Aug 312005
 

For a change, a fun tag. The goal, inspired by this is to write a short story in 55 words or less. My def­i­n­i­tion of a short story is wider than yours, so here’s my, um… , effort.

A blog­ger dies and goes to heaven. A few weeks into his stay, he runs into Dar­win. Talk tended to evo­lu­tion, naturally.

He asks Dar­win about the only evo­lu­tion blog­gers care about — how peo­ple evolve from Insignif­i­cant Microbes to Mor­tal Humans and beyond.

Good con­tent,” he replied.

Is that all?”

And Intel­li­gent Design.”

Thanks Prash for the tag (and a neat story!) — I had so much fun doing this. Maybe I’ll do more…

Gay­athri

Here are the peo­ple I’d like to tag:

Navin

Vidya

DoZ. Link to story.

Gay­athri. Link to story.

Tilo. Link to out­sourced sto­ries ;)

Sybil. Link to story.

Swami. Link to story.

Update: Here’s another one.

It was love at first sight — vul­ner­a­ble me and the irre­sistible sono­fabitch. We went home together that night, get­ting along fab­u­lously till my sis­ter moved in. She started to like him.

This morn­ing I wake up, and they’re both gone.

I’m call­ing the cops: no one takes my Labrador away from me.

Naughty William

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Aug 312005
 

I kind of knew it the first time I picked up Ham­let. Not to toot my own horn or any­thing, but it was quite obvi­ous to me after read­ing the sec­ond line of the play, the one that had some­one ask­ing some­one else to “stand, and unfold your­self” — this book was mul­ti­di­men­sional. Deep. Cryp­tic. It was preg­nant with hid­den mean­ing, and if you got a copy with bet­ter line spac­ing than mine, I am quite cer­tain there was a lot that you could have read between the lines.

From cryp­tic to cryp­to­graphic isn’t such a big leap, and Clare Asquith has made just that. She thinks, nay, knows that Shake­speare was a “sub­ver­sive who embed­ded dan­ger­ous polit­i­cal mes­sages in his work.”

She argues that the plays and poems are a net­work of cross­word puzzle-like clues to his strong Catholic beliefs and his fears for England’s future. Aside from being the first to spot this dar­ing Shake­spearean code, Asquith also claims to be the first to have cracked it.

It has not been picked up on before because peo­ple have not had the com­plete con­text,’ she explained this week­end. ‘I am braced for flak, but we now know we have had the his­tory from that period wrong for a long time because we have seen it through the eyes of the Protes­tant, Whig ascen­dancy who, after all, have writ­ten the history.’

Not to be judge­men­tal, but here’s an exam­ple of the code:

Sun­burn:

The sun rep­re­sented divin­ity, and so sun­burn denotes close­ness to God. Shake­speare described him­self as ‘tanned’ in Son­net 62.

Makes me yearn for Dan Brown.

Read the whole thing here. In case you are won­der­ing, I had to do sev­eral care­fully con­ducted searches using mul­ti­ple search engines to sort through all the Salman Rushdie news/profiles/reviews/interviews/conversations before I got to this article.

You’re wel­come.

Red Herring

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Aug 262005
 

Henry Alford does a lit­tle sleuthing for the New Yorker — to locate a “Moun­tweazel” in the New Oxford Amer­i­can Dictionary.

Turn to page 1,850 of the 1975 edi­tion of the New Colum­bia Ency­clo­pe­dia and you’ll find an entry for Lil­lian Vir­ginia Moun­tweazel, a foun­tain designer turned pho­tog­ra­pher who was cel­e­brated for a col­lec­tion of pho­tographs of rural Amer­i­can mail­boxes titled “Flags Up!” Moun­tweazel, the ency­clo­pe­dia indi­cates, was born in Bangs, Ohio, in 1942, only to die “at 31 in an explo­sion while on assign­ment for Com­bustibles magazine.”

If Moun­tweazel is not a house­hold name, even in fountain-designing or mailbox-photography cir­cles, that is because she never existed. “It was an old tra­di­tion in ency­clo­pe­dias to put in a fake entry to pro­tect your copy­right,” Richard Steins, who was one of the volume’s edi­tors, said the other day. “If some­one copied Lil­lian, then we’d know they’d stolen from us.”

Fol­low­ing the tra­di­tion of this (and other) Ency­clo­pe­dias, the New Oxford Amer­i­can Dic­tio­nary decided to put a fake word in their lat­est edi­tion. Using a sin­gle leaked clue (that the word started with an ‘e’), Alford whit­tled down the list to six and then con­sulted a few lex­i­co­graph­i­cal author­ites, who nar­rowed it down to one word.

esquivalience—n. the will­ful avoid­ance of one’s offi­cial respon­si­bil­i­ties … late 19th cent.: per­haps from French esquiver, “dodge, slink away.”

A call was placed to Erin McK­ean, the editor-in-chief of the sec­ond edi­tion of NOAD. Upon being pre­sented with the major­ity opin­ion, McK­ean con­firmed that “esquiv­a­lience” was a fab­ri­cated word.

[…]The word has since been spot­ted on Dictionary.com, which cites Webster’s New Mil­len­nium as its source. “It’s inter­est­ing for us that we can see their method­ol­ogy,” McK­ean said. “Or lack thereof. It’s like tag­ging and releas­ing giant turtles.”

Inci­den­tally, this is a trick that I’ve used quite often on this very web­site — the occa­sional typoos you see are clev­erly dis­guised moun­tweazels. I feel sig­nif­i­cantly lighter now after this con­fes­sion, although it could also be because I moved my mon­ster Dell from my lap to the desk.

A Premier Long List

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Aug 262005
 

The Guardian announces its long list for the Guardian First Book award, tout­ing it as “the most diverse (list) yet in eth­nic ori­gin and theme.”

Themes stretch from the death of a small York­shire farm, home­less­ness, loss of an iden­ti­cal twin, and trans­sex­u­al­ity in Vic­to­rian Eng­land to the ori­gins of Islam, west­ern tourism in Thai­land, the colo­nial legacy of Malaysia and the search for the ice­bound land of Thule as myth­i­cal citadel of the “per­fect north”.

The Guardian award is open to debut works of fic­tion, poetry and non-fiction. So strong was this year’s non-fiction entry, in par­tic­u­lar, that at least two of the titles squeezed out in the first round of judg­ing could have gone through in another year to have won the award.

Suketu Mehta is on the list for his Max­i­mum City, the “Side­ways of the South Asian Book­shelf” as is Tash Aw — the only author to fea­ture on both the Man Booker and Guardian longlists (for The Har­mony Silk Fac­tory).

Nick Laird, born in North­ern Ire­land, brings off the dou­ble of being longlisted for the Guardian award and short­listed for a For­ward prize for his first poetry col­lec­tion, To a Fault. Lists will be an active topic in his house­hold: his wife Zadie Smith is short­listed for the Man Booker for her novel On Beauty, and is a pre­vi­ous win­ner of the Guardian prize.

 

Amardeep Singh points us to a search­able ver­sion of Hobson-Jobson dic­tio­nary, a fas­ci­nat­ing glos­sary of Eng­lish words with Indian ori­gins. It’s a pity you can’t browse through the dic­tio­nary, but hey, you can read Amardeep’s post instead — he lists a lot of every­day Eng­lish words that trace their roots to an Indian language.

What this means is that Rama­Narayanan could make a movie about an anaconda’s affair with Meena, and call it “Ana­con­das” with­out hurt­ing the Tamil names lobby. Sweet.

 

We were in a lit­tle bit of a rush, but I wanted to go into the store “real quick.” After some hag­gling, I was allowed to go, sub­ject to some rules (but, of course). The instruc­tions were fairly clear:

Come back in 10 minutes.

Just buy the ones you want, don’t just stand there gawking.

I hur­ried in, and headed straight for the infor­ma­tion counter. A win­some girl gave me smile just as win­some — but I remem­bered the sec­ond rule and asked her in my best business-like tone,

“I’m look­ing for a book called Never Let Me Go.”

“Author?”

“I-s-h-i-g-u-r-o”

“Sorry. Don’t have that author.”

Uh-oh.

“What about Smith, Z-a-d-i-e?”

“Book name?”

“On Beauty.”

Taps on key­board, “Yes, we have.”

One out of two isn’t too bad.

“Ok, where is it?”

“No stock.”

“What does ‘we have’ mean?”

“Have in database.”

Damn. I start to walk out dis­ap­pointed — not smart to sign up to review two books at Veena’s Booker Mela with­out check­ing for avail­abil­ity. Just then, the girl calls me,

“Sir.”

“Yeah?”

“We cur­rently have a sale. 25% dis­count on all Danielle Steel books.”

I wanted to thank her for rub­bing it in, but my ten min­utes were up.

Power Reads

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Aug 242005
 

Zoe Williams minces no words in this hilar­i­ous analy­sis of the “astound­ingly unim­pres­sive” results of an opin­ion poll in which British politi­cians named The Da Vinci Code and Harry Pot­ter as their favorite reads.

The soar­away favourite was The Da Vinci Code. Men­tion of this book is often suf­fixed by how many copies it has sold, as if sheer weight of num­bers obvi­ates all con­sid­er­a­tion of how rub­bish it is. And it’s a bit late to launch into a cri­tique of a work that makes peo­ple feel phys­i­cally sick when they fin­ish it, like a pound of straw­berry bon­bons, but the ques­tion remains — why aren’t they embarrassed?

[…]the ubiq­ui­tous Harry Pot­ter, a series so infan­tile that it is, quite lit­er­ally, a children’s book, a work that even the pub­lish­ers admit that an adult ought to be embar­rassed to be caught read­ing (well, they have a spe­cial “adult” edi­tion, with a dis­creet cover; this is like read­ing Play­boy inside the Econ­o­mist. Except that it’s slightly worse, since if one of these rep­re­sen­ta­tives had said “I shall be hol­i­day­ing with a copy of Play­boy hid­den inside an Econ­o­mist”, I would prob­a­bly vote for that person).

Williams the­o­rizes that the lack of class in the pref­er­ences might be because the politi­cians delib­er­ately dumbed down their list to appear more human and acces­si­ble to the aver­age guy on the street (read voter), end­ing with a bit of advice for the ones that chose Pot­ter: “Chil­dren aren’t allowed to vote.” Yes, but juve­niles are.

 

The Times car­ries a longish con­ver­sa­tion between Salman Rushdie and Ginny Dougary. Dougary obvi­ously likes Rushdie a lot — and per­haps because of this Rushdie sounds a lot more relaxed, and talks in his usual free­wheel­ing man­ner about a whole lot of things. It’s the most “human” Rushdie inter­view I’ve come across, his usual sharp can­dor tinged with humor and graciousness.

He doesn’t care to use the word “brain­wash­ing” for what goes on in the ter­ror­ist train­ing camps and the madras­sas, say­ing it’s too loaded. But in the novel he shows, most feel­ingly, how you can per­suade peo­ple that they have been see­ing the world wrong, and that the world is not like that — the world is like this, and you must unlearn every­thing you have learnt in order to under­stand the truth.

Rushdie says he is embar­rassed about Grimus ([…] I want to hide when I see some­one read­ing it), and explains his petu­lant Booker accep­tance speech as his reac­tion to the “cru­elty” of peo­ple that “asked him to find a dif­fer­ent form of employ­ment” for­get­ting that it was his first book. And then adds philo­soph­i­cally, “I guess, with hind­sight, you shouldn’t ever try to get even because you always lose.”

Aug 222005
 

Using seduc­tively sim­plis­tic argu­ments such as this,

Some­one who finds a rock can eas­ily imag­ine how wind and rain shaped it. But some­one who finds a pocket watch lying on the ground instantly knows that it was not formed by nat­ural processes.

With liv­ing organ­isms so much more com­pli­cated than watches, […] “The marks of design are too strong to be got over.”

a small (but very vocal) minor­ity of sci­en­tists is argu­ing for the inclu­sion of Intel­li­gent Design in school cur­ricu­lums across the US. The New York Times is run­ning a series of arti­cles on this, and if you read the first two, you real­ize how hol­low the argu­ments favor­ing Intel­li­gent Design are. Care­fully placed could-not-haves and usually-ares might sway pub­lic opin­ion, but innu­endo can’t be a sub­sti­tute for sci­en­tific rigor. If human imag­i­na­tion is the yard­stick, any counter intu­itive sci­en­tific dis­cov­ery can be dis­puted — Geo­cen­trism anyone?

In one often-cited argu­ment, Michael J. Behe, a pro­fes­sor of bio­chem­istry at Lehigh Uni­ver­sity and a lead­ing design the­o­rist, com­pares com­plex bio­log­i­cal phe­nom­ena like blood clot­ting to a mouse­trap: Take away any one piece — the spring, the base­board, the metal piece that snags the mouse — and the mouse­trap stops being able to catch mice.

Sim­i­larly, Dr. Behe argues, if any one of the more than 20 pro­teins involved in blood clot­ting is miss­ing or defi­cient, as hap­pens in hemo­philia, for instance, clots will not form properly.

Such all-or-none sys­tems, Dr. Behe and other design pro­po­nents say, could not have arisen through the incre­men­tal changes that evo­lu­tion says allowed life to progress to the big brains and the sophis­ti­cated abil­i­ties of humans from prim­i­tive bacteria.

These com­plex sys­tems are “always asso­ci­ated with design,” Dr. Behe, the author of the 1996 book “Darwin’s Black Box,” said in an inter­view. “We find such sys­tems in biol­ogy, and since we know of no other way that these things can be pro­duced, Dar­win­ian claims notwith­stand­ing, then we are ratio­nal to con­clude they were indeed designed.”

 

Hunter S Thomp­son, col­or­ful writer who led a life most bizarre, wanted a denou­ment no less bizarre. He shot him­self to death, and then wanted his remains “blasted into the sky.”

His faith­ful wife assem­bled a few peo­ple together Sat­ur­day for a mor­bid cer­e­mony where a

[…] a com­bi­na­tion of fire­works and the writer’s ashes were blasted into the sky from the top of a 153ft tower in a series of red, white, blue and green flashes.

Cannoniza­tion, alright. I’ve heard rumors that he’ll be called Sainnt Thomp­son from now on.

Through the Ind­pen­dent.

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