Joe Haldeman's Blog, page 55
October 3, 2011
When memes collide
[Responding to DAve on Sff.net] Dave, I think most of the people at the conference would agree that building a machine that could deliver a group of humans to another star system is just an engineering problem, which can be solved with will and time and money. Most would concede that the social and philosophical problems presented by the voyage are at least as profound, and perhaps less amenable to solution. Certainly less amenable to a simple unambiguous approach.
Building the machine itself would present a huge sociological problem. The magnitude of the problem is on the order of "All the work done by all the people on the planet for one year." Try to get eight or ten billion people to agree to do that.
I suppose it would take a generation or so to prepare a population for that year of work, as well.
No wonder the concept has fueled several sf novels. As a ten-year-old I was thrilled by J.T. McIntosh's One in Three Hundred and Philip Wyle's When Worlds Collide, book and movie. (Spielberg is doing a new version in 2012.) I've used the trope myself in a couple of stories.
Good to be back in Cambridge, though one could wish it were not so drippy. Ah well. Up with the umbrella and over the bridge.
Joe
Building the machine itself would present a huge sociological problem. The magnitude of the problem is on the order of "All the work done by all the people on the planet for one year." Try to get eight or ten billion people to agree to do that.
I suppose it would take a generation or so to prepare a population for that year of work, as well.
No wonder the concept has fueled several sf novels. As a ten-year-old I was thrilled by J.T. McIntosh's One in Three Hundred and Philip Wyle's When Worlds Collide, book and movie. (Spielberg is doing a new version in 2012.) I've used the trope myself in a couple of stories.
Good to be back in Cambridge, though one could wish it were not so drippy. Ah well. Up with the umbrella and over the bridge.
Joe
September 27, 2011
Alexander's Ragtime Band
Walking to school this morning, the headphones played "Alexander's Ragtime Band," Guy Van Duser's excellent version with Billy Novack. It gave me a strange rush of -- what? -- referred nostalgia. It was my father's favorite song, bar none, and when I was in grade school, practicing the clarinet, he would embarrass me hugely by grabbing the horn and trying to play that old song. Which came out all squeaky -- you have to stay in practice to keep your "lip," embouchure -- and tainted my reed with the flavor of bourbon.
I would give a lot to hear and taste that again, of course.
The song had special meaning to him. When he was a surgical resident -- "resident" would be in quotes, because his office was all over the territory of Alaska -- he would go out to remote Eskimo villages to do emergency surgery under marginal conditions, and flying out with the bush pilots in those sputtery accident-prone Piper Cubs, he could hear that favorite song in the drone of the propellors' wash, and it would help keep him calm.
I tried to hear it in helicopters' roar forty years later, but couldn't. Maybe the occasional crackle of gunfire was too distracting.
My dad was a quiet private man, who didn't leave me a wealth of memories. It's good to have that, though.
Joe
I would give a lot to hear and taste that again, of course.
The song had special meaning to him. When he was a surgical resident -- "resident" would be in quotes, because his office was all over the territory of Alaska -- he would go out to remote Eskimo villages to do emergency surgery under marginal conditions, and flying out with the bush pilots in those sputtery accident-prone Piper Cubs, he could hear that favorite song in the drone of the propellors' wash, and it would help keep him calm.
I tried to hear it in helicopters' roar forty years later, but couldn't. Maybe the occasional crackle of gunfire was too distracting.
My dad was a quiet private man, who didn't leave me a wealth of memories. It's good to have that, though.
Joe
September 25, 2011
Oops . . . correction
Oops . . . I need to keep a calendar on the wall in front of me . . . in fact, I won't be able to go to Ricky's funeral, because I'm already committed to being in Orlando for a "100-year starship" seminar. I think he would approve of the size of the ambition.
Joe
Joe
eulogy for Ottone Riccio
Going to a funeral service Thursday for my old friend and mentor Ottone "Ricky" Riccio. Wrote this --
Like many of us, I first knew Ricky through his writing – in the beginning was the word – and then as a student, and then as a friend. Most of his students were his friends soon enough.
I had stopped writing poetry as a conscious decision in 1970, when I started writing fiction for a living, unwilling to serve two masters. But about ten years later I picked up Ricky's Intimate Art, because it looked so interesting, and his generous enthusiasm drew me back into poetry.
In 1983 I moved to Cambridge to teach at MIT, and while I was killing time in a coffee house, ran across a listing for Ricky's class. I walked in the next day, unannounced and late, and by the weirdest of coincidences they happened to be studying one of my poems.
Ricky didn't think that was odd at all. He believed that there were mysterious forces at work in all our lives, and we don't have to understand them to benefit from them.
I'm a skeptical scientist by training and nature, but I didn't really disagree with him, and still don't. Just because we can't put a name to something doesn't mean it isn't real.
What name would you put to the thing that Ricky did? He was a public poet, and a teacher – but that simple word doesn't well describe what he did so well. If poetry was an intimate art to him, so was teaching, and anyone who sat down in a classroom with him was accepted as a confidante, a potential fellow rebel, but not one without a cause.
There's no simple word for that cause, but everyone who knew him knew what a broad net he cast. Humanism and forbearance were there, but outrage was there, too, and an unwillingness to suffer fools. He didn't mind people who were ignorant – he would be with Will Rogers on that; "we're all ignorant, only on different subjects" – but he had no patience for people who did know better, but acted worse. He didn't praise many politicians – or any bankers.
(Actually, he probably would praise a banker if the banker had room in his heart for poetry. He loved the paradox of Wallace Stevens, the insurance salesman who wrote quiet meditative poems.)
For half a century, Ricky tried to help people find their individual voices through poetry, and he had dozens, maybe hundreds of successes in that endeavor. The world is a smaller and much less generous place without him.
Joe
Like many of us, I first knew Ricky through his writing – in the beginning was the word – and then as a student, and then as a friend. Most of his students were his friends soon enough.
I had stopped writing poetry as a conscious decision in 1970, when I started writing fiction for a living, unwilling to serve two masters. But about ten years later I picked up Ricky's Intimate Art, because it looked so interesting, and his generous enthusiasm drew me back into poetry.
In 1983 I moved to Cambridge to teach at MIT, and while I was killing time in a coffee house, ran across a listing for Ricky's class. I walked in the next day, unannounced and late, and by the weirdest of coincidences they happened to be studying one of my poems.
Ricky didn't think that was odd at all. He believed that there were mysterious forces at work in all our lives, and we don't have to understand them to benefit from them.
I'm a skeptical scientist by training and nature, but I didn't really disagree with him, and still don't. Just because we can't put a name to something doesn't mean it isn't real.
What name would you put to the thing that Ricky did? He was a public poet, and a teacher – but that simple word doesn't well describe what he did so well. If poetry was an intimate art to him, so was teaching, and anyone who sat down in a classroom with him was accepted as a confidante, a potential fellow rebel, but not one without a cause.
There's no simple word for that cause, but everyone who knew him knew what a broad net he cast. Humanism and forbearance were there, but outrage was there, too, and an unwillingness to suffer fools. He didn't mind people who were ignorant – he would be with Will Rogers on that; "we're all ignorant, only on different subjects" – but he had no patience for people who did know better, but acted worse. He didn't praise many politicians – or any bankers.
(Actually, he probably would praise a banker if the banker had room in his heart for poetry. He loved the paradox of Wallace Stevens, the insurance salesman who wrote quiet meditative poems.)
For half a century, Ricky tried to help people find their individual voices through poetry, and he had dozens, maybe hundreds of successes in that endeavor. The world is a smaller and much less generous place without him.
Joe
September 18, 2011
Conan D. Barbarian's nephew
From Gardner Dozois --
From Gardner Dozois –
Trinity College Dublin has said it is taking seriously an incident in which a profile page, complete with image, was inserted on its website for a fake staff member named 'Dr Conan T. Barbarian'.
His full title and academic qualifications were given as: "Dr Conan T. Barbarian, B.A.(Cimmeria) Ph.D. (UCD). F.T.C.D. (Long Room Hub Associate Professor in Hyborian Studies and Tyrant Slaying)."
His profile indicated he had been "ripped from his mother's womb on the corpse-strewn battlefields of his war-torn homeland, Cimmeria, and has been preparing for academic life ever since".
"A firm believer in the dictum that 'that which does not kill us makes us stronger,' he took time out to avenge the death of his parents following a sojourn pursuing his strong interest in Post-Colonial theory at the Sorbonne."
The profile went on to say Dr Barbarian completed his PhD, entitled 'To Hear The Lamentation of Their Women: Constructions of Masculinity in Contemporary Zamoran Literature' at UCD and was appointed to the School of English in 2006, "after sucessfully decapitating his predecessor during a bloody battle which will long be remembered in legend and song".
From Gardner Dozois –
Trinity College Dublin has said it is taking seriously an incident in which a profile page, complete with image, was inserted on its website for a fake staff member named 'Dr Conan T. Barbarian'.
His full title and academic qualifications were given as: "Dr Conan T. Barbarian, B.A.(Cimmeria) Ph.D. (UCD). F.T.C.D. (Long Room Hub Associate Professor in Hyborian Studies and Tyrant Slaying)."
His profile indicated he had been "ripped from his mother's womb on the corpse-strewn battlefields of his war-torn homeland, Cimmeria, and has been preparing for academic life ever since".
"A firm believer in the dictum that 'that which does not kill us makes us stronger,' he took time out to avenge the death of his parents following a sojourn pursuing his strong interest in Post-Colonial theory at the Sorbonne."
The profile went on to say Dr Barbarian completed his PhD, entitled 'To Hear The Lamentation of Their Women: Constructions of Masculinity in Contemporary Zamoran Literature' at UCD and was appointed to the School of English in 2006, "after sucessfully decapitating his predecessor during a bloody battle which will long be remembered in legend and song".
September 17, 2011
more hot jets!
The con committee took its guests (and their loyal consorts) to the Huntsville Space Museum -- and it was definitely worth a couple of hours. Not so much new information, since I do know all that stuff, but as an emotional experience. Just to be in the physical presence of those huge historic beasts. The small ones, too – when I was a kid, the captured German V-2s and little WAC Corporals were the only things that went into space . . . and not very far, compared to now, but still space to dream in.
There's a certain amount of hagiography of Wernher von Braun, as there is in Florida and Houston. It's kind of amusing – he was such a useful addition to American history that we sort of forget how useful he was to German history. If Hitler had won, von Braun might still have sent men to the lunar surface by 1969, but it wouldn't have been the stars 'n' stripes they planted there.
And in a hundred or a thousand or a million years, what difference will it make? "That's not my department," says Wernher von Braun, and in a cosmic sense that was true. Once the rockets go up, who cares where they come down? And now a few of them are staying up.
Joe
There's a certain amount of hagiography of Wernher von Braun, as there is in Florida and Houston. It's kind of amusing – he was such a useful addition to American history that we sort of forget how useful he was to German history. If Hitler had won, von Braun might still have sent men to the lunar surface by 1969, but it wouldn't have been the stars 'n' stripes they planted there.
And in a hundred or a thousand or a million years, what difference will it make? "That's not my department," says Wernher von Braun, and in a cosmic sense that was true. Once the rockets go up, who cares where they come down? And now a few of them are staying up.
Joe
September 16, 2011
Hot jets!
I find myself in Huntsville, Alabama, a little bewildered. Why is it cold in Alabama while it's hot in Boston? I packed for sultry. I should not be so de-sultory in packing.
The convention organizers took us to a steak house for dinner last night. It was about as loud and confused as you might imagine, with twenty people competing with sports on television (yes, Dave, the mutant channel). I sat across from Gene Wolfe, who as always was a delight, though it would have been more delightful to dine with him alone . . . .
(And people would say "There has not been such a concentration of intellect in this steak house since Gene Wolfe dined here alone.")
It is kind of odd to be at a science fiction convention and not be the guest of honor – Gay is Fan GoH here at Con*Stellation, and I merely the royal consort. My considerable ego can take it.
I sort of slept in, till seven, and so haven't gotten any work done. Well, I did get some MIT work done last night before retiring, sorting through various parameters to determine which 18 of the thirty applicants to SF Writing would make the cut.
(The first year I was here I made up an essay test, so I could hand-pick the people for the class. Turns out there is an MIT policy against that kind of elitism. It has to be a random choice [after seniors are accepted]. I believe that's an excessive and inappropriate application of democracy. But understand that at bottom, MIT is a corporation, and at bottom a corporation covers its ass.)
Off to the Huntsville rocket museum! Hot jets!
Joe
The convention organizers took us to a steak house for dinner last night. It was about as loud and confused as you might imagine, with twenty people competing with sports on television (yes, Dave, the mutant channel). I sat across from Gene Wolfe, who as always was a delight, though it would have been more delightful to dine with him alone . . . .
(And people would say "There has not been such a concentration of intellect in this steak house since Gene Wolfe dined here alone.")
It is kind of odd to be at a science fiction convention and not be the guest of honor – Gay is Fan GoH here at Con*Stellation, and I merely the royal consort. My considerable ego can take it.
I sort of slept in, till seven, and so haven't gotten any work done. Well, I did get some MIT work done last night before retiring, sorting through various parameters to determine which 18 of the thirty applicants to SF Writing would make the cut.
(The first year I was here I made up an essay test, so I could hand-pick the people for the class. Turns out there is an MIT policy against that kind of elitism. It has to be a random choice [after seniors are accepted]. I believe that's an excessive and inappropriate application of democracy. But understand that at bottom, MIT is a corporation, and at bottom a corporation covers its ass.)
Off to the Huntsville rocket museum! Hot jets!
Joe
September 13, 2011
handwriting
Dave, I once was introduced to a guy whose profession was psychoanalysis through handwriting analysis and modification – he supposedly could cure your psychological ills by modifying your handwriting. He reeked of fraud, but maybe not all such specialists do.
(And maybe he did do some good. Psycho-whatevers can effect cures by doing anything or nothing while the patient changes himself. Not all faith healing is religious.)
My own handwriting is relatively precise and clear, and has been since I was about 25. As I've certainly related here before, my handwriting was changed radically by one guy, the sf artist Jack Gaughan. He introduced me to the italic fountain pen. You can't write sloppily with it; you'll just tear up the paper. And once the pen has changed your handwriting, it's still changed even without the italic nib. (Though my handwriting still goes to scrawl with a ballpoint. I never use one.)
I don't think changing my handwriting from illegible to artistic changed my personality. But would I know? That's about the time my ambitions shifted from scientific to literary, so maybe there was an effect. (Or maybe the cause-and-effect went the other way. An italic nib robbed the world of a mediocre scientist and gave it a science fiction writer.)
First day of class for Science Fiction Writing today. It's pretty crowded.
Joe
(And maybe he did do some good. Psycho-whatevers can effect cures by doing anything or nothing while the patient changes himself. Not all faith healing is religious.)
My own handwriting is relatively precise and clear, and has been since I was about 25. As I've certainly related here before, my handwriting was changed radically by one guy, the sf artist Jack Gaughan. He introduced me to the italic fountain pen. You can't write sloppily with it; you'll just tear up the paper. And once the pen has changed your handwriting, it's still changed even without the italic nib. (Though my handwriting still goes to scrawl with a ballpoint. I never use one.)
I don't think changing my handwriting from illegible to artistic changed my personality. But would I know? That's about the time my ambitions shifted from scientific to literary, so maybe there was an effect. (Or maybe the cause-and-effect went the other way. An italic nib robbed the world of a mediocre scientist and gave it a science fiction writer.)
First day of class for Science Fiction Writing today. It's pretty crowded.
Joe
Apples aren't always computers
Sunday we rented a car and went to Robert Weiner's place for the annual apple-picking orgy. It was fun, even though I wasn't too high-energy. We managed to pick about four bags of apples and squeeze a gallon or so of cider. Should get us through the fall. In LJ, I'll post a couple of pictures from my iPhone – they're not great; I'm about to replace it.
(I did catch a dragonfly in the second one.)
We went over to Antony Donovan and Jag's, also in New Hampshire, on the way (less than ten miles from Robert's) and then followed them to the apple place; they knew a nice back-roads way there.
I didn't get the usual tour of Robert's art collection, since we were late showing up. I got right to work on the grill, hungrily, doing burgers and hot dogs. Not a lot of work; there were only about ten of us.
Joe
(I did catch a dragonfly in the second one.)
We went over to Antony Donovan and Jag's, also in New Hampshire, on the way (less than ten miles from Robert's) and then followed them to the apple place; they knew a nice back-roads way there.
I didn't get the usual tour of Robert's art collection, since we were late showing up. I got right to work on the grill, hungrily, doing burgers and hot dogs. Not a lot of work; there were only about ten of us.
Joe
September 11, 2011
Nine eleven and all that
(In sff.net, talking about photographs and memories...)
Dave, in a corner of a bookcase in my office in Florida is a stack of photographs from Vietnam, along with my Bowie knife and dogtags and the wallet and notebook I carried there, impregnated with laterite grime.
All except the dogtags. I had a young guest once who was high on speed and went on a cleaning frenzy, and he scrubbed the past off my dogtags. It's hard to explain the sadness I felt when he proudly showed me the gleaming evidence of his labors.
Well, he's buried out back. No problems.
Pleasant day yesterday. Got a good morning's writing done, and then we took the T out to Arlington, to the apartment we stayed in the past five years, and picked up our bikes. Rode back through Somerville to Kendall Square. Left the bikes in my office at MIT and spent a pleasant couple of hours wandering through the Kendall Fair, eating junkish food and enjoying the crowd. A lot of locals dressed up like the Mardi Gras partiers in Treme. Wrong season, but I guess when you've shelled out hundreds for a fancy costume, you want to wear it.
Came back and relaxed over dinner, and then back on the T to roll into Central Square. Jon Monsarrat scored us free tickets to the Hound of the Baskervilles comedy at the Central Square Theater. It was pretty broad slapstick with a few literary jokes, and fun. Three actors playing sixteen roles on minimal sets.
Ten years ago today, I was working on my novel _Listen to the Raven_ and Gay said there was something on the radio about a plane hitting a building. I turned on the television just in time to see the second plane strike. I remember thinking it was like being present at Pearl Harbor.
Of course it was something more complex. A turning point, but in more dimensions than a point can express.
Joe
Dave, in a corner of a bookcase in my office in Florida is a stack of photographs from Vietnam, along with my Bowie knife and dogtags and the wallet and notebook I carried there, impregnated with laterite grime.
All except the dogtags. I had a young guest once who was high on speed and went on a cleaning frenzy, and he scrubbed the past off my dogtags. It's hard to explain the sadness I felt when he proudly showed me the gleaming evidence of his labors.
Well, he's buried out back. No problems.
Pleasant day yesterday. Got a good morning's writing done, and then we took the T out to Arlington, to the apartment we stayed in the past five years, and picked up our bikes. Rode back through Somerville to Kendall Square. Left the bikes in my office at MIT and spent a pleasant couple of hours wandering through the Kendall Fair, eating junkish food and enjoying the crowd. A lot of locals dressed up like the Mardi Gras partiers in Treme. Wrong season, but I guess when you've shelled out hundreds for a fancy costume, you want to wear it.
Came back and relaxed over dinner, and then back on the T to roll into Central Square. Jon Monsarrat scored us free tickets to the Hound of the Baskervilles comedy at the Central Square Theater. It was pretty broad slapstick with a few literary jokes, and fun. Three actors playing sixteen roles on minimal sets.
Ten years ago today, I was working on my novel _Listen to the Raven_ and Gay said there was something on the radio about a plane hitting a building. I turned on the television just in time to see the second plane strike. I remember thinking it was like being present at Pearl Harbor.
Of course it was something more complex. A turning point, but in more dimensions than a point can express.
Joe
Joe Haldeman's Blog
- Joe Haldeman's profile
- 2191 followers
Joe Haldeman isn't a Goodreads Author
(yet),
but they
do have a blog,
so here are some recent posts imported from
their feed.
