Reaching Across the Fictional Terrain

As the time got into the fingers, hands, arms, shoulders, everywhere, altogether new relationships between chords and paths were being fulfilled now, the analytic character of my note choices, as good notes for such chords, coming under consistently thoroughgoing reformulation as a handful choosing, the song as a progression of demarcated and harmonically conceived placements becoming a rather different formatting structure.

For now I would do jazz sayings that increasingly brought my full ‘vocabular’ resources, my full range of wayful reachings, into the service of that jazz on the records, into the hands’ ways of pace-ably traversing not from route to route, but doing singings. And the language of paths and path switchings, born of my instructed introduction to jazz music and deeply intrinsic to the nature of my selectional negotiations for so long, thoroughly situated in the image-guided traverse ways of my past, must be abandoned…

For there is no melody, there is melodying. And melodying practices are handful practices as soundfully aimed articulational reaching. There is no end to ways for characterizing the ‘structure of a melody,’ given the possibilities of terminological revision, theoretic reclassification and structural analysis. But the action essentially escapes descriptive attention. If it can be said that I ‘do repetitions,’ it must then be asked: how do jazz hands behave so as to produce ‘appearances’ for a material examination by all who talk about them.

I learned this language through five years of overhearing it spoken. I had come to learn, overhearing and overseeing this jazz as my instructable hands’ ways — in a terrain nexus of hands and keyboard whose respective surfaces had become known as the respective surfaces of my tongue and teeth and palate are known to each other — that this jazz music is ways of moving from place to place as singings with my fingers. To define jazz (as to define any phenomenon of human action) is to describe the body’s ways.

David Sudnow, Ways of the Hand: The Origanization of Improvised Conduct, 1978

In my doctoral thesis I explored the ways in which expert scientists differed from novices in scanning scientific journals. Second-year grad students were as good at extracting and evaluating the information about any given research study as were the tenured professors. Where the experts excelled was in linking a seemingly wide variety of studies’ theoretical constructs and findings to their own research programs.

I don’t have much sense of gradually achieving greater technical proficiency in the writing of fiction. As far as I’m concerned, the sentences and paragraphs I wrote last week aren’t any better than the ones I wrote shortly after I began writing fiction eleven years ago. Like Sudnow perhaps, I have become better at sustaining longer coherent riffs, at “storying” across broader swathes of terrain. For me it’s not a matter of writing several good paragraphs or pages in a single burst, like a jazz improvisation. It’s more the ability to see coherent patterns across varied surfaces, to grab “wayful reachings” spanning whole chapters, sections, books.

It’s like the difference between conducting one scientific study at a time versus pursuing a coherent research program across many studies. Each study still has to be done, from beginning to end, and done well. Together the studies circle around an assemblage of linked thematic and material concerns rather than pursuing headlong the Grand Theory with monomaniacal linearity. Sometimes the circle expands; sometimes it contracts into a pinpoint focus. Individually, few of the studies approach brilliance, and some are downright pedestrian. But they all contribute to the larger program. Together they are the program.

The New Neighbor

Here’s the local newspaper article with “photos courtesy Anne Doyle.”

…And now the big-city paper has picked up the story and pics.

…And now the Denver CBS affiliate is going to run the story on the 5 pm news, with pics.

…And here’s the video of the news story, with pics.

Literature as Cognitive Pornography

Excerpted from Gregory Currie’s TLS commentary “Let’s pretend: Literature and the psychology lab”:

I do not say that the literary world is complacent about the mind. Literature loves the mysterious, the unexplained, the thought that there are deep facts not available to ordinary awareness. But it takes its lesson from the humanistic psychology we get from Freud, his rivals, successors, popularizers and distorters. That lesson has been read as an encouraging one. To understand the mind’s depth is hard and probably can’t be completed. But to make progress, we do not have to move far from literary modes of interrogation. Some myth-derived terminology, intense conversation, narrative construction: these are what we need, all amounting to a reassuringly qualitative approach. Above all, psychological depth is measured by increments of meaning: hidden motive and unconscious desire are the things we drill down into. And meaning is what literature thrives on…

One thing that psychological research these days does systematically is reduce the flow of meaning on which so much literature depends. Take that staple of literary psychology: character. Character explanations are top predators in the hunt for meaning: show that someone’s action flows, not just from their wishes but from their character, and you have the best example there is, short of invoking the deity, of behaviour found to be meaningful. But a lot of evidence suggests that character plays a surprisingly insignificant role in human behaviour, which is highly sensitive to small, even trivial changes in circumstances. Certainly, our own ordinary treatment of the notion of character is close to paradoxical. We put down our own failings to circumstance, and those of others to bad character – an error as crazy as thinking that wherever I happen to be marks the centre of the universe…

Writers are rewarded in proportion to their success in capturing the bit of the market they target, and they do that by giving the people in that region what they want: thrills and the exercise of sentiment at the less demanding end, and an emotionally vivid sense of serious moral and psychological engagement at the other end (there’s a lot in between, of course). But satisfying either market (or some combination of or compromise between them) is not evidence that we have a serious claim to knowledge. Unless, that is, we have strong reason to think that readers’ emotional responses track the real causal relations between things. The evidence, however, is all against this idea. Emotions are good when it comes to forming and maintaining a relationship with your baby, but they are as easily triggered by sentimental ballads and horror movies. You might hope to find some special emotional reactions, highly sensitive to the truth about human psychology – let me know when you have found one.

[T]here is a reasonably well-evidenced relation between creativity and milder forms of schizotypy and bipolar disorder. The first of these is notable for a tendency to overinterpret the meaningfulness of things, as when a patient reads a veiled threat into a harmless conversational remark, while bipolar individuals cycle through periods of emotional distortion, alternating mania and depression. Dean Simonton, an expert on creativity, has suggested that people in the arts are more prone to such disorders than those in the sciences, and especially prone if they are operating at high levels of originality… Might great writers be better than average at using their imaginations? Perhaps they are better in some ways, sustaining imaginative activity more consistently and more productively. But it would be rash to think of them as resistant to the illusions that imagination creates for the rest of us…

Finally, note that creative writers often seem to be rather distanced from the reality of their subject – understanding between persons. “The creator rarely cares much for others” is the brutal summary of a survey in this area by Emma Policastro and Howard Gardner. It is striking that we tend to credit a certain group of individuals, prone, apparently, to over-interpreting the meaningfulness of things and to emotional disruption, with a deep insight into human nature and conduct, and are not discouraged by the fact that many of them seem to have little experience of or interest in the corresponding reality…

So here’s a suggestion about how to read the literary canon. Treat it as an exercise in pretence, accepting as a basic rule for the pretence the reliability of the point of view from which the work is given… The suggestion is that we give up the idea that what is going on in literature-land is true learning, and make do with the pleasures of pretended learning. Literature is starting to sound like cognitive pornography… At most, I am urging a clarification, a recognition that when we engage seriously with great literature we do not come away with more knowledge, better abilities, clarified emotions or deeper human sympathies. We do exercise capacities that let us explore a fascinating, demanding conception of what human beings are like – probably a wrong one.

On the Doctrine of Silly Questions

Why, in Double Indemnity (Wilder, 1944), does the door to Walter Neff’s (Fred MacMurray) apartment open outwards? One answer is that, for some reason, the building was eccentrically designed. An entirely different kind of answer says that Wilder needed to place it that way so that Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) could not be seen in the corridor by Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson), and he needed to bring this about for dramatic effect. Seeking an answer of the first kind — an answer given from the internal perspective — we are asking what Kendall Walton calls a ‘silly question’. On the doctrine of silly questions, we ought not to seek an internal explanation when to do so would require us to elaborate improbable scenarios that distract us from the work’s real qualities and purpose, and where there is some evident external explanation, like the one just offered. Sometimes the identification of a question as ‘silly’ indicates, not so much a good dramatic reason, but an authorial intervention designed merely to raise our awareness of the artifice involved in narrative composition. Ivy Compton-Burnett gets rid of one set of characters by having them fall down a ravine — an intrinsically improbable event in the Home Counties, as Hilary Spurling observed. Compton-Burnett could have achieved the same effect in various, less-improbable ways, and chose this one, presumably, as a means of defying naturalistic technique. In such cases as these we are not to deny that the door opens outwards or that the characters fell down a ravine — we just should not expend energy on thinking about how, within the world of the story, this came about.

– Gregory Currie, Narratives & Narrators: A Philosophy of Stories (2010)

Route 80

STARS. He said that people knew many different kinds of stars or thought they knew many different kinds of stars. He talked about the stars you see at night, say when you’re driving from Des Moines to Lincoln on Route 80 and the car breaks down, the way they do, maybe it’s the oil or the radiator, maybe it’s a flat tire, and you get out and get the jack and the spare tire out of the trunk and change the tire, maybe half an hour, at most, and when you’re done you look up and see the sky full of stars. The Milky Way. He talked about star athletes. That’s a different kind of star, he said, and he compared them to movie stars, though as he said, the life of an athlete is generally much shorter. A star athlete might last fifteen years at best, whereas a movie star could go on for forty or fifty years if he or she started young. Meanwhile, any star you could see from the side of Route 80, on the way to Des Moines to Lincoln, would live for probably millions of years. Either that or it might have been dead for millions of years, and the traveler who gazed up at it would never know. It might be a live star or it might be a dead star. Sometimes, depending on your point of view, he said, it doesn’t matter, since the stars you see at night exist in the realm of semblance. They are semblances, the way dreams are semblances. So the traveler on Route 80 with a flat tire doesn’t know whether what he’s staring up at in the vast night are stars or whether they’re dreams. In a way, he said, the traveler is also part of a dream, a dream that breaks away from another dream like one drop of water breaking away from a bigger drop of water that we call a wave.

– Roberto Bolaño, 2666

I wonder if  Bolaño ever actually drove this stretch of road across the Great Plains, or if he just read about it in Kerouac’s legendary road trip chronicle. Twice over the next few days we’ll be driving this route, though probably not at night so we’ll have to imagine the semblances of stars. The other day I was editing a bit of text I wrote this summer based on driving Route 80 west from Des Moines and Lincoln:

Through the bug-spattered windshield he saw a small herd of antelope grazing the sparse brush a quarter mile off the highway. A solitary pheasant stood erect and immobile in the passing lane, staring at him like a desperate avian hitchhiker. Low-slung oil wells performed their oblique one-stroke rotations, the idling pistons of the American West. It wasn’t until he caught the first glimpse of the mountains hovering on the dusty horizon that he gave any real thought to his delivery.

Methaphor

Here’s a little thought — and there’s a good chance that you too have entertained this thought if you watch — about Breaking Bad, a TV show that I’m hooked on. In last season’s fourth episode, Walter and Skyler White sit in their living room planning their evening’s conversation with Skyler’s sister Marie and her husband Hank, a DEA agent. Walt cooks methamphetamine, and now he’s bought a car wash as a front for laundering (LOL) the drug money. But he’s just a high school chemistry teacher:  how could he possibly afford to pay for a car wash? Skyler cooks up a cover story: Walt made the money counting cards at blackjack tables. Walt is preparing a demonstration of his skills to stage for the in-laws, but he keeps losing. Finally Walt throws in the cards. I shouldn’t be showing off my technique, he tells Skyler: I’m in recovery.

WALT:  And that is the fiction we should be sticking to.
SKYLER:  You know what? You’re right. Yeah.
WALT:  Wow.

Skyler walks over to the coffee table and picks up two sheaves of paper. She hands one stack to Walt, keeping the other, and sits back down.

SKYLER:  Okay. We’re not leaving anything to chance. Alright let’s get started, got a lot of ground to cover.
WALT:  What is this?
SKYLER:  We have to get our story straight, we’ve got to be on the same page.
WALT:  A script?
SKYLER:  Bullet points.
WALT:  Bullet points? Looks like a novella.
SKYLER:  This is smart. You really want to try to sell a DEA agent some ill-prepared, half-assed, full of holes story about how we suddenly have enough money to buy a car wash?
WALT:  Am I supposed to memorize this?
SKYLER:  We need to practice, Walt. We need to be word perfect.
WALT:  Within reason.
SKYLER:  We need this story to be solid and sympathetic and most of all completely believable.

There’s some sort of metafictional business written into every episode of Breaking Bad. So how about this: cooking meth is a metaphor for producing a television series.

Walt has come up with the formula for making the best meth on the market: the highest level of chemical purity that triggers the most intense high for its users. Walt has achieved this level of excellence through systematic rational experimentation with ingredients and techniques, with organization and timing. Among all the competitors on the market Walt’s product is the best at doing what it’s supposed to do: overwhelming the user’s systematic rational judgment. As a result the customers are prepared to pay top dollar for Walt’s product.

I can’t wait for tonight’s episode.

Neurochemical Correlates of Consciousness

A recent post discussed the possibility put forward by Max Velmans that consciousness consists primarily of first-person subjective experience. Consciousness enters “too late” into brain activity to exert any sort of direction or control, Velmans claims. Consciousness can only observe the results of mental activity rather than participating in or initiating it. But now I’ve just finished reading In Search of Memory (2006) by Nobel prize-winning neurobiologist Eric Kandel. It took me awhile to get into this book (recommended, like Velmans’ book, by Lafayette) but eventually I found it enlightening and fairly entertaining. Kandel begs to differ with Velmans: he argues based on neural evidence that there is conscious mental processing, that it is activated by attention, and that it differs from unconscious processing at the level of biochemical action in the neurons. Here are two examples.

1.  Forming a Spatial Map of the Environment

By exploring a new environment mice learn to navigate the space with increasing efficiently, quickly moving toward dark enclosures while avoiding brightly lit open spaces. Mice can also learn about their environments by being required to perform a task; e.g., by finding and sitting in the unmarked space that turns off the bright lights and loud noises that mice tend to avoid. To perform this sort of spatial task requires the mouse to pay more attention while investigating the space than when just having a look around the place. It turns out that mice who learn to perform a task retain their memory of the space much longer than do the casual explorers.

Dopamine enhances the response of neurons to stimuli. Dopamine is produced by cells in the mid-brain. The axons of these dopamine-making cells project into the hippocampus, where inputs from various sensory modalities are integrated and stabilized via long-term potentiation of the neural synapses. When the action of dopamine is blocked in the hippocampus of a mouse that learns to perform a spatial task requiring attention, the mouse’s memory of the spatial layout degrades rapidly. Conversely, when the dopamine receptors are activated in the hippocampus of a casually exploring mouse, the mouse retains its memory of the space far longer than would otherwise be expected. The implication is that dopamine stimulates the responsiveness of attention-directing neural pathways in the hippocampus, which in turn trigger the long-term neural retention of spatial layout in memory.

Conversion of short-term to long-term memory requires the activation of genes in the neurons via neurotransmitters that signal the importance of the stimulus for retention. In response to the biochemical signal, the appropriate genes are turned on in the neuron, causing particular proteins to be produced in the cell that are sent to the cell’s synapses, passing along the signal to cells in the hippocampus. In mice, dopamine is the triggering chemical. But the neurochemical memory cascade is triggered differently depending on the type of learning involved. In spatial memory — e.g., mice exploring a new environment — the dopamine activation is initiated from the top down, from the cerebral cortex to the hippocampus. The implication is that the focused attention required for long-term learning — mental activities typically associated with consciousness — follows a neural pathway that’s different from the diffuse mental activity suitable for short-term retention of environmental information.

2.  Anxiety

A person who looks at a photo of someone whose facial expression indicates fear shows increased activity in the amygdala, the area of the brain that mediates fear. If the face with the fearful expression is presented for a long period of time, giving the person the opportunity to study the face consciously, then the dorsal region of the amygdala is activated. The dorsal region sends information to the autonomic nervous system, initiating the emotional arousal triggering the fight-or-flight response to frightening stimuli. If on the other hand the face is presented unconsciously — so rapidly that the observer cannot even report what type of expression the face is making — then the basolateral nucleus is activated. This area of the amygdala typically receives sensory input and transmits the signal to the cortex, heightening vigilance toward environmental threats.

Participants in the study were administered a questionnaire assessing their baseline level of anxiety. The level of anxiety had no effect on the conscious reaction to the fearful face. However, baseline anxiety was directly associated with the amount of activation in the basolateral nucleus in the unconscious reaction.

By implication, given the time to evaluate a fear-inducing stimulus consciously, everyone is able to activate the top-down triggering of an appropriate fight-or-flight response. Unconsciously, however, already-anxious people respond to fear-inducing stimuli by becoming hypervigilant, thereby increasing their already-high baseline anxiety levels, whereas non-anxious people do not become more anxious by being presented with a transitory fear-inducing stimulus.

The Invention of Morel by Bioy, 1940

I approve of the direction he gave, no doubt unconsciously, to his efforts to perpetuate man: but he has preserved nothing but sensations; and, although his invention was incomplete, he at least foreshadowed the truth: man will one day create human life. His work seems to confirm my old axiom: it is useless to keep the whole body alive.

Logical reasons induce us to reject Morel’s hopes. The images are not alive. But since his invention has blazed the trail, as it were, another machine should be invented to find out whether the images think and feel (or at least if they have the thoughts and the feelings that the people themselves had when the picture was made; of course, the relationship between their consciousness and these thoughts and feelings cannot be determined). The machine would be very similar to the one Morel invented and would be aimed at the thoughts and sensations of the transmitter; at any distance away from Faustine we should be able to have her thoughts and sensations (visual, auditory, tactile, olfactory, gustatory).

And someday there will be a more complete machine. One’s thoughts and feelings during life — or while the machine is recording — will be like an alphabet with which the image will continue to comprehend all experience (as we can form all the words in our language with the letters of the alphabet). Then life will be a repository for death. But even then the image will not be alive; objects that are essentially new will not exist for it. It will know only what it has already thought or felt, or the possible transpositions of those thoughts and feelings.

The fact that we cannot understand anything outside of time and space may perhaps suggest that our life is not appreciably different from the survival to be obtained by this machine.

When minds of greater refinement than Morel’s begin to work on the invention, man will select a lonely, pleasant place, will go there with the persons he loves most, and will endure in an intimate paradise. A single garden, if the scenes to be externalized are recorded at different moments, will contain innumerable paradises, and each group of inhabitants, unaware of the others, will move about simultaneously, almost in the same places, without colliding. But unfortunately these will be vulnerable paradises because the images will not be able to see men; and, if men do not heed the advise of Malthus, someday they will need the land of even the smallest paradise, and will destroy its defenseless inhabitants or will exile them by disconnecting their machines.

 

Consciousness-Of

Maybe if I pick off and respond to some of the specific assertions that Velmans makes in his 2009 book Understanding Consciousness

According to Thomas Nagel (1974), consciousness is ‘what it is like to be something.’ (p. 7)

Eventually Velmans endorses Nagel’s position, at least in part. First-person subjectivity is integral to but not fully definitive of consciousness. To be conscious is to be conscious of something: of the world, of one’s body, of one’s thoughts. All organisms have direct contact with the world via sensory receptors. Organisms convert sensory inputs into information about features of their environments that generated these inputs. E.g., a frog synchronizes visual input gathered by dedicated motion detectors with tongue movement in order to snag an insect out of the air. Does the frog have a subjective phenomenological experience of seeing the insect fly and of nabbing it; i.e., does the frog know what it’s like to be a frog? Or is the coordination of visual input with motor output purely instinctive, without awareness? Merely by observing the frog’s actions it’s impossible to tell if it has any subjective awareness. For that matter, it would be impossible to tell simply through observation whether a human is conscious of what it’s like to watch a fly land on the window and to dispatch it with a swatter. Consciousness-of is a first-person experience that’s opaque to third-person scrutiny.

Vermans concludes from his research that consciousness does not reside in some particular part of the brain. Rather, consciousness constitutes a more intensive and focused and coordinated activation of multiple brain processes that ordinarily function unconsciously and independently of one another. It should eventually be possible to evaluate non-human organisms to ascertain whether their brains ever achieve states of activation that correspond to consciousness in humans. However, without having access to some source of first-person information it would still not be possible to conclude that a nonhuman organism’s high-level brain activity correlates with a subjective experience of itself and its environment. It’s also possible that other kinds of organisms are conscious of lower-level non-integrated brain activities that in humans remain unconscious.

So it’s possible to speculate about what it might be like to be a frog, but as far as Velmans is concerned it will never be possible really to know anything from a third-person scientific perspective about frogs’ subjective experiences of the world and of themselves. Is it possible even to speculate about what it’s like to be cornbread, or polyester, or a neutron, as Ian Bogost suggests? Velmans doesn’t explore the possibility of inanimate subjective experience, in all likelihood because he regards the first-person experience of being-like as integrally linked to the first-person experience of being conscious-of one’s interactions with the world. And if consciousness is an intensified and focused and integrated neural activity, then the experience of being-like must likewise be associated with neural states/processes. It’s possible to imagine some other architecture for implementing neural functions, but there would have to be some sort of apparatus by which an object not only interacts with the world but has some awareness of this interaction. There would almost surely be chemical or electrical traces of this sort of awareness that could be observed, such that specific changes in the environment would result in specific changes in the aware object. I’d say it’s not particularly bold to assert, based on lack of empirical evidence, that neither cornbread nor polyester nor neurons exhibit the sort of selective complex responsiveness to the environment that might indicate some sort of alien awareness.

What’s it like to be cornbread? Almost surely it’s not like anything.

The Skating Rink by Bolaño, 1993

In a passage near the end, one of the novel’s three narrators, imprisoned near Barcelona under suspicion of murder and embezzlement, is reading a novel written by one of the other narrators, a Chilean émigré:

Remo Morán’s novel is entitled Saint Bernard, and recounts the deeds of a dog of that breed, or a man named Bernard, later canonized, or a delinquent who goes by that name. The dog, or the saint, or delinquent, lives in the foothills of a great icy mountain and every Sunday (although in some places it says “every day”) he goes around mountain villages challenging other dogs or men to duels. Gradually, his opponents begin to lose heart, and in the end no one dares to address him. They all apply “the law of ice,” to cite the text… Then, at the end of the novel, something strange occurs: after shaking off his pursuers, while sheltering in a cave, Bernard undergoes a metamorphosis: his old body splits into two parts, each identical to the original whole. One part rushes down into the valley, shouting with joy. the other climbs laboriously toward the summit of the great mountain, and is never heard of again…

The end of this fictional novel-within-a-novel is of particular interest to me as a fiction writer. My books feature a charismatic figure (also of Chilean ancestry, as it happens) and his acolytes who cultivate a praxis of splitting themselves in two: the sanctified part climbs laboriously to its death, while the unchosen part rushes free and joyful into the wilderness. I wonder if Bolaño ever actually wrote a novel about this Bernard character, or if it was an idea that was adequately captured as a passing reference here.

The Skating Rink was Bolaño’s first published novel, rereleased and translated posthumously after he became famous for his last long novels. The reviews I’ve read are enthusiastic except for this one from Philip Hensher in The Guardian. Hensher writes:

“His publishers have now thought it worthwhile to bring out Bolaño’s very first published novel, The Skating Rink, hoping for a readership quite different from the tiny claque which greeted its first publication in 1993. Reading it, I wondered what one would think of it as one of those first readers. The answer is probably “not much”. It has conspicuous, classical flaws in technique and is undeniably frustrating on its own terms. The interesting thing is that many of those flaws are exactly the things which Bolaño expanded, developed, and turned into virtues of the highest originality.”

This observation too grabs me as a fiction writer. Some of the purported flaws that readers have identified in my fiction I regard as integral to how I experience the fictional world I describe. Presumably like Bolaño, I too have intentionally exaggerated some of these features of my writing, drawing even more attention to them. In so doing have I transformed my flaws into “virtues of the highest originality”? Sure, why not?

Another Way for Goldman to Make a Buck

In the discussion of this April post I made this remark:

“Homelessness is on the rise in this new Gilded Age, and with political pressure to cut Medicaid there will be even more uninsured people. Imagine how Blackwater or one of those for-profit prison companies would sell and manage this sort of short-term convalescence program to maximize return on investment on a national scale.”

Now in today’s NYTimes we get a piece on a related do-gooder enterprise, entitled Goldman to Invest in City Jail Program, Profiting if Recidivism Falls Sharply. Here’s the business opportunity: Fifty percent of male adolescents incarcerated at Rikers Island are reimprisoned within a year. It costs New York City a lot of money to arrest, prosecute, and warehouse a prisoner. But running a program to prevent recidivism of released convicts is also expensive, especially when the payoff from such a program isn’t immediate.

As I understand it, here’s Goldman’s scheme: a social impact bond. Goldman lends money to NYC, with the proceeds paying for a program intended to reduce reincarceration of juvenile offenders. The program will be outsourced and to MDRC, a nonprofit private contractor. If recidivism drops by 10%, the City pays back the loan in full, plus interest. If recidivism drops more than 10%, then the City pays Goldman a bonus of up to 22% of the original bond amount. If recidivism doesn’t drop by at least 10%, Goldman loses up to 25% of its initial investment.

But then I read farther down in the article:

In a twist that differentiates New York’s plan from other governments’ experiments with social impact bonds, [NYC Mayor] Bloomberg’s personal foundation, Bloomberg Philanthropies, will provide a $7.2 million loan guarantee to MDRC. If the jail program does not succeed, MDRC can use the Bloomberg money to repay Goldman a portion of its loan; if the program does succeed, Goldman will be paid by the city’s Department of Correction, and MDRC may use the Bloomberg money for other social impact bonds…

This means that Goldman lends the money not to the city but to MDRC, the program administrator. If the program hits its recidivism reduction target, then the City pays MDRC enough to repay Goldman’s loan in full. If the program falls short on the recidivism target, MDRC must come up with its own money to repay up to 25% of the loan amount. However, MDRC can use Bloomberg’s loan guarantee to make up the difference. But if the program exceeds its target, then Goldman makes a profit of up to 22%.

In other words, Goldman outsources all of its risk while retaining the possibility of earning 22% profit from the taxpayers of New York City for work done by a nonprofit contractor.

Blog Bog

There ought to be something I’d want to write about the latest book I finished reading: Understanding Consciousness (2009) by Max Bermans Velmans. The book is interesting and stimulating even if it’s not as provocative as, say, Metzinger’s Being No One. It covers a field of study with which I’m reasonably familiar. If I were to write about it I might achieve greater clarity as to what I think about the book and about consciousness.

It’s been nearly a month since I wrote my last post. I’ve thought about quitting before, often because I felt like the blog was a distraction from other activities to which I felt that I needed to make a more wholehearted commitment. Tomorrow I expect to finish drafting another long (>50K words) installment in my ongoing fictional project, so maybe not writing blog posts has kept me focused. It doesn’t feel that way though, and it certainly wasn’t through the self-discipline of not blogging that I’ve been able to wrap up the fiction piece.

Lately I feel indifferent with respect to the blog.

I’d read maybe half a dozen blog posts total before I started Ktismatics. Eventually I found myself peripherally associated with various “theory blogs.” My blogging has gone through some phases coinciding with my changing interests: Biblical studies, movies, psychology, philosophy, science, fiction. Usually I’ve been more interested in the discussions stimulated by my posts than by the posts themselves. For me those online conversations have proven entertaining, irritating, stimulating, distracting. I’ve learned a lot from my own blog.

Lately, though, I’m not that all that interested in initiating conversations.

I’ve done some commenting on other blogs — more commenting, in fact, than I’d done in the past two or three years. While I’ve been able to respond to others’ initiative in putting forward a topic, I find that those bloggers’ interests in their own topics seem to wane quickly, sometimes fizzling out even before I do.

In short, I think that many of the other bloggers too are experiencing indifference.

It’s not like I’ve just caught on to something that’s been going on for some time now. People who used to blog have moved on to Facebook, to Twitter, to Tumblr, to silence. Of course blogging has always had a strong nerd element, but now blogging has become a kind of retro hipster endeavor, a form of nostalgia.

Let me finish drafting my book tomorrow, then get started on editing it. Today I renewed Velmans’ book, which gives me another three weeks. Maybe something bloggable will inspire me before my memory of the book degrades substantially.

Better Angels or Tougher Cops?

This book is about what may be the most important thing that has ever happened in human history. Believe it or not –and I know that most people do not — violence has declined over long stretches of time, and today we may be living in the most peaceable era in our species’ existence.

In The Better Angels of our Nature (2011), Steven Pinker contends that, over the past several hundred years, capitalism and strong government have worked in tandem to reduce societal violence in the West. Capitalism encourages cooperation across traditional community boundaries, while government establishes a monopoly over the use of force, especially in matters of interpersonal honor. These pacifying benefits are imposed from the upper class downward:

The European decline of violence was spearheaded by a decline in elite violence. Today statistics from every Western country show the overwhelming majority of homicides and other violent crimes are committed by people in the lowest socioeconomic classes. One obvious reason for the shift is that in medieval times, one achieved high status through the use of force. The journalist Steven Sailer recounts an exchange from early-20th-century England: “A hereditary member of the British House of Lords complained that Prime Minister Lloyd George had created new Lords solely because they were self-made millionaires who had only recently acquired large acreages. When asked, ‘How did your ancestor become a Lord?’ he replied sternly, ‘With the battle-ax, sir, with the battle-ax!”

As the upper classes were putting down their battle-axes, disarming their retinues, and no longer punching out bargees and cabmen, the middle classes followed suit. They were domesticated not by royal court, of course, but by other civilizing forces. Employment in factories and businesses forced employees to acquire habits of decorum. And then came an institution that was introduced in London in 1828 by Sir Robert Peel and soon named after him, the municipal police, or bobbies.

The main reason that violence correlates with low socioeconomic status today is that the elites and the middle class pursue justice with the legal system while the lower classes resort to what scholars of violence call “self-help.” This has nothing to do with Women Who Love Too Much or Chicken Soup for the Soul; it is another name for vigilantism, frontier justice, taking the law into your own hands, and other forms of violent retaliation by which people secured justice in the absence of intervention by the state.

On the face of it, Pinker’s argument sounds like an apologetics supporting the status quo. Presumably the solution to reducing violence still further is to civilize the lower classes and non-Westerners. One means of civilizing them is to impose on them the discipline and decorum of wage labor; the other is to replace their DIY vigilante justice with state-administered justice, enforced more thoroughly by the police and the courts and the army.

Is Pinker right? There’s a whole academic discipline of criminology that purports to study issues like the one Pinker addresses in his book. I know little about the field, its findings, its theories. Pinker is a cognitive psychologist, a field that’s certainly relevant to criminology. But I don’t get a sense reading the first three chapters that Pinker lets the complexity of the issue speak for itself, nor that he takes seriously the work of any but a few criminology people. He’ll say something about how the social scientists find the issues complicated and multifaceted, but then, based mostly on his own opinion, he asserts that the explanation can be captured in the few factors that he advocates again and again. In the process he seems to marshal the empirical evidence to support his theories rather than letting the evidence shape the theories — the mark of a rhetorician rather than a scientist.

Pinker acknowledges that the upper class attained that status largely through the exercise of violence. Eventually the elite cooperate with each other, both politically and economically. Does Pinker acknowledge that the elite cooperate in order to consolidate their power and wealth against those who would take it from them, by force if necessary, the way they seized it in the first place? Does he acknowledge that corporate capitalism and strong government are means of securing the elite’s permanent higher status by pulling up the ladders behind them? Not that I’ve seen so far.

The American South

Pinker presents evidence documenting historically high homicide rates in the South and West of America. He contends that Southern culture was heavily influenced by a particularly pugnacious wave of immigrants who couldn’t abandon their longstanding traditions of honor and violence.

Americans, and especially Americans in the South and West, never fully signed on to a social contract that would vest the government with a monopoly on the legitimate use of force. In much of American history, legitimate force was also wielded by posses, vigilantes, lynch mobs, company police, detective agencies, and Pinkertons, and even more often kept as a prerogative of the individual. This power sharing, historians have noted, has always been sacred in the South…

The northern states were settled by Puritan, Quaker, Dutch, and German farmers, but the interior South was largely settled by Scots-Irish, many of them sheepherders, who hailed from the mountainous periphery of the British Isles beyond the reach of the central government… Herders all over the world cultivate a hair trigger for violent retaliation.

Why in explaining Southern violence does Pinker invoke some long-standing cultural differences brought over from the Old Country? What happened to his acknowledgment that those who exercise monopolistic control over the economic and governmental means of “legitimate” violence achieved that status through illegitimate violence? Didn’t the earliest American emigrants from England, the ones who became the American elite, use violence to wrest control of America away from the Indians and to preserve it from the incursions of subsequent waves of immigrants? Pinker contends that the long arm of Eastern law and order hadn’t yet reached the Western frontier, so the pioneers regressed to an earlier stage of violent “anarchy” notoriously characteristic of the Wild West. Plenty of Western pioneers were Scots-Irish, but there were plenty of Germans too.

The Southern colonies were co-founded by the English crown and trading companies owned by English aristocrats. In exchange for their work, the earliest English colonists were granted tracts of land in the colony by the trading company. Subsequent waves of colonists, also mostly English, came as indentured servants. They worked for the landowners and, typically after 7 years, were granted their freedom. Those who paid the transatlantic passage of the indentured laborers were granted tracts of American land by the trading company. In other words, the labor importers received not only free labor but extra land as well. This arrangement continued with the subsequent wave of Scotch-Irish indentured servants. Most of them emigrated from “The Plantation of Ulster,” where they had worked as tenant farmers for English landowners on a vast tract of land confiscated from the Irish by the British in the early 17th century. The African slaves too fell under this agreement: American landowners who paid for the slaves’ transport would own the slaves and would be ceded a tract of land, typically 50 acres per slave. Of course the Africans didn’t get the benefit of a time limit on their servitude.

It’s easy to see how the earliest English settlers in the South also rapidly became the wealthiest, with free land worked by free labor resulting in profits for importing more workers and acquiring more land, etc. — a geometric rate of accumulation. It’s also easy to see how, after putting in their time as free labor, the indentured servants of England and Ulster would have had a hard time securing good land. When after 7 years they got their freedom they were still under the thumb of the landed gentry, with no possibility of rising in status or wealth or power. Three choices presented themselves: either continue working for the landowners; or settle in the hill country which, not being much use for farming or herding cattle, could be had for little or no money.

Or they could head for the Western frontier, where the Indians were and the plantation owners weren’t. So too with Northern frontiersmen. Pioneers would band together in small groups to clear the forests, build houses, plant crops, and kill Indians. They would also fend off European newcomers, pushing them farther into the frontier. Whoever won those violent skirmishes wound up dominating the economy and government on the frontier — they became the new elite, just as the old European elite emerged from similar violent confrontations. Eventually the new Southern and Western elites would form alliances with the Eastern elite, extending the power of capital- and government-empowered control over “legitimate” violence across the continent.

The Sixties

Pinker observes that there was a statistical rise in US violence beginning in the 60s. He contends that this regression to uncivilized behavior resulted from the “if it feels good do it” anti-establishment attitude of the times. He cites as supporting evidence the upsurge of violence in movies and aggressive lyrics in popular song, but what about empirical evidence?

In looking at Pinker’s graph of historical trends the reader observes the homicide rate starting to go up in the mid-60s, peaking from the mid-70s to around 1990, then dropping. That takes America past the hippies, past disco, past punk. As Pinker notes, most murders are committed by young men. Who were the young men during this high-murder era? Not those “decivilized” Baby Boomers of the sixties, but Generation X.

Per Pinker’s graph, the rapid rise in murder rate corresponds almost exactly with the years of the Vietnam war. The big anti-establishment protests weren’t about “if it feels good, do it;” they were about staying alive, and about anger at a government that would expose its young men to death for no good reason, and about questioning the legitimacy of the state’s monopolistic exercise of military violence. The Vietnam War led to the violent deaths of 47,000 young American men. Assuming an average of 150K US soldiers in Vietnam over a period of 8 years, that’s a rate of about 4,000 violent deaths/100K/year. Compare that to the recent peak years of 1978 and 1990 when the rate was 10 homicides/100K/year, and you can see why protesters were particularly exercised about ending the war as well as the draft that sent Americans into peril against their will.

Pinker points out that blacks experience a disproportionately high murder rate. While on the American side the Vietnam War was fought mostly by lower-SES kids, they were mostly white, as were the “feel good” antiwar protesters. Did black pride and resentment against the white-dominated power elite constitute a “decivilizing” impulse comparable to the anti-establishment hippies and rock-and-rollers? The spike in the US homicide rate lags significantly behind the most active phase of civil rights activism. If an upsurge in black violence expressed resentment against the oppressive white culture, then why did black-on-black crime among people who already knew each other account for most of the spike in homicides? Here Pinker reverts to his lawlessness theory: blacks constituted a separate subculture operating outside of the control of legitimate government-sponsored violence, so street gangs fill the power void — sort of like the Old West, or like the wave of Irish, Polish, Italian and other “pugnacious,” less civilized, non-Western European immigrants whose arrival in the US corresponded with an earlier spike in city crime rates. Pinker attributes the decline in homicides in the 90s to more police presence in black neighborhoods and tougher sentencing in criminal cases involving black perpetrators. Again, it’s the top-down imposition of civilizing forces via the exercise of “legitimate” violence that restrains illegitimate and uncivilized violence.

Crime is predominantly a young man’s game. I don’t doubt that black violence is triggered at least in part by frustration and resentment at lack of opportunity and active oppression by a white-dominated governmental and economic system. But in the black ghettos don’t the larger established authority structures exercise control from a distance,  containing the violence within well-established buffer zones, arresting all of the main (young male) combatants who have achieved some local power, repeatedly creating power vacuums to be filled by groups of new kids? Certainly frustration and anger don’t always strike out at the sources of that anger. Powerful emotion isn’t that easily channeled, plus the real targets have badges and bigger weapons and more backup than you do.

Of course it’s not that simple. But it’s not as simple as Pinker makes it either.

Remembering Hillarycare

In 1993, during the first year of Bill Clinton’s first term, Hillary came under fire for attempting to engineer Hillarycare. In many ways it was like Obamacare: a federally mandated program for universalizing private-sector healthcare. It was decidedly more aggressive on the public administration side, however. The idea was roughly this:

Individual mandate: Everyone would be required to enroll in a federally-approved healthcare plan.

Employer mandate: Every employer would be required to provide an approved healthcare plan for all of its full-time employees.

Universal coverage: Those who weren’t full-time employees and who couldn’t afford to pay for a health plan would be subsidized up to 100%, funded via tax revenues.

Integrated care: All approved plans would combine the functions of the insurer, the doctors, and the hospitals. This vertically-integrated care model was characteristic of private-sector health maintenance organizations (HMOs), which since their origins during the Nixon administration had achieved demonstrably more effective care with lower costs than the traditional model of insurers contracting separately with doctors and hospitals. Enrollees in integrated care systems would prepay a monthly fee covering all of their care, rather than paying piecemeal fees for specific services rendered. Under this arrangement much of the risk for unnecessary overutilization of services and escalating cost is transferred from the payer to the integrated care system.

Public option: Everyone would be eligible to participate in the Federal Employees’ Health Plan. This plan was widely recognized as achieving exemplary cost-effectiveness and member satisfaction in providing comprehensive care for a large cohort of enrollees. The FEHP already operated on a national scale according to the proposed model of contracting with private-sector integrated delivery systems, so it would serve as an exemplar, as well as the toughest competitor, for private-sector systems as they ramped up.

Managed competition: Each approved plan would be required to offer its enrollees a minimum package of coverages with minimum out-of-pocket charges. Because most people use healthcare services only sporadically, it’s notoriously difficult for them to evaluate the quality of care they receive. Also, under the HMO-style prepayment scheme, integrated care systems might be tempted to scrimp on necessary care in order to save money. Therefore healthplans would be evaluated based on aggregate statistics according to measured health outcomes, appropriateness of care, and adherence to evidence-based clinical best practices. Underperforming plans would be penalized financially or, for serious continual failure, disapproved.

Generally supported by Democrats and physicians, Hillarycare was widely renounced by Republicans, health insurers, and the pharmaceutical industry. The main counter-arguments, presented repeatedly by the opposition in TV ads, were that the plan’s bureaucracy was unwieldy and that it would result in inhumane rationing of healthcare services. These accusations were patently false, as evidenced by the demonstrable success and popularity of the Federal Employees’ Health Plan. The real concern, of course, was that the combination of the employer mandate, prepayment replacing fee-for-service, an attractive public option, and managed competition would restrict profitability in the private sector.

Eventually the Democrats in Congress began to fold under pressure, and Hillarycare died in committee on Capitol Hill. (Personal note: I was called to testify at a Hillarycare committee hearing in DC, focusing specifically on the “managed competition” component of the proposed legislation.) Vertically integrated care, at the time an up-and-coming model, has largely gone away, replaced by the fragmented redundancies and gaps and multiple profit-taking sectors of an earlier era. When Hillary ran for President she didn’t try to bring her old plan out of mothballs. Instead she, like Obama, adopted the variant of Romney’s Massachusetts plan that is now enshrined as Obamacare.