Tag: book review

Review: Oilcraft by Robert Vitalis (2020)

Book link: Oilcraft by Robert Vitalis

The  book’s subtitle is “The Myths of Scarcity and Security that Haunt U.S. Energy Policy.”

The subtitle sums up the book’s thrust. There are two primary issues. The book’s last chapter addresses the secondary issue: There never was an “oil for security” deal between the U.S. and Saudi Arabia. The famous 1945 meeting between Franklin Roosevelt and Al Saud was primarily about Palestine. Nothing in the record suggests an oil-for-security arrangement. If anything, the oil price shocks of the 1970s (precipitated by OPEC) should have been enough to falsify that myth, yet it persists.

The bulk of the book is about markets. Vitalis’ argument is essentially this: It doesn’t matter who owns the oil in the ground. If there is excess resource for the controlling entity’s needs, then the controlling entity must sell it to realize any benefit. It matters not whether the country is an ally or an enemy; they will sell their oil. If they will not sell it to us, they will sell it to someone else, and that someone else will turn around and sell it to us, or some other oil source will. 

Vitalis contends that oil, extracted from the ground, lives in a market like every other commodity. Except possibly in wartime, it is, and was, never necessary for the U.S. to use military force to defend oil sources—yes, even in the case of Saddam’s annexation of Kuwait—and every such use of the military has never resulted in less expensive or more secure oil imports. Much more important, he claims, is secure control of the means of transporting the oil from source to market. In that context, he might agree that protecting ships in the Persian Gulf from Houthi missiles is justified.

The author extensively documents his claims—the endnotes section is longer than the text.

But Vitalis is wrong about one thing. Oil is not “just like” other commodities. First oil (more generally energy stored as carbon-hydrogen bonds. There are only three natural forms of it: oil, coal, and natural gas—technically also wood, which is “pre-coal”) is the apex commodity. It is an input to everything else. No other commodity has this property (food has some of it, since it is also stored carbon energy, but it is a ubiquitous input only to living systems, and today it also requires oil for planting, harvesting, and market transport). Second, every other commodity is, at least in theory, recyclable. Even food can be recycled into fertilizer. Carbon energy cannot be recycled. You have to destroy it to use it.

What about so-called renewable energy sources? Electricity? Where does it come from? Either carbon or the sun/wind/water, but capturing those sources requires oil for mining, building, deploying, and maintaining. What about uranium, the only natural non-carbon energy source (besides the sun)? Same thing. One must mine and process uranium (carbon for digging, transport, and electricity for processing) and build nuclear power plants (more carbon). 

What about hydrogen? Hydrogen is not a natural energy source but a storage medium like a battery. How does one get electricity into a battery? You make it somewhere else and put it in by charging the battery. Similarly, we make hydrogen using electricity or chemical reactions, storing that energy as hydrogen. Either way, we are back to carbon. Note that in theory, oil, coal, and gas are stored solar energy (like food), but we count them as “sources” rather than “stores” because the sun put the energy in—via plants—millions of years ago.

Does the difference that oil (carbon energy sources) represents make a difference to Vitalis’ thesis that military intervention in oil sources is unnecessary in the absence of a global conflict? I don’t think so, but not because oil isn’t different from everything else. His thesis holds because, apex input or not, like other commodities, it is bought and sold in markets, and there is enough of it from multiple sources (for now) to permit this kind of treatment. 

That brings me to one other small criticism of Oilcraft. Vitalis points out that every time we think we are running out of oil, we find more. He tends to write as if this will always be so, but because carbon energy cannot be recycled, recoverable stocks must eventually be exhausted.

Double Review: Richardson’s Pamela vs. Fielding’s Shamela!

Pamela by Samuel Richardson

A 1740 novel credited with being the first fully “character-oriented” novel and the original, English, “novel of manners.” It is an “epistolary novel” told in the form of letters between a daughter and her parents and later, when letters are forbidden her, journal entries. The “point of view” is first person, occasionally slipping into third person, the narrator explaining a few pages on: “so and so told me all of this later…”

Some facts. At the novel’s opening, Pamela is fifteen years old. At its close, she is sixteen. Something less than a year has passed. At twelve, her poor but famously honest and good parents had sent her to work for a wealthy woman who had just passed away when the story opens. A son, twenty-five years old, inherits all the wealth and, being something of a libertine, very much wants a piece of Pamela. Bear in mind the “age of consent” in England in 1740 was twelve!

Pamela is cast as humanity perfected in motive to serve God through her treatment of others—the Christian injunction to love God and his other children on Earth is taken very seriously by her to the point that her only lapse in perspective is fear of not loving God or others well enough. She is the sine qua non of virtue with grace, and also, we are told, exceptionally beautiful. The other point reinforced over and over again is Pamela’s fanatic determination to remain chaste at least until such time (if ever) as she should be married.  

The son (known only as B___ or master throughout) makes several attempts at Pamela, eventually abducting her to a distant property where she is placed in the hands of a cruel housemistress. Her escape attempts are always thwarted. All she wants is to go home to her parents. Mr. B___ cannot believe that she is not being duplicitous for the sake of more and more material wealth that he offers her in exchange for becoming his mistress. Finally, Mr. B___ grows sick of trying and lets her leave. On her way to her parents (we are halfway through the book), Mr. B___ reads her journal (the cruel housemistress, by his orders, having kept the document) and realizes that far from duplicitous, Pamela has been sincere throughout. He sends a fast rider after her with letters begging her to return to him. He loves her (he claims) and will give her everything of his life and wealth, including marriage, which, up to this point, was precluded by her low-born status.

Is this another feint on Mr. B___’s part? Pamela isn’t sure, but she decides to go back to him anyway, and thus begins the second half of the novel in which both she and Mr. B___ become the happiest couple on Earth. The second half of the novel is the perfect complement to the first half. Not only Mr. B___, but the cruel housemistress and all the other servants—who didn’t already love her thanks to her first employment—come to love her. Even the snobish gentry recognize that she might just be the most beautiful and gracious woman in all of England!

Novelists are told to “show, don’t tell.” If you acquire a story by reading a journal, the story might be told, but you, the journal reader, are shown it through the journal’s frame. I think that is the whole point of the length of this novel. We simply could not grasp how extraordinary Pamela is, and the subsequent transformation of everybody (especially Mr. B__) without the detail (and repetition) contained in its inordinate length.

The story’s pacing is consistent throughout. There is no elaborate time management; one day mostly leads to the next. We never lack for detail, and must suspend disbelief that anyone can, by hand with a quill pen, write that much that fast on so little paper (Paper was a luxury item in the eighteenth century) as she is given.

At the beginning, I was intimidated. Did I really want to spend the time reading this? At the end, I was delighted by the story and the portrayal of Pamela (despite her own misgivings, a most spiritual and graceful woman), perhaps the most elaborate—if redundant—single-character portrayal in all of fiction.

So why did I read this? For one thing, I’ve been on a “read the classics” jag for the last year or so, but this novel in particular, because I really wanted to read Henry Fielding’s Shamela, a parody of Richardson’s novel written only a year or so after Pamela’s publication. To best appreciate a spoof, one must know what is being spoofed. But Pamela is seven hundred pages long. Shamela is fifty pages! Oh well.

Shamela by Henry Fielding, 1741

So… Pamela is not the true story! It was commissioned by Mr. B___ (whose real name—revealed by Mr. Fielding—was Booby!) to produce a work complimenting him and his new bride. The real letters and journal were fewer and shorter (which makes more sense, see my comment above) and reveal a young girl, hardly a virgin, professing her innocence to her master for the sole purpose of seducing him into a disadvantageous (for him) marriage so that she might obtain legal access to his wealth! Meanwhile she (her real name being Shamela) has been sleeping with Parson Williams (an important—and. importantly, chaste—main character in Pamela) for some time already, a liaison that continues into her marriage to Booby! 

Fielding’s satire continues the epistolary style even beginning with an exchange of letters between two ministers one of whom lauds the newly published “Pamela” as the epitome of Christian virtue and its just rewards, while his replier tells him that Pamela was ghost written by persons unknown (not wishing to insult Richardson by naming him) and that he, the replier, has the “real” letters and journal!

What I love about Fielding is his bawdy sense of humor, combined with a polished ability to talk about sex (there is a lot of it) through metaphor, innuendo, and double entendre. We learn, for example, that Parson Williams was well endowed, while Booby possessed only a “spindle,” and so on.

Shamela is but a novella, barely fifty pages long. It is funny, but not that funny, and feels rushed (Fielding’s first “novel,” and published barely a year after Pamela). Must one read a seven-hundred-page novel to appreciate the fifty-page farce? Technically, yes, though the two reading tasks are, to be sure, disproportionate. I’m glad, in the end, that I liked Pamela, crazy and perhaps unreal as it may be.   

Review: In Defense of History by Richard Evans

In Defense of History by Richard Evans, 1997

This is a book about what historians do: Research (looking at lots of documents and other markers of the past in the present), and then writing books, essays, podcasts, or what have you, purporting to explain what their research has revealed about some aspect of the past. It is also a book obsessed with Postmodernism, a philosophical movement that emerged in the latter half of the twentieth century. In Defense of History is a critique of the impact (positive and negative) of Postmodernism on the research and writing of history.

Postmodernism is epistemically nihilistic in its extreme forms—there is no such thing as “truth”, everything can be interpreted in an infinite number of ways, all interpretations reflect power relationships (men over women, straights over gays, capitalists over labor, the politics of the day, etc) in our present or the present in which some book was written, and reinterpreted today. In this extreme form, Postmodernism is self-contradictory. If there is no “truth,” then why should we think that Postmodernism has anything valuable to say?

But Postmodernism also has a milder side. It comes down to saying that genuine “truth” is approachable, but there is no such thing as “the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” This can be understood purely in the present, never mind the writing of history. Suppose I am a witness to a traffic accident involving a half-dozen vehicles. I watch the sequence unfold from a position where I could pay full attention to the event. Later, I recount my recollection to the Highway Patrol. My account is valid, but not the “whole truth.” Someone bearing the same witness from the other side of the highway might describe a slightly different sequence of events. The two descriptions will essentially match up, but not be identical.

We are “perspectival creatures.” We see events from a particular angle and bring to our witness some particular experience. When we research history, the limitations of perspective are compounded. We are looking at documents (mostly) and must not only grasp their meaning (perhaps in translation, already a remove) in context. I find a document in an archive that reads like the transcript of a court proceeding. But in the absence of corroborating context, it might just as easily be a few pages torn from an otherwise lost novel. The further back we go in time, the worse this sort of problem gets because the volume of corroborating documents declines and the dating of those that are found becomes less sure. 

When we write our history book, we add another layer of perspective: our own life experience in a political and cultural environment that may have emerged from the times we are studying, and so on. Such things pull us away from “the whole truth,” while the discovery and incorporation of more documents, more monuments, and so on pulls us towards it. And thus is good history writing done. More truth, a better perspective, but never “the whole truth.” I think this is the sum and substance of Evans’ argument in this book.

In a long “afterword” chapter, Evans takes on his critics. There are more than a dozen, many of them the same people whose work he discusses in the body of the book. Some of these critics, Evans acknowledges, make good points, but most misrepresent him, and he goes to some lengths to illustrate his charges. This afterword thus amounts to a succinct summary of the whole book in which Evans clarifies, in a few sentences, some of the arguments that take pages in earlier chapters. 

One other thing I noted about the afterword. These historians can be really nasty! Some of the criticisms demonstrate a complete lack of attention to what Evans says and castigate him for claims he never makes. I was a graduate student in a university philosophy department at the height of the Postmodernist craze—the late 1970s. I read many critiques of contemporary philosophers by their contemporaries. I do not remember any of them being as careless and hot-headed as the historians appear to be.

Postscript: One of the historians (and Postmodernists) Evans mentions several times is Frank Ankersmit, but Evans does not discuss any of his work in detail. I read and reviewed one of Ankersmit’s books here. Written in 2012, the book makes quite reasonable claims in my opinion. Ankersmit must be one of the mild and rational postmodernists, or perhaps, by 2012, Postmodernism had moved past its zenith.

Ankersmit’s book is more interesting than Evans’ in my opinion. Ankersmit makes philosophical contributions, for example, on the relation between historical representation and art. Evans makes a competent statement of the down and up side impact of Postmodernism on the writing of history, but history moves on, and what was a significant debate in the last decades of the twentieth century is now made moot by the evisceration of academic humanities including history departments, not to mention the virtual victory of the more extreme versions of Postmodernism in political discourse (disinformation anyone?) and that of the political elite themselves.

Review: Meaning, Truth, and Reference in Historical Representation by Frank Ankersmit

Author’s note: This review was originally written and put on Amazon in 2019. It was not included on the blog because there were no additional philosophical issues I wished to address. However, it is one of my important reviews, and now that I am no longer posting reviews on Amazon, I decided to bring this one over here.

Meaning, Truth, and Reference in Historical Representation by Frank Ankersmit, 2012

I am neither a historian nor a philosopher of history, but it’s always worthwhile to expand one’s scope, and especially so with such an engaging book. Dr. Ankersmit is engaged in a multidimensional exploration, not of “philosophy of history” (though variations are touched upon), but rather of the philosophy of writing history.

Ankersmit’s beginning is “historicism”, broadly the idea that what we are today (politically, culturally, economically, and so on) has emerged through history; the actual track that each of these things (and more) took between the past and the present. This idea seems pretty obvious to me, but apparently was not always so considered in the writing of history or philosophy of history. From this point, he explores the difference between science and art as they relate to history, and comes down on the side of art, with contributions from the practice of science playing their part. He argues that art and history are representational. It reflects, to the viewer or reader, an aspect of the work’s subject.

Aspects are related to perspectives. Individuals have perspectives. They are the subjective gestalt of our individual consciousness. Aspects are derived from the external world and constitute a kind of reflection from the world back to our subjective perspective. We project our viewpoint. We get back an aspect — one aspect of a potentially infinite number of them. Aesthetics in art has much to do with aspect (something Ankersmit explores in some detail), and it is the author’s claim that the same is true in the writing of history. Like a piece of art (he uses both painting and literature in his examples), each written history (assuming it respects records of the past and doesn’t merely make stuff up) reflects to the reader an aspect that can be said to genuinely reflect, and so represent, the past to the present.

From here, Ankersmit argues that, unlike [philosophy of] science in which the truth of propositions (and by extension theories) is the primary focus (the “meaning of it all” being secondary), the primary focus of historical writing is the representation of an aspect bearing meaning to the reader in the present. As in art, propositional truth is of secondary importance in historical writing and emerges from the representational meaning of the written work. This is the central insight of the book, carefully built up through its first two-thirds.

In the last third (roughly) of the book, Ankersmit explores the outworking of the insight in various historical writings and how, in particular, aspects build on one another from one history to another, covering the same topic (for example, the Renaissance). The meaning of these aspects emerges only through the reader’s encounter with multiple aspects of the same subject. In effect, the reader has not gotten the “aspectural meaning” of the Renaissance, having read only a single history of it. But meaning emerges (like depth in vision) the moment one reads a second and grows richer with the third, fourth, and so on. Truth in history emerges from meaning (not the other way around, as is the case in science), and meaning emerges from the collective aspects reflected to readers from multiple histories.

There is far more to this book than I can touch upon in a short review; for example, it’s examination of the role of language and the contrasting roles played by it in science, and history/art. The book is beautifully organized. Each chapter has a clearly delineated introduction, arguments divided into sections, and a conclusion that summarizes the chapter’s key points. There are extensive chapter notes that should be read, as many enhance the perspective of the text, though many (not the majority) are not translated from their original German or French. I also found it odd that, while all the works cited are extensively documented in the chapter notes, the Kindle edition (I am not familiar with the paper edition) lacks a bibliography.

This is a book that deserves to be read by every historian and philosopher of history, or, for that matter, art. The historian will more fully appreciate what her writing of history is really accomplishing, and the philosopher will better understand both the scope and limitations of historical writing, which is, after all, the philosopher’s access point to history about which she is writing philosophy.”

Review: Pegasus by L. Richard and S. Rigaud

Pegasus by Laurent Richard and Sandrine Rigaud 2023

This book is an exposé written by two senior journalists at the long-form news entity Forbidden Stories in Paris, France. Thanks to some serious hacking talent, this outfit was apprised—in about 2021—of a list of fifty thousand telephone numbers from all over the world. The list contained telephone numbers and dates of attempted cyber intrusion attacks for purposes of surveillance.

The outfit that created the software and other parts of the architecture to do this work was an Israeli company called NSO, the initials of the three founders. The software was Pegasus. NSO sold their software to governments who were supposed to use it to help apprehend criminals and terrorists—we’ve all heard that before, right—but besides those uses, most of these governments (almost all autocratic), including Israel, used it to monitor political opposition figures, journalists, and others who just happened not to favor the regime in power. The Moroccan government, for example, was keeping a close eye on virtually the entire French executive, including the president.

Surveillance software had been around before Pegasus, but most of it focused on computers. NSO was the first (roughly 2012) to recognize that everything important was shifting to the smartphone. Like other hacks, surveillance by Pegasus would begin with a user clicking on a link that then downloads software, triggering the rest of the infection chain. This process should be familiar to anyone today. However, NSO added another twist in 2017, known as “zero-click intrusion.” That meant the phone only had to be on to be invaded. The user doesn’t need to click on anything.  

Once onboard the phone, Pegasus could acquire “root authority” and essentially operate every app on the phone. After offloading the phone’s logs, images, emails, texts, and recordings onto client servers, Pegasus deleted itself to avoid detection. Once zero-click intrusion became available, the Pegasus user could re-access the phone and download its latest data at any time they wished. 

Users would not know of the intrusion. The software could also deliver other malware, such as ransomware attacks, or monitor conversations in real-time, among other things. For example, your government might want to imprison you, but you haven’t committed any crime. They could use Pegasus to put some child porn on your phone in a folder they create. They arrest you, confiscate your phone, and voila, discover the criminal evidence.

The book gives few details, but it says enough to understand that zero-click attacks are not trivial. Some app on your phone (we all have dozens) must have an exploitable weakness. It was the job of the NSO programmers to find these exploits and update their customer software when phone manufacturers found and closed any particular loophole. 

The target apps with the greatest potential for attack are those that receive data from the telephone network and then perform an action without requiring user intervention. Every app that notifies you of something (such as texts, emails, or alerts of all kinds, including weather applications) can be an infection vector, but they are not alone. How many apps do we run that do not need access to your microphone, camera, or contact list, yet they default—on installation—to having such access.

To make a successful attack, the attacker must have your phone number. What kind of phone you have (every OS has different vulnerabilities) also makes a difference, but Pegasus could look for all of them. Client updates to Pegasus likely contained an extensive library of the various hacks needed for any given vulnerable app on every kind of phone. If, starting with your phone number, one attack fails, Pegasus tries again. Eventually, it finds an app on that target’s phone that lets it in. 

All of this revelation about the capabilities of Pegasus are scattered throughout the story which focuses on the the people who figured out how to detect prior infection (Pegasus deletes itself when finished culling your data, but as it happens, it leaves a few illegitimate process names in the phone’s logs), the process of proving prior infections on hundreds of phones in the original list of fifty thousand (mostly journalists and a few political opponents of various regimes), the journalists themselves (a multi-continental collaboration that miraculously maintained its secrecy until their stories were simultaneously released), and the NSO company.

So what happened when all of this got out? As one might easily predict, very little. The NSO company was destroyed, but the talent that created the technology merely scattered to other places—some paid obscene salaries—and duplicated the tech for their new employers. There are now numerous Pegasus clones worldwide.

Supposedly, the Israeli government did not permit Pegasus sales to Russia, China, North Korea, or Iran (they allowed sales to Saudi Arabia). However, China has undoubtedly had this ability (developed in China [see NOTE]) for years now (see We Have Been Harmonized by Kai Strittmatter, 2019), and there is no reason to believe that, in 2025, the other three do not also possess it. In the U.S., the NSA surely has this ability. They are building (or is it operational?) the world’s largest data center for a reason after all.

NOTE: Unique among nations of the world, China, and likely also North Korea, have no need for zero-click technology based on vulnerabilities. The Chinese and North Korean States have the power to mandate that all phones sold in their respective countries come with a built-in, non-removable app that allows the government to access the phone at any time.  

Review: Zero Point by Slavoj Žižek 2025

Žižek is my favorite socio-cultural-political critic! This short book does not disappoint (Amazon link).

Žižek gave a speech at a book fair in Frankfurt, Germany, in 2023. The significance of books was a theme, but so was the war between Ukraine and Russia and the slaughter in Palestine—topics he says he was asked to address by the fair’s organizers.

The ‘zero point’ is some nadir in the economic, cultural, political, or social sphere from which no tinkering with the situation through conventional mechanisms will fix things in the sense of making everybody (or at least most) better off. Only the destruction and rebuilding of what exists can help, a process, he admits, that is usually “violent and bloody.” Žižek comes from the political left. In my humble opinion, he is correct in that, besides the sexual divide (male and female), the class divide (capitalist one percent vs. everyone else) is still the world’s most significant economic and political fault line, but the modern left has abandoned it. I am personally somewhere down in the ninety-nine percent and have watched “progressive identity politics” eviscerate the Democratic Party in the United States.  

The book begins with a half dozen short essays addressing the global situation in broad strokes. The upshot of all this is that we—that is, Western society—lie to ourselves. The international situation is growing worse rapidly now. We cannot “fix” climate change. Wars and economic exploitation around the world (Žižek here covers not only Palestine and Ukraine but also Sudan, Yemen, and the Eastern Congo) have gone beyond the capacity of any power to resolve. Things got this bad because the powers themselves benefited economically from the conflict.

The book’s second half is a series of essays responding to various criticisms of his Frankfurt speech (reproduced in the book’s appendix). Žižek is, of course, attacked from both the left and the right. As he says (taken from Hegel), this is a sign that he is on the right track. 

I’m not going to comment on Žižek’s take on Palestine. He goes out of his way to nuance what he says. I believe he is right about the entire situation going back to before Israel’s founding and now accelerated to a substantial degree by its political turn to the right. Both sides are to blame (and this goes back a long way). Neither side wants peace other than with the annihilation of the other side. That makes the present situation a zero point.

As for Ukraine, Žižek lays the entire blame on Russia, and he is undoubtedly correct as concerns the utterly unprovoked—in a military sense—present war. But Žižek does miss something concerning Ukraine. He fails to account for a Russian strategic military problem. If my reader will permit me I will use a few sentences to explain.

Between Napoleon and Hitler, Russia was invaded three times—always through Ukraine. Russia does not need Ukraine to be a formal part of a union. Still, like Belarus, Russia does need a Ukraine that is not politically and economically in a formal alliance with Western Europe. 

In the 1990s, Bill Clinton promised Russia (Yeltsin) that NATO would not move east—not incorporate countries of the former Warsaw Pact (Poland, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, and Albania), Russia’s second-layer buffer beyond Ukraine and Belarus. Yet a few years after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, this is precisely what happened (the Baltic nations—Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania—hard up against the Russian border, are now also NATO nations).

Some might object that, with or without Ukraine, Europe has no intention of invading Russia. That is true now, but what about fifty years from now? From a strategic military viewpoint, a country with Russia’s geographic vulnerability (shorn of an eastward-oriented Ukraine) cannot ignore this calculation. That is the threat Ukraine’s decisive turn towards the West poses for Russia. Does this excuse Russia’s present invasion? No, but Žižek does miss this point.

Žižek must feel like he’s been banging his head against a wall for decades. I’m not a big fan of his psychiatric (Lacanian) and metaphysical turns of phrase—the ‘Other,’ the ‘Real,’ ‘surplus pleasure,’ and so on. Such things might belong to relations between individuals, but they are, at best, metaphors when applied to geopolitics. Metaphor or not, they are in Žižek’s blood. In this little book, Žižek’s grasp of the world’s desperate plight reflects—it seems to me—a personal resignation. In his earlier books, he exhibits hope that things can get better. I sense little hope here.

Review: The Gutenberg Parentheses

Amazon link: The Gutenberg Parentheses by Jeff Jarvis, 2023

This book is a history of mechanical printing from the original Gutenberg invention in 1450 through all the various forms of printing and the institutions to which it gave rise — mass market books, newspapers, pamphlets (political, religious, and otherwise), business forms, not to mention more—if not entirely—standardized written languages, and so on. All of this took time. We became fully emersed in the parentheses when print entirely supplanted scribes—by around 1550—the first institution to be wiped out by the new technology. 

In Mr. Jarvis’ opinion, we are now leaving Gutenberg behind. The parentheses are closing. Why? What has changed? Two things. First, what characterized the Gutenberg era was that word impressions were transferred to paper using ink in one way or another. Second, while there came to be many printers, not everybody could become a printer, and eventually, most (never all) printing became consolidated behind large corporate entities that ultimately controlled content.  Even where electronics became part of the process (sending photos and text stories by telephone, telegraph, and so on), at the end of the line, again, ink met paper. Mr. Jarvis claims that with the invention of the Web (1992-4), we entered a new era in which communication, text or otherwise, is no longer conveyed by ink on paper. Also, everyone (those with Internet connections) can be a producer in the new era. The mass conveyance of authorial output is no longer dependent on controlling institutions like publishers. 

The author believes and advances the argument that the internet age is already eroding what went before (newspapers are being wiped out, for example) while new, emerging institutions—NextDooor?—are beginning to replace it. The reason for replacement is not the same. Printing was much faster than scribes. Except for the loss of some artistic merit to transcribing by hand, Print’s efficiency was what mattered. In the Internet age, newspapers are being wiped out not because the Internet is more efficient but because advertising—which did not exist until 150 years after Gutenberg—has moved over to the Internet, depriving the papers of the income needed to print.

Jarvis believes we are roughly where Guttenberg was thirty years after his invention. He fails to account for technology’s accelerated timelines. We are more like 100 or even 150 years on compared to Gutenberg. That still leaves a long way to go. The institutions that printing spawned did not fully emerge until some 400 years after Gutenberg. New institutions will undoubtedly emerge from the Internet. Some have already been tried and found wanting. The hypertext novel doesn’t work because it is too distracting. The Internet suffers from a problem inverse to the limitations of print: trading limited access to publishing technology for such easy access that the sheer number of voices drowns any one of them out.

Surely, Jarvis is right that there is still more change to come, and we cannot anticipate its details. Printing wiped out the scribe. The Internet will not wipe out the printing business, though it will (and has already) skewed its economics. Ebooks on backlit devices tire the eye faster than paper and ink. Kindles are exceptions, but they also require electricity. Jarvis thinks (implicitly) that electricity will be around forever. Pages printed on cotton rag paper can be read for hundreds (and more) of years. Even quality (wood-based) “acid paper” (not newsprint) will last one hundred years or more. If electricity disappears with modern civilization’s climatological, ecological, and economic unraveling, the Internet and everything written upon it will disappear. More than half of what has been written on the net since 1994 is already gone forever. Technology will not be of much help. Bits can be “permanently” stored on tape or other technologies for ten or even a hundred years. There will soon be “glass storage” technologies that will hold terabytes of data for thousands of years on something about the size of a credit card. Still, access will require electricity (not to mention other advanced technology). Contrastingly, printing the old mechanical way (a la Gutenberg) requires no electricity and only fifteenth-century technology.

Jarvis’ book is a well-written history of printing, often reminding us that books were and are only a part—relatively small—of printing’s products. He is also undoubtedly right that the net will engender new institutions even if it doesn’t entirely eclipse the old, as Gutenberg’s invention did the scribes. Alas, that evolution depends on sustaining our present, highly technological (and for many reasons unsustainable) civilization long enough to serve that gestation.

Review: The Glamor of Grammar by Roy Peter Clark

Amazon link to The Glamor of Grammar

I write this little review for the sake of my #writer friends on X (formerly Twitter) and because it was a nice book pointing to many helpful writing notions. There are a lot of chapters, but they are all brief. The author’s aim seems to be a general overview of the writing forest, beginning with its soil and nutrients (letters and words), progressing to its more significant structures, tree types, and forest ecology (sentences, paragraphs, dialog, metaphor, and theme). How do you like my forest metaphor?

Clark literally begins with the letters A, B, C, etc. In particular, how some letters have come to function in English. He moves to words: simple words, more complex words, some history, and some observations of their impact, hard, soft, ambivalent, etc. He admonishes writers to watch their spelling. From words, we move to punctuation and sentences. Punctuation books are mostly dull, but not this one. Clark taught me nuances in using commas versus semi-colons or M-dash versus parentheses, which I hadn’t considered before. It turns out that setting off an independent clause is not the only possibility for the lowly semi-colon!

Sentences and paragraphs are the center of the business. Many forms serve particular purposes… Chains of short words are dramatic and hurried. Longer words strung together suggest slower moods. He addresses consistent usage of active and passive voice, present and past tense, uses and abuses of alliteration, and a little about authorial point of view. I like his attitude. Rules are general principles of good usage, but when you show that you know them, you can break them when there is a literary purpose for the exception.

Finally, moving from the soil to the treetops, he looks at the forest from the sky and comments on thematic consistency, metaphor, and the application of all that has gone before to a thread that ties the writing together. 

There are a lot of chapters, but as noted above, they are all short, two or three pages. All of Clark’s many subjects are presented on a high level. There are interesting acorns—using my forest metaphor to tie my theme together—everywhere. Whether a writer or an inveterate reader, this little book has insights to be found.

Review: Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

Published in 1933, I do not seriously presume to review this classic. I will briefly summarize salient themes and relate some of what Huxley says to my novels. Full disclosure: such a review and linking as this is purely for fun. My novels are not in the same league as Huxley’s. I make no claim to profundity.

WARNING! SPOILER ALERT

I begin at the end because the connection to my work is at the beginning. The “savage” commits suicide because, among other things, he cannot reconcile his [perfectly normal] youthful lust for an attractive young woman—who makes plain her desire for him—and his austere upbringing outside the brave new world. His mother, who came from the new world but became trapped in the savage land when she was pregnant (by a new-worlder), craves a return to the new world. When she finally returns with her son (now a young man), she cannot handle the culture shock compounded by the social opprobrium of new world denizens for her having gotten—and looking—old. She also kills herself, albeit more slowly. In the new world, both she and her son are freaks.

In Huxley’s new world, nobody is ever [supposed to be] unhappy, and the powers that be achieve this in three ways: 

First, individuals are literally bred and conditioned through their childhood to fulfill specific social and industrial roles. One often hears the adage: “Love what you do, and you will never work a day in your life.” In the new world, people are made to love what they are born to do. 

Second, drugs, Soma, the fictional drug of the new world that provides temporary ecstasy and escape from the real world, is not, apparently, harmful over the long term unless taken too often and without some recovery time—this is how the savage’s mother kills herself. Everybody has access to this drug.

The third way is sex. There is no stigma to casual sex in the new world; indeed, all sex is casual. No one marries, and women are not supposed to have babies—Literal bottles make babies (remember this published in 1933). To be sure, sex is consensual on both sides. Men and women can invite sex, and either party can refuse or accept invitations.

There are a few things to note about the sex. Power plays are going on. Handsome men and beautiful women are, of course, favored, but there is also a dynamic in which more powerful men, higher up the management hierarchy, have an advantage when inviting women to bed. Lower-order women often accept invitations from such men because the men are in a position to help them along a [limited] career path or give gifts. But as one might expect, such sex does not always make the woman happy. Lenine takes Soma to get past the sex when she sleeps with her supervisor-lover.

As an aside, Huxley here exhibits some chauvinism. Even in Huxley’s new world, the women are responsible for preventing pregnancy. Why? Surely, vasectomies were available in Huxley’s day? Why weren’t all male children vasectomized, or for that matter, why not alter the invitro gestations so that everyone—or at least all of one sex—is born sterile? The story precluded such a solution. At least one woman, the mother of the savage, had to become pregnant.

Before getting to the connection to my work, I note a few things about Huxley’s vision. He was wrong about the future of flying cars, but he predicted our present throwaway culture in which old things are easily discarded and exchanged for new things. To some extent, this was—for Huxley—a cultural phenomenon as it is for us. Also, like us, on the macro-economic level, the steady acquisition of new items keeps the wheels of industry and the economy working. 

Huxley’s insight is built into Capitalism as we have it. He did not invent this idea (it goes back to Marx and Engles), and his new world elides the ecological and climatological problems occasioned by our conspicuous consumption—problems already, albeit tentatively, appreciated by the scientists of the 1930s. He correctly predicted that conspicuous consumption would grow way beyond what was already manifest in his time.

I now return to the connection between Brave New World and my novels, a connection that runs through sex.

There are sex-related geopolitical implications in all of my novels. In the first novel, Foreign Agent, the Chinese plan to disrupt American social and political life by introducing genetically modified men and women who can deliver much more powerful peak sexual experiences than ordinary humans. In the second novel, Foreign Agent the Last Chapter, space aliens propose to pacify humanity’s militant inclinations with more and better sex than anyone—well, few anyway—is presently having. In Cult of Aten, novel number three, worldwide good sex precipitates international chaos because in many [actual] countries, sex, other than the minimum required to produce tax-paying citizens from a marriage explicitly sanctioned by the State, is literally illegal! In Indonesia, sex outside the bounds of a conventional marriage is a capital crime! In novel number four, LoveMe Inc., we discover that radically conservative women are conservative because they aren’t having sufficient—or any—orgasms! 

In Brave New World, Huxley illustrates his new world’s failure to deliver endless happiness through a sexual union made, on the woman’s part, from habit, not desire—like much sex in the real world. Huxley’s mistake was failing to distinguish sex from good sex, especially for women. Like accidental pregnancy, this is a plot demand for Huxley. It does not burden my stories.

Does this mean I believe that good sex alone is the solution to the world’s strife? Of course not! My novels are ridiculous, clumsy satires, while Huxley’s, if not a masterpiece, has demonstrated staying power in the canon of English socio-political satire. But if good sex alone was not sufficient to cure the world’s ills, it would, I believe, make some difference. People would be happier, and happier people are more tolerant of others’ differences. No novel, however masterful, addresses everything required for human happiness, let alone global peace and prosperity. All art is an interpretation, some more faithful to perceived reality than others.

Brave New World is not faithful to reality except in its anticipation of conspicuous consumerism, cross-cultural psycho-social shock, and bigotry—the last two the ultimate themes of the story. Like Huxley, my novels are socio-political satires, but the first three anticipate nothing. The fourth novel does make use of a real phenomenon. Orgasms activate brain centers related to tolerance and compassion—The novel cites actual research. But I leverage this objective observation to absurd levels. In my hands, it is not a prescient theme but a plot point. 

Huxley’s themes speak to real life. His satire is filled with irony, pathos, poignancy, loneliness, and false happiness. He is not, however, funny. Huxley’s world is ridiculous and physically impossible, but it serves as a stage for human social and psychological reality. The political nature of my satire is unmistakable, but my world is ridiculous not because of any physical impossibility but rather its psycho-social absurdity. Orgasms do not, alas, turn Republican women into Democrats! Would that it be so! Huxley’s characters react realistically to their world. My characters react unrealistically to our world. But for this reason, and unlike Huxley, my novels are funny!

Book Review: The Great Derangement by Amitav Ghosh

The Great Derangement by Amitav Ghosh, 2019 on Amazon

This was a somewhat disappointing book. Amitay Ghosh is an Indian novelist. His contention in this nonfiction work is that novelists, more specifically writers of “serious literary fiction” (compared, say, to science fiction), are not taking on or dealing with the challenge of climate change. Why? Ghosh gives a few related reasons. They come down to the modern novel’s focus on character and its—his, hers, or theirs—interaction with the world, usually leading to some triumph of the human spirit. In other words, the humans of modern novels control (more or less and sometimes imperfectly) their destinies in spite of what the world throws at them. We moderns are (so novels would have us believe) largely responsible for the character of our lives. Climate change, Ghosh believes, has, or will, put paid to this notion (which is true), but serious novelists have not caught up. Serious novelists are still writing novels in which humans, for good or ill, are in control or end up in control.

Ghosh spends much of the book connecting the modern novel to the “industrial age,” in other words, to the world’s carbon economy. He does a good job tracing this parallel evolution, particularly as it unfolded in India, but not ignoring the rest of the world. The problem is that this connection is indirect. It is a coincidence not because the modern novel—not to mention the novelist—is independent of the carbon economy but in the sense that the carbon economy is responsible for modernity in general, and the modern novel, the “we are in control” trope, is merely one expression of modernity like everything else. 

But there is more coincidence here. There are many modern literary novels whose story occurs in the context, say, of big wars. Now, wars are caused by humans living now (or when the war happens), while climate change is the result of human activity over the past 275-plus years—and more especially the last 100 years. From a literary viewpoint, what big war has in common with climate change is that modern character-oriented stories cannot encompass the whole of it, instead focusing on the effect of the over-arching event on the smaller events of individual people’s lives. Like war events, climate events are discrete.

But there is also a difference between big war and climate change. People, governments, have control over big wars in that they can and do eventually stop them, if only for a time. No one alive today, in 2025, nor anyone who lives through the next ten generations is going to block the oncoming impact (in discrete events—more floods, droughts, heat waves, sea level rise, etc) of climate change! Indeed if we ceased human production of atmospheric carbon tomorrow, the worldwide climate—cascades like melting permafrost and enormous annual forest fires having already been triggered—would continue to grow more inimical to human life for the next thousand years (see The Uninhabitable Earth by Wallace-Wells)!

The “out of context” problematic nature of climate change (compared, say, to war) is some part of Ghosh’s point. It isn’t that the modern novelist cannot write poignant stories about people living through climate-driven excessive heat, or floods, or what-have-you. Grapes of Wrath is nothing if not that. The problem is, I think that a hypothetical climate-change-driven novelist cannot end the novel on a note implying mankind (instantiated in the novel’s characters) still has some control over his physical environment. If the novel is to be written for or about this time—the first half of the twenty-first century—the characters involved might make spiritual, moral, or intellectual progress. But against the weather, the atmosphere, and oceans, the characters must, in the end, be crushed.

What is a novelist to do? Ghosh never tells us, even tentatively. It’s the one thing I was looking for in the book. If, as I assert, modern novelists can write such novels, then why aren’t they? Ghosh’s final position on this question seems to be that they haven’t broken free of the human-ultimatly-in-control trope. Perhaps he is right about this, but surely there are some serious modern novelists who are willing to cite climate change along with human stupidity, develop sympathetic characters, and then kill everybody off. Kurt Vonnegut’s Glapagos comes to mind. 

What, as a writer, could I do? Could a modern novel encompass climate change in the abstract? What would such a novel look like? It might be more like The Odyssey than a modern novel. Characters might develop over volumes as some intrepid band navigates the globe, encountering one disastrous effect of climate change after another. In each place, some climate-related effect is responsible for the death of one or more members of the group. In the end, the last member must also die—symbolic of the inevitable future collapse of our present civilization—and not too distant a future at that. The project is too big a bite for me, but perhaps Ghosh might give it a go.