Sunday, 18 July 2010

A Canticle for Leibowitz

by Walter M. Miller.

This novel from 1959 is a classic, post nuclear holocaust view of the future.


SF writers, have course, had been on to the possibilities of nuclear weapons long before the mainstream got near them. In the book, Doomsday Men, P.D. Smith recounts how the famed ‘pulp’ magazine Astounding Science Fiction had security experts at the Los Alamos atomic bomb project in an absolute uproar over some of the science fiction that Astounding was publishing while the atomic bomb project was still underway, and top secret. Robert Heinlein’s, Solution Unsatisfactory being one of them. This story features using radioactive dust as the primary weapon rather than a nuclear bomb. But at the time it appeared the use of dispersed radioactive materials, as a weapon, was being seriously considered by the allied military powers.

Such stories were a far cry from the Utopian visions of earlier science fiction. And the view of the future got darker still and by 1946. Churchill, at times not mean clairvoyant said of nuclear weapons, “The Dark Ages may return—the Stone Age may return on the gleaming wings of Science.”

This, of course, is the future that Miller is writing about in Canticle. 600 years after the nuclear war that has destroyed mid 20th Century civilisation a religious order have attempted to preserve some of the old knowledge describe the war thus:

“It was said that God, in order to test mankind which had become swelled with pride as in the time of Noah, had commanded the wise men of that age, amongst them the Blessed Leibowitz, to devise great engines such as had never before been upon the Earth, weapons of such might that they contained the very fires of hell, and that God had suffered these Magi to place the weapons in the hands of princes, and to say to each prince: ‘Only because thine enemies have such a thing have we devised this for thee, in order that they may know thou hast it also, and fear to strike.”

“But the princes, putting the words of the wise men to naught, thought each to himself: ‘If I but strike quickly enough, and in secret, I shall destroy those others in their sleep, and there shall be none to fight back; the earth shall be mine.’

“Such was the folly of princes, and there followed the Flame Deluge...”

At the time, all the powers who could afford it were spending immense amounts on nuclear weapons. Once the first prince got them the other nations, now knowing what could be done, and what its destructive powers actually were, spared no expense. Even Churchill seems to have been unable to grasp just how powerful nuclear weapons would become. “Although personally I am quite content with existing explosives, I feel we must not stand in the path of improvement.”

Small wonder then, that the man in the street had no real concept of what was possible. The 1950s was a time when governments, now no longer able to justify having the ultimate weapon, had to perpetrate the myth that nuclear wars would be survivable. The famous Duck and Cover public information ads were part of this propaganda.


In part one of the book, 600 years after the war, all grasp of 20th century science has been lost. Any fragments of knowledge found are preserved as Holy Relics.
Francis, a novice monk, has discovered an ancient circuit diagram of some trivial electronic sub-system. He is copying it, in fact making a beautiful, illuminated version of it, in his spare time.
He is being mocked by a colleague who asks him what the diagram depicts.
Francis, who has no clue, ventures the following,
“..perhaps it does depict an object but only in a very formal stylistic way.....there was once an Art or Science called electronics (Francis goes on to explain) and the subject matter of electronics was the electron.”
“What pray was the electron?”
“Well, there is one fragmentary source which alludes to it as a ‘Negative Twist of Nothingness.”

Later, the post nuclear holocaust vision became a sub-genre all of its own and numerous memorable stories have been written about it. Miller’s novel, after an initial frosty reception from the mainstream, eventually got the recognition it deserved.
Time finally said of it "an extraordinary novel even by literary standards, which has flourished by word of mouth for a dozen years." Other attempts by popular mainstream writers such as Nevil Shute, with ‘On the Beach’ seem pedestrian by comparison.

The SF boys, who’d been first on the scene with the news continued to be up there, telling the public how things might really pan out.
As Ray Bradbury put it, “It isn’t my goal (as a science fiction writer) to predict the future, but to prevent it.” Miller, in this wonderful novel, had the same goal in mind, and he succeeds totally.

----------------------------------------------
PS Earlier predictions from Churchill.
"May there not be methods of using explosive energy incomparably more intense than anything heretofore discovered? Might not a bomb no bigger than an orange be found to possess a secret power to destroy a whole block of buildings—nay, to concentrate the force of a thousand tons of cordite and blast a township at a stroke? Could not explosives even of the existing type be guided automatically in flying machines by wireless or other rays, without a human pilot, in ceaseless procession upon a hostile city, arsenal, camp or dockyard?

— Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill  'Shall We All Commit Suicide?'. Pall Mall (Sep 1924).

Tuesday, 13 July 2010

Goodbye Rooner

Yesterday was the day I last did something for my cat. I went to the vet to pay the bill which included the shot that finally put her to sleep. This being Germany things didn’t go quite as expected. Over the years I’ve said goodbye to many animals. In England, USA and now here. Always, in the past, I’ve been given a little box of ashes which have eventually been spread on the ground where the departed pet spent most of its time.

Not so with Rooner. She’s been mainly confined to my apartment for most of the five years I’ve lived in Germany. When I moved here, expecting Gina to come with me, I brought her cat Pookie. Rooner came along later. She’d been living in turn with my ex, Cathy and then with my daughter Robyn. Rooner wasn’t happy with either of them. At last she had to come to Germany too.

My friend Lizzi brought her out here and Pookie and Rooner then had to try and make a go of it together. It was not a really good arrangement and I tried to have Rooner adopted by Keith and Yvonne but she never really settled with them either. Eventually Pookie went back to England, to Gina, and finally Rooner came back to me.

Rooner was a very beautiful cat, but with rather bad manners. She had a habit of waking me in the early hours of the morning, sometimes by sneezing on my face. Always very early, about the time when one of the neighbourhood cats commenced caterwauling. Often it would be 5:00am and I’d never get back to sleep. In a way it was Rooner who got me started writing. She’d wake me and I’d start to write a few bits. Perhaps, because my dreams had been curtailed by Rooner, I’d try and write them down before they melted completly away.

Rooner had a fine time when my apartment balcony was being rebuilt. For a while she’d have the luxury of climbing in and out of the apartment whenever she wanted. This was probably her best time of all in Germany.

Rooner was, we think, almost 16 years old. She’d been my daughter's cat and she had christened her Roo because of an early predisposing to kick with her back legs when play fighting. When we lived in Crawley she had easy access to the street with a cat flap. Later, in Germany, she would only occasionally venture out and sometimes end up spending all day locked out. My neighbour Jens would leave her some milk until I got home.

For a long time Rooner was a strong, healthy cat. The only thing she craved, and I fear I never gave her enough of, was attention. She would love to come and sit on my lap or my chest. She would often perch on the chair arm behind me and gently tap my head.

Last year, starting in August, I had many trips abroad. My landlady Frau Reich would pop in once a day and feed her. Sometimes I’d be away for a week or more and on one of the trips in November Jens called me to say that Roo was sick, should she go to the vet? Naturally I gave the go ahead and they gave her a full check up and really found nothing.

Later it transpired that she had worms and she seemed to do better after worming and the removal of some bad teeth. Shortly after that she developed an abscess near where the teeth had been taken. The abscess was treated but then her left eye started closing up. The eye too was damaged and had to be removed. At this point I was offered to choice of having her put to sleep. Although the eye could be removed it would be expensive. I didn’t question the cost but what I hadn’t thought about was how much pain the operation would cause her.

They kept her in two days longer than I expected and when I took her home I was appalled by how weak and helpless she seemed. I thought then that it had been a terrible mistake. I wrapped her in a towel, soon to be soaked in blood, and held her.

By morning she seemed stronger. I had to go to work but I made it home at lunch time. To my astonishment she hauled herself to her feet to greet me. In a few more days she was moving around quite well and was starting to adjust to being without an eye. She even started to jump up to her favourite perch on the radiator.

But this was not to last. One night she jumped on to me while I was asleep and I rolled over and she ended up pitched onto the floor. In the morning she had lost her steadiness and was walking very badly.

Another trip to the vet and it seemed she had had a stroke. This surely must be the end for Rooner, I thought, she seemed to be in such distress. But no, the vet advised, small animals often get over strokes and I be advised to wait. Meanwhile the wound where her eye had been removed was closing up although the site of the old abscess showed little signs of healing.

Well, it turned out the vet was right and once again she rallied and it seemed that after a week or so she was improving. She’d become a very fussy eater and I struggled with numerous different foods to try and find something that would suit her.

Back she went to the vet every week for antibiotics and at length she improved and even started putting a little weight back on. Once or twice she ventured out onto the balcony. Then we had a four day weekend and I made a trip back to England.

I checked Rooner into the vet for my trip. I thought they’d be best placed if she took sick again. But by now she’d come to hate that place with all its associations of pain and separation from me. And she scowled fiercely at me as I handed her over.

I think that last weekend was the end for her. She was very weak when I came to collect her and seemed to have lost every bit of weight again and was as light as a shadow. It seemed that she might have had a further stroke.

Yet, despite her weakness she would still haul herself up onto the couch to sit beside me and rest on my lap if she could. But every breath seemed painful and she no longer had the strength to keep herself clean.

After a long night of painful, laboured breathing I finally decided that the end must come and I took her to the vet for the very last time.


In Germany, they say, cats have seven lives. In England, of course, we think they have nine. Rooner, for sure, squeezed every drop out of her allocation. My old friend had told me that Rooner would let me know when she’d had enough of life. And for me the life an animal is too special a thing to end without considering very hard.

In truth, as well, I'd hoped I wouldn’t have to decide. That I’d come home one day and find that nature had taken its course, and that she’d have died naturaly.

But it didn’t work out that way. In the end I found the will to cause her life to be ended, at least that way I was with her when she left it.

So it was back to that hated place where she had so many associations of suffering: the surgery and so many innoculations. During all the times I held her while she’d been prodded and injected, she had never once hurt me.

That last fatal needle, it too brought forth a yelp of pain before, at last, everything was over for her. But I hope that the last thing she knew of this world was the gentle caress of someone she was devoted to.



And that was it, until that final bill arrived and I went to pay it. I'd been expecting to collect her ashes. I’d planned to sprinkle them on the field outside, as soon as the wheat was cut.

But that’s not going to happen. There were no ashes for me and now I have no nothing but pictures and memories of that cantankerous, feisty cat. No opprtunity for a last goodbye, but this.

The vet said she had the temperament of an English landlady. It’s not a flattering comparison. But she had spirit, and while she was still strong, grace and beauty. Never did a creature cling to life with such great tenacity and I wish she could have enjoyed more of it.

Goodbye Rooner

Sunday, 11 July 2010

Good, it’s the co-pilot flying the plane.

These days it’s the practice of most airline captains to come over the speakers at some time or other, during a flight and introduce himself, and the co-pilot. Sometimes the Captain will say if it’s him/her, or the co-pilot, who is handling the controls. For myself I’m happiest if the person handling the controls happens to be the co-pilot. Then I know conditions couldn’t get much better for avoiding stupid errors.

An authoritarian cockpit culture has been blamed for what was at one time the appalling safety record of Korean airlines. In a number of critical situations, when it was quite clear to the co-pilot that the Captain, who also happened to be handling the aircraft, was doing the wrong thing the junior pilot felt unable to intervene out of respect for the authoritarian figure in the left hand seat.

Cultural differences seem to be most significant when it comes to marking out the differences in human behaviour. The habit of being willing or unwilling to defer to authority is an interesting marker in identifying the differences in what might be termed national character. Geert Hofstede has done extensive work trying to quantify how certain measurable characteristics are found in different cultures.

Geert Hofstede

For South Korea we find that the Hofstede index shows a PDI of 60%.

PDI represents something called Power Distance Index and is the extent to which the less powerful members of organizations and institutions are willing to accept and expect that power is distributed unequally. It suggests that a society's level of inequality is endorsed as much by the followers as much as by the leaders.

The higher the PDI the more likely a society is to accept, without question, authority.
PDI
World Average 55
South Korea 60
Spain 51
Italy 45
USA 40
Australia 36
British 30
Germany 30

South Korea has a PDI index of 60. 5% above the world average of 55. But it’s interesting to note that both Britain and Germany both have very low scores in PDI. Suggesting that nationally these two countries are much more likely to question authority than accept it. Which is very interesting. Britain, supposedly hidebound with it’s established class system, and Germany also playing against the national stereotype, are measurably less deferential even than the truculent Australians and a full 10% less so, than the denizens of the land of the free, the USA.

In matters of flight safety being able to question authority is crucial. If the pilot in command is about to do something bloody stupid it’s the job of the co-pilot to put him right. In the days before Korean airlines retrained there were an number of instances where the junior pilot kept quiet because he felt unable to challenge the authority of the captain although he was quite aware that the senior figure was going wrong.

The world PDI average is 55% which means that if you fly a lot you may still encounter a co-pilot who is a little inhibited when it comes to challenging the bad judgement of the captain. It makes sense then for conditions to be best if the co-pilot is handling the aircraft. It means that the experienced captain is free to observe how the co-pilot is doing. Moreover, if he does spot something going wrong he’s unlikely to feel inhibited about letting the pilot know about it.

Changing Cockpit Culture: Why We Fired Capt. Kirk