Iain Banks, 1954-2013

Science fiction writer Iain Banks, author of the Culture novels, has passed away. Below is the post from his close friend, writer Ken Macleod.
http://kenmacleod.blogspot.com/2013/06/iain-m-banks-1954-2013.html

The Rescue of Gramsci:

Thoughts on reading Robert Griffiths’ “Was Gramsci a Eurocommunist?”

     In recent years, some scholars have labored to pull Gramsci’s name and reputation out of the Eurocommunist swamp where it was left after the Euros achieved their aim in 1991. He was left there then because he was far too dangerous to let run around outside; somebody might have actually read him. No good at all! Unlike his disciple Poulantzas-who could also do with rescue-Gramsci never belonged there.

     Gramsci’s labored prison studies as to why the first European wave of communism failed were mordant but deep. His categorizations and concepts were created to explain defeat, not to prescribe formulae for victory. Our “science of society”-our “metanarrative,” if you will- is punctuated with unpredicted-unpredictable, really-“conjunctures.” randomness, and accidents. There is a price that comes with reading Gramsci; the development of a serious sense of humility – not just the pandering we usually do to assuage our doubts.

Of Heroes in Mordor:

Neil Armstrong

September 6, 2012

     There is no virtue in being a hero, I have often thought, but there is failure in not doing what one knows needs to be done.

     When Neil Armstrong performed his act of interbraided scientific knowledge and human courage, modest as he was, I was not able to properly recognize or appreciate it, and I deeply regret that now. William Appleman Williams, Paul Goodman and Ray Bradbury understood his accomplishments better than I did that Summer. Feelings in the country, and at Purdue, during Armstrong’s flight were volatile about Viet Nam, Nixon, etc; this was a time when national magazines and newspapers could seriously debate whether we were going to be a nation of “good Germans.” Furthermore, all this was before Jackson State, Kent State, the murder of Fred Hampton, and Mark Clark. Then, “Mordor” was one of the politer terms to refer to the contemporary U.S.

     That fall, after the flight, those of us-many-at Purdue who opposed the war were often told to “go back to Russia.” To this kid from South Bend, familiar as I was with Chicago, Purdue was more alien than Siberia could have ever been. We thought we were already in Kolyma; Purdue certainly knew how to act like a GULag when it wanted, or felt it had to. This was a GULag designed by an absurdist novelist on an acid trip, with a real poison pen that hurt and drew blood. Yet, Armstrong had gone here and prospered; I attended classes in a hall named after the ill-fated Gus Grissom. The time I spent in Boston and Portland ME the next summer felt more comfortable to me than Purdue ever did then, or on my innumerable trips back there since. I have spent virtually all of my adult and late-teen years morally ashamed of my country. For me, in that period, there could be no heroes in Mordor.

     Fast forward 30 years-I’ll make this relevant, I promise. My wife and I were watching “The Postman,” starring Kevin Costner. I had already read the book by David Brin, and somewhere under a high pile in a cluttered closet of my home lies the original magazine version of the title novelette. This novelette is one of the few exceptions-in-full to Ursula K. LeGuin’s maxim that it is morally impermissible to write a post-nuclear holocaust story. I do not remember if Ms. LeGuin presented this as a personal principle or a general ethical prescription, but neither really apply to Brin. Brin writes of the chaos of a state of Hobbesean disorder and warfare, including some nukes, but he firmly attaches the blame for this social collapse to survivalists.

     At the scene in the movie where the flag of the “Restored United States of America” first appears, I started tearing up, surprising myself more than anyone. When my wife asked me why, I knew why, but was confused on how to explain it. Like my fellow Hoosier, and life-long hero, Eugene Debs, I am, and will remain an internationalist. It’s just that it would have been nice to spend most of my life in a country whose leadership was not constantly finding new ways to make me writhe in mortification, if not utter humiliation. I did not, I do not, I never will hate; not everyday hard-working people-I am one-nor especially, the Midwest, whose ways, crimes and glories, I understand SO well, and from which, if removed, I would die. I will ALWAYS be a Midwesterner, forever camped out between Chicago and the Amish.

     And so, returning back to Armstrong, I know little of his private life, virtually nothing of his politics. I DO know though, that whatever he did in the Korean War, he NEVER dropped napalm on little girls running across lunar mares. Of all the rightfully famous people I have been aware of in my life, he was the one who least blew his own horn. There was certainly much more of great value, but for real Midwesterners, this last datum alone will serve enough to sustain lifelong respect.

     Let me bid you goodnight, Commander, as you catch the late local, detouring through that ever-dark district of broken, unfulfilled, maybe unrealizable dreams, on your way to your final frontier. Heinlein, Anderson, Asimov, et.al. kidnapped enough of my teenage dreams, outside of puberty, that I could never have contempt for your visions the way bankers, and realtors can now. I won’t say “Bon Voyage;” neither of us believes in that. I will offer you the closest thing to a blessing that an atheist like me can to a Deist like you. May you, and the closest of your companions in your endeavors, as well as all fighters for progress and human advancement, be known to the coming millennia in the same way my generation knew who Eratosthenes, Archimedes, Pythagoras, Hypatia, Newton, Einstein
 and so many others, were.   

The Man on The Bench

An Homage to Ray Bradbury

There was not much light from the crescent moon, and a cloudy haze hid the stars. This late in June, the temperature held to a pleasant 62 degrees, and a relatively dry Spring kept the mosquitoes scarce. Small one and two story houses climbed the hill, but stopped at the top of the ridge. Since this wasn't a yuppie neighborhood with expensively crafted “antique” streetlamps, sodium arc lights bathed every place not shadowed by the maples and oaks. It was brighter across the river, whose banks turned east at the pumping station and maintenance facility north of the park. That area was flooded with light to prevent theft and vandalism; the contrast seemed to make the park darker.

The pedestrian came down the curving street from the hill and made his way across the bridge towards the park. He slowed his brisk walk as he spied the figure on the sidewalk bench. Coming closer, he saw the elderly man. Being basically a polite man raised with good manners, he made the decision to address him.

“Excuse me sir; I don’t want to bother you but the last bus was by here-oh a good hour ago.”

The man turned to the pedestrian. Long, snow-white hair hung in waves, emphasizing the thick, black framed glasses. He noticed the man was somewhat older than he had initially thought, perhaps in his 90s. What was he doing out here alone?

“I thank you for your kind concern, sir, but I know the busses are done for the night. I always loved to walk at night, but over the last several decades I’ve been somewhat hesitant. Also, I need to rest more than I used to.”

“Well, there’s not too much crime in this neighborhood; the gangs are…”

“Excuse me for interrupting, sir. It’s not the youngsters I’m afraid of; no indeed!”

The pedestrian was starting to feel the first tendrils of confusion; where was this conversation going? He was saved from replying to the strange comment, if involuntarily-he did have manners- by the ringing of his smart phone signaling a twitter. He politely suppressed reaching for the phone, but his initial gesture was seen by the elderly man. Said gentleman quietly chuckled.

“I always used to like to read at night, but nowadays,” he pointed at the phone, “you don’t need to burn books to prevent people from reading.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

The pedestrian’s nervousness compelled him to end this bizarre conversation.

“Could I call you a cab, sir? Is there someone I can get in touch with? Do you have relatives around here? If you’re not too far, I could drive you home myself if you’d like.” He hadn’t really meant the last, and was grateful when the man declined the offer.

“I’ll be alright; I don’t have far to go. You know, my favorite month has always been  October, but there is nothing like a walk on a Summer night among the grass and dandelions.”  He got up, and walked away, leaning on his cane.

“Are you sure sir? Sir? Mr. ah Mr….”

The old man stopped and turned around.

“Oh, you can call me Ray; yes just call me Ray.”

He turned back and continued walking away. It seemed to the pedestrian that a trick of light, probably due to the haze, made the figure appear to dissolve into nothingness. He shrugged, and turned back his own way. What a weird episode! He quickened his pace; if he got home in time, he could catch the beginning of Letterman.

June 22, 2012

Pete Seeger on Teaching to ISTEP in Indiana

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWE6seINeoE&feature=related

What Did You Learn In School Today - Pete Seeger [21/24]

"George, did you hear about this one...are you having fun?"

"Why they call it the 'American Dream' "

A George Carlin Supplement to Political Science 101, 2011 Style

George Carlin's Words To The World

"So many Questions..." - Brecht

One of the advantages that should come to us from Egypt's teaching us how to be human again, (see: “The battle of Tahrir Square means we can all be human again,” http://kenmacleod.blogspot.com/2011/02/br-battle-of-tahrir-square-means-we-can.html) is a greater facility to organize our mental data, and focus our political thinking.

A case in point. Last week (February 6-11) in the States began with a wide, vigorous discussion in the media over the political career of Egyptian vice-president Omar Sulemein. Was he a tyrannical man? Was he a torture-enabler? (the "extraordinary rendition" flights to Egypt) About Wednesday, excepting the left media, the discussion stopped dead. By Friday, Mubarek was out. There was hardly any background discussion; attention seemed to focus only on the military. Sulemein and his deeds had apparently fallen down the memory hole.

Yeah, I went to kollitch. I know about oversimplification. I was taught to avoid "post hoc, ergo propter hoc" errors. More sophisticated Marxist professors cautioned me about “reductionism,” and making presumptions about “unnecessary” connections between events and economic interests. Life is strange, Grasshopper, and we musn’t assume that Obama and Clinton wanted Sulemein to come out on top all along.

So no Stalinism here, nosiree! However, one thing continues to nag me. To rephrase one of my favorite quotes from Ursula K. LeGuin: If we continue running around with (and being governed by. L.G.) arsonists as long as we have, by now shouldn’t we be better able to smell smoke?