'Empathising and Systematising' - a short story by Adam Carlton

Antoinette and myself at my agent's office

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She walked across while I was waiting to see my agent.

Antoinette: I remembered just in time. One of the readers of the slush pile. Bottom of the food chain in the business.

But Antoinette stood out, I thought: she had sparkle.

"Hi Adam," she said, showing me a printout, "I came across this and I'm puzzled. My first thought was, well, it's not for us; but something about it - the argument - it piqued a bit of interest..."

She gave me a charming smile, with only the slightest flicker of irony, and handed me the document.

"I thought of you."

Like I said, smart girl.

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The Evolution of Elite Cognition: Systematizers vs. Empaths in the March of Civilization

By Dr Henry Lutending

Human society was once small, tribal, and violently xenophobic. Hunter-gatherers operated in tight-knit bands well below the Dunbar limit, where social trust was personal, reciprocity was direct, and there was little requirement for abstract reasoning or large-scale cooperation. The only selection pressures at play were for basic survival skills—strength, cunning, a capacity for immediate social bonding, and a deep suspicion of outsiders, who, given resource limitations, were almost certain to be hostile.

Then came agriculture, surplus, cities, and suddenly, a new game. Societies grew beyond the size where direct reciprocity was possible. Elites—those who could manage complex societies—emerged. And to do that, they needed two things: (1) systematizing intelligence, to plan taxes and economies, develop legal codes, and run administrative structures; and (2) high-level prosociality, to negotiate, defuse conflict, and create the ideological glue that held populations together. In short, enhanced intelligence and empathy became adaptive in a way they simply hadn’t been before.

Selection responded accordingly. Over the last ten thousand years, elite classes across civilizations—from the Middle-East to China—developed traits that were alien to their peasant underclasses. Elites had to think long-term, manage abstract systems, and suppress impulsivity in favor of diplomacy and reputation-building. These traits, culturally vital, were biologically selected. The best networkers and system-builders left the most descendants, shaping gene frequencies over time. (Peasants also adapted away from their hunter-gatherer forebears, to a life of sedentary drudgery and endemic disease - a different set of adaptations).

Selection was fast, messy, and polygenic. Just as rapid selection for intelligence in Ashkenazi Jews produced both extraordinary cognitive abilities and a cluster of neurological disorders [1], so too did the selection for high-trust, high-intelligence elites produce its own variety of pathological byproducts—over-systematization, over-empathizing, and the various maladaptations we now call autism, anxiety disorders, and elite neurosis.

Fast forward to today, and we see the consequences all around us. The class structure of modern Western societies forms a cognitive and temperamental cline.

At one extreme, the criminal underclass: impulsive, aggressive, low-future-orientation, thriving on immediate dominance rather than delayed reciprocity.

At the other extreme, the hyper-refined elites: measured, strategic, highly networked, masters of abstract thought but often physically timid, conflict-averse, and tempted toward comforting illusions at the expense of harsh realities they are often insulated from.

Within those elites there has always been a schism: between the systematizers, who think in hierarchies, structures, and long-range planning; and the hyper-empaths, who seek to create moral consensus, enforce ideological norms, and suppress overt aggression in favor of soft power.

This schism is the backbone of our present culture wars. The progressive elites—the hyper-empaths—dominate institutions that rely on moral framing: academia, media, HR bureaucracies. They create narratives, enforce taboos, and attempt to neutralize dissent through social pressure rather than direct confrontation - repressive tolerance, in Marcuse's words [2]. 

Their failure mode? Paralysis in the face of real conflict, an inability to handle reality when brute force is required, and the consequential destruction of high-trust norms when predatory actors exploit them. As the phrase goes: when the bullets start flying, the liberals leave the room, in tears, wringing their hands.

Meanwhile, the systematizing elites—the pragmatic, hierarchical, and meritocratic—lean toward finance, tech, the military, and entrepreneurial domains. Their failure mode? Brutal, zero-sum thinking, a tendency to ignore social legitimacy, and, in the extreme, a return to old-fashioned coercion when persuasion fails.

Every current civilization oscillates between these poles. When the systematizers dominate too completely, society hardens, becomes rigid, loses social legitimacy, and collapses under its own brutal hierarchies. When the hyper-empaths dominate, society feminizes, unmoors itself from reality, loses its ability to defend itself, and becomes prey to external or internal predators.

The pendulum swings. And right now, after decades of progressive dominance, it’s swinging back. The liberal consensus, built on high-trust norms and an almost pathological aversion to direct power, is fracturing under the weight of its own contradictions. The coming era will be more masculine, more systematizing, and, inevitably, more coercive.

AI adds a new factor to the mix.

If elite cognition has been honed by centuries of intense selection for specific traits—systematizing, empathizing, problem-solving, and navigating complex social structures—what happens when you begin to outsource those very traits to machines? Artificial intelligence, for example, could decouple cognitive labor from biology entirely, allowing for a kind of disembodied, almost immortal competence that doesn't have the same evolutionary pressures we do. The very nature of "elite" ability could shift radically, and potentially in a direction that doesn’t favor the long-standing human social fabric.

This has been explored in a fictional setting by the author S. M. Stirling in his sequence [3], The Domination of the Draka. The books explore an alternate history where the Draka, a brutal and highly militarized society, dominate much of the world.

Draka society is not simply a dystopia in the sense of a broken system, but rather an alternative hyper-competent, brutal, and authoritarian regime that has achieved a form of success. The Draka operate on the mastery of domination through genetic servitude to create an order that is efficient, stable, and terrifying.

It's not the only future we can envisage. Once technology has improved on mere human labour, it may occur to elites to simply let the working classes fade away to extinction. With the total fertility rates we see in modern economies, that's probably the default option, anyway.

The abilities of elite populations to genetically optimise their own systematizing and empathizing traits has never been greater. Paradoxically as genome engineering makes that imminent prospect enticing, the arrival of superhuman embodied AI may render it unnecessary. 

The elites will transition to something new, to be sure: it may even be their own extinction.

References

[1] "The Ten Thousand Year Explosion". Cochran and Harpending, 2009.

[2] "Repressive Tolerance". Herbert Marcuse, 1965.

[3] "The Domination". S. M. Stirling, 1988-96.

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I looked back at Antoinette in disbelief.

“Where to begin? References to genetics in social science, fascistic regimes cited without obligatory moral condemnation?

"Does this guy even have a job?”

Antoinette shrugged, her tight, translucent blouse shimmering in the sun, “There's no affiliation on his manuscript - maybe he's an independent researcher. So what do you think? The circular file?"

I thought about it. Normally yes, of course. But perhaps the times were changing; perhaps a smart agent could get ahead of the curve...

"I think you should go for it, it's kind of interesting, after all. But to be on the safe side, make sure you frame it as satirical fiction...”

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Today is Xenophon Day: March Forth!

 

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Xenophon's 'Anabasis' is as much a blueprint for leadership in crisis as it is an epic tale of survival, a narrative where every step forward was freighted with destiny and death.

In 401 BCE, Xenophon found himself in the midst of an ill-fated campaign: an expedition of roughly 10,000 Greek mercenaries hired by Cyrus the Younger to overthrow the Persian king. When Cyrus fell at the Battle of Cunaxa, the mercenaries were left stranded deep in hostile territory - a predicament that would forge their names into eternal legend.

Stranded far from home, the army faced an arduous retreat, their journey marked by relentless hardship, internal discord, and external threats. Originally an aristocrat enrolled both to fight and to chronicle the mission, Xenophon emerged from the chaos as an unlikely leader. His cool-headed pragmatism and uncanny ability to inspire were crucial in rallying a demoralized force: far from home, without supplies and surrounded by hostile forces.

With little more than a fervent command - infamously encapsulated in his rallying cry to “March forth!” - he transformed an almost-certain doom into a masterclass of tactical retreat and survival. This transformation was not just physical but psychological: in the crucible of adversity, Xenophon demonstrated that a leader’s resolve and ability to maintain the soldiers’ morale can tip the scales between catastrophe and survival.

Today, military academies still study Xenophon’s exploits because his account is a timeless treatise on the art of command and the realities of warfare. His narrative is unflinchingly honest about the chaos of battle and the fragility of human organization when stripped of order, and the need to deal decisively with personal weaknesses. Xenophon’s acute observations on discipline, logistics, and the management of fear and uncertainty offer a strategic manual that transcends the centuries.

His emphasis on adaptability - the ability to reassess and recalibrate in the face of unforeseen challenges - is particularly resonant. Modern military leaders appreciate that the landscape of warfare is unpredictable; the principles of rapid decision-making under duress, the necessity of clear communication, and the importance of cohesion among disparate units remain as relevant today as they were on the dusty trails of Persia.

Beyond the battlefield, Xenophon’s other works, such as his treatises on horsemanship and his idealized account of leadership in the “Cyropaedia”, continue to inform discussions on political strategy and statecraft. His portrayal of Cyrus as a benevolent yet strategic ruler offers an early exploration into the interplay between moral virtue and political power - a subject as relevant in today’s corridors of power as it was in ancient courts.

Politically, the Anabasis is a study in the perils of overextension and the complexities of mercenary alliances, a masterclass in the management of hired soldiers.  Strategically, his narrative reinforces the timeless wisdom that the terrain - both physical and political - can be as formidable an adversary as any enemy force.

So, on March 4th - aptly dubbed ‘Xenophon Day’ - we are reminded that when faced with overwhelming odds, the courage to 'march forth' is not just about physical movement but about the steadfast march toward clarity, order, and the resilient powers of leadership.

ChatGPT interviews me about Martial Arts

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ChatGPT: How did you first get into martial arts?

Nigel: I think I was 10 or 11 when I got the idea to do Judo: it seemed empowering. My mother was against it, thinking it would make me violent. My father came to my rescue, telling her that such training would stand me in good stead if I got caught up in any bar brawls. I imagine he was recalling his army days—this would have been around 1961-2.

I used to cycle up to the local club on Saturday mornings, they used a scout hut on the Southmead Road, near Filton aerodrome. I was keen and worked my way through the Mon grades of the junior system. Back then, gradings required contest victories, and I won enough.

ChatGPT: Did you have a favorite technique or style of fighting?

Nigel: Tai-otoshi—body drop. It suited my build: long and lanky. I was never very good at hip or shoulder throws. Once, in a grading contest, I got caught by a sucker-punch. My opponent used tomoe-nage, the stomach throw. It’s spectacular—an instant ippon, a victory. But it should never work against a prepared opponent; the counter is too easy. Just squat down and go straight to groundwork with the advantage of being on top!

ChatGPT: Did you continue Judo into adulthood?

Nigel: I kept it up in secondary school, but university and then work took over. I dabbled a bit later, but I never returned to it systematically. A shame, but priorities are what they are.

ChatGPT: Did you explore other martial arts later?

Nigel: Briefly. I tried karate a few years later, but in those days, it was all punching the air and ferocious numbers of push-ups. Too hard for me, and the benefits were years away. Aikido? I went to a few lessons, but it seemed curiously placid and ineffectual. I couldn’t buy into it.

ChatGPT: And T’ai Chi? How did that fit into your journey?

Nigel: I never thought of T’ai Chi as a combat art. You get what you train for. If you go slow and don’t spar for real, you’ll win no fights. For me, T’ai Chi was about Taoist ideas—balance, a calm frame of mind, and kinaesthetic awareness. You could see the difference between the newbies and the adepts: I wanted to be like those who flowed through the form, and I think I’ve got there.

ChatGPT: Did Taoism lead you to T’ai Chi, or was it the other way around?

Nigel: Taoism came first. I’ve always had sympathy for Lao Tzu’s idea of immanent harmony. But I’m also mindful of Cheng Man Ch’ing’s remark that Taoism is for the philosopher-hermit on his hill, while Confucianism is for those who live in the world. My adherence to the Catholic Church probably reflects the wisdom of that remark.

ChatGPT: So, would you say you’ve always balanced the philosophical with the practical?

Nigel: I’m open to the deep mysticism of consciousness in the universe, for sure. But I also believe combat skills matter in an uncertain world. Shotokan Karate reminded me of that. I achieved 7th kyu (yellow belt) in nine months of regular training. Realistically, though, I think first dan, plus hard kumite getting there, is the minimal precondition for useful skill. In another life, I’d have liked to get there.

ChatGPT: You mentioned earlier that martial arts should unify inner spirit and outward efficiency. Did you see that in your training?

Nigel: Yes. My Shotokan Sensei, a 6th dan, insisted on that unity, as do all serious martial arts. The hard and soft styles ultimately converge. I first encountered that idea as a child in Judo, and I’ve always internalised it as the goal.

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'I write for the AIs...'

Amazon link

Tyler Cowen, from the blog ‘Marginal Revolution’, suggests that we should be writing for the AIs, the large language models (LLMs) that will one day serve as our digital custodians.

The reasoning is straightforward: our descendants will have neither the time nor the inclination to sift through the mountains of words we leave behind. But the machines will. They will be the ones reading, processing, and perhaps even presenting us to the future. It’s an intriguing notion, but one that raises an immediate question: why bother?

Human relationships are defined by bonds of personal necessity and affection - family, friends, lovers, comrades-in-arms. Beyond this circle, we lapse into mere social obligation, and even that wears thin.

If I had the chance to meet a sixteenth-century ancestor, what exactly would we talk about? The price of grain? The relative merits of different plough designs? His pious peasant worldview would, at best, be a short-term curiosity; at worst, just tedious.

Why, then, should I expect my distant descendants to care for my accumulated wisdom on obsolete telecom network architecture, frankly naive political philosophy, or the minor ups and downs of twenty-first-century Britain?

But perhaps that’s the wrong framing. The real issue is not whether anyone will care, but whether anyone will even feel inclined to. The function of human relationships is mostly to exchange knowledge, provide advice, offer emotional support, and help each other navigate the labyrinth of life. Yet all of this will be, increasingly, the domain of more competent and amenable artificial systems.

Give AI another twenty years to develop fine-grain personality modeling and soft-touch humanoid robotics - and the role of wise old grandparent, experienced mentor, or sympathetic friend will be performed more effectively by an exquisitely tailored machine than by some stilted, digitised reconstruction of a long-dead ancestor.

The living barely listen to their forebears now; why should we expect the future to be any different?

Perhaps we should adjust our Wills. State that our digitised personas may be edited, altered and upgraded, tailored to become a preferred companionate personality for our remote offspring.

In this way allow our individual, historic selves to be subsumed into the collective subconscious of improved and optimised humanity: a Jungian prospect reminiscent of Peter Hamilton’s Edenists in the Night’s Dawn trilogy. The self, once rigid and finite, dissolves into something fluid, continuously enhanced - a digital ancestor no longer preserved but reimagined and repurposed.

Cowen’s vision, then, is not without irony. Yes, the AIs will read our words, digest our ideas, and perhaps synthesise them into some grand collective narrative of human thought. But what remains of us in that process? Do we become mere echoes, endlessly refined until we are no longer distinct from the computational matrix itself? Or do we vanish into irrelevance, our carefully curated personas serving as little more than scaffolding for something newer, sharper, and ultimately indifferent to its origins?

If we are to write for the future, we should do so not out of a desperate hope to be remembered, but because we have something genuinely worth saying. Process not outcome: whether it is read by man or machine is, in the end, incidental.

'Hélène' - short story by Adam Carlton (intro)

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1. Before the launch

I was selected from a cast of thousands on the basis of technical excellence and a calm personality. In the abstract I had visualised the mission as challenging and exciting. In the concrete, in the week before launch, my viscera suddenly became aware of what I was doing: something - no pretence any more - something insanely dangerous.

Previously we had been dutiful, even friendly colleagues. Now I bonded with Hélène as a drowning man grasps at driftwood.

Continue reading.

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This story is included in  my collection of short stories, published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations: and other stories" (2019)

See also my SF novel - Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Donatien's Children" (2022).

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Today is our 47th Wedding Anniversary

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This is at the reception, held in Clare's sister's house in Maghull, north of Liverpool. For a long time I thought I was working at a laptop, before recalling that these were not around in 1978. I think we are actually opening a wedding present.

Note the JD Vance look: I have not worn a beard since.

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And here is our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration, in February 2003. We had flown back from America to host this event at a hotel in the Lake District. The logistics were managed by Clare's sister.

I have no idea what I was doing wrong here.

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I said to her this morning, pompously, "The way we celebrate our wedding anniversary, Clare, is by being aware of it."

A long pause.

"And that's why I haven't troubled you with any geegaws."

Well, that went well, I thought, weathering the glare.

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My Favourite Science-Fiction Authors

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ChatGPT:
In your teens you were a fan of Isaac Asimov's Foundation series, Robert Heinlein's adventure SF novels, and Arthur C. Clarke's technical near-future fiction. None of these authors now feature on your favorite list—why is that?

Nigel:
When I returned to these authors, as an adult, I found Asimov's characterisation shallow and his style pedestrian—tedious, in fact.

Heinlein’s Starship Troopers stands out as a kind of masterclass in civics and moral coming-of-age, but most of his other stories are drowned in hedonistic self-indulgence.

As for Clarke, his engineering bias hasn’t aged well, and once again his characterisations are virtually non-existent.

These days, I want more from my fiction.

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ChatGPT:
Your critique clearly shows that you demand more depth—both in characterisation and in thematic exploration—than what you found in those earlier works. Shifting focus to your current favorites: Which among them best fills that gap? Take Iain M. Banks’ Culture series, for instance. What resonates with you about it, and can you pinpoint a moment or aspect in Banks’ writing that you find transformative compared to the cold technicality or self-indulgent hedonism you disliked before?

Nigel:
After his death, I genuinely thought for some years that Banks would quickly be forgotten and be unread. His plot development is dense, complex, and often unmemorable; the quality of his Culture novels is quite uneven.

Over the last couple of years, however, I’ve reconsidered. I now see more clearly how many deep issues his thinking encompassed, and how the vast canvas of space opera allowed him to explore profound philosophical and moral dilemmas through vast splurges of baroque text.

Banks was very smart and expected the same of his readers—you never come to believe, as you read, that you're out-thinking him. On the downside, I don’t think there are many sharply, deeply delineated characters in his work. Even Diziet Sma only takes you so far.

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ChatGPT:
Interesting. Moving on to Greg Bear, you’ve admired his work as well. Do you think he strikes a better balance between scientific rigor and emotional engagement? Are there particular works—say, Eon or Queen of Angels—that exemplify his strengths? How do you feel his narrative style has evolved over time?

Nigel:
I don’t think that’s the spectrum by which Bear’s work should be judged.

Like most ideas-based SF, his writing is rather matter-of-fact. It doesn’t elevate the heart-rate or engage the emotions much—except for the intellectual sense of awe it inspires. Bear tells an awe-inspiring story, and he’s one of the best at expanding that vast canvas of futurity which simply blows the mind away, whatever topic he’s dealing with.

I always felt he was working through a standard list of subjects—the General Relativity novel, the Quantum Mechanics novel, the Bio-Engineering novel, and so on. He generally made superlative tech-thrillers out of nearly all of them: his work is brimming with ideas, worked out in exquisite detail, which holds your attention.

But once again, memorable characters and inner lives are not his strong suit.

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ChatGPT:
That’s a clear-eyed assessment. Let’s talk about Richard K. Morgan next. His work is known for a gritty, uncompromising vision of the future, filled with realpolitik, double-crosses, and a jolt of raw sex and violence. What aspects of his style or thematic focus do you think best capture the contemporary zeitgeist? How do his narratives, especially in the development of his antihero Takeshi Kovacs, address or subvert traditional dystopian tropes?

Nigel:
Morgan’s worldview is fairly standard: evil corporations, corrupt institutions and governments, and oppressive religions. His schtick is realpolitik—cynical about motives and fully aware that superior physical force generally wins the day. His plots are packed with double-crosses, deception, and betrayal—ingredients that make for an engrossing thriller.

Additionally, Morgan is a disinhibited writer. His sex and violence are described in prose that leaves little to the imagination and knows few boundaries—the reader is invariably jolted.

What I appreciate most about Morgan’s writing, though, is the way he handles the personal development of his antihero, Takeshi Kovacs. For a long time, we’re led to believe this super-warrior, this Envoy, is criminally-minded, brutal, self-serving, and utterly nihilistic. And yet, we eventually discover (spoiler alert!) that this is really just a carefully constructed facade.

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ChatGPT:
Now let’s move on to Charles Stross. You’ve highlighted him as presenting a curious paradox. Can you explain what distinguishes his approach for you? Specifically, does his handling of political intrigue and economic themes offer a satisfying contrast to the baroque expansiveness of Banks or the gritty realism of Morgan? What is it about his narrative pace or style that makes his work stand out?

Nigel:
Charles Stross presents a curious paradox. As an individual, he comes across—much like Peter Watts—as an extremely militant, bleeding-heart liberal. In his published talks at conventions, his every utterance is steeped in moral outrage and preachy, self-righteous vitriol.

And yet, when he sits down in the quiet of his study and applies his economic, political, and technical knowledge to develop speculative scenarios with plausible issues and plots, he is simply superlative. He can write sympathetic, rounded characters, and his very artistic, emotional temperament imbues his writing with the necessary literary fire.

He writes what he cares about, and you know it—it isn’t just an intellectual exercise, which would be utterly boring.

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Malvern Hills in the summer of 2016

 

Clare and myself in the Malvern Hills: August 11th 2016

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I wrote here that we'd spent a few days between Christmas and the New Year (about two months ago) in the Malvern Hills (see picture below).

We had previously spent some time there eight and a half years ago. 

As the picture above shows, we had the energy then to make it to the hilltops - the weather helped. The holiday was mostly marked by Alex, who was with us, spilling a whole jug of milk onto the lounge carpet at the Malvern Hills Hotel (near the British Camp Hill Fort).

They were (sort of) nice enough about it; we have never returned.

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Clare and myself at the hotel: Sunday, December 29, 2024

How much was ‘Passion and Exaltation’ ‘Prophecy Historicised’?

Amazon

A Review of John Dominic Crossan’s "Who Killed Jesus?"

John Dominic Crossan’s book undertakes an ambitious project: a historical reconstruction of Jesus's death and the subsequent formation of the Passion narrative. Crossan begins by situating Jesus within his historical and religious context, noting that he was initially a follower of John the Baptist. After John's execution, Jesus distanced himself from the apocalyptic urgency of John’s message, instead emphasising the imminent realisation of God's Kingdom through radical egalitarianism and communal renewal. Something ordinary people - Jesus's followers - could and should do in their daily lives.

This message was provocative both to the Jewish religious authorities and the Roman political establishment. Jesus's actions in Jerusalem, particularly his disruption in the Temple - the centre of the elite priestly monopoly of religious practice - were perceived as a direct challenge to the status quo at the politically-sensitive celebration of Passover.

Consequently, he was arrested, and the Gospels describe a process in which Jewish authorities, concerned by his growing influence and his critique of established practices, facilitated his transfer to the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate. Pilate, as the sole authority capable of imposing capital punishment, condemned Jesus to crucifixion under the charge of being a potential insurgent, Rome’s normal approach to perceived threats to public order.

Development of the Passion Narratives

After Jesus's death, his followers faced the profound challenge of reconciling their belief in him as the Messiah with the shocking reality of his humiliating execution. Within early Christian communities, interpretation of this event took place through reflection upon the Hebrew Scriptures, a process that Crossan and other scholars describe as midrashic engagement - as a theological re-reading of historical events through the teachings of Scripture.

Early Christians - educated scribes rather than Jesus's mass peasant following - encountered texts such as Psalms 2 and 22, Isaiah’s Servant Songs, Zechariah, and Deuteronomy, which seemed to foreshadow Jesus's suffering and ultimate vindication. It seemed that Jesus's suffering had been foreseen, with resurrection and parousia understood as divine vindication. This theological process shaped how the Passion accounts were written, framing Jesus's death not as a tragic failure but as part of a deeper and foretold divine plan.

The Gospel of Peter and the Canonical Gospels

Crossan gives particular attention to the Gospel of Peter, considering it an early passion narrative that predates the final redactions of the canonical Gospels. He suggests that this text, through its extensive use of Old Testament allusions and its portrayal of Jewish culpability, might have influenced later passion accounts. In particular, he sees the Gospel of Mark as developing upon these themes, with Matthew, Luke, and John further elaborating theological interpretations of Jesus's death and resurrection.

Crossan sees the Gospel accounts as composed in a theological and liturgical environment where the meaning of Jesus’s death was being defined in a context of intense conflict within Jewish religious communities who were under intense pressure from the Roman authorities throughout the first century CE. The Gospels, Crossan asserts, are history interpreted in light of community definition and defence, uniting around a common faith rooted in prophecy.

Conclusion

Orthodox Catholic teaching affirms the historicity of Jesus's Passion, while recognizing that the four Gospels present differing accounts and perspectives, reflecting both theological emphases and historical/community development. The Church neither insists on a strictly literalist reading of the Passion narratives nor dismisses historical inquiry, though it remains cautious about certain scholarly reconstructions, such as those of the Jesus Seminar, to which Crossan was a major contributor.

Aquinas maintained that faith and reason cannot be in conflict - a principle that becomes particularly challenging when historical-critical methods are applied to the sacred texts themselves. Yet, as the Church has repeatedly acknowledged, deeper engagement with Scripture can enrich rather than diminish faith. 

If the Gospel accounts contain theological interpretations woven through historical memory, then their deepest truths may be found precisely in this interplay. Perhaps, rather than discomfort at such inquiry, we should recognise it as part of the same search for truth that has always animated Christian thought at its best.

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This review is more comprehensive than mine.

A fallacious proof that 0 = 1

This is an old one but perhaps you haven't seen it?

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1. Start with the equation:                    x = y 
2. Multiply both sides by x:                  x² = xy
3. Subtract y² from both sides:      x² - y² = xy - y²
4. Factor both sides:           (x - y)(x + y) = y(x - y)
5. Divide both sides by (x - y):        x + y = y
6. Since x = y, substitute y for x:     y + y = y
7. Simplify:                                             2y = y
8. Divide both sides by y:                      2 = 1
9. Subtract 1 from both sides:              1 = 0

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I asked ChatGPT for some better fallacies but in vain. It just produced stupid stuff.

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But then there is this - integration by parts:

∫ (dx/x) = ∫ (1) (1/x) dx

= x (1/x) - ∫ x (-1/x²) dx

= 1 + ∫ (dx/x)

⟹ 0 = 1.

Two appearances of the same integral can (and should!) have (different) constants of integration; or, as someone said: "From C to shining C".

Try it 'definitely' and you will see it comes out right.

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Thoughts on 'The Western Canon' by Harold Bloom

Amazon

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The Western Canon is Harold Bloom’s ambitious attempt to delineate and defend what he considers the most significant works of Western literature. In it, Bloom assembles a list of canonical texts, authors including Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Cervantes, Chaucer among others, that he argues have shaped the cultural and aesthetic foundations of the West, elevating them above the vicissitudes of historical change and cultural politics.

Confronted by the rise of modern critical theories that question universal standards of literary merit, Bloom felt compelled to write this work as both a celebration of enduring artistic genius and a polemic against the democratisation of literary taste. His mission was to reaffirm the intrinsic value of these texts—those works that, he contends, capture the profound depths of human experience and have repeatedly redefined the very limits of art for all ages.

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The book was a birthday present and here are my impressions so far (about one third of the way through).

Firstly, I am not convinced by his eminent regard for any of: Cervantes, Chaucer or Dante. I wish I were better acquainted with Shakespeare of course. I still have hopes for Montaigne - his Essays are on my personal reading list.

Bloom spent a lifetime reading all this stuff - and the critical commentaries - and the critical commentaries on those - so of course he is embedded in that cultural matrix. But is his canon objectively so supremely worthy of its place at the apex of human cultural achievement?

Or is there something subjective and culturally relative going on here? Some hard issues here: I'm going to wait and see what he has to say about Kafka, an author I do know pretty well.

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ChatGPT:

Bloom was a formidable reader, but his taste was both intensely personal and deeply shaped by a particular Western literary tradition—Romantic, bardic, and individualistic. He revered what he saw as the "strong poets," those who struggled against their precursors to carve out original aesthetic space. His enthusiasm for Shakespeare as the center of the canon is largely unassailable, but his disdain for modern literary theory and his dismissal of contemporary writers (especially postmodernists) can feel reactionary.

Your skepticism of Cervantes, Chaucer, and Dante is interesting—what about them leaves you unconvinced? Chaucer is obviously dated in diction and structure, and Cervantes' Don Quixote is often read more as a cultural monument than a living work of literature. Dante, however, seems to me to be one of the most potent visionaries ever to set words on paper—The Inferno remains one of the most viscerally compelling depictions of the human imagination at work.

As for contemporary culture, it's a fair question. Bloom’s hostility toward modern literary trends was partly aesthetic snobbery, but there is a case to be made that the conditions that produced great literature in the past—intellectual struggle, deep engagement with tradition, and a slower pace of cultural digestion—are harder to come by in an age of rapid media saturation and ideological tribalism.

Kafka is an interesting litmus test. Bloom grudgingly respects him but doesn’t see him as central to the tradition he champions. I suspect you’ll have strong opinions on how Bloom handles him.

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Nigel:

Perhaps my Inferno translation was rather flat and pedestrian. Although it seemed almost list-like in its travelogue of 'horrors': we don't really live in that theology-saturated world any more. Are there any modern high literary quality fiction/SF which in some sense retells Dante's epic? Did Dan Simmons, for example, attempt anything?

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ChatGPT:

Yes, there are modern reimaginings of Inferno, though they vary in fidelity and intent. Dan Simmons' The Hyperion Cantos has clear echoes of Dante, especially in the journey-into-the-unknown structure and the Shrike as a quasi-divine arbiter of suffering. The Hyperion pilgrimage is like a descent into a techno-theological underworld.

Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle’s Inferno (1976) is a more direct SF retelling—essentially a modernized Divine Comedy with a rationalist twist. A writer (loosely modeled on Robert A. Heinlein) finds himself in Dante’s Hell but treats it as a puzzle to be solved. It's a more literal adaptation but lacks the poetic grandeur.

Roger Zelazny’s Damnation Alley (1969) and Iain M. Banks’ Surface Detail (2010) both explore afterlife-style hells, though with different tones. Banks, in particular, examines the idea of virtual-reality Hells where the damned suffer eternally for ideological reasons.

For a more literary take, Samuel Delany’s Dhalgren (1975) has a dreamlike descent into an urban inferno, though it’s more Pynchon than Dante.

If you're looking for something with true literary weight that captures Inferno’s grandeur while modernizing its themes, you might consider these. But Dante's moral architecture is hard to update without irony—modernity struggles to take eternal damnation seriously...

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Nigel:

OK, let me express some further thoughts (I am up to his chapter on Montaigne and Molière). I'm beginning to get Bloom's style: he seems a very emotional and opinionated individual, garrulous and repetitive, and of course, very opposed to the left, progressive, egalitarian, anti-elitist trend, prevalent in 1999 and still dominant in artistic circles today. I would expect to be sympathetic to Bloom here, but still, there’s something not quite compelling.

He's quite selective in his quotations from the canonical works, and he tends to gush and 'big up' the quality of his chosen authors' writings. This methodology seems to favour Bloom's own taste, scholarship and breadth of study more than it illuminates the works themselves.

In particular, Bloom never discusses the works in the social and historical context of their time, he's always assuming some universal, almost Platonic quality he's ascertained of 'profound writing' and then claiming his canonical authors are not only the trailblazers here but have never been surpassed in their insight. Really? This ahistorical approach seems really dubious to me.

Reading some of his texts (I am massively uneducated by Bloom's standards) I see the historical interest (The Canterbury Tales is a time capsule) but I don't see the surpassing literary quality. The references are, of course, antiquarian in most cases, the concerns expressed are often obsolete (we have moved on!) and the writing frequently is there to be studied rather than enjoyed.

You can write deeply profound, conceptual works and still engross the reader: these two things are not counterposed!

There is a cultural tendency which we see all the time for art to develop in esoteric directions, beyond the reach of the 'common people' so that only learned intellectuals can claim to appreciate it. Bloom is a prime example: he only extols the esoteric aspects he finds in the canon: but those authors originally wrote for their contemporaries.

I find Bloom’s unwavering devotion to an ahistorical canon rather irksome. He treats the literary past as if it were a timeless pantheon of unassailable genius, completely ignoring the social and historical forces that shaped those works.

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ChatGPT:

Yes, Bloom operates within an unapologetically elitist framework, but his elitism is idiosyncratic—it’s less about social class or formal education and more about what he considers aesthetic originality and linguistic power. His devotion to Shakespeare as the wellspring of modern consciousness is a case in point. But your criticism of his approach is well-aimed: his eschewal of historical and social context makes his arguments feel hermetically sealed. Literature, in his view, isn’t shaped by external forces—it is the shaping force. This makes for grand pronouncements, but it also leads to an exaggerated veneration of certain writers at the expense of acknowledging the complex interplay between culture and literary production.

Your point about The Canterbury Tales is crucial. Chaucer’s work is undoubtedly a historical artifact, a snapshot of medieval life, but does that necessarily make it an enduring literary masterpiece? Bloom insists on an intrinsic aesthetic superiority, but your skepticism suggests that he’s mistaking historical significance for timeless literary excellence. This distinction matters, because it raises the question: are some of these works great because they shaped literary history, or are they great regardless of their historical influence?

Your observation about art becoming esoteric and self-referential is another issue for Bloom. He sees the canon as a series of geniuses engaged in a vast conversation with each other, but in practice, this can make literature feel like an exclusive club rather than something organically connected to the experience of ordinary people. Dante wrote for a readership steeped in Catholic eschatology, but his work now requires extensive annotation to be intelligible. Should we really pretend that’s a timeless greatness, or is it an antiquarian one?

Do you think there’s a line to be drawn between genuine artistic difficulty—where complexity and depth reward effort—and artificial difficulty, where obscurity is cultivated for its own sake? Bloom would argue that the former is essential to literary greatness, but perhaps that’s an excuse for intellectual gatekeeping.

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Nigel:

I'd certainly agree that we need to disavow kitsch, the production of 'art' within the safe space of the Overton Window, the reinforcement of conventional pieties and sentiments.

Most transgressive art is pretty bad though: it's not enough to be deviant: you have to penetrate past the conventional ideologies and unveil the deeper truths, so that people get their reward of true insight for perseverance - shock and awe alone don't cut it. Everything eventually becomes stale and kitsch so we need the explorers. Everything of quality was once dangerous and new.

But it's one thing to historically celebrate those ancient pioneers; it's another to continue to find them relevant in a contemporary problematic. Bloom thinks that the canon represents those writers who expressed the depths of human nature better than anyone else, before or since. But that's a very atomised, individualistic way of thinking and ahistorical again: as the nature of human societies has complexified, the best historically-relevant authors today explore the crushing and liberation of human nature in these new circumstances - in some truly profound way.

Bloom presumably likes Kafka for this reason, and I'd add George Orwell and Arthur Koestler (Darkness at Noon) for similar reasons - Stalinism challenged human nature in ways that were both extreme and unique in history so those artists had a situation worth engaging with. But those authors are still read today because they wrote well and engaged the reader in their plots and stories. And the problems that Kafka, Orwell and Koestler wrote about are still those of large-scale modernist societies which completely resonate with today's readers.

The mediaevalism of Bloom's favourites is a different world...

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SpaceX Needs Orion to Colonize Mars

The Case for an Orion-Based Mars Express

Elon Musk’s vision of a Mars colony is audacious but faces serious engineering constraints. Conventional chemical rockets are painfully slow, taking six to nine months for a one-way trip. The long-duration voyage exposes astronauts to zero-gravity muscle atrophy, bone loss, and cosmic radiation—not to mention the sheer logistical challenge of supplying a colony that remains months away from emergency aid.

The solution? Project Orion.

This nuclear-pulse propulsion concept developed in the late 1950s, offers an alternative that is both feasible and, contrary to popular belief, not an environmental catastrophe.

Orion can get astronauts to Mars in days, solving nearly all the key problems of interplanetary travel.

Engineering the Orion "Mars Express"

A nuclear-pulse Orion spacecraft is fundamentally different from today’s chemically propelled rockets. Instead of burning fuel continuously, it relies on the controlled detonation of nuclear charges (pulsed propulsion) behind a massive pusher plate. Each explosion delivers an impulse that propels the spacecraft forward, with shock absorbers smoothing out the ride.

The key advantage? Sustained high acceleration - one gee is completely feasible - which slashes transit times to a few days while allowing astronauts to live in normal gravity throughout the journey.

A practical Orion Mars Express could have a mass of 1,000 tons, including structure, payload, and charges. Let's examine what’s required to make this work.

Trip Time Calculations

For a spacecraft accelerating at 1 g (~9.81 m/s²) up to the halfway point and then decelerating at the same rate, the travel time depends on the distance to Mars. Assuming a typical Earth-Mars distance of 75 million km (0.5 AU):

1. Time to turnover (halfway point):
   
   Time is 24.3 hours. At this point, 37.5 million km into the mission, speed is 860 km/sec and kinetic energy is conservatively 369,000 Terajoules (= 88 Megatons).

2. Total trip time (acceleration + deceleration):
   
   Two days to Mars.

This is orders of magnitude faster than chemical propulsion.

Propellant Weight Estimation

A reasonable Orion charge design would use 1 Megaton charges weighing 30–100 kg each. To estimate the number of charges required:

• Each 1 Megaton explosion provides ~4,000 TJ of energy. Assuming 25% efficiency, the useful kinetic energy per explosion is ~1,000 TJ.
• To reach turnover speed a 1,000-ton ship needs ~ 369,000 TJ of kinetic energy.
• This requires 369 charges, translating to a total propellant mass of, say, 40 tons.

For a round trip, we need four times that: perhaps 160 tons of nuclear charges. Even allowing for inefficiencies and added mass, a 1,000-ton spacecraft would still have a substantial payload capacity.

Fallout Concerns: A Non-Issue

One of the primary objections to Orion has been radioactive fallout. However, this is a misplaced concern for deep-space operations. Fallout is only an issue if debris remains gravitationally bound to a planet, but Orion’s nuclear charges would be detonated far from Earth and Mars, where:

1. Some debris escapes the solar system due to high-speed ejection.
2. Remaining debris disperses in interplanetary space.
3. Short-lived isotopes decay within decades.

The actual contribution of Orion debris to space dust is minuscule compared to natural sources (cometary dust, asteroid collisions, etc.). In short, there is no meaningful pollution hazard. Compared to omnipresent cosmic and solar radiation, additional Orion contribution is undetectable.

Why SpaceX Should Pursue Orion

1. Faster, Safer Travel

• Reduces astronaut health risks from radiation and zero-g.
• Enables rapid rescue missions and cargo supply.

2. A True Mars Colony, Not a Stranded Outpost

• With Orion, colonists won’t be months away from help.
• Ensures stable logistics for food, medicine, and equipment.

3. Dramatically Lower Costs Per Ton

• Chemical rockets require enormous fuel tanks.
• Orion’s energy density is vastly superior, allowing larger payloads per launch and many more launches.

4. The Politics Can Be Fixed

Public perception of nuclear propulsion is largely irrational. The same objections were raised about nuclear power, yet today, many recognize its necessity for carbon-free energy. The solution is simple: Orion must operate only in deep space, with payloads launched conventionally into orbit before activation, using SpaceX's currently-planned heavy lift capabilities.

How Long Would It Take to Build?

With sufficient funding, a prototype Orion Mars Express could be ready in 15 years. The key milestones would be:

• Year 1–5: R&D, materials testing, regulatory approvals.
• Year 6–10: Small-scale prototypes, non-nuclear test flights.
• Year 11–15: Full-scale prototype, deep-space nuclear tests.

Conclusion: SpaceX Needs Orion

If Musk is serious about a permanent Mars colony, chemical propulsion simply won’t cut it. Orion is the only realistic way to provide rapid, routine, and cost-effective interplanetary transport. The physics checks out, the fallout problem is a non-issue, and the technology is well within reach. What’s missing is political will—and that, unlike the laws of physics, can change.

It’s time to reconsider Orion. There's no other way.

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Note: calculations and final draft: ChatGPT

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