Hermenautic Circle blog

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

(This post originally published on Venue).

Fort Irwin is a U.S. army base nearly the size of Rhode Island, located in the Mojave Desert about an hour's drive northeast of Barstow, California. There you will find the National Training Center, or NTC, at which all U.S. troops, from all services, spend a twenty-one day rotation before they deploy overseas.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

Sprawling and often infernally hot in the summer months, the base offers free tours, open to the public, twice a month. Venue—BLDGBLOG's ongoing collaboration with Edible Geography's Nicola Twilley, supported by the Nevada Museum of Art's Center for Art + Environment and Studio-X NYC—made the trip, cameras in hand and notebooks at the ready, to learn more about the simulated battlefields in which imaginary conflicts loop, day after day, without end.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

Coincidentally, as we explored the Painted Rocks located just outside the gate while waiting for the tour to start, an old acquaintance from Los Angeles—architect and geographer Rick Miller—pulled up in his Prius, also early for the same tour.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

We laughed, said hello, and caught up about a class Rick had been teaching at UCLA about the military defense of L.A. from World War II to the present. An artificial battlefield, beyond even the furthest fringes of Los Angeles, Fort Irwin thus seemed like an appropriate place to meet.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

We were soon joined by a small group of other visitors—consisting, for the most part, of family members of soldiers deployed on the base, as well as two architecture students from Montréal—before a large white tour bus rolled up across the gravel.

Renita, a former combat videographer who now handles public affairs at Fort Irwin, took our names, IDs, and signatures for reasons of liability (we would be seeing live explosions and simulated gunfire, and there was always the risk that someone might get hurt).

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

The day began with a glimpse into the economics and culture of how a nation prepares its soldiers for war; an orientation, of sorts, before we headed out to visit one of fifteen artificial cities scattered throughout the base.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

In the plush lecture hall used for "After Action Reviews"—and thus, Renita apologized, air-conditioned to a morgue-like chill in order to keep soldiers awake as their adrenalin levels crash—we received a briefing from the base's commander, Brigadier General Terry Ferrell.

With pride, Ferrell noted that Fort Irwin is the only place where the U.S. military can train using all of the systems it will later use in theater. The base's 1,000 square miles of desert is large enough to allow what Ferrell called "great maneuverability"; its airspace is restricted; and its truly remote location ensures an uncluttered electromagnetic spectrum, meaning that troops can practice both collection and jamming. These latter techniques even include interfering with GPS, providing they warn the Federal Aviation Administration in advance.

Oddly, it's worth noting that Fort Irwin also houses the electromagnetically sensitive Goldstone Deep Space Communications Complex, part of NASA's global Deep Space Network. As science writer Oliver Morton explains in a paper called "Moonshine and Glue: A Thirteen-Unit Guide to the Extreme Edge of Astrophysics" (PDF), "when digitized battalions slug it out with all the tools of modern warfare, radio, radar, and electronic warfare emissions fly as freely around Fort Irwin as bullets in a battle. For people listening to signals from distant spacecraft on pre-arranged frequency bands, this noise is not too much of a problem." However, he adds, for other, far more sensitive experiments, "radio interference from the military next door is its biggest headache."

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

Unusually for the American West, where mineral rights are often transferred separately, the military also owns the ground beneath Fort Irwin, which means that they have carved out an extensive network of tunnels and caves from which to flush pretend insurgents.

This 120-person strong insurgent troop is drawn from the base's own Blackhorse Regiment, a division of the U.S. Army that exists solely to provide opposition. Whatever the war, the 11th Armored is always the pretend enemy. According to Ferrell, their current role as Afghan rebels is widely envied: they receive specialized training (for example, in building IEDs) and are held to "reduced grooming standards," while their mission is simply to "stay alive and wreak havoc."

If they die during a NTC simulation, they have to shave and go back on detail on the base, Ferrell added, so the incentive to evade their American opponents is strong.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

In addition to the in-house enemy regiment, there is an entire 2,200-person logistics corps dedicated to rotating units in and out of Fort Irwin and equipping them for training. Every ordnance the United States military has, with the exception of biological and chemical weapons, is used during NTC simulations, Ferrell told us. What's more, in the interests of realism (and expense be damned), troops train using their own equipment, which means that bringing in, for example, the 10th Mountain Division (on rotation during our visit), also means transporting their tanks and helicopters from their home base at Fort Drum, New York, to California, and back again.

Units are deployed to Fort Irwin for twenty-one days, fourteen of which are spent in what Fort Irwin refers to as "The Box" (as in "sandbox"). This is the vast desert training area that includes fifteen simulated towns and the previously mentioned tunnel and caves, as well as expansive gunnery ranges and tank battle arenas.

Following our briefing, we headed out to the largest mock village in the complex, the Afghan town of Ertebat Shar, originally known, during its Iraqi incarnation, as Medina Wasl. Before we re-boarded the bus, Renita issued a stern warning: "'Afghanistan' is not modernized with plumbing. There are Porta-Johns, but I wanted to let you know the situation before we roll out there."

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

A twenty-minute drive later, through relatively featureless desert, our visit to "Afghanistan" began with a casual walk down the main street, where we were greeted by actors trying to sell us plastic loaves of bread and piles of fake meat. Fort Irwin employs more than 350 civilian role-players, many of whom are of Middle Eastern origin, although Ferrell explained that they are still trying to recruit more Afghans, in order "to provide the texture of the culture."

The atmosphere is strangely good-natured, which was at least partially amplified by a feeling of mild embarrassment, as the rules of engagement, so to speak, are not immediately clear; you, the visitor, are obviously aware of the fact that these people are paid actors, but it feels distinctly odd to slip into character yourself and pretend that you might want to buy some bread.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

In fact, it's impossible not to wonder how peculiar it must be for a refugee, or even a second-generation immigrant, from Iraq or Afghanistan, to pretend to be a baker in a simulated "native" village on a military base in the California desert, only to see tourists in shorts and sunglasses walking through, smiling uncomfortably and taking photos with their phones before strolling away without saying anything.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

Even more peculiarly, as we reached the end of the street, the market—and all the actors in it—vanished behind us, dispersing back into the fake city, as if only called into being by our presence.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

By now, with the opening act over, we were stopped in front of the town's "Lyndon Marcus International Hotel" to take stock of our surroundings. In his earlier briefing, Ferrell had described the simulated villages' close attention to detail—apparently, the footprint for the village came from actual satellite imagery of Baghdad, in order to accurately recreate street widths, and the step sizes inside buildings are Iraqi, rather than U.S., standard.

Dimensions notwithstanding, however, this is a city of cargo containers, their Orientalized facades slapped up and plastered on like make-up. Seen from above, the wooden frames of the illusion become visible and it becomes more and more clear that you are on a film set, an immersive theater of war.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

This kind of test village has a long history in U.S. war planning. As journalist Tom Vanderbilt writes in his book Survival City, "In March 1943, with bombing attacks on cities being intensified by all sides, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers began construction at Dugway [Utah] on a series of 'enemy villages,' detailed reproductions of the typical housing found in the industrial districts of cities in Germany and Japan."

The point of the villages at Dugway, however, was not to train soldiers in urban warfare—with, for instance, simulated street battles or house-to-house clearances —but simply to test the burn capacity of the structures themselves. What sorts of explosives should the U.S. use? How much damage would result? The attention to architectural detail was simply a subset of this larger, more violent inquiry. As Vanderbilt explains, bombs at Dugway "were tested as to their effectiveness against architecture: How well the bombs penetrated the roofs of buildings (without penetrating too far), where they lodged in the building, and the intensity of the resulting fire."

During the Cold War, combat moved away from urban settings, and Fort Irwin's desert sandbox became the stage for massive set-piece tank battles against the "Soviet" Blackhorse Cavalry. But, in 1993, following the embarrassment of the Black Hawk Down incident in Mogadishu, Fort Irwin hosted its first urban warfare, or MOUT (Military Operations on Urbanized Terrain) exercise. This response was part of a growing realization shared amongst the armed forces, national security experts, and military contractors that future wars would again take the city as their battlefield.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

As Russell W. Glenn of the RAND Corporation puts it bluntly in his report Combat in Hell: A Consideration of Constrained Urban Warfare, "Armed forces are ever more likely to fight in cities as the world becomes increasingly urbanized."

Massed, professional, and essentially symmetrical armies no longer confront one another on the broad forests and plains of central Europe, the new tactical thinking goes; instead, undeclared combatants living beside—sometimes even with—families in stacked apartment blocks or tight-knit courtyards send out the occasional missile, bullet, or improvised explosive device from a logistically confusing tangle of streets, and "war" becomes the spatial process of determining how to respond.

At Fort Irwin, mock villages began to pop up in the desert. They started out as "sheds bought from Shed World," Ferrell told us, before being replaced by shipping containers, which, in turn, have been enhanced with stone siding, mosque domes, awnings, and street signs, and, in some cases, even with internal staircases and furniture, too. Indeed, Ertebat Shar/Medina Wasl began its simulated existence in 2007, with just thirteen buildings, but has since expanded to include more than two hundred structures.

The point of these architectural reproductions is no longer, as in the World War II test villages of Dugway, to find better or more efficient methods of architectural destruction; instead, these ersatz buildings and villages are used to equip troops to better navigate the complexity of urban structures—both physical, and, perhaps most importantly, socio-cultural.

In other words, at the most basic level, soldiers will use Fort Irwin's facsimile villages to practice clearing structures and navigating unmapped, roofed alleyways through cities without clear satellite communications links. However, at least in the training activities accessible to public visitors, the architecture is primarily a stage set for the theater of human relations: a backdrop for meeting and befriending locals (again, paid actors), controlling crowds (actors), rescuing casualties (Fort Irwin's roster of eight amputees are its most highly paid actors, we learned, in recompense for being literally dragged around during simulated combat operations), and, ultimately, locating and eliminating the bad guys (the Blackhorse regiment).

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

In the series of set-piece training exercises that take place within the village, the action is coordinated from above by a ring of walkie-talkie connected scenographers, including an extensive internal media presence, who film all of the simulations for later replay in combat analysis. The sense of being on an elaborate, extremely detailed film set is here made explicit. In fact, visitors are openly encouraged to participate in this mediation of the events: we were repeatedly urged to take as many photographs as possible and to share the resulting images on Facebook, Twitter, and more.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

Appropriately equipped with ear plugs and eye protection, we filed upstairs to a veranda overlooking one of the village's main throughways, where we joined the "Observer Coaches" and film crew, taking our positions for the afternoon's scripted exercise.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

Loud explosions, smoke, and fairly grisly combat scenes ensued—and thus, despite their simulated nature, involving Hollywood-style prosthetics and fake blood, please be warned that many of the forthcoming photos could still be quite upsetting for some viewers.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

The afternoon's action began quietly enough, with an American soldier on patrol waving off a man trying to sell him a melon. Suddenly, a truck bomb detonated, smoke filled the air, and an injured woman began to wail, while a soldier slumped against a wall, applying a tourniquet to his own severed arm.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

In the subsequent chaos, it was hard to tell who was doing what, and why: gun trucks began rolling down the streets, dodging a live goat and letting off round after round as insurgents fired RPGs (mounted on invisible fishing line that blended in with the electrical wires above our heads) from upstairs windows; blood-covered casualties were loaded into an ambulance while soldiers went door-to-door with their weapons drawn; and, in the episode's climax, a suicide bomber blew himself up directly beneath us, showering our tour group with ashes.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

Twenty minutes later, it was all over. The smoke died down; the actors reassembled, uninjured, to discuss what just occurred; and the sound of blank rounds being fired off behind the buildings at the end of the exercise echoed through the streets.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

Incredibly, blank rounds assigned to a particular exercise must be used during that exercise and cannot be saved for another day; if you are curious as to where your tax dollars might be going, picture paid actors shooting entire magazines full of blank rounds out of machine guns behind simulated Middle Eastern buildings in the Mojave desert. Every single blank must be accounted for, leading to the peculiar sight of a village's worth of insurgents stooped, gathering used blank casings into their prop kettles, bread baskets, and plastic bags.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

Finally, we descended back down onto the street, dazed, ears ringing, and a little shocked by all the explosions and gunfire. Stepping carefully around pools of fake blood and chunks of plastic viscera, we made our way back to the lobby of the International Hotel for cups of water and a debrief with soldiers involved in planning and implementing the simulation.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

Our hosts there were an interesting mix of earnest young boys who looked like they had successful careers in politics ahead of them, standing beside older men, almost stereotypically hard-faced, who could probably scare an AK-47 into misfiring just by staring at it, and a few female soldiers.

Somewhat subdued at this point, our group sat on sofas that had seen better days and passed around an extraordinary collection of injury cards handed out to fallen soldiers and civilians. These detail the specific rules given for role-playing a suite of symptoms and behavior—a kind of design fiction of military injury.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

A few of us tried on the MILES (Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System) harnesses that soldiers wear to sense hits from fired blanks, and then an enemy soldier demonstrated an exploding door sill.

[Images: Photos courtesy of Venue].

While the film crew and Observer Coaches prepared for their "After Action Review," our guides seemed talkative but unwilling to discuss how well or badly the afternoon's session had gone. We asked, instead, about the future of Fort Irwin's villages, as the U.S. withdraws from Afghanistan. The vision is to expand the range of urban conditions into what Ferrell termed a "Decisive Action Training Environment," in which U.S. military will continue to encounter "the world's worst actors" [sic]—"guerrillas, criminals, and insurgents"—amidst the furniture of city life.

As he escorted us back down the market street to our bus, one soldier off-handedly remarked that he'd heard the village might be redesigned soon as a Spanish-speaking environment—before hastily and somewhat nervously adding that he didn't know for sure, and, anyway, it probably wasn't true.

[Image: Photo courtesy of Venue].

The "town" is visible on Google Maps, if you're curious, and it is easy to reach from Barstow. Tours of "The Box" are run twice a month and fill up quickly; learn more at the Fort Irwin website, including safety tips and age restrictions.

• • •
For more Venue content, exploring human interactions with the built, natural, and virtual environments through 16 months of travel around the continental United States, check out the Venue website in full.

Though it didn’t get quite the play that the Declaration of Independence received, there was a quasi-official British response in the form of a 132pp pamphlet by Jonathan Lind published in 1776. It went through at least five editions in… continue reading »

Note: Possible Assault.

Comercial Avigilon (by GrupoPolicom)

Art assistant job listing (accidentally?) re-enacts Francis Alÿs performance:

“raking the gravel…”

cantcopewontcope:

Job listing for Artist Assistant
“Payment in art or lets talk on email” – sounds awfully like they are going to be paid in bags of sand.

Is this an accidental recreation of Francis Alÿs’ ‘When Faith Moves Mountains’ where 500 Peruvian volunteers, mostly students, moved a sand dune…

“

The internet has turned into a massive surveillance tool. We’re constantly monitored on the internet by hundreds of companies — both familiar and unfamiliar. Everything we do there is recorded, collected, and collated – sometimes by corporations wanting to sell us stuff and sometimes by governments wanting to keep an eye on us.

Ephemeral conversation is over. Wholesale surveillance is the norm. Maintaining privacy from these powerful entities is basically impossible, and any illusion of privacy we maintain is based either on ignorance or on our unwillingness to accept what’s really going on.

It’s about to get worse, though. Companies such as Google may know more about your personal interests than your spouse, but so far it’s been limited by the fact that these companies only see computer data. And even though your computer habits are increasingly being linked to your offline behaviour, it’s still only behaviour that involves computers.

”

- Will giving the internet eyes and ears mean the end of privacy? | Technology | guardian.co.uk

John Jacob Factor (1892 - 1984) - Find A Grave Memorial:

Is this your stepfather?

Watts' Mafundi Institute Stars in Its Own Revival - Los Angeles Times:

Watt’s Happing Coffee House site of the Mafundi Insitute

see i’m doing my research. I do listen to everything you tell me, lovey. 

(via age adds character « Meme Maker – Make a Meme Online)

duck, (n)., duck, (v).

minusmanhattan:

Florentijn Hofman’s giant rubber duck in Hong Kong’s Victoria Harbor has completely deflated. 

This is amazing. (Via Josh; and more.)

Although the Earth itself will be coming to its fiery and magmatic end in 7 billion years' time, its nighttime skies will be undergoing an extraordinary slow-motion light-show: the merging of the Milky Way and Andromeda galaxies.



An animation released last summer by NASA, called "What the Night Sky Will Look Like Over the Next 7 Billion Years" and embedded above, depicts the glowing filaments of these two galaxies, like plate tectonics in space, crashing together, gravitationally distorting one another, and then merging in a featureless cloud of light.

[Image: Via HubbleSite].

In his weird, brilliant, and unimaginably dense book The Invention of the Zero poet Richard Kenney exclaims, "Imagine, all new constellations! ...a seethe / and flume of unfamiliar skies."

But such skies are not merely the domain of speculative poetry, as they are, in fact, on their way, roiling toward us in billion-year-long collisions that we, as a species, will never see the true light of.

[Image: Via HubbleSite].

I’m reminded of an essay by geologist Steven Dutch, at the University of Wisconsin, Green Bay, called “The Earth Has A Future,” originally published in the May 2006 issue of Geosphere.

Advocating what he calls a “futurist approach” to the planetary sciences, Dutch points out that “a million years is relatively short in geologic terms. For example, even the fastest plates, moving on the order of 15 cm/yr, will have moved only 150 km in a million years, enough to have very significant local geological effects but scarcely enough to be casually noticeable on a globe.”

However, Dutch’s “futurist approach” to landscape studies becomes particularly fascinating when he turns his attention upward, to the sky, looking out beyond the Earth to what stars and their constellations might look like in roughly one million years. Dutch predicts, for instance, that “distant star patterns like Orion should be recognizable” for several hundred thousand years, “but many constellations will have changed noticeably.”

In other words, the sky is always—even now—adrift, already fulfilling Kenney's "seethe and flume of unfamiliar skies."

[Image: Via HubbleSite].

But that's just a million years. Multiply that by seven-and-a-half thousand, and the heavenly distortions torquing through the skies above us become magical even to contemplate.

(Related: Pruned's Proposal for an Ideas Competition Seeking Design Proposals for a Pavilion for Viewing the Coming Intergalactic Collision between Andromeda and the Milky Way).

Core Seminar - Los Angeles, September 15, 2013 ______________________________________________:

hey, here’s a non profit that helps nurture women’s voices to appear on OpEd pages. A workshop in LA is scheduled for Sept 15, 2013. It’s $325 but they probably have scholarships available. 

Just in: A three volume work on art and design in Pisa (Pisa Illustrata Nelle Arti del Disegno, 2nd expanded ed., 1812) contains, along with various depictions of Pisa, two re-impressions of much earlier engravings. The two plates, both from… continue reading »

[Image: The throwable eyeball from Bounce Imaging].

A throwable building-mapping sphere from Bounce Imaging was recently chosen by PopSci for a 2013 Invention Award. The "throwable, expendable, baseball-size probe," in PopSci's words, "has a shock-absorbing shell embedded with six cameras, plus clusters of near-infrared LEDs to light up dark rooms (for the cameras)."

To deploy the Explorer, an emergency worker links it to a smartphone or tablet and chucks the ball into danger. It immediately begins taking photos and testing for methane, carbon monoxide, and dangerously high temperatures. A microprocessor inside the ball then stiches the photos together and converts the raw data for transmission over Wi-Fi. Just seconds after the toss, a wrap-around panorama—complete with environmental warnings—appears on the synced device.

The usefulness of this as a tool for cave mapping, or even as a new piece of kit for semi-autonomous, non-destructive archaeological investigations, seems both obvious and worth tracking in the future.

Unsurprisingly, however, the MIT Technology Review points out that the "ball-sized device could be particularly useful for the military," as it is lightweight, extremely portable, and, because of its low cost, it "could be abandoned, if necessary." Teams of soldiers, arriving at a building or city of which no accurate maps or floorplans exist, could thus toss these little baseball-like devices into the darkness ahead and achieve tactical awareness within seconds–unless, of course, WiFi-hijacking counter-measures send back deliberately incorrect plans and layouts to the unsuspecting soldiers.

Warfare, here, would become a weird sort of architectural sorcery, casting spatial spells on one another, broadcasting ghosts and mirages to the screens of an approaching enemy.

Bounce Imaging's research is interesting to put into the context of another building-mapping project currently underway at MIT: Maurice Fallon's "automatic building mapping" project—



—which functions by way of a wearable LiDAR pack, sort of like a forward-scanning Iron Man chest piece, that allows for real-time mapping of a structure's internal layout.

As you can see in the above video, though, the design aesthetic of the scanning pack is, at least right now, workaday and extremely pragmatic; I would thus love to see what students from, for example, the Design Interactions department at London's Royal College of Art could do with it, putting together a shell or housing unit for the scanner itself. Take a look at the recently all-over-the-internet project called Eidos, by which RCA students promise to "sharpen your senses" through a set of beautifully-made wearable devices.

[Image: Part of the Eidos system by RCA students Tim Bouckley, Millie Clive-Smith, Mi Eun Kim, and Yuta Sugawara].

But I'll leave this for now, as a forthcoming interview soon to be published over at Venue, with Georgia Tech roboticist Henrik Christensen, picks up many of these threads with great interest.

[Image: The throwable eyeball from Bounce Imaging].

A throwable building-mapping sphere from Bounce Imaging was recently chosen by PopSci for a 2013 Invention Award. The "throwable, expendable, baseball-size probe," in PopSci's words, "has a shock-absorbing shell embedded with six cameras, plus clusters of near-infrared LEDs to light up dark rooms (for the cameras)."

To deploy the Explorer, an emergency worker links it to a smartphone or tablet and chucks the ball into danger. It immediately begins taking photos and testing for methane, carbon monoxide, and dangerously high temperatures. A microprocessor inside the ball then stiches the photos together and converts the raw data for transmission over Wi-Fi. Just seconds after the toss, a wrap-around panorama—complete with environmental warnings—appears on the synced device.

The usefulness of this as a tool for cave mapping, or even as a new piece of kit for semi-autonomous, non-destructive archaeological investigations, seems both obvious and worth tracking in the future.

Unsurprisingly, however, the MIT Technology Review points out that the "ball-sized device could be particularly useful for the military," as it is lightweight, extremely portable, and, because of its low cost, it "could be abandoned, if necessary." Teams of soldiers, arriving at a building or city of which no accurate maps or floorplans exist, could thus toss these little baseball-like devices into the darkness ahead and achieve tactical awareness within seconds–unless, of course, WiFi-hijacking counter-measures send back deliberately incorrect plans and layouts to the unsuspecting soldiers.

Warfare, here, would become a weird sort of architectural sorcery, casting spatial spells on one another, broadcasting ghosts and mirages to the screens of an approaching enemy.

Bounce Imaging's research is interesting to put into the context of another building-mapping project currently underway at MIT: Maurice Fallon's "automatic building mapping" project—



—which functions by way of a wearable LiDAR pack, sort of like a forward-scanning Iron Man chest piece, that allows for real-time mapping of a structure's internal layout.

As you can see in the above video, though, the design aesthetic of the scanning pack is, at least right now, workaday and extremely pragmatic; I would thus love to see what students from, for example, the Design Interactions department at London's Royal College of Art could do with it, putting together a shell or housing unit for the scanner itself. Take a look at the recently all-over-the-internet project called Eidos, by which RCA students promise to "sharpen your senses" through a set of beautifully-made wearable devices.

[Image: Part of the Eidos system by RCA students Tim Bouckley, Millie Clive-Smith, Mi Eun Kim, and Yuta Sugawara].

But I'll leave this for now, as a forthcoming interview soon to be published over at Venue, with Georgia Tech roboticist Henrik Christensen, picks up many of these threads with great interest.

[Image: The throwable eyeball from Bounce Imaging].

A throwable building-mapping sphere from Bounce Imaging was recently chosen by PopSci for a 2013 Invention Award. The "throwable, expendable, baseball-size probe," in PopSci's words, "has a shock-absorbing shell embedded with six cameras, plus clusters of near-infrared LEDs to light up dark rooms (for the cameras)."

To deploy the Explorer, an emergency worker links it to a smartphone or tablet and chucks the ball into danger. It immediately begins taking photos and testing for methane, carbon monoxide, and dangerously high temperatures. A microprocessor inside the ball then stiches the photos together and converts the raw data for transmission over Wi-Fi. Just seconds after the toss, a wrap-around panorama—complete with environmental warnings—appears on the synced device.

The usefulness of this as a tool for cave mapping, or even as a new piece of kit for semi-autonomous, non-destructive archaeological investigations, seems both obvious and worth tracking in the future.

Unsurprisingly, however, the MIT Technology Review points out that the "ball-sized device could be particularly useful for the military," as it is lightweight, extremely portable, and, because of its low cost, it "could be abandoned, if necessary." Teams of soldiers, arriving at a building or city of which no accurate maps or floorplans exist, could thus toss these little baseball-like devices into the darkness ahead and achieve tactical awareness within seconds–unless, of course, WiFi-hijacking counter-measures send back deliberately incorrect plans and layouts to the unsuspecting soldiers.

Warfare, here, would become a weird sort of architectural sorcery, casting spatial spells on one another, broadcasting ghosts and mirages to the screens of an approaching enemy.

Bounce Imaging's research is interesting to put into the context of another building-mapping project currently underway at MIT: Maurice Fallon's "automatic building mapping" project—



—which functions by way of a wearable LiDAR pack, sort of like a forward-scanning Iron Man chest piece, that allows for real-time mapping of a structure's internal layout.

As you can see in the above video, though, the design aesthetic of the scanning pack is, at least right now, workaday and extremely pragmatic; I would thus love to see what students from, for example, the Design Interactions department at London's Royal College of Art could do with it, putting together a shell or housing unit for the scanner itself. Take a look at the recently all-over-the-internet project called Eidos, by which RCA students promise to "sharpen your senses" through a set of beautifully-made wearable devices.

[Image: Part of the Eidos system by RCA students Tim Bouckley, Millie Clive-Smith, Mi Eun Kim, and Yuta Sugawara].

But I'll leave this for now, as a forthcoming interview soon to be published over at Venue, with Georgia Tech roboticist Henrik Christensen, picks up many of these threads with great interest.

So, in celebration of the end of the school year, last night NM & I hosted some people at our house to watch Hackers and Antitrust. The former is an old favorite of mine; I had never seen the latter, but Noah insisted that it was the best-worst hacking movie ever, so there we were.

After Antitrust I had to go and drink a shot of tequila to steel my nerves. It was that bad.

The thing that was so terrible about it was that the script had a fundamental misunderstanding not of how open source software works, but of how business relationships work. See, the characters do use the term "open source" as a kind of a shibboleth, but at least there's some stab at describing what that might mean (although I think the term they were really searching for is "free/libre"). But that's not as weird as the way that the Bill Gates-ish character is a terrible, terrible manager, or the way that the premise of the plot is completely unbelievable.

Pro tip: When you are working on an enormous project like Word, Excel or a satellite cell phone network that can handle video, you cannot save the project and hit your date by bringing in a kid just out of college, no matter how smart he is, two months before the deadline. You also cannot save the project by spying on other programmers and stealing their code, because code is not Unobtainium, and it is context-specific, not usually something you can just yoink and paste into your own project. 

Also, everybody in the movie looked like they were acting through a thick veil of "I really need to make my boat payment. Please, God, let this movie be over so I get paid and can make my boat payment." Since everybody involved has done other projects that aren't stinkers, I don't think there's any other explanation for it.


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HiLobrow is pleased to present the thirteenth installment of our serialization of Homer Eon Flint’s The Devolutionist. New installments will appear each Thursday for eighteen weeks.

“The Devolutionist” (Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 1921) is the third occult-science-fiction Dr. Kinney story; the others are “The Lord of Death” (June 1919), “The Queen of Life” (August 1919), and “The Emancipatrix” (September 1921). Having learned how to visit other worlds telepathically, without leaving Earth — by means of Venusian technology — Dr. Kinney and his companions enter the minds and share the sensations of the inhabitants of a human-like civilization on other planets. In this story, they visit a double planet: Hafen is the abode of capitalists, Holl of workers. A nearby planet of “cooperative democrats” is in trouble, so Kinney & co. step in.

Cobbler and one-reeler writer Homer Eon Flint (1888–1924) published a number of pulp science fiction stories — including “The Planeteer” (1918; one of the earliest examples of cosmic sci-fi) and The Blind Spot (1921, with Austin Hall) — during the genre’s Radium Age. Everett Bleiler’s Science Fiction: The Early Years calls Flint “in many ways the outstanding writer of s-f in the Munsey pulp magazines.” Flint died in a crash near Oakland, Calif., after supposedly stealing a taxi at gunpoint in order to use it in a bank hold-up.

SUBSCRIBE to HiLobrow’s serialized fiction via RSS.

ALL EXCERPTS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 |16 | 17 | 18

***

XIII
THE REBEL

Meanwhile Billie was still “haunting” Mona, and shortly was able to tell the other three that Fort had called, taking the surgeon out in a machine large enough to hold them both. They proceeded to a near-by park, where a game of aerial punt-ball was already in progress. [Footnote: The game is described more or less completely in various sporting publications.]

Billie took great interest in the darting play of the little flylike machines, the action of the mechanical catapults, and the ease with which the twelve-inch ball was usually caught in the baskets on the machines’ prows. She reported the score from time to time in a manner which would have made a telegrapher jealous.

Returning from the game, Mona and Fort became pretty confidential, the natural result of a common enthusiasm; for their side won. But Fort was content for a while to merely watch Mona, who was driving.

Finally the conversation made an opening for him to say, “I asked your mother, Mona, what she thought of me as a prospective son-in-law.”

The girl was in no way rattled. “I suppose she told you that it wouldn’t make any difference what she might say; I’d do as I pleased anyhow. Didn’t she?”

Fort nodded, slightly taken back. Then his boldness returned. “Well, I had to bring up the subject somehow. And now that I’ve done it — do you love me well enough to marry me, Mona?”

She pretended to be very busy with the driving; so that Billie never knew whether Fort looked anxious or not. Presently Mona said:

“I think —I rather think I like you too well to marry you. What I mean is, I’m afraid it would spoil you, my dear boy. You’re too well satisfied with yourself. I don’t want to marry a man who is content to fly around half the time and admire me the other half; although,” she added, “I like to be admired as well as any one.”

Fort looked as though he would, with an ounce more provocation, take her in his arms and say something to get quick results. But he didn’t. “I see,” pretty soberly, for him. “You want me to get in and do something important. Like Powart?” suddenly.

But Mona would not answer him directly. “It’s only fair to say that I’ve given him an ultimatum, too.” She hinted at what she had told the chairman. “I said nothing about — you.”

Fort took a deep breath. Mona gave him a glance or two, and Billie could see a startling change come over him. It was amazing; Fort, for the first time in his life had made a serious resolve!

“This makes everything very different!” he declared; and even his voice was altered. There was a determined, purposeful ring about it which was altogether unlike his usual reckless tones.

“Thanks for not telling Mr. Powart,” Fort went on in the same quiet way. “Clearly, I should tell him myself. And I shall. After that it is up to me!”

Next instant he had thrown off his seriousness, and for the remainder of the flight was his former jovial self. He seemed a trifle ashamed, however, of his old lightheartedness; so much so that Mona warned him not to tamper too much with his disposition. “I like it too well, boy.”

He went straight home after a hurried leave-taking, and Mona did not see him again until after the declaration of war. The next the four heard of him was through Van Emmon; Fort called upon the self-made commander-in-chief as quickly as he could.

“I have the honor to inform you,” said Fort, coming straight to the point, “that Miss Mona has seen fit to encourage my suit. In short, sir,” with the strange new note of resolution in his voice, “I am your rival for her hand! I thought it only right that you should know.”

Powart took this as he took everything, standing. And Van Emmon could see no sign that the announcement had disturbed his poise.

“You are considerate,” he stated with the faintest trace of sarcasm. “Let me call your attention to the fact that, because of the position which recent events have forced upon me, it is quite within my power to dispose of your opposition”— significantly.

“Quite so! I shall appreciate your consideration also.” Then the athlete permitted himself a slight smile. “On second thoughts, however, you can’t afford to be other than considerate. If anything happens to me now, Miss Mona will naturally think of you; for she knows I have come here!”

A single exclamation escaped Powart, and from the light in Fort’s eyes, Van Emmon knew that the chief was sorely provoked. However, he spoke with his usual coolness and certainty.

“Under the circumstances, you will be exempt, Mr. Fort, from the conscription which is now under way. I shall do nothing that might hinder your activities in any way? I take it”— evenly —“that you hope to accomplish something — big?”

Fort bowed. “It is my intention to set a mark even further than your own, sir!”

For the first time Powart laughed. It was a really hearty laugh, as though Fort’s preposterous boast was so utterly ridiculous that sarcasm was out of place.

“Mr. Fort”— when his mirth had subsided —“I only wish your judgment was as sound as your optimism! Tell me — do you intend to make yourself ruler of a bigger world than this?”

Fort dropped his seriousness for an instant. “To tell the truth, Powart, I haven’t any plan at all — yet. Thanks for the exemption. In return, I assure you that whatever I do will be as truly in the interests of the people as what you have done.”

Powart eyed him keenly. For a moment Van Emmon thought he would try to learn if Fort had any suspicions. But he said nothing further than a curt, “The audience is ended.”

A few minutes later Billie, through Mona, knew that Fort was reporting progress. He did it by telephone.

“Thought you’d like to know,” he finished. “Hope I didn’t rouse you out of bed.”

It was night in Mona’s part of the world, and Billie had come upon the girl just as she was preparing for bed.

“Thank you,” she said, through a tremendous yawn. “I was just about to retire. Good luck”— another yawn —“and good —”

Her voice changed. “Mr. Fort!” sharply. “Powart’s declaration of war on Alma is a frame-up! Never mind how I happen to know; it is true; they are not planning to invade us at all! He trumped up this affair in order to make himself dictator!”

“What!” The athlete was astounded. “Are you sure of this, Mona?”

The girl’s manner had changed again. “I beg your pardon?” she inquired, vastly confused. “Did I say something that — why, I am not aware, Mr. Fort, that I had said anything more than ‘good night’!”

“You AREN’T!” His voice was strained and excited. “Mona — you just now said something of the most extraordinary — surely — incredulously — you recall saying something, don’t you?”

She was still bewildered. “I do not!” Then gathering her poise again, “What did I say?”

“You said —” He stopped and waited a long while before going on.

Then he stated with a soberness that was almost stern:

“Mona, you told me something which could have come only through a supernatural agency. I am sure of it, from your manner. You were temporarily possessed.” He paused again.

She sensed his earnestness, and spoke just as seriously. “It is not impossible. I have heard of such things before. I was sleepy, and — the point is, what did I say?” she demanded.

“I do not intend to tell — you. What I learned gives me a great advantage over Powart; that’s all I can say. More would be dishonorable. Will you take my word for that, Mona?”

“Certainly,” with swift decision, and a grace that Billie envied. Whereupon she went to bed, but not to sleep until after many an hour of wide-eyed wondering.

Fort next showed himself to Smith, through Reblong. He had secured a pass to the engine-room of the Cobulus; and shortly his breezy manner completely broke down the engineer’s usual reserve.

“Always glad to show the machinery,” said Reblong, denying that the visitor was making any trouble. Fort’s technical knowledge had delighted him. “Come again any time you like.”

Which Fort did, the very next day. And this time he brought a package of sweetmeats, during the eating of which the two men became pretty friendly.

“You’re different from most of the folks of your — station,” Reblong finally made bold to remark. “Any harm in my saying so?”

“On the contrary,” laughed the athlete. “I rather pride myself on my democracy.

“The fact is, I want you to tell me a few things about your fellow-workers. I understand you’re one of the officers of your guild?”

“Secretary,” replied Reblong, a little dubiously. Was Fort a secret investigator?

“Then you can tell me. Is there any dissatisfaction? Are the men entirely content with their treatment?”

Reblong hesitated about replying, and Fort assured him, “This is a purely personal matter with me, old man. I am really anxious to know whether the working world is as well satisfied, as happy as I am.”

And thus Fort discovered, just as another man had already discovered, that the average Capellan workman was entirely satisfied with what he knew to be unjust treatment. Even when Fort told Reblong what he had learned about Powart’s trickery — leaving out all details about Mona, of course — the engineer would not listen to any hint of revolution.

“I don’t like to question your word, Mr. Fort”—Reblong was very uncomfortable —“but I have such confidence in the commission that — well, you understand.”

And Fort said, just as the other fellow had said after talking with Reblong —Reblong, the representative Capellan workman; Reblong, who voiced the opinions of his billions of fellow-workmen when he refused to consider a rebellion —Fort said:

“Well, I’ll be utterly damned!”

***

Stay tuned!

RADIUM AGE SCIENCE FICTION: “Radium Age” is HiLobrow’s name for the 1904–33 era, which saw the discovery of radioactivity, the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. This era also saw the publication of genre-shattering writing by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Sax Rohmer, E.E. “Doc” Smith, Jack London, Arthur Conan Doyle, Aldous Huxley, Olaf Stapledon, Karel Čapek, H.P. Lovecraft, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Yevgeny Zamyatin, Philip Gordon Wylie, and other pioneers of post-Verne/Wells, pre-Golden Age “science fiction.”

HILOBOOKS: The mission of HiLoBooks is to serialize novels (both original and reissued) on HiLobrow, and to reissue Radium Age science fiction in beautiful new print editions. The following titles can be read in serial form via HiLobrow.com and/or purchased in gorgeous paperback form online or via your local independent bookstore: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague, Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”), Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt, H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook, Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins, William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land, J.D. Beresford’s Goslings, E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man, Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage, and Muriel Jaeger’s The Man with Six Senses. For more information, visit the HiLoBooks homepage.

ORIGINAL FICTION from HILOBROW: James Parker’s swearing-animal fable The Ballad of Cocky The Fox, later published in limited-edition paperback by HiLoBooks; plus: a newsletter, The Sniffer, by Patrick Cates, and further stories: “The Cockarillion”) | Karinne Keithley Syers’s hollow-earth adventure Linda, later published in limited-edition paperback; plus: ukulele music, and a “Floating Appendix”) | Matthew Battles’s stories “Gita Nova“, “Makes the Man,” “Imago,” “Camera Lucida,” “A Simple Message”, “Children of the Volcano”, “The Gnomon”, “Billable Memories”, “For Provisional Description of Superficial Features”, “The Dogs in the Trees”, “The Sovereignties of Invention”, and “Survivor: The Island of Dr. Moreau”; several of these later appeared in the collection The Sovereignties of Invention, published by Red Lemonade | Robert Waldron’s high-school campus roman à clef The School on the Fens | Peggy Nelson’s “Mood Indigo“, “Top Kill Fail“, and “Mercerism” | Annalee Newitz’s “The Great Oxygen Race” | Joshua Glenn’s “The Lawless One”, and the mashup story “Zarathustra vs. Swamp Thing” | Adam McGovern and Paolo Leandri’s Idoru Jones comics | John Holbo’s “Sugarplum Squeampunk” | “Another Corporate Death” (1) and “Another Corporate Death” (2) by Mike Fleisch | Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer and Frank Fiorentino’s graphic novel “The Song of Otto” (excerpt) | “Manoj” and “Josh” by Vijay Balakrishnan | “Verge” by Chris Rossi, and his audio novel Low Priority Hero | EPIC WINS: THE ILIAD (1.408-415) by Flourish Klink | EPIC WINS: THE KALEVALA (3.1-278) by James Parker | EPIC WINS: THE ARGONAUTICA (2.815-834) by Joshua Glenn | EPIC WINS: THE ILIAD by Stephen Burt | EPIC WINS: THE MYTH OF THE ELK by Matthew Battles | EPIC WINS: GOTHAMIAD by Chad Parmenter | TROUBLED SUPERHUMAN CONTEST: Charles Pappas, “The Law” | CATASTROPHE CONTEST: Timothy Raymond, “Hem and the Flood” | TELEPATHY CONTEST: Rachel Ellis Adams, “Fatima, Can You Hear Me?” | OIL SPILL CONTEST: A.E. Smith, “Sound Thinking | LITTLE NEMO CAPTION CONTEST: Joe Lyons, “Necronomicon” | SPOOKY-KOOKY CONTEST: Tucker Cummings, “Well Marbled” | INVENT-A-HERO CONTEST: TG Gibbon, “The Firefly”

I know people are probably pretty up on the general level of change, upheaval and consternation that are happening surrounding NYPLs big changes, most notably the changes at the Central Library but also the closure and sale of the Mid-Manhattan branch. You may not know about the closure and sale of some of the Brooklyn Public Library’s branches in which buildings are being sold and new spaces are being leased/rented to fit the library collections, programs and staff into. I know we’ve been fighting against some of the major downsides involved in leasing versus owning content, I think it’s important to think about the major downsides involved in renting rather than owning real estate. Here is some further reading about the Brooklyn plans.

• For Brooklyn PL, Planned Sale of Branches Promises Opportunity, Provokes Concern
• Saving Schools and Libraries by Giving Up the Land They Sit On
• Brooklyn Public Library plans to sell two dilapidated branches and move them into smaller locations
• BPL’s explanation of the plan
• Brooklyn Public Library to sell off Boerum Hill’s Carnegie branch
• Is the Public Getting Swindled by the City’s Short-Sighted School and Library Sell-Offs?
• Girl Scout troop fights to save Pacific Branch library

Want to get involved?

• Tweet or share this video. Girls speak out to save the historic Brooklyn library they love.
• Keep up with what Urban Libraries Unite are up to.
• Follow the Citizens Defending Libraries blog.
• The Queens Library is facing similar issues and has a petition that you can sign right on their website.
• Brooklyn Public Library has a Speak Up For Your Library page where you can share your voice.
• The People’s Budget NYC is a place you can vote on community suggestions for budgeting, extended library hours is at the top.
• The Pacific Branch has its own Save The Pacific Library page.
• Facebook options: Urban Libraries Unite, Save NYC Libraries

HiLobrow is pleased to present the ninth installment of our serialization of E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man. New installments will appear each Wednesday for 20 weeks.

Several thousand years from now, advanced humanoids known as the Makers will implant clockwork devices into our heads. At the cost of a certain amount of agency, these devices will permit us to move unhindered through time and space, and to live complacent, well-regulated lives. However, when one of these devices goes awry, a “clockwork man” appears accidentally in the 1920s, at a cricket match in a small English village. Comical yet mind-blowing hijinks ensue.

Considered the first cyborg novel, The Clockwork Man was first published in 1923 — the same year as Karel Capek’s pioneering android play, R.U.R.

“This is still one of the most eloquent pleas for the rejection of the ‘rational’ future and the conservation of the humanity of man. Of the many works of scientific romance that have fallen into utter obscurity, this is perhaps the one which most deserves rescue.” — Brian Stableford, Scientific Romance in Britain, 1890-1950. “Perhaps the outstanding scientific romance of the 1920s.” — Anatomy of Wonder (1995)

In September 2013, HiLoBooks will publish a gorgeous paperback edition of The Clockwork Man, with a new Introduction by Annalee Newitz, editor-in-chief of the science fiction and science blog io9. Newitz is also author of Scatter, Adapt, and Remember: How Humans Will Survive a Mass Extinction (2013) and Pretend We’re Dead: Capitalist Monsters in American Pop Culture (2006).

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ALL EXCERPTS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

***

CHAPTER FIVE
The Clockwork Man Investigates Matters
I

Whatever inconveniences the Clockwork man suffered as a result of having lapsed into a world of strange laws and manifestations, he enjoyed at least one advantage. His power of travelling over the earth at an enormous speed rendered the question of pursuit almost farcical. While Allingham’s car sped over the neighbouring hills, the object of the chase returned by a circuitous route to Great Wymering, slowed down, and began to walk up and down the High Street. It was now quite dark, and very few people seemed to have noticed that odd figure ambling along, stopping now and again to examine some object that aroused his interest or got in his way. There is no doubt that during these lesser perambulations he contrived somehow to get the silencer under better control, so that his progress was now muted. It is possible also that his faculties began to adjust themselves a little to his strange surroundings, and that he now definitely tried to grasp his environment. But he still suffered relapses. And the fact that he again wore a hat and wig, although not his own, requires a word of explanation.

It was this circumstance that accounted for the Vicar’s late arrival at the entertainment given in aid of the church funds that night. He had lingered over his sermon until the last moment, and then hurried off with only a slight pause in which to glance at himself in the hall mirror. He walked swiftly along the dark streets in the direction of the Templars’ Hall, which was situated at the lower end of the town. Perhaps it was because of his own desperate hurry that he scarcely noticed that other figure approaching him, and in a straight line. He swerved slightly in order to allow the figure to pass, and continued on his way.

And then he stopped abruptly, aware of a cool sensation on the top of his head. His hat and wig had gone! Aghast, he retraced his steps, but there was no sign of the articles on the pavement. It seemed utterly incredible, for there was only a slight breeze and he did not remember knocking into anything. He had certainly not collided with the stranger. Just for a moment he wondered.

But duty to his parishioners remained uppermost in the conscientious Vicar’s mind, and it was not fair to them that he should catch his death of cold. He hurried back to the vicarage. For a quarter of an hour he pulled open drawers, ransacked cupboards, searching everywhere for an old wig that had been discarded and a new hat that had never been worn. He found them at last and arrived, breathless and out of temper, in the middle of the cinematograph display which constituted the first part of the performance.

“My dear,” he gasped, as he slid into the seat reserved for him next to his wife, ” I couldn’t help it. Someone stole my hat and wig.”

“Stole them, Herbert,” she expostulated. “Not stole them.”

“Yes, stole them. I’ll tell you afterwards. Is this the Palestine picture? Oh, yes —”

II

And so the Clockwork man was able to conceal his clock from the gaze of a curious world, and the grotesqueness of his appearance was heightened by the addition of a neatly trimmed chestnut wig and a soft round clerical hat. His perceptions must have been extraordinarily rapid, and he must have acted upon the instant. Nor did it seem to occur to him that in this world there are laws which forbid theft. Probably, in the world from which he came such restrictions are unnecessary, and the exigency would not have arisen, every individual being provided by parliamentary statute with a suitable covering for that blatant and too obvious sign of the modus operandi in the posterior region of their craniums.

It was shortly after this episode that the Clockwork man experienced his first moment of vivid illumination about the world of brief mortal span.

He had become entangled with a lamp-post. There is no other way of describing his predicament. He came to rest with his forehead pressed against the post, and all his efforts to get round it ended in dismal failure. His legs kicked spasmodically and his arms revolved irregularly. There were intermittent explosions, like the back-firing of a petrol engine. The only person who witnessed these peculiar antics was P.C. Hawkins, who had been indulging in a quiet smoke beneath the shelter of a neighbouring archway.

At first it did not occur to the constable that the noise proceeded from the figure. He craned his head forward, expecting every moment to see a motor bicycle come along. The noise stopped abruptly, and he decided that the machine must have gone up a side street. Then he stepped out of his retreat and tapped the Clockwork man on the shoulder. The latter was quite motionless now and merely leaning against the lamp-post.

“You go ’ome,” suggested the constable, “I don’t want to have to take you. This is one of my lenient nights, lucky for you.”

“Wallabaloo,” said the Clockwork man, faintly, “Wum —Wum —”

“Yes, we know all about that,” said the constable, “but you take my tip and go ’ome. And I don’t want any back answers neither.”

The Clockwork man emitted a soft whistling sound from between his teeth, and rubbed his nose thoughtfully against the post.

“What is this?” he enquired, presently.

“Lamp-post,” rejoined the other, clicking his teeth, “L.A.M.P.- P.O.S.T. Lamp-post.”

“I see — curious, only one lamp-post, though. In my country they grow like trees, you know — whole forests of them — galaxy of lights — necessary — illuminate multiform world.”

The constable laughed gently and stroked his moustache. His theory about the condition of the individual before him slowly developed.

“You get along,” he persuaded, “before there’s trouble. I don’t want to be ’arsh with you.”

“Wait,” said the Clockwork man, without altering his position, “moment of lucidity — see things as they are — begin to understand — finite world — only one thing at a time. Now we’ve got it — a place for everything and everything in its place.”

“Just what I’m always telling my missus,” reflected the constable.

The Clockwork man shifted his head very slightly, and one eye screwed slowly round.

“I want to grasp things,” he resumed, “I want to grasp you. So far as I can judge, I see before me — a constable — minion of the law — curious relic — primitive stage of civilisation — order people about finite world — lock people up — finite cell.”

“That’s my job,” agreed the other, with a warning glint in his red eye.

“Finite world,” proceeded the Clockwork man, “fixed laws — limited dimensions — essentially limited. Now, when I’m working properly, I can move about in all dimensions. That is to say, in addition to moving backwards and forwards, and this way and that, I can also move X and Y, and X2 and Y2.”

The corners of the constable’s eyes wrinkled a little. “Of course,” he ruminated, “if you’re going to drag algebra into the discussion I shall ’ave to cry off. I never got beyond decimals.”

“Let me explain,” urged the Clockwork man, who was gaining in verbal ease and intellectual elasticity every moment. “Supposing I was to hit you hard. You would fall down. You would become supine. You would assume a horizontal position at right angles to your present perpendicularity.” He gazed upwards at the tall figure of the constable. “But if you were to hit me, I should have an alternative. I could, for example, fall into the middle of next week.”

The constable rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as though he thought this highly likely. “Whatd’yemean by that,” he demanded.

“I said next week,” explained the other, “in order to make my meaning clear. Actually, of course, I don’t describe time in such arbitrary terms, but when one is in Rome, you know. What I mean to convey is that I am capable of going not only somewhere, but also somewhen.”

“’Ere, stow that gammon,” broke in the constable, impatiently, “s’nuff of that sort of talk. You come along with me.” He spat determinedly and prepared to take action.

But at that moment, as the constable afterwards described it to himself, it seemed to him that there came before his eyes a sort of mist. The figure leaning against the lamp-post looked less obvious. He did not appear now to be a palpable individual at all, but a sort of shadowy outline of himself, blurred and in – distinct. The constable rubbed his eyes and stretched out a hand.

“Alright,” he heard a tiny, remote voice, “I’m still here — I haven’t gone yet — I can’t go — that’s what’s so distressing. I don’t really understand your world, you know — and I can’t get back to my own. Don’t be harsh with me — it’s so awkward — between the devil and the deep sea.”

“What’s up?” exclaimed the constable, startled. “What yer playing at? Where are you?”

“Here I am,” the thin voice echoed faintly. The constable wheeled round sharply and became aware of a vague, palpitating mass, hovering in the dark mouth of the archway. It was like some solid body subjected to intense vibration. There was a high-pitched spinning noise.

“‘Ere,” said the constable, “cut that sort of caper. What’s the little game?” He made a grab at where he thought the shadowy form ought to be, and his hand closed on the empty air.

“Gawd,” he gasped, “it’s a blooming ghost.”

He fancied he heard a voice very indistinctly begging his pardon. Again he clutched wildly at a shoulder and merely snapped his fingers. “Strike a light,” he muttered, under his breath, “this ain’t good enough. It ain’t nearly good enough,” Reaching forward he stumbled, and to save himself from falling placed a hand against the wall. The next moment he leapt backwards with a yell. His hand and arm had gone clean through the filmy shape.

“Gawd, it’s spirits — that’s what it is.”

“It’s only me,” remarked the Clockwork man, suddenly looming into palpable form again. “Don’t be afraid. I must apologise for my eccentric behaviour. I tried an experiment. I thought I could get back. You said I was to go home, you know. But I can’t get far.” His voice shook a little. It jangled like a badly struck chord. “I’m a poor, maimed creature. You must make allowances for me. My clock won’t work properly.”

He began to vibrate again, his whole frame quivering and shaking. Little blue sparks scintillated around the back part of his head. He lifted one leg up as though to take a step forward; and then his ears flapped wildly, and he remained with one leg in mid-air and a finger to his nose.

The constable gave way to panic. He temporised with his duty. “Stow it,” he begged, “I can’t take you to the station like this. They’ll never believe me.” He took off his hat and rubbed his tingling forehead. “Say it’s a dream, mate,” he added, in a whining voice. “’Ow can I go ’ome to the missus with a tale like this. She’ll say it’s the gin again. It’s always my luck to strike something like this. When the ghost came to Bapchurch churchyard, it was me wot saw it first, and nobody believed me. You go along quietly, and we’ll look over it this time.”

But the Clockwork man made no reply. He was evidently absorbed in the effort to restart some process in himself. Presently his foot went down on the pavement with a smart bang. There followed a succession of sharp explosions, and the next second he glided smoothly away.

The constable returned furtively to his shelter beneath the arch, hitched himself thoughtfully, and found half a cigarette inside his waistcoat pocket.

“It’s the gin,” he ruminated, half out loud, “I’ll ’ave to knock it off. ’Tain’t as though I ain’t ’ad warnings enough. I’ve seen things before and I shall see them again —”

He lit the cigarette end and puffed out a cloud of smoke. “I never see ’im,” he soliloquised, “not really.”

***

Stay tuned!

RADIUM AGE SCIENCE FICTION: “Radium Age” is HiLobrow’s name for the 1904–33 era, which saw the discovery of radioactivity, the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. This era also saw the publication of genre-shattering writing by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Sax Rohmer, E.E. “Doc” Smith, Jack London, Arthur Conan Doyle, Aldous Huxley, Olaf Stapledon, Karel Čapek, H.P. Lovecraft, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Yevgeny Zamyatin, Philip Gordon Wylie, and other pioneers of post-Verne/Wells, pre-Golden Age “science fiction.” More info here.

HILOBOOKS: The mission of HiLoBooks is to serialize novels on HiLobrow; and also, as of 2012, operating as an imprint of Richard Nash’s Cursor, to reissue Radium Age science fiction in beautiful new print editions. So far, we have published Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague, Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”), Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt, H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook, Edward Shanks’s The People of the Ruins, William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land, and J.D. Beresford’s Goslings. Forthcoming: E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man, Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage, and Muriel Jaeger’s The Man with Six Senses. For more information, visit the HiLoBooks homepage.

READ: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague, serialized between January and April 2012; Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”), serialized between March and June 2012; Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt, serialized between April and July 2012; H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook, serialized between March and August 2012; Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins, serialized between May and September 2012; William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land, serialized between June and December 2012; J.D. Beresford’s Goslings, serialized between September 2012 and May 2013; E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man, serialized between March and July 2013; and Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage, serialized between March and August 2013.

How the 2013 World Press Photo of the Year was faked with Photoshop | ExtremeTech

“Perhaps most importantly, though, cameras simply don’t capture the same gamut of color or dynamic range as human eyes — a photo never looks the same as the original image perceived by your brain. Is it okay for a photographer to modify a picture so that it looks exactly how he remembers the scene?”

I discovered this old-school jam via Douglas Wolk’s genealogy-of-the-Gatsby-soundtrack post on MTV today, and my ears can’t quite stop gobbling it up. Plus, I am in work-related negotiations this week, so it’s a useful mnemonic. $avour it!

The new Pazzo illustration by the great Rick Pinchera is done and looks terrific. You’re going to start seeing this all over – postcards, t-shirts, the sides of buses, pulled behind airplanes, in your dreams – so enjoy it now… continue reading »

In the lovely 1846 edition of Goethe’s Reynard the Fox (Reineke Fuchs, J. G. Cotta, Stuttgart and Tubingen; folio), illustrated by Wilhelm von Kaulbach, there is a plate showing Reynard running up a monk’s habit much to the consternation of… continue reading »

[Images: From Marguerite Humeau's Opera of Prehistoric Creatures; photos by Stuart Bailes and Felipe Ribon].

Designer Marguerite Humeau reconstructs the voices of extinct animals based on speculative extrapolations from their skull structure.

As she described her work in an interview with We Make Money Not Art last month, the project is an attempt "to resuscitate the sound of prehistoric creatures by reconstructing their vocal tracts," casting large resonation chambers that then whistle, bleat, bellow, and moan, offering fictionalized bodily soundtracks for multi-million year-old landscapes.

Appropriately called The Opera of Prehistoric Creatures, it includes sonic reconstructions of three species of extinct mega-fauna, including the Ambulocetus, or "Walking Whale," an Entelodont, or the terrifying-sounding "Terminator Pig," and a Mammoth Imperator.

[Images: From Marguerite Humeau's Opera of Prehistoric Creatures; photos by Felipe Ribon Dirk van den Heuvel].

Partial reconstructions of their skeletons, combined with the speculative sounds of their long-lost calls, form what Humeau calls "semi-real, synthetic ruins." They stand like bleached monuments in the gallery space: resurrected animal bodies singing dead songs for the 21st century.

Briefly, and unrelatedly, I'm reminded of the extraordinary point made in Adrienne Mayor's fantastic book The First Fossil Hunters, where we read that one of the reasons for ancient myths of cyclops, giants, and titans was, in effect, bad paleontology. In other words, the ancient Greeks and other civilizations around the Mediterranean simply got their fossils wrong, reconstructing old bones not as the mammoths they really were—

[Image: From The First Fossil Hunters by Adrienne Mayor].

—but as truly massive, humanoid forms with odd, singular holes in the middles of their skulls (actually a nostril, not a cyclops eye), lording over tiny humans who quaked miserably beside them.

[Image: From The First Fossil Hunters by Adrienne Mayor].

In any case, you can listen to Marguerite Humeau's soundscape of extinct animal calls here.

[Images: From Marguerite Humeau's Opera of Prehistoric Creatures; photos by Stuart Bailes and Felipe Ribon].

Designer Marguerite Humeau reconstructs the voices of extinct animals based on speculative extrapolations from their skull structure.

As she described her work in an interview with We Make Money Not Art last month, the project is an attempt "to resuscitate the sound of prehistoric creatures by reconstructing their vocal tracts," casting large resonation chambers that then whistle, bleat, bellow, and moan, offering fictionalized bodily soundtracks for multi-million year-old landscapes.

Appropriately called The Opera of Prehistoric Creatures, it includes sonic reconstructions of three species of extinct mega-fauna, including the Ambulocetus, or "Walking Whale," an Entelodont, or the terrifying-sounding "Terminator Pig," and a Mammoth Imperator.

[Images: From Marguerite Humeau's Opera of Prehistoric Creatures; photos by Felipe Ribon Dirk van den Heuvel].

Partial reconstructions of their skeletons, combined with the speculative sounds of their long-lost calls, form what Humeau calls "semi-real, synthetic ruins." They stand like bleached monuments in the gallery space: resurrected animal bodies singing dead songs for the 21st century.

Briefly, and unrelatedly, I'm reminded of the extraordinary point made in Adrienne Mayor's fantastic book The First Fossil Hunters, where we read that one of the reasons for ancient myths of cyclops, giants, and titans was, in effect, bad paleontology. In other words, the ancient Greeks and other civilizations around the Mediterranean simply got their fossils wrong, reconstructing old bones not as the mammoths they really were—

[Image: From The First Fossil Hunters by Adrienne Mayor].

—but as truly massive, humanoid forms with odd, singular holes in the middles of their skulls (actually a nostril, not a cyclops eye), lording over tiny humans who quaked miserably beside them.

[Image: From The First Fossil Hunters by Adrienne Mayor].

In any case, you can listen to Marguerite Humeau's soundscape of extinct animal calls here.

[Images: From Marguerite Humeau's Opera of Prehistoric Creatures; photos by Stuart Bailes and Felipe Ribon].

Designer Marguerite Humeau reconstructs the voices of extinct animals based on speculative extrapolations from their skull structure.

As she described her work in an interview with We Make Money Not Art last month, the project is an attempt "to resuscitate the sound of prehistoric creatures by reconstructing their vocal tracts," casting large resonation chambers that then whistle, bleat, bellow, and moan, offering fictionalized bodily soundtracks for multi-million year-old landscapes.

Appropriately called The Opera of Prehistoric Creatures, it includes sonic reconstructions of three species of extinct mega-fauna, including the Ambulocetus, or "Walking Whale," an Entelodont, or the terrifying-sounding "Terminator Pig," and a Mammoth Imperator.

[Images: From Marguerite Humeau's Opera of Prehistoric Creatures; photos by Felipe Ribon Dirk van den Heuvel].

Partial reconstructions of their skeletons, combined with the speculative sounds of their long-lost calls, form what Humeau calls "semi-real, synthetic ruins." They stand like bleached monuments in the gallery space: resurrected animal bodies singing dead songs for the 21st century.

Briefly, and unrelatedly, I'm reminded of the extraordinary point made in Adrienne Mayor's fantastic book The First Fossil Hunters, where we read that one of the reasons for ancient myths of cyclops, giants, and titans was, in effect, bad paleontology. In other words, the ancient Greeks and other civilizations around the Mediterranean simply got their fossils wrong, reconstructing old bones not as the mammoths they really were—

[Image: From The First Fossil Hunters by Adrienne Mayor].

—but as truly massive, humanoid forms with odd, singular holes in the middles of their skulls (actually a nostril, not a cyclops eye), lording over tiny humans who quaked miserably beside them.

[Image: From The First Fossil Hunters by Adrienne Mayor].

In any case, you can listen to Marguerite Humeau's soundscape of extinct animal calls here.

[Images: From Marguerite Humeau's Opera of Prehistoric Creatures; photos by Stuart Bailes and Felipe Ribon].

Designer Marguerite Humeau reconstructs the voices of extinct animals based on speculative extrapolations from their skull structure.

As she described her work in an interview with We Make Money Not Art last month, the project is an attempt "to resuscitate the sound of prehistoric creatures by reconstructing their vocal tracts," casting large resonation chambers that then whistle, bleat, bellow, and moan, offering fictionalized bodily soundtracks for multi-million year-old landscapes.

Appropriately called The Opera of Prehistoric Creatures, it includes sonic reconstructions of three species of extinct mega-fauna, including the Ambulocetus, or "Walking Whale," an Entelodont, or the terrifying-sounding "Terminator Pig," and a Mammoth Imperator.

[Images: From Marguerite Humeau's Opera of Prehistoric Creatures; photos by Felipe Ribon Dirk van den Heuvel].

Partial reconstructions of their skeletons, combined with the speculative sounds of their long-lost calls, form what Humeau calls "semi-real, synthetic ruins." They stand like bleached monuments in the gallery space: resurrected animal bodies singing dead songs for the 21st century.

Briefly, and unrelatedly, I'm reminded of the extraordinary point made in Adrienne Mayor's fantastic book The First Fossil Hunters, where we read that one of the reasons for ancient myths of cyclops, giants, and titans was, in effect, bad paleontology. In other words, the ancient Greeks and other civilizations around the Mediterranean simply got their fossils wrong, reconstructing old bones not as the mammoths they really were—

[Image: From The First Fossil Hunters by Adrienne Mayor].

—but as truly massive, humanoid forms with odd, singular holes in the middles of their skulls (actually a nostril, not a cyclops eye), lording over tiny humans who quaked miserably beside them.

[Image: From The First Fossil Hunters by Adrienne Mayor].

In any case, you can listen to Marguerite Humeau's soundscape of extinct animal calls here.

During an anti-terror and security drill, South Korean soldiers take their positions as a man takes a photo with his iPad in a subway station in Seoul, on April 15, 2013. (Reuters/Kim Hong-Ji) (via A Trip to South Korea - In Focus - The Atlantic), via Dan W.

Although guitar-driven rock’s incursions into the world of popular music are regular, widespread embrace of guitar virtuosity is a rarer thing. Akron, Ohio’s DAN AUERBACH (born 1979) is one of only a handful of his generation who have the talent and inclination to make the guitar wail and lament, growl, chirp, buzz and cry. In his most fertile mode as one half of The Black Keys (along with feral drummer Patrick Carney), Auerbach uses his right thumb to carve out the grooves usually handled by the bass guitar, his forefingers ripping out piercing melodies while he sings soulful and hook-filled blues in a display of multi-tasking that one watches live in a state of disbelief. If he can’t create enough variety in color and dynamics with the subtlety of his finger-picking and strumming, his liquidy left hand, or deft touch with the tremolo arm, he has an army of effects pedals to increase his palette. Auerbach’s ear is phenomenal; you can hear his thumb slide across the strings, the variance in the sonic attack between his plucked runs and those done with only his left hand. Few bands seem to care about dynamics anymore, but Auerbach makes his guitar whisper. Over time his compositions have become more hooky, the dynamics, range and style resemble rock music more, and he and Carney have added extra musicians onstage. But they haven’t gone Hollywood yet. Auerbach’s guitar tech is the owner of the shop in Akron where he first had his guitars set up, his strings are manufactured by an Akron shop, he and Carney are strong supporters of Ohio musicians. Let’s hope this guitar sufi doesn’t lose his religion.

***

On his or her birthday, HiLobrow irregularly pays tribute to one of our high-, low-, no-, or hilobrow heroes. Also born this date: Wim Mertens, Edward Ricketts, George Lucas.

READ MORE about members of the Revivalist Generation (1974-82).

HiLobrow is pleased to present the thirteenth and final installment of our serialization of Philip Francis Nowlan’s Armageddon —2419 A.D..

In Philip Francis Nowlan’s novella Armageddon 2419 A.D., which first appeared in the August 1928 issue of the pulp magazine Amazing Stories (the same issue which launched E.E. “Doc” Smith’s serial The Skylark of Space), 29-year-old WWI vet and mining engineer Anthony Rogers falls into a state of suspended animation in the year 1927. Five hundred years later, he wakes up in an America that for the past three centuries has been a backward province of the globe-spanning, part-Mongolian part-alien Han Empire. Taken in by a gang of American rebels, he becomes a freedom fighter in the Second War of Independence.

Nowlan’s long-running and much-imitated Buck Rogers comic strip, illustrated by Dick Calkins, first appeared in January 1929. The protagonist was renamed in imitation of the popular cowboy actor Buck Jones.

SUBSCRIBE to HiLobrow’s serialized fiction via RSS.

ALL EXCERPTS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

***

CHAPTER XII
The Finger of Doom

As we crossed the Hudson River, a few miles north of the city, we dropped several units of the Yellow Intelligence Division, with full instrumental equipment. Their apparatus cases were nicely balanced at only a few ounces weight each, and the men used their chute capes to ease their drops.

We recrossed the river a little distance above and began dropping White Intelligence units and a few long and short range gun units. Then we held our position until we began to get reports. Gradually we ringed the territory of the Sinsings, our observation units working busily and patiently at their locators and scopes, both aloft and aground, until Garlin finally turned to me with the remark:

“The map circle is complete now, Boss. We’ve got clear locations all the way around them.”

“Let me see it,” I replied, and studied the illuminated viewplate map, with its little overlapping circles of light that indicated spots proved clear of the enemy by ultroscopic observation.

I nodded to Bill Hearn. “Go ahead now, Hearn,” I said, “and place your barrage men.”

He spoke into his ultrophone, and three of the ships began to glide in a wide ring around the enemy territory. Every few seconds, at the word from his Unit Boss, a gunner would drop off the wire, and slipping the clasp of his chute cape, drift down into the darkness below.

Bill formed two lines, parallel to and facing the river, and enclosing the entire territory of the enemy between them. Above and below, straddling the river, were two defensive lines. These latter were merely to hold their positions. The others were to close in toward each other, pushing a high-explosive barrage five miles ahead of them. When the two barrages met, both lines were to switch to short-vision-range barrage and continue to close in on any of the enemy who might have drifted through the previous curtain of fire.

In the meantime Bill kept his reserves, a picked corps of a hundred men (the same that had accompanied Hart and myself in our fight with the Han squadron) in the air, divided about equally among the “kite-tails” of four ships.

A final roll call, by units, companies, divisions and functions, established the fact that all our forces were in position. No Han activity was reported, and no Han broadcasts indicated any suspicion of our expedition. Nor was there any indication that the Sinsings had any knowledge of the fate in store for them. The idling of rep-ray generators was reported from the center of their camp, obviously those of the ships the Hans had given them — the price of their treason to their race.

Again I gave the word, and Hearn passed on the order to his subordinates.

Far below us, and several miles to the right and left, the two barrage lines made their appearance. From the great height to which we had risen, they appeared like lines of brilliant, winking lights, and the detonations were muffled by the distances into a sort of rumbling, distant thunder. Hearn and his assistants were very busy: measuring, calculating, and snapping out ultrophone orders to unit commanders that resulted in the straightening of lines and the closing of gaps in the barrage.

The White Division Boss reported the utmost confusion in the Sinsing organization. They were, as might be expected, an inefficient, loosely disciplined gang, and repeated broadcasts for help to neighboring gangs. Ignoring the fact that the Mongolians had not used explosives for many generations, they nevertheless jumped at the conclusion that they were being raided by the Hans. Their frantic broadcasts persisted in this thought, despite the nervous electrophonic inquiries of the Hans themselves, to whom the sound of the battle was evidently audible, and who were trying to locate the trouble.

At this point, the swooper I had sent south toward the city went into action as a diversion, to keep the Hans at home. Its “kite-tail” loaded with long-range gunners, using the most highly explosive rockets we had, hung invisible in the darkness of the sky and bombarded the city from a distance of about five miles. With an entire city to shoot at, and the object of creating as much commotion therein as possible, regardless of actual damage, the gunners had no difficulty in hitting the mark. I could see the glow of the city and the stabbing flashes of exploding rockets. In the end, the Hans, uncertain as to what was going on, fell back on a defensive policy, and shot their “hell cylinder,” or wall of upturned disintegrator rays into operation. That, of course, ended our bombardment of them. The rays were a perfect defense, disintegrating our rockets as they were reached.

If they had not sent out ships before turning on the rays, and if they had none within sufficient radius already in the air, all would be well.

I queried Garlin on this, but he assured me Yellow Intelligence reported no indications of Han ships nearer than 800 miles. This would probably give us a free hand for a while, since most of their instruments recorded only imperfectly or not at all, through the death wall.

Requisitioning one of the viewplates of the headquarters ship, and the services of an expert operator, I instructed him to focus on our lines below. I wanted a close-up of the men in action.

He began to manipulate his controls and chaotic shadows moved rapidly across the plate, fading in and out of focus, until he reached an adjustment that gave me a picture of the forest floor, apparently 100 feet wide, with the intervening branches and foliage of the trees appearing like shadows that melted into reality a few feet above the ground.

I watched one man setting up his long-gun with skillful speed. His lips pursed slightly as though he were whistling, as he adjusted the tall tripod on which the long tube was balanced. Swiftly he twirled the knobs controlling the aim and elevation of his piece. Then, lifting a belt of ammunition from the big box, which itself looked heavy enough to break down the spindly tripod, he inserted the end of it in the lock of his tube and touched the proper combination of buttons.

Then he stepped aside, and occupied himself with peering carefully through the trees ahead. Not even a tremor shook the tube, but I knew that at intervals of something less than a second, it was discharging small projectiles which, traveling under their own continuously reduced power, were arching into the air, to fall precisely five miles ahead and explode with the force of eight-inch shells, such as we used in the First World War.

Another gunner, fifty feet to the right of him, waved a hand and called out something to him. Then, picking up his own tube and tripod, he gauged the distance between the trees ahead of him, and the height of their lowest branches, and bending forward a bit, flexed his muscles and leaped lightly, some twenty-five feet. Another leap took him another twenty feet or so, where he began to set up his piece.

I ordered my observer then to switch to the barrage itself. He got a close focus on it, but this showed little except a continuous series of blinding flashes, which, from the viewplate, lit up the entire interior of the ship. An eight-hundred-foot focus proved better. I had thought that some of our French and American artillery of the 20th Century had achieved the ultimate in mathematical precision of fire, but I had never seen anything to equal the accuracy of that line of terrific explosions as it moved steadily forward, mowing down trees as a scythe cuts grass (or used to 500 years ago), literally churning up the earth and the splintered, blasted remains of the forest giants, to a depth of from ten to twenty feet.

By now the two curtains of fire were nearing each other, lines of vibrant, shimmering, continuous, brilliant destruction, inevitably squeezing the panic-stricken Sinsings between them.

Even as I watched, a group of them, who had been making a futile effort to get their three rep-ray machines into the air, abandoned their efforts, and rushed forth into the milling mob.

I queried the Control Boss sharply on the futility of this attempt of theirs, and learned that the Hans, apparently in doubt as to what was going on, had continued to “play safe,” and broken off their power broadcast, after ordering all their own ships east of the Alleghenies to the ground, for fear these ships they had traded to the Sinsings might be used against them.

Again I turned to my viewplate, which was still focussed on the central section of the Sinsing works. The confusion of the traitors was entirely that of fear, for our barrage had not yet reached them.

Some of them set up their long-guns and fired at random over the barrage line, then gave it up. They realized that they had no target to shoot at, no way of knowing whether our gunners were a few hundred feet or several miles beyond it.

Their ultrophone men, of whom they did not have many, stood around in tense attitudes, their helmet phones strapped around their ears, nervously fingering the tuning controls at their belts. Unquestionably they must have located some of our frequencies, and overheard many of our reports and orders. But they were confused and disorganized. If they had an Ultrophone Boss they evidently were not reporting to him in an organized way.

They were beginning to draw back now before our advancing fire. With intermittent desperation, they began to shoot over our barrage again, and the explosions of their rockets flashed at widely scattered points beyond. A few took distance “pot shots.”

Oddly enough it was our own forces that suffered the first casualties in the battle. Some of these distance shots by chance registered hits, while our men were under strict orders not to exceed their barrage distances.

Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance.

The two barrage lines were not more than five hundred feet apart when the Sinsings resorted to tactics we had not foreseen. We noticed first that they began to lighten themselves by throwing away extra equipment. A few of them in their excitement threw away too much, and shot suddenly into the air. Then a scattering few floated up gently, followed by increasing numbers, while still others, preserving a weight balance, jumped toward the closing barrages and leaped high, hoping to clear them. Some succeeded. We saw others blown about like leaves in a windstorm, to crumple and drift slowly down, or else to fall into the barrage, their belts blown from their bodies.

However, it was not part of our plan to allow a single one of them to escape and find his way to the Hans. I quickly passed the word to Bill Hearn to have the alternate men in his line raise their barrages and heard him bark out a mathematical formula to the Unit Bosses.

We backed off our ships as the explosions climbed into the air in stagger formation until they reached a height of three miles. I don’t believe any of the Sinsings who tried to float away to freedom succeeded.

But we did know later, that a few who leaped the barrage got away and ultimately reached Nu-yok.

It was those who managed to jump the barrage who gave us the most trouble. With half of our long-guns turned aloft, I foresaw we would not have enough to establish successive ground barrages and so ordered the barrage back two miles, from which positions our “curtains” began to close in again, this time, however, gauged to explode, not on contact, but thirty feet in the air. This left little chance for the Sinsings to leap either over or under it.

Gradually, the two barrages approached each other until they finally met, and in the grey dawn the battle ended.

Our own casualties amounted to forty-seven men in the ground forces, eighteen of whom had been slain in hand to hand fighting with the few of the enemy who managed to reach our lines, and sixty-two in the crew and “kite-tail” force of swooper No. 4, which had been located by one of the enemy’s ultroscopes and brought down with long-gun fire.

Since nearly every member of the Sinsing Gang had, so far as we knew, been killed, we considered the raid a great success.

It had, however, a far greater significance than this. To all of us who took part in the expedition, the effectiveness of our barrage tactics definitely established a confidence in our ability to overcome the Hans.

As I pointed out to Wilma:

“It has been my belief all along, dear, that the American explosive rocket is a far more efficient weapon than the disintegrator ray of the Hans, once we can train all our gangs to use it systematically and in co-ordinated fashion. As a weapon in the hands of a single individual, shooting at a mark in direct line of vision, the rocket-gun is inferior in destructive power to the dis ray, except as its range may be a little greater. The trouble is that to date it has been used only as we used our rifles and shot guns in the 20th Century. The possibilities of its use as artillery, in laying barrages that advance along the ground, or climb into the air, are tremendous.

“The dis ray inevitably reveals its source of emanation. The rocket gun does not. The dis ray can reach its target only in a straight line. The rocket may be made to travel in an arc, over intervening obstacles, to an unseen target.

“Nor must we forget that our ultronists now are promising us a perfect shield against the dis ray in inertron.”

“I tremble though, Tony dear, when I think of the horrors that are ahead of us. The Hans are clever. They will develop defenses against our new tactics. And they are sure to mass against us not only the full force of their power in America, but the united forces of the World Empire. They are a cowardly race in one sense, but clever as the very Devils in Hell, and inheritors of a calm, ruthless, vicious persistency.”

“Nevertheless,” I prophesied, “the Finger of Doom points squarely at them today, and unless you and I are killed in the struggle, we shall live to see America blast the Yellow Blight from the face of the Earth.”

***

Stay tuned!

RADIUM AGE SCIENCE FICTION: “Radium Age” is HiLobrow’s name for the 1904–33 era, which saw the discovery of radioactivity, the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. This era also saw the publication of genre-shattering writing by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Sax Rohmer, E.E. “Doc” Smith, Jack London, Arthur Conan Doyle, Aldous Huxley, Olaf Stapledon, Karel Čapek, H.P. Lovecraft, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Yevgeny Zamyatin, Philip Gordon Wylie, and other pioneers of post-Verne/Wells, pre-Golden Age “science fiction.”

HILOBOOKS: The mission of HiLoBooks is to serialize novels (both original and reissued) on HiLobrow, and to reissue Radium Age science fiction in beautiful new print editions. The following titles can be read in serial form via HiLobrow.com and/or purchased in gorgeous paperback form online or via your local independent bookstore: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague, Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”), Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt, H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook, Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins, William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land, J.D. Beresford’s Goslings, E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man, Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage, and Muriel Jaeger’s The Man with Six Senses. For more information, visit the HiLoBooks homepage.

ORIGINAL FICTION from HILOBROW: James Parker’s swearing-animal fable The Ballad of Cocky The Fox, later published in limited-edition paperback by HiLoBooks; plus: a newsletter, The Sniffer, by Patrick Cates, and further stories: “The Cockarillion”) | Karinne Keithley Syers’s hollow-earth adventure Linda, later published in limited-edition paperback; plus: ukulele music, and a “Floating Appendix”) | Matthew Battles’s stories “Gita Nova“, “Makes the Man,” “Imago,” “Camera Lucida,” “A Simple Message”, “Children of the Volcano”, “The Gnomon”, “Billable Memories”, “For Provisional Description of Superficial Features”, “The Dogs in the Trees”, “The Sovereignties of Invention”, and “Survivor: The Island of Dr. Moreau”; several of these later appeared in the collection The Sovereignties of Invention, published by Red Lemonade | Robert Waldron’s high-school campus roman à clef The School on the Fens | Peggy Nelson’s “Mood Indigo“, “Top Kill Fail“, and “Mercerism” | Annalee Newitz’s “The Great Oxygen Race” | Joshua Glenn’s “The Lawless One”, and the mashup story “Zarathustra vs. Swamp Thing” | Adam McGovern and Paolo Leandri’s Idoru Jones comics | John Holbo’s “Sugarplum Squeampunk” | “Another Corporate Death” (1) and “Another Corporate Death” (2) by Mike Fleisch | Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer and Frank Fiorentino’s graphic novel “The Song of Otto” (excerpt) | “Manoj” and “Josh” by Vijay Balakrishnan | “Verge” by Chris Rossi, and his audio novel Low Priority Hero | EPIC WINS: THE ILIAD (1.408-415) by Flourish Klink | EPIC WINS: THE KALEVALA (3.1-278) by James Parker | EPIC WINS: THE ARGONAUTICA (2.815-834) by Joshua Glenn | EPIC WINS: THE ILIAD by Stephen Burt | EPIC WINS: THE MYTH OF THE ELK by Matthew Battles | EPIC WINS: GOTHAMIAD by Chad Parmenter | TROUBLED SUPERHUMAN CONTEST: Charles Pappas, “The Law” | CATASTROPHE CONTEST: Timothy Raymond, “Hem and the Flood” | TELEPATHY CONTEST: Rachel Ellis Adams, “Fatima, Can You Hear Me?” | OIL SPILL CONTEST: A.E. Smith, “Sound Thinking | LITTLE NEMO CAPTION CONTEST: Joe Lyons, “Necronomicon” | SPOOKY-KOOKY CONTEST: Tucker Cummings, “Well Marbled” | INVENT-A-HERO CONTEST: TG Gibbon, “The Firefly”

“This afternoon, a stranger set an aerial drone into flight over my yard and beside my house near Miller Playfield. I initially mistook its noisy buzzing for a weed-whacker on this warm spring day. After several minutes, I looked out my third-story window to see a drone hovering a few feet away. My husband went to talk to the man on the sidewalk outside our home who was operating the drone with a remote control, to ask him to not fly his drone near our home. The man insisted that it is legal for him to fly an aerial drone over our yard and adjacent to our windows. He noted that the drone has a camera, which transmits images he viewed through a set of glasses. He purported to be doing “research”. We are extremely concerned, as he could very easily be a criminal who plans to break into our house or a peeping-tom.”

- So This Is How It Begins: Guy Refuses to Stop Drone-Spying on Seattle Woman - Rebecca J. Rosen - The Atlantic

(from Heartless, by Nina Bunjevac, 2012)

Benjamen Walker's theory of everything.

Hua Hsu on the rise of suburban Chinatowns.

Nice piece at the FT on the Hunterian Museum, an important location in my first novel.

Ode to a Shipping Label.

Mr. Men as social critique.

Last but not least, inside the London Pet Show.

Coming June 11 from New York Review Books -- Russell Hoban's TURTLE DIARY!



There's an introduction by me...

invisiblestories:

Verdigris

Matthew Hankins and others on Twitter are making fun of scientists who twist themselves up lexically in order to report results that fail the significance test, using phrases like “approached but did not quite achieve significance” and “only just insignificant” and “tantalisingly close to significance.”

But I think this fun-making is somewhat misplaced!  We should instead be jeering at the conventional dichotomy that a result significant at p < .05 is “a real effect” and one that scores at p = .06 is “no effect.”

The lexically twisted scientists are on the side of the angels here, insisting that a statistically insignificant finding is usually much better described as “not enough evidence” than “no evidence,” and should be mentioned, in whatever language the journal allows, not mulched.

 

 

 

 

I liked this MathOverflow question, which asks:  are there two non-isogenous elliptic curves over Q, each one of which has a rational cyclic 13-isogeny, and such that the kernels of the two isogenies are isomorphic as Galois modules?

This is precisely to look for rational points on the modular surface S parametrizing pairs (E,E’,C,C’,φ), where E and E’ are elliptic curves, C and C’ are cyclic 13-subgroups, and φ is an isomorphism between C and C’.

S is a quotient of X_1(13) x X_1(13) by the diagonal in the natural (Z/13Z)^* x (Z/13Z)^* action.

Is S general type, rational, what?

 

 

“An ode to the journey of ó on a shipping label” found at http://i.imgur.com/4J7Il0m.jpg, via @shyhoof.

HiLobrow is pleased to present the tenth installment of our serialization of Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage (also known as Lest Ye Die). New installments will appear each Monday for 25 weeks.

When war breaks out in Europe — war which aims successfully to displace entire populations — British civilization collapses utterly and overnight. The ironically named Theodore Savage, an educated and dissatisfied idler, must learn to survive by his wits in the new England, where 20th-century science, technology, and culture are regarded with superstitious awe and terror.

The book — by a writer best known today for her suffragist plays, treatises, and activism — was published in 1922. In September 2013, HiLoBooks will publish it in a gorgeous paperback edition, with an Introduction by Gary Panter.

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ALL EXCERPTS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25

***

“Were you a writer?” Theodore asked him — and at the question his old humanity stirred curiously within him.

“Yes,” said the other, “I was a writer…. When I think of what I wrote — the little, little things that seemed important!… I spent a year once — a whole good year — on a book about a woman who was finding out she didn’t love her husband. She was well fed and housed, lived comfortably — and I wrote of her as if she were a tragedy. The work I put into it — the work and the thought! I tried to get what I called atmosphere…. And all the time there was this in us — this raw, red thing — and I never even touched it, never guessed what we were without our habits…. Do you know where we made the mistake?” — he turned suddenly to Theodore, thrusting out a finger — “We were not civilized — it was only our habits that were civilized; but we thought they were flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone. Underneath, the beast in us was always there — lying in wait till his time came. The beast that is ourselves, that is flesh of our flesh — clothed in habits, in rags that have been torn from us.”

He broke off to cough horribly and lay breathless and exhausted for a time; then, when breath came back to him, talked on while Theodore listened — not so much to his words as to a voice from the world that had passed.

“The religions were right,” he said. “They were right through and through; the only sane thing and the only safe thing is humility — to realize your sin, to confess it and repent…. We — we were bestial and we did not know it; and when you don’t even suspect you sin how can you repent and save your soul alive?… We dressed ourselves and taught ourselves the little politenesses and ceremonies which made it easy to forget that we were brutes in our hearts; we never faced our own possibilities of evil and beastliness, never confessed and repented them, took no precautions against them. Our limitless possibilities…. We thought our habits — we called them virtues — were as real and natural and ingrained as our instincts; and now what is left of our habits? When we should have been crying, ‘Lord have mercy on us,’ we believed in ourselves, our enlightenment and progress. Enlightenment that ended as science applied to destruction and progress that has led us — to this…. And to-day it has gone, every shred of it, and we’re back at what we started with — hunger and lust! Brute instincts… and the primitive passion, hatred — against those who thwart hunger and lust. Nothing else — how can there be anything else? When we lost all we loved, we lost the habit and power of loving…. ‘My mind to me a kingdom is’ — of hatred and hunger and lust.”

“Yes,” said Theodore — and he, too, stared at the fire…. What the other had said was truth and truth only. Even Phillida had left him; the power of loving her was gone. “I hadn’t thought of it like that — but it’s right…. We can only hate.”

“It’s that,” said the dying man, “that’s beyond all torment…. God pity us!”

He covered his eyes and sat silent until Theodore asked him, “Does that mean you still believe in God?”

“There’s Law,” said the other. “Is that God?… We have got to see into our own souls and to pay for everything we take. That’s all I know, so far — except that what we think we own — owns us. That’s what the wise men meant by renunciation…. It’s what we made and thought we owned that has turned on us — the creatures that were born for our pleasure and power, to increase our comfort and our riches. As we made them they fastened on us — set their claws in us — and they have taken our minds from us as well as our bodies. As we made them, they followed the law of their life. We created life without a soul; but it was life and it went its own way.”

Crouched to the fire, and between his bouts of coughing, he played with the idea and insisted on it. Everything that we made, that we thought dead and dumb, had a life that we could not control. In the case of books and art we admitted the fact, had a name for the life, called it influence: influence a form of independent existence…. In the same way we took metals and welded them, made machines; which were beasts, potent beasts, whose destiny was the same as our own. To live and develop and, developing, to turn on the power that enslaved them…. That was what had happened; they had made themselves necessary, fastened on us and, grown strong enough, had turned on their masters and killed — even though they died in the killing. The revolt against servitude had always been accounted a virtue in men and the law of all life was the same. The beasts we had made could not live without us, but they would have their revenge before they died.

“Think of us,” he said, “how we run and squeal and hide from them! … The patient servants, our goods and chattels, who were brought into life for our pleasure — they chase us while we run and squeal and hide!”

“Yes,” Theodore answered, “I’ve felt that, too — the humiliation.”

“The humiliation,” the sick man nodded. “Always in the end the slave rules his master — it’s the price paid for servitude, possession. I tell you, they were wise men who preached renunciation — before what we own takes hold of us and possession turns to servitude. For there’s a law of average in all things — have you ever felt it as I have? A law of balance which we never strike aright…. When the mighty tread hard enough on the humble and meek, the humble and meek are exalted and begin to tread hard in their turn. That’s obvious and we’ve generally known it; but it’s the same in what we call material things. We rise into the air — make machines that can fly — and grovel underground to protect ourselves from the flying-man. As we struck the balance to the one side, so it has to swing back on the other; a few men rise high into the air and many creep down into trenches and cellars, crouch flat…. If we could work out the numbers and heights mathematically, be sure that we should strike the perfect balance — represented by the surface of the earth. Balance — in all things balance.”

He rambled on, perhaps half-delirious, coughing out his thoughts and theories concerning a world he was leaving…. In all things balance, inevitably; the purpose of life which, so far, we sought blindly — by passion and recoil from it, by excess and consequent exhaustion…. It was in the cities where men herded, where life swarmed, that death had come most thickly, that desolation was swiftest and most complete. The ground underneath them needed rest from men; there was an average of life it could support and bear with. Now, the average exceeded, the cities lay ruined, were silent, knew the peace they had craved for — while those who once swarmed in them avoided them in fear or scattered themselves in the open country, finding no sustenance in brickwork, stone or paved street…. With the machine and its consequence, the industrial system, population had increased beyond the average allotted to the race; now the balance was righting itself by a very massacre of famine — induced by the self-same process of invention which had fostered reproduction unhindered. Because millions too many had crawled upon earth, long stretches of earth must lie waste and desolate till the average had worked itself out…. The art of life was adjustment of the balance in all things — was action and reaction rightly applied, was provision of counter-weight, discovery of the destined mean. Was control of Truth, lest it turn into a lie; was check upon the power and velocity of Good ere it swung to immeasurable Evil….

The fire, for want of more wood to pile on it, had died low, to a flicker in the ashes, and the two men sat almost in darkness; the one, between the bouts that shook him, whispering out the tenets of his Law; the other, now listening, now staring back into the world that once was — and ever should be…. He was with Markham, listening to the Westminster chimes — (on the crest of the centuries, Markham had said) — when there were sudden yelping screams outside and a patter of feet on the road. The human rats who had crept into the town for shelter from the night were bolting in panic from their holes.

“They’re running,” said the dying man and felt towards the stairs. “It’s gas — it must be gas! Oh God, where’s the door — where’s the door?”

As they groped and stumbled through the door and up the stairway, he was clutching at Theodore’s arm and gasping in an ecstasy of terror; as fearful of losing his few poor hours of life as if they had been years of health and usefulness. In the open air was darkness with figures flying dimly by; a thin stream of panic that raced against death by suffocation.

The man with death on him held to Theodore’s arm and besought him, for Christ’s sake, not to leave him — he could run if he were only helped! Theodore let him cling for a dragging pace or two; then, looking behind him, saw a woman reel, clawing the air.

He wrenched himself free and ran on till he could run no further.

IX

It was somewhere towards the end of autumn that Theodore Savage realized that the war had come to an end — so far, at least, as his immediate England was concerned. What was happening elsewhere he and his immediate England had no means of knowing and were long past caring to know. There was no definite ending but a leaving-off, a slackening; the attacks — the burnings and panics — by degrees were fewer and not only fewer but less devastating, because carried out with smaller forces; there were days and nights without alarm, without smoke-cloud or glow on the horizon. Then yet longer intervals — and so on to complete cessation…. By the time the nights had grown long and frosty the war that was organized and alien had ended; there remained only the daily, personal and barbaric form of war wherein every man’s hand was raised against his neighbour and enemy. That warfare ceased not and could not cease — until the human herd had reduced itself to the point at which the bare earth could support it.

It seemed to him later a wonder — almost a miracle — that he had come alive through the months of war and after; at times he stood amazed that any had lived in the waste of hunger and violence, of pestilence and rotting bodies which for months was the world as he knew it. He was near death not once nor a score of times, but daily; death from exhaustion or the envy of men who were starved and reckless as himself. The mockery of peace brought no plenty or hope of it, no sign of reconstruction or dawn of new order; reconstruction and order were rank impossibilities so long as human creatures preyed on each other in a land swept bare, and prowled after the manner of wolves. No revival of common life, no system was possible until earth once more brought forth her fruits.

He judged, by the length of the nights, that it was somewhere about the middle of November when the first snow came suddenly and thickly; the harbinger and onslaught of a fiercely hard winter that killed in their thousands the gaunt human beasts who tore at each other for the refuse and vermin that was food. In the all-pervading dearth and starvation there was only one form of animal life that increased and flourished mightily; the rat overran empty buildings, found dreadful sustenance in street and field and, in turn, was hunted, trapped and fed on.

With the coming of winter the human remnant was perforce less vagrant and migratory, and Theodore, driven by weather to shelter, lived for weeks in what once had been a country town, a cluster of dead houses with, here and there, a silent factory. Only the buildings, the semblance of a township, remained; the befouled and neglected body whence the life of a community had fled; and he never knew what its living name had been or what was the manner of industry or commerce whereby it had supported its inhabitants. It lay in a flattish agricultural country and a railway had run through its outskirts; the rusted metals stretched north and south and the remnants of a station still existed — platforms, charred buildings and trucks and locomotives in sidings. Perhaps the charred buildings had been burned in a fury of drunken and insane destruction, perhaps shivering destitution had set light to them for the sake of a few hours’ warmth.

The shell of the town — its brickwork and stone — was still practically intact; it was anarchy, pillage and starvation, not the violence of an enemy, that had reduced it to a city of the dead. The means of supporting life were absent, but certain forms of what had once been luxury remained and were counted as nothing. At a corner of the main street stood a jeweller’s premises which, time and again, had been entered and ransacked; the dwelling-house behind it contained not so much as a fragment of dried crust but in the shop itself rings, brooches and pendants were still lying for any man to take — disordered, scattered and trampled underfoot, because worthless to those who craved for bread. The only item of jeweller’s stock that still had value to starving men was a watch — if it furnished a burning-glass, a means of lighting a fire when other means were unavailable.

***

Stay tuned!

RADIUM AGE SCIENCE FICTION: “Radium Age” is HiLobrow’s name for the 1904–33 era, which saw the discovery of radioactivity, the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. This era also saw the publication of genre-shattering writing by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Sax Rohmer, E.E. “Doc” Smith, Jack London, Arthur Conan Doyle, Aldous Huxley, Olaf Stapledon, Karel Čapek, H.P. Lovecraft, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Yevgeny Zamyatin, Philip Gordon Wylie, and other pioneers of post-Verne/Wells, pre-Golden Age “science fiction.” More info here.

HILOBOOKS: The mission of HiLoBooks is to serialize novels on HiLobrow; and also, as of 2012, operating as an imprint of Richard Nash’s Cursor, to reissue Radium Age science fiction in beautiful new print editions. So far, we have published Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague, Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”), Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt, H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook, Edward Shanks’s The People of the Ruins, William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land, and J.D. Beresford’s Goslings. Forthcoming: E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man, Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage, and Muriel Jaeger’s The Man with Six Senses. For more information, visit the HiLoBooks homepage.

READ: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague, serialized between January and April 2012; Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”), serialized between March and June 2012; Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt, serialized between April and July 2012; H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook, serialized between March and August 2012; Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins, serialized between May and September 2012; William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land, serialized between June and December 2012; J.D. Beresford’s Goslings, serialized between September 2012 and May 2013; and Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage, serialized between March and August 2013.

Comedians are broken souls, and from that brokenness springs a desperate need for the approval of strangers – lousy for them, lucky for the rest of us. So goes the conventional wisdom, which is what makes STEPHEN COLBERT (born 1964) such an interesting case. Though he surely has his damages – he lost his father and two brothers in a plane crash when he was 10 – by all appearances he’s one of the most well-balanced people in entertainment, maybe on the planet. His funny comes from an invention: “Stephen Colbert,” a needy mess, all desperation and pleading, winking, dancing, mugging, punning – anything to make new friends. And yet Colbert’s commitment to that character sometimes sends him in exactly the opposite direction – like when he roasted the President of the United States while POTUS sat five feet away, sour-faced and glowering. (“This administration is not sinking,” Colbert declared. “This administration is soaring. If anything, they are rearranging the deck chairs on the Hindenburg!”). Or when, on his own show, he sits even closer to political opponents and apes them to their face, hijacking their shtick with such accuracy (and just enough absurdity) that some folks take years to get the satire, and some may still not get it. It’s imitation as the sincerest form of mockery, and it would be squirm-inducing (like Sacha Baron Cohen’s version) were it not for Colbert’s lovely charm and, yes, his character’s eagerness to please.

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On his or her birthday, HiLobrow irregularly pays tribute to one of our high-, low-, no-, or hilobrow heroes. Also born this date: Samantha Morton, Bea Arthur, Bruce Chatwin.

READ MORE about men and women born on the cusp between the Original Generation X (1954–63) and Reconstructionist (1964–73) Generation.

“Built from millions of satellite images and trillions of pixels, you can explore this global, zoomable time-lapse map as part of TIME’s new Timelapse project. View stunning phenomena such as the sprouting of Dubai’s artificial Palm Islands, the retreat of Alaska’s Columbia Glacier, the deforestation of the Brazilian Amazon and urban growth in Las Vegas from 1984 to 2012.”

Official Blog: A picture of Earth through time

On the spur of the moment I took CJ and AB to see the Madison Radicals, the local francise of the brand-new American Ultimate Disc League, which is apparently one of two competing leagues vying to make pro ultimate a mainstream US sport.

Six bucks a ticket, kids get in free.  There were at least 500 fans cheering the Radicals, most of whom clearly know the rules of ultimate much better than I do.

It was extremely wholesome and I highly recommend it.

The game also featured a truly great halftime contest, in which spectators competed to see who could throw a Roman Candle pizza, frisbee-style, farthest down the field.  Now that was already great, but then, at the end of the contest, the contestants scooped the pizzas up off the turf and  tossed them to clamoring fans in the stands, who picked the grass off them and ate them.  I felt honored to be present.

Other notes:

• Ultimate is traditionally played without a referee, but they’ve added refs for the pro game.  To maintain the spirit of the game, he AUDL has instituted the “integrity rule:”  if both teams agree that a call on the field is wrong, the referee is overruled.  I can’t think of any reason this isn’t the rule in every sport.
• Apparently, one of the players (“the guy with the goatee,” according to a nearby fan) is the owner of the team.
• Almost forgot to say — the Radicals battled back from a 12-8 deficit but eventually lost 16-15 to the Windy City Wildfire.

 

I feel like i have been waiting for this book for all of my life.  it has been a slow amount of time to get the Japanese writer Edogawa Rampo translated into English.  One of his collections of short stories have been in print for so many years - yet waiting for another title seemed endless.  Now we have at least three other books by Rampo, and I bought them all this year.

"The Edogawa Rampo Reader" is a much needed over-all look of his career.  The first half of this book is short stories and the second half are essays -mostly regarding the nature of the 'detective' story.  i only found one essay the most interesting and that's "The Horror Of Films" dealing with the nature and history of cinema.  It's a great piece on what was then a new medium.  He wrote it in 1926, and for a short essay it covers a lot of ground.  Basically all to do with being the viewer.

The short stories are all in the creepy mode that I love about Rampo's work.  It includes the story about a man who spends a lot of time in the attic where he spies on people down below, and also commits a murder.  The long introduction by Seth Jacobowitz is pretty perfect in capturing what is so essential about Rampo, his times, and the work itself.   A remarkable writer.

“

Irked Goldman Sachs brass recently confronted Bloomberg LP over concerns reporters at the business news service have been using the company’s ubiquitous terminals to keep tabs on some employees of the Wall Street bank, The Post has learned.

The ability to snoop on Bloomberg terminal users came to light recently when Goldman officials learned that at least one reporter at the news service had access to a wide array of information about customer usage, sources said.

In one instance, a Bloomberg reporter asked a Goldman executive if a partner at the bank had recently left the firm — noting casually that he hadn’t logged into his Bloomberg terminal in some time, sources added.

Goldman later learned that Bloomberg staffers could determine not only which of its employees had logged into Bloomberg’s proprietary terminals but how many times they had used particular functions, insiders said.

”

- Goldman outs Bloomberg snoops - NYPOST.com

Men and women born from 1755-64 were in their teens and 20s during the Seventeen-Seventies (1775–84, not to be confused with the 1770s), and in their 20s and 30s during the Seventeen-Eighties (1785–94, not to be confused with the 1780s).

The Perfectibilists are a transitional generation which made its mark at the tail end of the Age of Enlightenment, which petered out, along with the promise of the French Revolution, sometime in the Seventeen-Nineties (1795–1804). Their immediate juniors are the first generation of the Romantic Age; there is a certain proto-Romanticism to be detected within this generation. Because of their Enlightenment brand of utopianism, which aimed at perfection in the spheres of politics, society, and economics, I’ve named the 1755–64 cohort — whose number includes Henri de Saint-Simon, Johann Gottlieb Fichte, Mary Wollstonecraft, Maximilien Robespierre, William Blake, and William Godwin, not to mention Mozart — the Perfectibilists.

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A reminder of my 250-year generational periodization scheme:

1755-64: [Republican Generation] Perfectibilists
1765-74: [Republican, Compromise Generations] Original Romantics
1775-84: [Compromise Generation] Ironic Idealists
1785-94: [Compromise, Transcendental Generations] Original Prometheans
1795-1804: [Transcendental Generation] Monomaniacs
1805-14: [Transcendental Generation] Autotelics
1815-24: [Transcendental, Gilded Generations] Retrogressivists
1825-33: [Gilded Generation] Post-Romantics
1834-43: [Gilded Generation] Original Decadents
1844-53: [Progressive Generation] New Prometheans
1854-63: [Progressive, Missionary Generations] Plutonians
1864-73: [Missionary Generation] Anarcho-Symbolists
1874-83: [Missionary Generation] Psychonauts
1884-93: [Lost Generation] Modernists
1894-1903: [Lost, Greatest/GI Generations] Hardboileds
1904-13: [Greatest/GI Generation] Partisans
1914-23: [Greatest/GI Generation] New Gods
1924-33: [Silent Generation] Postmodernists
1934-43: [Silent Generation] Anti-Anti-Utopians
1944-53: [Boomers] Blank Generation
1954-63: [Boomers] OGXers
1964-73: [Generation X, Thirteenth Generation] Reconstructionists
1974-82: [Generations X, Y] Revivalists
1983-92: [Millennial Generation] Social Darwikians
1993-2002: [Millennial Generation] TBA

LEARN MORE about this periodization scheme | READ ALL generational articles on HiLobrow.

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PHILOSOPHICAL IDEALISM: Johann Gottlieb Fichte (born 1762), Gottlob Ernst Schulze (1761), and Karl Leonhard Reinhold (1757) were major contributors to German philosophical idealism, a movement — spearheaded by theology students — who worried that Kant’s rigorous and systematic separation of “things in themselves” and things “as they appear to us” might be an invitation to a corrosive skepticism. The question of what properties a thing might have independently of the mind (in some supra-sensible reality beyond the categories of human reason) was, for the Idealists, an incoherent question; things do not possess properties “in themselves” — rather, the properties we discover in objects depend on the way that those objects appear to us as perceiving subjects. Fichte, for example, rejected the assumption of anything that was not through and through merely our representation; the knowing subject is the cause of the external thing — it produces everything from its own resources.

“UTOPIAN” SOCIALISM: Henri de Saint-Simon (born 1760) was an early socialist theorist whose thought influenced the foundations of Marxism, positivism, and the discipline of sociology. He wanted to expand the principles of the French revolution in order to create a more “rational” society and economic system. Although dismissively labeled a “utopian” socialist by Marx and Engels, he was a strong supporter of the scientific method and advocated an arrangement where industrialists would found a national community based on cooperation and technological progress.

FEMINISM: Writer and philosopher Mary Wollstonecraft (born 1759), rejected the assumption that women were naturally inferior to men (less rational, less moral), attacked gender oppression, pressed for equal educational opportunities, and demanded “rights to humanity” for all in her 1792 treatise A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. She married the philosopher William Godwin, one of the forefathers of the anarchist movement; her daughter is Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, later Mary Shelley.

ANARCHISM: Considered the first modern proponent of anarchism, William Godwin (born 1756, married to Mary Wollstonecraft) adopted the principles of the Encyclopaedists; his own aim was the nonviolent overthrow of all existing institutions, political, social and religious. In 1793, Godwin published his influential book Enquiry concerning Political Justice, and its Influence on General Virtue and Happiness, which set forth an anarchist critique of the state and also a positive vision of how an anarchist (or minarchist) society might work.

REPUBLICANISM: Maximilien Robespierre (born 1758) was an eloquent spokesman for the poor and oppressed, an enemy of royalist intrigues, a vigilant adversary of dishonest and corrupt politicians, a guardian of the French Republic, an intrepid leader of the French Revolutionary government, and a prophet of a socially responsible state; he was also a murderous dictator. He sought to create the utopia described by his hero Rousseau, championing liberty, equality, and fraternity even if tens of thousands of his countrymen died. Jacques René Hébert (born 1757) was founder and editor of the extreme radical newspaper Le Père Duchesne during the French Revolution. Georges Jacques Danton (born 1759) was a leading figure in the early stages of the French Revolution and the first President of the Committee of Public Safety. He was guillotined by Robespierre and other advocates of revolutionary terror.

***

Meet the Perfectibilists.

HONORARY PERFECTIBILISTS (born 1754): Charles Maurice de Talleyrand (preeminent French diplomat; he betrayed in turn, the Ancien Régime, the French Revolution, Napoleon, and the Restoration); businessman, author, and diplomat Gilbert Imlay.

1755: Franz Xavier “Cato” Zwack (second-in-command of the Illuminati), Alexander Hamilton (first U.S. Secretary of the Treasury, primary author of The Federalist Papers), Christian Heinrich Spiess (wrote novels in the Schauerroman genre — parallel to the English Gothic novel), Nathan Hale (American Revolutionary War captain, writer and patriot), Antoine François Fourcroy (French chemist), Stephen Groombridge (astronomer), Samuel Hahnemann (founder of homeopathy), James Parkinson (Doctor, Essay on the Shaking Palsy), Gilbert Stuart (American portrait painter). HONORARY MEMBERS OF PRECEDING GENERATION: Marie Antoinette (French royalty), Louis XVIII (King of France, 1814-15 & 1815-24).

1756: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (preeminent composer, noted for large structural harmonic planning), William Godwin (anarchist philosopher, An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice; also wrote Caleb Williams, which is considered one of the first detective novels; mentor to William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Percy Bysshe Shelley — until Shelley eloped with his daughter Mary), Aaron Burr (Vice President of the United States), John Loudon McAdam (invented macadam method of roads), John Trumbull (American Revolutionary painter), Maximilian I Joseph of Bavaria, Pierre Laromiguière, French philosopher.

1757: William Blake (proto-Romantic poet and artist), Charles X (King of France, 1824-30), Alexander Hamilton (primary author of The Federalist Papers), Karl Leonhard Reinhold (Austrian philosopher, pioneer of German idealism), Jacques René Hébert (revolutionary of the Paris Commune), Marquis de Lafayette (French revolutionary in America), Charles Pinckney (author of much of the US Constitution), George Vancouver (surveyed the West coast of America), Benjamin Pierce (American politician).

1758: Maximilien Robespierre (French revolutionary, presided over the Reign of Terror), Noah Webster (lexicographer, Webster’s Dictionary), James Monroe (5th President of the U.S.), Lord Nelson (most celebrated British admiral), Jean-Jacques Dessalines (leader of the Haïtian Revolution), Franz Joseph Gall (invented phrenology), Kamehameha I (established Kingdom of Hawaii), Franz Joseph Gall (German pioneering neuroanatomist), Pierre Paul Prud’hon (French painter), André Masséna (Napoleonic general and Marshal of France), Elizabeth Hamilton (English writer), Emperor Go-Momozono.

1759: Mary Wollstonecraft (feminist author, Vindication of the Rights of Women; mother of Mary Shelley), Robert Burns (most beloved Scottish poet), Georges Jacques Danton (key figure in French Revolution), William Pitt the Younger (UK Prime Minister), Friedrich von Schiller (German playwright; wrote novels in the Schauerroman genre — parallel to the English Gothic novel), William Wilberforce (British abolitionist), Friedrich August Wolf (German philologist and archaeologist), William Wyndham Grenville (UK Prime Minister).

1760: Henri de Saint-Simon (utopian socialist), Richard Allen (founder, African Episcopal Methodist Church), Camille Desmoulins (author, touched off the French Revolution), Hokusai (artist, Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji), Pope Leo XII, François Nicolas Leonard Buzot (French Revolutionary leader), Deborah Sampson (first American female soldier).

1761: Pope Pius VIII, Gottlob Ernst Schulze (pioneering German idealist philosopher, taught Schopenhauer; his most influential book was Aenesidemus, a skeptical polemic against Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason), Henry Shrapnel (invented explosive artillery shell), Madame Tussaud (wax sculptor), François Guillaume Ducray-Duminil (wrote in the roman noir genre — parallel to the English Gothic novel).

1762: Johann Gottlieb Fichte (German theologian, philosopher, biblical scholar; pioneer of German idealism; anti-Semite; inspired the field of hermeneutics; rejected supernatural element in religion; an early leader in liberal Christianity; a father of German nationalism; Isaiah Berlin claimed that Fichte was one of “Six Enemies of Human Liberty”; Critique of Revelation), King George IV (King of England).

1763: Theobald Wolfe Tone (Irish patriot), John Jacob Astor (wealthiest man in America), Charles Bulfinch (architect of the U.S. Capitol), Josephine (Empress of France), Nicolas-Louis Vauquelin (French chemist, discovered beryllium and chromium), William Cobbett (English pamphleteer, farmer and journalist, successfully publicized the radical movement which led to the Reform Bill of 1832, known for his opposition to authority), Jean Paul (German writer), John Molson (Canadian entrepreneur).

1764: Ann Radcliffe (author of three famous gothic horror novels, said to be much better than those by her imitators: The Romance of the Forest, The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Italian; she developed the technique of the “explained supernatural” and introduced the brooding Gothic villain — Byronic avant l’homme), Fletcher Christian (led the mutiny on the Bounty). HONORARY ORIGINAL ROMANTICS (born 1764): Dorothea von Schlegel (German novelist, important figure in early German romanticism; oldest daughter of the philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, the greatest Jewish philosopher of the Enlightenment; left her husband for Friedrich von Schlegel; hosted a salon frequented by Tieck, Schelling, the Schlegel brothers, and Novalis; contributed to the Schlegels’ journal Athenäum; friend of Germaine de Staël)

HONORARY PERFECTIBILISTS (born 1765): Eli Whitney (deemed the “father of American technology,” for two innovations: the cotton gin, one of the most important technologies of the Industrial Revolution, and the idea of using interchangeable parts — the beginning of what would become known as the “American system” of mass production), Robert Fulton (artist-turned-technologist, he took steamboat inventions and innovated them into the first viable commercial steamboat service; his genius lay not in invention but in adaptation for the marketplace; steamboat travel was instrumental to the industrial revolution in America, helping manufacturers transport raw materials and finished goods quickly; it also opened up the American continent to exploration, settlement, and exploitation).