvious before moving on to the wall. He’s running for the most powerful position in the world. He’s not running for project manager for building a wall, so this argument alone is not a good one for why you want him to be president. Sadly, once I’ve pointed out the flaws of the first two reasons, this is the one that inevitably comes out.

The wall itself is also a problem. The Washington Post estimated the cost to be about $25 billion. That cost will fall to us when Mexico refuses to pay for it (I’m starting to see how those earlier businesses might have failed: build something expecting someone else to pay, they don’t, file for bankruptcy, repeat).

According to people who actually know about border patrol, securing the border is not as easy as building a wall. There are many ways such a project could actually make it harder to secure the border. But if this is still high priority for you, I’ll admit this reason could play a minor, partial role in a pro-Trump argument.

4. He’s politically incorrect.

Look at my previous posts. I’m as aware of the dangers of hyper-PC culture as anyone. I’ll first push back against the idea that Trump cares about this issue. For the most part, it looks like he just doesn’t have a filter. He says whatever nonsense pops into his head no matter how offensive, racist, or sexist it may be. Then when someone calls him on it, he uses political correctness as a cover.

But let’s grant that he says these things to intentionally dismantle political correctness. The real problem isn’t whether any given individual is PC. It is the growing culture of political correctness stifling honest debate and research and art that is the problem. I don’t see how having a president that says politically incorrect things will do anything but stoke the fire of the PC crowd.

5. He’s self-funding and hence not beholden to big money donors.

Well, this is yet to be seen. It looks like he might turn on the RNC fundraising machine once he has the nomination. But even if he doesn’t, his current “self-funding” is super weird. He is loaning his money to his campaign rather than donating. It looks more like a giant money-making scam than self-funding (for example, if he uses individual donations to pay himself back with interest, he’ll have made money by preying on the hopes of susceptible Americans!).

In any case, this one may turn out to be true, but since it is something we can’t know at this point, I wouldn’t consider it a good reason to be pro-Trump right now.

Let me reiterate, this was not meant to be a case against Trump. If I were to try to do that, I’d focus on his destructive immigration policies, his thoughtless trade policies, the fact that he appears to be lying about the five things people most like about him, and his dangerous ignorance about anything important relating to the job and seeming unwillingness to learn about it. But those are for another post (which I probably won’t write).

Samuel R. Delany on Writing

I made it to June 17 before having to skip a week of blogging. I won’t leave you with nothing, though. I recommend finding a copy of Delany’s great essay “After Almost No Time at All the String on Which He Had Been Pulling and Pulling Came Apart into Two Separate Pieces So Quickly He Hardly Realized It Had Snapped, or: Reflections on ‘The Beach Fire.'”

It covers some advanced and subtle mistakes that even great writers occasionally make. If you’ve never seen this type of thing before, it will be an eye-opening experience. If you have, it is never bad to remind yourself of these ideas.

To get a feel for the type of writing advice it goes into, here is an example. The structure of a sentence must reflect the content of the sentence, or it will create a confusing tension in the reader. This wrecks the flow and clarity of what the author is trying to do.

He gives this as an example. “Bill jumped at the closeness of her voice.” There is a fundamental problem with this sentence. This type of thing appears all the time, and my guess is that many people who consider themselves competent enough to be publishing for money might struggle to figure out the problem. Take a second and try to figure it out. I’ve already given a hint earlier.

If you said that attributive nouns like “closeness” tend to be weak and hence avoided, well, you’re thinking way too small. The mistake is much more fundamental than generic rules like that. The sentence describes “Bill” and “her voice” as being close, yet in the sentence, they are as far apart as a single sentence will allow. This is what is meant by the structure not being in agreement with the content.

Examining Pro’s Prose Part 10

“Good prose should be transparent like a windowpane.” – George Orwell

If you’ve listened to fantasy writers talk about their craft much, you’ve probably encountered this idea that Brandon Sanderson heeds the Orwell advice with clean, minimal prose and Patrick Rothfuss uses beautiful, stylized prose to provide added layers of depth to his writing. I’ve probably heard this three or four times from various sources (writing excuses and otherwise). The idea is that neither is wrong; they are just different philosophies.

Today I want to dispel this idea by examining prose from Patrick Rothfuss’s first novel The Name of the Wind. Rothfuss can write in a stylized manner, and I think his novella The Slow Regard of Silent Things is a prime example of this. But that novella didn’t exist when the meme started.

I’ve discussed this several times in past installments, so I won’t dwell on it here. What the starting quote means is that you shouldn’t see the words. The words merely provide a framing you look through, and the images appear in your mind as you read.

We’ve been told that Sanderson uses a clear window and Rothfuss uses different colored glass to tint the experience. The clear glass means using words that paint the picture in the clearest way. Using colored glass means using unnecessary or less accurate words pictorially that add something else.

Here’s an example showing the difference. He watched he white snow float to the ground. Maybe that paints the picture accurately, but there are other things that could tint the image. The harsh white snow glared into his eyes as it fell to the ground. Words like “harsh” and “glare” and “fell” tint the sentence with emotional content that wasn’t there before, even though the picture is pretty much the same.

Anyway, let’s move on to the actual prose. I’m taking from the beginning of the book just so no one can claim “editorial fatigue” (meaning, maybe he got lazy with the prose in the middle where no one would much notice it anyway).

The innkeeper appeared with five bowls of stew and two warm, round loaves of bread. He pulled more beer for Jake, Shep, and Old Cob, moving with an air of bustling efficiency.

The story was set aside while the men tended to their dinners. Old Cob tucked away his bowl of stew with the predatory efficiency of a lifetime bachelor. The others were still blowing steam off their bowls when he finished the last of his loaf and returned to his story.

This is pretty much the first non-introductory, non-dialogue chunk of text in the novel. Let’s hunt for any description that might tint the glass a certain way. I see: warm, bustling, predatory. In context, the only one of these words that could maybe do double duty is “warm.” This is because the inn is portrayed as a warm, comforting place these people come to.

Honestly, this is a stretch in my opinion, because the loaves of bread were warm. It could be an unintended coincidence. The other two color words both modify efficiency (something I think Rothfuss would have changed if someone had pointed out the proximity of this word to itself). The two words are descriptions of individual people, so it would be bad if these tinted the overall picture of the scene. We certainly aren’t supposed to feel any sort of predatory sense at this stage (unless it is foreshadowing).

I have to conclude that Rothfuss, at least in this segment, also uses clean, transparent prose without the tinting many claim he does. This isn’t bad at all. I like this type of writing. I just wanted to point out that this idea is mostly a myth.

For comparison, let’s look at something from the beginning of The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson:

It’s really happening, he thought with mounting terror. This wasn’t a drill in the camp. This wasn’t training out in the fields, swinging sticks. This was real. Facing that fact—his heart pounding like a frightened animal in his chest, his legs unsteady—Cenn suddenly realized that he was a coward. He shouldn’t have left the herds!

At first glance, the sentence structures are much more complicated. This already adds a layer of opacity to the windowpane that the Rothfuss passage didn’t have. We get color words like: terror, pounding, frightened, animal, unsteady, coward, herds. These all tint the glass in the same direction. The fighting is terrifying and the people like a herd of animals.

I’ve actually read both of these books recently, and they both continue along these lines, making the convention wisdom pretty much reversed. I can explain it, though. The prologue to the Rothfuss is quite abstract and poetic and colorful. So I think this is a mistake of first impressions. Everyone remembers how the prologue goes, and then remembers the rest of the book being the same way. I think Sanderson has shifted his style significantly toward this more opaque and stylized writing and people only remember his early works.

The Ethics of True Knowledge

This post will probably be a mess. I listen to lots of podcasts while running and exercising. There was a strange confluence of topics that seemed to hit all at once from several unrelated places. Sam Harris interviewed Neil deGrasse Tyson, and they talked a little about recognizing alien intelligence and the rabbit hole of postmodernist interpretations of knowledge (more on this later). Daniel Kaufman talked with Massimo Pigliucci about philosophy of math.

We’ll start with a fundamental fact that must be acknowledged: we’ve actually figured some things out. In other words, knowledge is possible. Maybe there are some really, really, really minor details that aren’t quite right, but the fact that you are reading this blog post on a fancy computer is proof that we aren’t just wandering aimlessly in the dark when it comes to the circuitry of a computer. Science has succeeded in many places, and it remains the only reliable way to generate knowledge at this point in human history.

Skepticism is the backbone of science, but there is a postmodernist rabbit hole one can get sucked into by taking it too far. I won’t make the standard rebuttals to radical skepticism, but instead I’ll make an appeal to ethics. I’ve written about this many times, two of which are here and here. It is basically a variation on Clifford’s paper The Ethics of Belief.

The short form is that good people will do good things if they have good information, but good people will often do bad things unintentionally if they have bad information. Thus it is an ethical imperative to always strive for truth and knowledge.

I’ll illuminate what I mean with an example. The anti-vaccine people have their hearts in the right place. They don’t intend to cause harm. They actually think that vaccines are harmful, so it is the bad information causing them act unethically. I picked this example, because it exemplifies the main problem I wanted to get to.

It is actually very difficult to criticize their arguments in general terms. They are skeptical of the science for reasons that are usually good. They claim big corporations stand to lose a lot of money, so they are covering up the truth. Typically, this is one of the times it is good to question the science, because there are actual examples where money has led to bad science in the past. Since I already mentioned Neil deGrasse Tyson, I’ll quote him for how to think about this.

“A skeptic will question claims, then embrace the evidence. A denier will question claims, then deny the evidence.”

This type of thing can be scary when we, as non-experts, still have to figure out what is true or risk unintentional harm in less clear-cut examples. No one has time to examine all of the evidence for every issue to figure out what to embrace. So we have to rely on experts to tell us what the evidence says. But then the skeptic chimes in and says, but an appeal to authority is a logical fallacy and those experts are paid by people that cause a conflict of interest.

Ah! What is one to do? My answer is to go back to our starting point. Science actually works for discovering knowledge. Deferring to scientific consensus on issues is the ethically responsible thing to do. If they are wrong, it is almost certainly going to be an expert within the field that finds the errors and corrects them. It is highly unlikely that some Hollywood actor has discovered a giant conspiracy and also has the time and training to debunk the scientific papers that go against them.

Science has been wrong; anything is possible, but one must go with what is probable.

I said this post would be a mess and brought up philosophy of math at the start, so how does that have anything to do with what I just wrote? Maybe nothing, but it’s connected in my mind in a vague way.

Some people think mathematical objects are inherent in nature. They “actually exist” in some sense. This is called Platonism. Other people think math is just an arbitrary game where we manipulate symbols according to rules we’ve made up. I tend to take the embodied mind philosophy of math as developed by Lakoff and Nunez.

They claim that mathematics itself is purely a construct of our embodied minds, but it isn’t an “arbitrary” set of rules like chess. We’ve struck upon axioms (Peano or otherwise) and logic that correspond to how we perceive the world. This is why it is useful in the real world.

To put it more bluntly: Aliens, whose embodied experience of the world might be entirely different, might strike upon an entirely different mathematics that we might not even recognize as such but be equally effective at describing the world as they perceive it. Therefore, math is not mind independent or even universal among all intelligent minds, but is still useful.

To tie this back to the original point, I was wondering if we would even recognize aliens as intelligent if their way of expressing it was so different from our own that their math couldn’t even be recognized as such to us. Would they be able to express true knowledge that was inaccessible to us? What does this mean in relation to the ethics of belief?

Anyway, I’m thinking about making this a series on the blog. Maybe I’ll call it RRR: Random Running Ramblings, where I post random questions that occur to me while listening to something while running.