Data – Latin, literally ‘something given,’ neuter past participle of dare ‘give.’

Conceive/concept – Latin concipere, from com– ‘together’ + capere ‘take.’

Comprehend – Latin comprehendere, from com– ‘together’ + prehendere ‘grasp.’

Inform/information – Latin informare ‘shape, fashion, describe,’ from in– ‘into’ + forma ‘a form.’

Fact – Latin factum, neuter past participle of facere ‘do.’

Integrate – Latin integrat– ‘made whole,’ from the verb integrare, from integer ‘whole’.

Incorporate – Latin incorporare, from in– ‘into’ + Latin corporare ‘form into a body’.

Knowledge – Old English cnawan (earlier gecnawan) [recognize, identify,] of Germanic origin; from an Indo-European root shared by Latin (g)noscere, Greek gignoskein.

Despite what your elementary school teachers told you, it is not unreasonable to believe you have a purpose different from that which you have been assigned, or even can be assigned. What is unreasonable is to expect anyone else to believe you. It is unreasonable to expect others to be reasonable.

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Last week I saw a great quote attributed to Franklin D. Roosevelt: “You should never underestimate the man who overestimates himself.” Whether he said it or not, it certainly makes sense coming from someone able to say “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

Naive — ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from French naïve, feminine of naïf, from Latin nativus ‘native, natural.’

Innocent — ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French, or from Latin innocent– ‘not harming,’ from in– ‘not’ + nocere ‘to hurt.’

Original — ORIGIN early 16th cent.: from French origine, from Latin origo, origin-, from oriri ‘to rise.’

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The most naive and hurtful belief: to equate naivete and innocence.

Nothing is harder to learn than innocence: innocence is unnatural. Innocence is height. You could say its unnaturalness is supernaturalness.

Should we stop wanting innocence, then, if innocence is not a preexisting fact but an accomplishment or aspiration? Does something have to be an is before we accept it as an ought?

Height is unnatural; depth is cruel. Innocence is an ideal indispensable to the process of human being, to rise from the depths, and by the depths, and never losing contact with the depths as we ascend to humanity over what humanity has been, which is inhuman.

Perhaps if we learn the truth about innocence and naivete we can stop doing violence to ourselves and to our children. We can overcome the shame of who we are and have been by cultivating faith in who we can become.

A teacher says to a student: “You are not the center of the universe.”

The perspective of the statement can be seen as a question inherent in the statement, to which the statement is the answer. In this example, the question is “Who or what is the center of the universe?” and the answer is “Not you.”

The standpoint of the statement are the assumptions upon which and from which the question is asked. In this example the assumption is “There is a center of the universe.”

From this standpoint, and along this perspective are phenomena seen and understood in a particular worldview. In this example, the worldview of the teacher is such that when she sees the student behave egocentrically, she sees him presumptuously claiming the privileged point around which the universe revolves.

The worldview is the source of opinion. In our example, the teacher is of the opinion that the student needs to abandon his own perspective, which apparently places him in the middle of the world as he has known it. It should be noted, too, that the teacher, being in a position of authority, is authorized to enforce her opinion as the truth.

The horizon of the statement comprises all the assumptions that have been made in the asking and answering of the question that allow the statement to be made and to have sense. In this example one excluded possibility is “The center of the universe is multiple.”

Beyond the horizon of the statement are all the possible alternatives to the assumptions that permit a different angle of questioning within the same problem. And that difference can be subtle — a mere matter of emphasis.

The teacher says to the student: “You are not the only center of the universe.” Now the statement is more expansive in its possibility.

In the great majority of people, the vanity instinct is overwhelmingly powerful.

Vanity has more strength and more endurance than even the strongest primordial instincts.

When a primordial instinct somehow manages to break out and defy vanity by accepting public condemnation, we marvel at its overpowering intensity.

But vanity, the relentlessly competent guard who thwarts ten thousand jailbreaks for every one that succeeds, gets no recognition. It is part of the institution of reality. It doesn’t even occur to us to admire it.

It might be vanity that has made human beings cultural. And if being cultural is the essential humanity of human beings — and I think it is — that suggests vanity might be the most human instinct. Some would argue that on that basis, vanity is not a vice, but a virtue.

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We’ve got this really weird situation on our hands, now, thanks to the romantic exaltation of instincts and naturalness. We are vain about having or lacking certain “natural” instincts, which puts us in the position of having to dissimulate what which on principle is not dissimulated.

We want to be natural, but we want to be natural in some particular way that is not natural for us.

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Let’s look at an example. Suspend your disbelief, and try this thought on for two minutes, long enough to trace out some consequence. What if this is true?:

In most women, if the the maternal instinct exists at all, it is dwarfed by the vanity instinct.

The maternal instinct sees everything in terms of “what will benefit my child?”

The vanity instinct, though, sees everything in terms of “what kind of person do I seem to be, and will that win me approval?”

Until the mid-1960s when women asked “what must I see to be to win approval?” the answer was “the kind of woman in whom the maternal instinct is the strongest.”

The message was not: “women should strive to care about their children”, but “normal women care about their children.” Because of this, the maternal instinct appeared to be part of the standard-issue human nature, despite the fact that few women had much more than an occasional urge to procreate and a compulsion to dote on cute things, and many had a strong instinctive impulse to be anywhere but suffocating in ammonia fumes or having her soul sucked dry by attention-demanding toddlers. By the 70s women had begun immunizing each other against feeling guilt over their natures, and began to decide for themselves how much or how little energy to dedicate to parenting their children.

Human nature is artificiality.

To reject the artificiality of culture is a rarefied artificiality. Don’t attempts at naturalness always look forced, ludicrous, embarassing — and artificial? Such artificiality refuses to learn — that’s the point of it — so it lacks teachers and competence.

A well-practiced artificiality is more natural. The individually perfected parts flow together organically as a unity, like a dance or a piano piece or a philosophy. Until that point, you get steps or phrases or theories.

Or you get improvised flailing, or John Cage, or spastic paraphrasings of osmotically-absorbed notions mistaken for originality. Romanticism is the groping of shut-eyes aspiring to invent a vision other than the one they still see by in their darkened imaginations.

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A member of the biological species homo sapiens, behaving “naturally”, that is, purely by the raw instincts that constitute it biologically is not yet a human being, but an animal. When a member of this species is born into a cultural tradition, and its instincts grow together within this traditional mold — that is, socialized — trained to behave in a particular way, taught to perceive in a particular way, initiated into feeling a particular way — what forms is a human being. And each generation of human beings maintains and modifies the molds for the next generation. This mold is called “education”. What a human being is changes in an invariable way.

This process of transfiguring homo sapiens animals into human beings can be quite violent. Some have powerful instincts that cannot be molded in any existing mold. Some have too little instinctive material that result is an unformed lump, or in the best cases, a hollow human-shaped form, but inwardly lacks spiritual substance. Or they have too much material, which oozes out of the edges, and must be trimmed off through all sorts of “disciplinary action”. In our hyper-gentle time which celebrates “feminine virtues” — sensitivity, consideration, cooperativeness, quietness, sitting still in small cube-shaped spaces — education has become girl-shaped, and for all practical purposes has become a universal iron maiden, within which all extraneous protuberances are mashed in, trimmed off or sanded down in the name of “classroom management”.

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It is only when humanity evolves beyond its old cultural molds that we begin to pine for nature. But what we really want is a more accommodating artificiality. But the old molds have to be broken, melted down and reformed, and for this the violence and heat of romanticism is useful.

If all you’ve got is the hammer of objectively, everything is either an object to hammer on, or something to knock unconscious.

A good marriage is made of two coordinated kinds of love: 1) the intersubjective immediacy of “in love”, which is the passive element (it happens to you), and 2) the objective abstraction of “the relationship”, which is the active element (it is something the couple preserves, improves, sometimes nurses back to health, sometimes rescues from imminent disaster — and occasionally brings back from the dead).

“In love” is a representative manifestation of grace, and “the relationship” is a representative manifestation of faith. Marriage is a sacrament by virtue of its representative manifestation of religious phenomena. A sacrament clarifies and substantiates religion in “real life” by manifesting representatively, or if you prefer by being symbol.

In a good marriage, grace nourishes the couple’s faith, and faith serves the return of grace. In times of grace, the grace is invested in strengthening the marriage; and in times of faith, the couple adheres to practices that preserve the conditions for the return of grace.

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There are also some marriages that have only one or the other kind of love.

Marriages of passion survive as long as grace persists, but when grace goes — and it always eventually goes — the couple has “fallen out of love”, which, of course, as every good modern knows, can only mean immediate divorce.

Marriages of duty survive unconditionally — with or without grace, and more or less independently of grace. Such couples denigrate being “in love” as child’s play, as a means to an end of establishing a dutiful marriage. When grace goes, the couple lets it fall away like stages of a rocket. All that uplifting heat and fire of youthful love did its job of launching them into the cold heights of maturity where adults do what they should because that is what they should do. Such marriages last and last, and their endurance (plus their procreative productivity) is their proof of success.

There are different balances of grace and faith in different marriages. Knowledge of marriage and skill in marriage does not guarantee the survival of a marriage, any more than living prudently guarantees the long life of an individual. It just helps in avoiding pointless mistakes, whether the mistake is enduring too much or enduring too little.

Continue reading Sacrament →

Which is ruder, to interrupt someone mid-thought, or to expect to be allowed to complete a thought?

I think it is relative. How much does the thought require in terms of time and effort? It would be interesting to do a study on this.

A company that figures out the value of sustained attention, and how to articulate this value, and how to support sustained attention in its management processes will have a competitive advantage over companies unable to sustain its attention long enough to ask, much less answer such questions.

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Short bursts of attention yield ingenious tweaks to the attributes of existing products, viewed in the conventional way.

Sustained attention is required to seriously challenge the conventional vision and discover rival visions capable of producing differentiated sustainable advantage.

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Is there anything in our culture that is not trending toward greater fragmentation? Of time, attention, mode of thought, ethic, persona?

A company that figures out the value of sustained attention, and how to articulate this value, and how to support sustained attention in its management processes will have a competitive advantage over companies unable to sustain its attention long enough to ask, much less answer such questions.

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Everything in our age fragments attention.

At work it is expected that resources will multitask, switch between tasks, and wear multiple hats. Look at the average Outlook calendar. It is a mosaic of presentations, reviews, check-points,  updates , ramp-ups, stand-ups, walk-throughs, all-hands, face-to-faces, dog-and-ponies,  debriefs, postmortems, brainstorms, daily, weekly, biweekly, monthly, quarterly, annual meetings. And we have emails and texts beeping in on us constantly, which we cannot not check, not to mention the compulsory peeks at twitter, facebook, stock prices and news.

It is now far ruder to expect someone to listen to you for five minutes than it is to interrupt an conversation or to permit an interruption when the other is trying to talk.

Book after book celebrates brevity — at length. These books all started out as blog posts, but were subsequently expanded into presentations, then articles, then through endless repetition of the same basic point and reams of redundant examples, overinflated into books of which nobody reads more than the first third. But no great loss. These rambling books teach the wisdom of impatience.

How do we get our news? Snippets and soundbites. Debates are just launch-pads for zingers. Candidates don’t even address one another, because nobody remembers the substance, only stumbles, flashes, general impressions of confidence or fumbling. Dialogue is nonexistent in politics, because it is a liability. It will be picked apart into damning evidence of belonging to this or that stereotype, or believing in this or that stereotype.

And, of course there is the celebrated brusque ADD of our C-level executives, which we indulge with executive summaries, elevator pitches and filtering. Are they distracted because they are busy, or is it actually the other way around?

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Facts can be broken down, chopped up, pureed and liquified.

We can know what we’re prepared to know at a glance or, in complicated cases, in a sporadic series of glances.

But to understand in a new way: that takes sustained effort, desire and faith.

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Next time the world seems to have played itself out, that pop culture seems to have fallen into a cycle of recycling, where you cannot remember the last time something surprised you with newness and freshness and potential, ask yourself: Facebook! Twitter! iPhone! Email! Text? Squirrel!

None of what is going on in business or education or government is anyone’s fault.

Nobody has decided things should be this way.

But then again, nobody has decided they shouldn’t be this way.

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Whenever we talk about “holding people responsible”, “finding out who is responsible”, “taking responsibility” — it all has a punitive tone.

Who is responsible for this?

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I keep thinking about the Stanford Prisoner Experiment. From inside the logic of the situation nobody was doing anything wrong. To take responsibility here meant to transcend the logic of the situation, and take responsibility for the perverse sense of responsibility that had overcome all parties involved.

Until we look behind the actions, and behind the actors, and into the situational dynamics, whatever responsibility we take will be irresponsible and moved by forces we do not know.

Our actions are practically active, but morally passive.

We know not why we do. We know only what we do, and how it ought to be done.

We go along with the best practices of business, with the standards of education, with the procedures of government. We are programmed with our nam shubs, or if you prefer, with the way things are.

(It’s been a long time since I read Snow Crash. I’m not sure if I’m using the term “nam shub” right. The right term might be a “me“. I need to educate myself on Sumerian mythology.)

Behind every explicit thought is tacit know-how: knowing how to think this thought.

How do we learn to think a thought?

Through confrontation with thoughts we do not yet know how to think.

What does this confrontation feel like?

Anxiety. It is the anxiety of an alien poem.

What do we do with this anxiety?

We evade, invalidate,  or vivisect the thought.

Evasion: We try to avoid the confrontation altogether. Learning to think a new thought is voluntary. We cannot avoid a recognition once we’ve recognized it, but we can refuse to resolve it, and leave the recognition in suspense until it fades and is superseded by the next thing.

Invalidation: We turn the confrontation from the thought to its source, and make an ad hominem attack on the thinker to justify (or distract attention from) our refusal to confront the thought itself. “This thought is a trap, and it is tripped by being entertained. I will not take the bait, but instead expose the trap and attack the trapper.”

Vivisection: We take the unthinkable thought apart and confront it in tiny pieces that we do know how to think, and behave as if this constitutes a true confrontation. “I fought this wild animal with my bare hands and triumphed. First I fought its left hind leg, and I tore it to pieces. Then I fought its right front claw, which I took down effortlessly, without sustaining a scratch. Then I seized its head and threw it to the ground.” This is how we fight ideas we don’t understand.

Or we can do philosophy, which means to try and fail a hundred times to think what is yet unthinkable, until somehow we make an intellectual movement that allows things to fall into sense.

This always requires revisiting old, settled thoughts, and uprooting and breaking them. We cannot approach the acquisition of  by any set procedure. Procedures, methods, processes, systematic practices — these are themselves old, settled thoughts coupled with old, settled know-how. Methods work within what they know: they fill in gaps, they self-refine and self-reinforce. The power of procedures is this: what we know how to do confirms what we know, and what we know affirms what we know how to do.

As Wittgenstein said: A philosophical problem has the form: I don’t know my way about.

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Business is well-protected against philosophy.

It created an ethos about as hostile to philosophizing as could be imagined — and this is precisely why it is now so susceptible to philosophical disruption right now.

Let’s look at how it protects itself:

1. Avoidance: Business is fixated on conventions. It establishes processes, protocols, formats, best practices — anything that determines an outcome a priori. The more rigorous the method, less it can produce anything new. Methods and their outcomes are a circular logic that seals the horizon shut against the contamination of anxiety, and and seals in predictability. If you follow Six Sigma, nothing new can possibly happen, which, if you’ll recall, was precisely its point: eliminate all variability. Six Sigma reduces variability in manufacturing processes very effectively, but this pales in comparison to the wonders it can work in eliminating variability in thought processes. This is basically procedural Newspeak. Of course, leveraging linguistic Newspeak doesn’t hurt either. The requirement of always using “plain language” — familiar vocabulary used familiarly — ensures that anything new is nearly impossible to say.
2. Invalidation: Make people prove themselves, before giving them a voice. And proving yourself should entail having nothing excessively new to say. First, force youths — already notoriously hungry for unconditional allegiance — work very hard for credentials. The harder it is to gain entrance into the guild the more membership will be valued: allegiance is guaranteed. Then, exalt and enforce professionalism. The more one submits to the standard of professionalism, the more exhausted, distracted, harassed, and homogenized one becomes — and the less one can think a really new, difficult thought, much less vigorously advance it. New thoughts are to be done in one’s spare time, which never lasts more than an hour or two. Only a thought capable of surviving constant interruption and resumption will ever be thought by a consummate professional. That is, the professional will think up novel refinements to the same-old. That brings us to the last point.
3. Vivisection: Make it rude to speak too long. Make it acceptable to interrupt. Place the full burden of communication on the communicator, and require no consideration from the listener. Make it presumptuous to expect to be listened to for any length of time. Impose Fox News conditions on the workplace. If it cannot be said in a 15 second soundbite, it has no right to be said at all. And celebrate executive O’Reilly shout downs and mike cuts. Around the C-Suite speak sea-level language, neither exalted nor deep — just plain, flat facts, spoken in C-student English. No technical detail. Certainly no poetic imagery. If you really must resort to metaphor, you can score a slam dunk by using sports imagery. Accept all interruptions… No, flatter interruption by treating them as flashes of executive insight. Exalt the elevator pitch, the executive summary, the napkin sketch, the briefest expressions — and ridicule whatever is difficult to say as permanently bungled. Also vivisect teams. Isolate innovators, and make them develop an idea fully before giving them any support, emotional or material. Meanwhile, keep them very busy and very bored and as nervous as possible.

An idle mind is the devil’s playground. An idle mind can quickly become a rested mind, a vigorous mind, an open mind, an independent mind, a disruptive, rebellious mind… an unruly, inefficient, disobedient, useless mind.

This, by the way, is why we need to keep our children busy at all times. When kids play they create a world that suits them, and these worlds are rarely shaped like tiny cubes or cells in a spreadsheet.

We label an analogy, and the analogy is now a category. Analogy: A is like B. Category: A is like B, and this likeness is named C.

We label an articulate perspective and the articulate perspective is now a concept.  Perspective: impossible to speak of apart from reporting on its objects (for example, A and B) in relation. Articulate perspective: A and B look like this together, from here where I stand. Concept: When you stand here and look out (and see, for example, A and B together) this perspective, seen from this standpoint, is to understanding by way of concept C.

There’s something wrong with this conception, but I can’t say what, yet. It has to do with the fact that there is more to a perspective than seeing from an angle. There is also a schematization of what is seen from this angle. But, I think that schematization is what is meant to be analogized by the perspective. There’s a point where optical analogies break down, and that’s where my own limits might be. But my whole orientation is to fight these limits.