“Against empathy? How could anyone be against empathy?”
That was probably my first reaction too, because I and the people around me are all focused on being good to other people, and empathy seems to offer a way to do that. It seems to offer us insight, so we know the right things to say and do. But Paul Bloom’s contention is that empathy doesn’t always lead us in the right direction: he reminds the reader that empathy is what makes us focus on one sick child whose name and face we know, even if we don’t actually know the child is even real, over tens or hundreds of other sick children. Empathy can focus us powerfully on feeling how a single other person “must” be feeling — and therein lies the problem. It’s hard, if not impossible, to empathise with everyone in a whole crowd, and our instincts aren’t always accurate in guessing how other people feel. If they were, then we’d never say exactly the wrong thing when we want to comfort someone who is sad — we’d know what to say.
What Bloom isn’t against is compassion: he speaks admiringly of the Buddhist ideal of compassion without attachment, for instance. Compassion linked with reason can indeed guide us to do good, to do the moral thing, to ensure he hurt the least number of people. But empathy — pure “I feel what you feel” emotional attachment leads us astray, and Bloom argues that point well.
To empathise is a human emotion that many of us share, and Bloom isn’t claiming it’s inherently a bad thing. That would be to misread the book entirely. Honestly, despite often thinking that empathy is a virtue and people can do more of it, I find it difficult to disagree with Bloom’s conclusions. Part of that is that he writes really clearly, which makes it easy to knee-jerk believe that he’s right, but I think I’ll still be thinking about (and agreeing with) this in a few days, weeks, months.
Time to look up Effective Altruism again, and do something with the information this time....more
If you’ve ever wondered about the evolution of morality and whether humans are the only moral creatures, this is a good exploration of the idea. FransIf you’ve ever wondered about the evolution of morality and whether humans are the only moral creatures, this is a good exploration of the idea. Frans de Waal posits that we have an innate sense of morality, and like Jonathan Haidt, suggests that this sense dictates what we do – the emotional tail wags the rational dog, rather than the other way round, in Haidt’s terminology.
The main attraction for me is not the ideas, which I’ve come across plenty of times before, but the anecdotes about the behaviour of wild and captive bonobos and chimpanzees. They’re our closest relatives, on the evolutionary tree, and we can learn a lot about ourselves from observing them. Frans de Waal includes a lot of interesting titbits, and I found his work fascinating, though not surprising.
It probably won’t convince anyone who thinks that morality comes only as handed down from God, but if you wonder about this kind of thing, you’ll probably find this interesting.
I should probably additionally note before I write this review that I consider Jo a friend, but I was a fan of her wriReceived to review via Netgalley
I should probably additionally note before I write this review that I consider Jo a friend, but I was a fan of her writing first. Actually, surprisingly, I have pretty mixed feelings about this one. It’s surprising to me, anyway — but everyone seems to connect to different books even just among Jo’s bibliography, because she’s written such a range of things. Only a little while ago I was talking about how strongly I connected with The King’s Peace/The King’s Name, which my friend Bun wasn’t nearly as enthused about.
I do like this trilogy, and I’m curious to see what the final book does with this set-up. I love the whole idea of it, and it makes me want to have Sokratic debates with everyone (in which case my mother would probably dearly wish to be able to turn me into a gadfly). I’d love to know my metal, I’d love to get the education that they have in the Just City. And I love the characters, the way everyone is learning, the way nearly everyone has subtleties and can surprise you.
My main problems with this book were to do with the pacing and one particular character. As the book starts, there’s a major drive to do a particular thing. That’s resolved by 70% of the way through, maybe even a little before, and so the rest of the book had the curious feel of being an epilogue. The emotional drive of the story, the whole tone of it, just changes — and yet then there was another climactic moment in the last 10%, after I was expecting it to end, and this one really was a gamechanger.
As for the character, I felt like I didn’t understand him anymore. Up to that point, I had understood him, and even half-sympathised, but there was a sudden moment when he felt less like the character I ‘knew’ from reading The Just City, and simply made up of the worst parts of that person, magnified. And I didn’t really see where the change came in — the problem being, of course, that none of the narrators saw him for years between The Just City and this book. It just didn’t quite ring true, for me, like there was a step missing.
Nonetheless, I enjoyed reading The Philosopher Kings very much, and will deeply enjoy talking about it and debating about it with my partner and anyone else who wants to.
Originally borrowed a review copy from Robert, then got approved for it on Netgalley, and then finally bought it, because I felt awful. It is not Jo WOriginally borrowed a review copy from Robert, then got approved for it on Netgalley, and then finally bought it, because I felt awful. It is not Jo Walton’s fault as a writer in any way; the book is fascinating, I just couldn’t sit still for it. I still don’t know why. I didn’t connect with it in the same way as I have some of Jo’s other books, but then I haven’t necessarily taken ages to read them because of that. There’s even stuff I love here: tons of classical references, as fun to spot as the books in Among Others; the awe and admiration of art; the role of the female characters and the ways they contribute to the city; loves that are not of the body but of the mind, and an understanding of different kinds of love…
The plot itself extends the thought experiment of Plato’s Republic. He came up with this thought experiment, and now the characters of the book actually try to live it; the book explores the ways they compromise on that, and the new light that sheds on the original ideas. (And Jo’s exploration is itself a thought experiment, in a way… oh, the meta.) The whole thing is, in a way, another Socratic dialogue: every character asks questions of the others, and together they try to make the Just City. Compromising the ideals leads to compromised results, and I think it’s up to the reader to figure out to what extent that is justified, to what extent the experiment is successful, to what extent a more positive result would even be possible.
It’s pretty optimistic about the human race, really. The children raised in that environment think in a way which is much more ‘just’ than if they had been raised outside it, that’s clear. I’d love to think that’s possible, and I don’t know if it is. And is it because they have been raised in an environment lacking in poverty and most injustice (negative influences), or because of the education they receive and the order of their lives (positive influences)?
If you finish this without a ton more questions, I’d be surprised. And Socrates would be very, very displeased (and so, I think, would Jo Walton).
On a character-and-plot level, I love the evolution of Apollo/Pytheas. I love his relationship with Simmea, the way that they work on agape, and the ways they fall short of that with other people around them. I’ve always thought agape a beautiful idea, and the way it’s explored here is interesting — mostly with Simmea and Pytheas, but with many other characters too. The way that they love each other and want to increase each other’s excellence, and how solidly and unshakeably they both believe that is beautiful.
There’s so much else I could say about this book, and so much else I’d like to say and can’t word. Suffice it to summarise with: it’s an interesting book, one which raises a lot of questions, which still has characters you can love and cherish as well. I recommend it.
I'm not sure that this book is entirely successful in answering, or even trying to address, the question posed on the cover -- why is the universe jusI'm not sure that this book is entirely successful in answering, or even trying to address, the question posed on the cover -- why is the universe just right for life? It talks a lot about how the universe may have formed, and what the laws of the universe are, and it seems like it does a lot of describing rather than explaining. Now, of course, that's because we don't really have an answer, but it does seem a little misleading.
Davies looks at a lot of different theories here, some of them more scientific than others -- he includes the philosophical side of things too, including the religious point of view. He's fairly even handed about this, so it's hard to tell exactly where he'd put his money most of the time (except that he's generally sceptical of the religion explanation, because it's a non-explanation: it just shunts the question up a level). Most of the explanations are clear, though string theory remains utterly baffling to me (or at least, the rationale behind it does).
Oddly enough, I'm left feeling that The Goldilocks Enigma is much more positive about the idea that other intelligent life is out there than The Eerie Silence. I haven't looked at publication order or anything, but it was a little strange, reading them one after the other.
Regardless, this was written before the Large Hadron Collider swung into action, so no doubt it's out of date in some ways. Still a good background in the various theories, particularly the more philosophical ones like the anthropic principles that aren't likely to change. (To his credit, I now understand the anthropic principle a lot better than I did after GCSE/A Level Religious Studies. Sorry, Mr B.)...more
If you're looking for something about meditation and mindfulness that's devoid of spiritual interpretations and the like, this is one of the closest aIf you're looking for something about meditation and mindfulness that's devoid of spiritual interpretations and the like, this is one of the closest approaches I've seen that still focused on the meditation aspect and not just generally being "more aware". It has some helpful suggestions for visualisation, including details not just of picturing things but of feeling things, like his suggestions for standing meditation of imagining yourself as a tree, the part where he mentioned approaching the practice with dignity, etc.
Overall, I doubt it's going to convince anyone who is highly sceptical to begin with, or help anyone start a practice ex nihilo. But it's worth reading, and sitting with, and thinking about, if you can put aside scepticism and just try it.
One thing I especially liked was that Kabat-Zinn doesn't have any thou-shalts and thou-shalt-nots about this. There's recommendations, suggestions, but also reminders that any moment of mindfulness in the day, however short, is valuable....more
I've had a good go at reading this without any knee-jerk reactions, but generally I find Harris' views instinctively abhorrent -- despite his championI've had a good go at reading this without any knee-jerk reactions, but generally I find Harris' views instinctively abhorrent -- despite his championing of reason and science, I don't think he avoids knee-jerk reactions more than anyone else. Particularly when it comes to religion.
The basis thesis that there are optimal states of well-being for humans, I accept. That science will be able to improve our understanding of that, I don't doubt. That Sam Harris could be the person that executes this moral calculus? That, I can't countenance. It's partly an instinctive dislike -- I haven't enjoyed any of his lectures and talks that I've watched either -- and partly his intolerance of anything he doesn't understand.
I mean, he claims to be talking about universal states of well-being, and states that there may be multiple 'peaks' on the 'moral landscape' where the greatest possible well-being can be achieved. In almost the same breath, he dismisses any thought system he can't understand, particularly if it involves religion.
Perhaps the fact that I'm a Unitarian Universalist makes this so difficult to swallow. I believe that there are many different paths to follow, whether you're looking for an afterlife, Enlightenment, reincarnation... There are different ways to be good, and it's hard to measure that. For example, we would accept a person who works with abused children in Britain, who kept their good as their first priority, as a good person. We would also accept a person who teaches children who are living in poverty in another country as good. Which is better? Which more worthy?
I'm not sure I'm being very coherent about this. I'm sure there's someone waiting to jump on me telling me that Harris is completely coherent, entirely reasonable, etc; most likely some of them will have some sexist comments to make, without being aware of their own hypocrisy. For me, though, I didn't find Harris' argument that coherent. He seemed to argue himself round and round a tiny point without ever looking up to see the wider world and put his work in context -- every statement seemed to be a reiteration of his core thesis, rather than something which expanded it....more
As with most of the Very Short Introductions, this does its job. I'm a bit puzzled by people claiming Derrida is harder than Barthes -- I actually fouAs with most of the Very Short Introductions, this does its job. I'm a bit puzzled by people claiming Derrida is harder than Barthes -- I actually found it the other way round, and felt like I was clinging on a bit better to the meaning and key terms when it came to Derrida than Barthes. Glendinning writes well and engagingly, which helps. ...more
Most people who know me are probably aware that I am very pro-cyborgs. (I even wrote a four-page comic featuring my terrible art and a woman made intoMost people who know me are probably aware that I am very pro-cyborgs. (I even wrote a four-page comic featuring my terrible art and a woman made into a cyborg for my Comics & Graphic Novels class.) The idea fascinates me and given half a chance I'd probably volunteer myself to get wired up. So this book caught my interest immediately, though how exactly Amazon knew to promote it at me, I'm not sure I want to know.
It was published in 2004, so in terms of the technology, it's a little behind. It talks, for example, about the clunkiness of then-current e-reading technology. I read it on my little Kobo with its e-ink screen -- you know, the little device that I actually bought for £24. But in terms of concerns about technology, we haven't moved much past it. Some of them I was less convinced by (alienation, disembodiment), while others remain a concern, like the "digital divide".
The main thrust of the book, however, is the theory that we're already cyborgs, in a sense. Human beings are tool users; we're not the only ones, but we're the most sophisticated ones we know of. We've had a form of external memory for thousands of years -- writing. Though most of us can't hold numbers in our heads for complicated equations, given a piece of paper, we can work through it and produce the answer. (Given a piece of paper and appropriate time, even I can calculate the heritability of a certain gene in the population, for example, and yet I struggle with remembering how to calculate percentages.) And now, there's the internet, information at our fingertips. When you grow up with these things, you learn to use them as semi-consciously as you do your own hands: I don't consciously calculate where the keys are as I'm typing this any more than I consciously calculate how far to lift my hand to turn a door handle.
This aspect of the book hasn't dated badly. I found it interesting and convincing, and while I don't share all the author's ideas about where the links between biology and technology are going, I do agree that the lines are blurring. Perhaps one day we'll be indistinguishable -- after all, our mitochondria began as separate to the cells that were our ancestors....more
Caspar Henderson's 21st Century Bestiary is not an encyclopaedia, as some people might expect, but something more in the medieval tradition of bestiarCaspar Henderson's 21st Century Bestiary is not an encyclopaedia, as some people might expect, but something more in the medieval tradition of bestiaries, mixing information with philosophical and moral comment. It's interesting, and Henderson's ideas are well expressed, and I imagine a full colour version of the book must be stunning (my own is the paperback, all in black and white, but I seem to recall seeing a colour edition). It's definitely not all that scientific, in places, relying on anecdote and going off on tangents into what an organism might have to teach us.
One of Henderson's major concerns is the environment, and the preservation of Earth's current biodiversity, for which he makes a good case. Ultimately, if your interest is science, this will probably be unsatisfying: it's here to demonstrate some of the scope of biodiversity, not to explain it, or even to go very deeply into any one scientific principle (though it touches on plenty).
I do wish it had been better edited -- the typos and such are extremely distracting. All in all, it isn't quite as good as I'd expected from the rave reviews and my quick glance over it in the shop, but it is interesting....more
Interesting read, though completely non-committal. I already have a good idea of the basic disagreements about bioethical matters: I wanted some senseInteresting read, though completely non-committal. I already have a good idea of the basic disagreements about bioethical matters: I wanted some sense that the author had come to some conclusions and wanted to share her reasoning, and instead I found a lot of fence-sitting. There's plenty of science-fiction writing out there which discusses the same issues equally cogently but rather more entertainingly, and often more conclusively. (Even if that conclusion is an emotional one determined by the author's personal views rather than objective dissection of the problem!)...more
Einstein's Dreams is rather beautifully written, a collection of little vignettes about time. I don't understand physics and so on very well, really, Einstein's Dreams is rather beautifully written, a collection of little vignettes about time. I don't understand physics and so on very well, really, but this is just a world of possibilities, as Einstein might have dreamt when he was coming up with his theories of time.
It's not very substantial, and it won't take long to read, but it's lovely. And I'm sure I started having strange dreams about time when I'd finished....more
I think Ursula Le Guin's collections of essays were the first non-fictional works that I really learned to appreciate. I was very much not a non-fictiI think Ursula Le Guin's collections of essays were the first non-fictional works that I really learned to appreciate. I was very much not a non-fiction person at the time, but Le Guin's writing is always so full of clarity, so well considered, that it draws me in when it's non-fiction as surely as when it's prose.
Obviously some of these essays are somewhat dated now, written and edited in the 70s and 80s, but there's still a lot of interest there. Le Guin's thoughts on the gender issues in The Left Hand of Darkness, for example, years after it was published, years after she originally wrote about it, for example. Or her reflections on her mother's life, or on Jo March as one of the few female writers in fiction to be a writer and have a family at the same time... A personal gem for me was coming across, in the section containing book reviews, a review of C.S. Lewis that almost inevitably also reflected on J.R.R. Tolkien:
J.R.R. Tolkien, Lewis's close friend and colleague, certainly shared many of Lewis's views and was also a devout Christian. But it all comes out very differently in his fiction. Take his handling of evil: his villains are orcs and Black Riders (goblins and zombies: mythic figures) and Sauron, the Dark Lord, who is never seen and has no suggestion of humanity about him. These are not evil men but embodiments of the evil in men, universal symbols of the hateful. The men who do wrong are not complete figures but complements: Saruman is Gandalf's dark-self, Boromir Aragorn's; Wormtongue is, almost literally, the weakness of King Theoden. There remains the wonderfully repulsive and degraded Gollum. But nobody who reads the trilogy hates, or is asked to hate, Gollum. Gollum is Frodo's shadow; and it is the shadow, not the hero, who achieves the quest. Though Tolkien seems to project evil into "the others", they are not truly others but ourselves; he is utterly clear about this. His ethic, like that of dream, is compensatory. The final "answer" remains unknown. But because responsibility has been accepted, charity survives. And with it, triumphantly, the Golden Rule. The fact is, if you like the book, you love Gollum. In Lewis, responsibility appears only in the form of the Christian hero fighting and defeating the enemy: a triumph, not of love, but of hatred. The enemy is not oneself but the Wholly Other, demoniac.
I'm not sure I agree with all of that -- the Southrons are most definitely Othered, and I'm not sure they're meant to be universal symbols of the hateful. Or rather, if they are, and perhaps they are, we need to examine why Tolkien made that decision. But I do think that this is an informative way of looking at the two authors, which reflects a lot on Le Guin herself as well....more
Not sure what to make of this. Obviously, I've come across the concept of wyrd before, since I spent a good chunk of my degree fangirling over Anglo-SNot sure what to make of this. Obviously, I've come across the concept of wyrd before, since I spent a good chunk of my degree fangirling over Anglo-Saxon poetry, but Brian Bates proposes a whole shamanic faith and a way of interacting with the world that, frankly, I didn't find convincing. Obviously I've really only encountered the Anglo-Saxon world through a Christian viewpoint, as only Christians kept records like that, but this just didn't ring true to me. Knowing that it was meant to be neither entirely fiction nor entirely fact, I couldn't get on with it as either one.
Perhaps it's the fact that I don't connect back to Anglo-Saxon ideas very well anyway. The blurbs on the back talk about an "overly Keltically obsessed British mindset", which makes me grit my teeth to begin with. Historically, the British are the 'Celts'... And for me, there isn't an Anglo-Saxon 'side of my psyche'; I'm Welsh and Irish (and Romani, apparently), and if there's any Saxon blood in there, it's quite drowned out.
Hm, apparently this got my hackles up more than expected. I just can't quite see the appeal....more
I am not a literary theorist. I had to be coaxed and poked into admitting a methodology at all, during my MA (I'm a new historicist, we think) and I sI am not a literary theorist. I had to be coaxed and poked into admitting a methodology at all, during my MA (I'm a new historicist, we think) and I stared in blank horror when I was given theory to read -- not least because it so often reveals horrific bias and -isms on the part of the writer, like when I read Derek Brewer's work.
Terry Eagleton is readable, and even made me laugh. The philosophy of literature, which is one of the things he touches on, is very interesting (and the fact that I took the first year of a philosophy degree alongside my first year of literature helps, too), but it mostly just reminded me that I'm 'meant' to read Foucault and Freud and Lacan and goodness knows who else, and while I acknowledge the work they did and the work people do using their theories and so on, it's really not something that appeals to me.
I feel like a bad English Lit student, until I remember that my university must've let me graduate with First Class Honours for a reason, and since I didn't touch literary theory with so much as a barge pole, it must be okay that I don't.
I used this back in my A Levels. It's a very good book -- clear and easy to understand, but thorough too. It has tasks to help people apply the issuesI used this back in my A Levels. It's a very good book -- clear and easy to understand, but thorough too. It has tasks to help people apply the issues involved, and it even has tips on study skills and so on that I remember applying. It's not dry -- I just reread bits of it out of interest and it still kept my attention even though I'm not deeply involved in the subject anymore. Ethics modules always were my favourite Religious Studies modules, though....more
I was hoping for more of the artificial intelligence part of this book, but it turned out to be more "what we can do better than AIs", which wasn't quI was hoping for more of the artificial intelligence part of this book, but it turned out to be more "what we can do better than AIs", which wasn't quite what I was interested in. It's an interesting meditation on what sets us apart, in some places, though it's lacking in organisation -- if I tried to turn in my dissertation with such random chaptering and subtitles, I'd be whacked over the head with the red pen of loving correction by my supervisor. It didn't flow at all well. And I know it's non-fiction, but it felt clunkily info-dumpy. Half the time I was going duh, I know this stuff, that's why I'm reading this book and the other half whoa, slow down.
I think this could be a very interesting book, if it caters to what you're interested in. I was more interested in the artificial intelligences, of which there's very little direct discussion......more
Ursula Le Guin reportedly described this book as "beautiful and disturbing", and I can go with that. I didn't expect to like this; Jill Paton Walsh haUrsula Le Guin reportedly described this book as "beautiful and disturbing", and I can go with that. I didn't expect to like this; Jill Paton Walsh has left me cold on several previous occasions. But slowly, slowly, I was drawn in by the (alternate?) world presented. The proofs of God's existence parts were tiresome to me, since I've done Religious Studies to A Level and the first year of a philosophy degree, but the story formed around the idea of proving the existence of God is beautiful.
There's a sort of distance from the characters -- I'm not sure I liked any of them, that is -- but somehow I became deeply involved in the story anyway, and I think I'd even say I loved the characters despite not liking them. And oh, I was so sure everything would turn out alright, I wanted that ending so badly.
I may well read other historical novels by Jill Paton Walsh: this, I think, is something she's better at than thinly veiled mimicry of Dorothy L. Sayers. ...more
Fascinating book, even if at times too detailed for me to hold in my head! It's both a history of the scientific concepts of time, how it began or if Fascinating book, even if at times too detailed for me to hold in my head! It's both a history of the scientific concepts of time, how it began or if it began or has always been, and one of the cultural concepts of time, which haven't always been the same. It's mostly pretty accessible, despite the tons of detail....more
Every ten runs, I get to buy a book from my local indie bookshop. This is my first. According to the site I use to track, I've now run twenty miles toEvery ten runs, I get to buy a book from my local indie bookshop. This is my first. According to the site I use to track, I've now run twenty miles total in the last month.
When I got in the bookshop, I couldn't actually decide what to get. I dithered over some Arthuriana, some historical fiction, Kazuo Ishiguro, something with dragons... And then I saw the little row of Haruki Murakami's books. They always make me a little curious; I've read one of his books before, read the first chapters of a couple of others, but I've never got into it. But the memory of the existence of this particular book was already hovering in my mind, since my running partner and I had literally stopped running only fifty metres up the road.
I'm not a distance runner, yet, but Haruki Murakami made me want to be. I'm twenty-two years old, and he's got me completely, utterly beaten in terms of fitness. I want to someday say, oh, I only did thirty minutes running today, and have that genuinely be not that much of an achievement (at present, my housemate and I are steadily pushing through Couch to 5k in preparation for a 5k run for charity, which seems a big enough goal to us). I want to start cycling and swimming and see if a triathlon will work out for me. And I guess Haruki Murakami kind of gave me the confidence that I can do it, if I'm only determined enough, if I just want it enough and work hard enough.
What I Talk About When I Talk About Running isn't just about running. It's about writing, and working, and growing older, reaching your limits. It's, like he says in the foreword and afterword, a memoir. I don't know how much you'll get out of it if you're not interested in running and/or writing, but I found it interesting.
Unfortunately, it still hasn't pushed me out of my strange inertia when it comes to reading Murakami's other work......more
