The North-by-Northwest Path to Truth

Posted Jan 29, 2012 by Nicole Yunger Halpern

Updated Jan 29, 2012 at 05:09 AM

This past autumn, Wall Street Journal writers contracted Creative Analogy Disease (CAD). In every weekend Review section, one book-writer offered insights into wordsmithing. The column that hosted their work, The Writing Life, spotlighted juxtaposition, humor, endings…and misrepresented scientific ideas.

Between August 27 and November 27, four Writing Life guests explained writing-related concepts via analogies with scientific concepts. An analogy clarifies an unfamiliar idea by highlighting its similarities to a familiar idea. By guiding readers into unknown territory, an analogy resembles the Disney film “Beauty and the Beast,” which introduced me to selfishness, cruelty, and slavering wolves through song and dance. Science analogies convey the universe’s expansion in terms of balloons, string theory in terms of worms, and other mind-bogglers in terms of the humdrum. By elucidating everyday concepts like humor in scientific terms, the Writing Life guests inverted the science-analogy paradigm. “More power to them!” I’d cry—if these Creative Analogy Disease victims (CADs) understood the science they shanghaied.

Consider, as an example, Steve Almond’s November 5th article “Wisecracks as Wisdom.” Cracking the nut that is humor, Mr. Almond reveals the kernel of what tickles us. “[C]haracters make us laugh,” he explains, “because they tell us the truth at a velocity that exceeds our normal standards of insight.” When startled, we giggle. Characters shock us into laughing, Mr. Almond argues, by unmasking the nature of suffering.

Suffering rarely tweaks my funny bone. Still, Mr. Almond’s conclusion puzzles me less than his reference to velocity does. To untangle his meaning, let’s consider Holden Caulfield.

Mr. Almond portrays Holden, the star of J.D. Salinger’s coming-of-age novel The Catcher in the Rye, as a hilarious docent in the museum of suffering. Holden’s favorite teacher betrays him, his baby sister grows up too quickly, and he feels powerless to protect his childhood sweetheart from a lustful friend. What does Mr. Almond mean when writing that, by describing these challenges, Holden “tell[s] us the truth at a velocity that exceeds our normal standards of insight”?

By definition, Holden’s velocity consists of his speed and the direction in which he moves. His speed is the rate at which his position changes. Since Mr. Almond invokes speed metaphorically, let’s stretch our definition of speed. Instead of measuring speed only in terms of distance traveled per unit time—as in miles per hour—let’s measure Holden’s speed in terms of the units of truth he reveals per hour of his life.

Holden packs a zoo of activities, from a rumble with a roommate to the paying of a prostitute, into the day he shares with readers. Into a standard day, I pack only a commute, a trip to the grocery, and studies into the fundamental nature of reality (physics). Holden reveals more units of truth per hour of his life than I discover per hour of my life. In Mr. Almond’s terms, Holden tells the truth at a speed that exceeds my normal standards of insight.

How can we describe the non-speed component of Holden’s velocity, the direction in which he moves? Perhaps Holden makes a beeline for truth, while I zigzag across the Hills of Haziness. Just as we stretched our definition of “speed” to accommodate metaphors, we might stretch our definition of “direction.” But the latter definition rips like a teddy bear in a tug-of-war when yanked by Mr. Almond. Writing that Holden “tell[s] the truth at a velocity that exceeds our normal standards of insight,” Mr. Almond implies not only that Holden’s speed exceeds our speed, but also that his direction exceeds our direction. Does Mr. Almond mean that, if I discover truth north-by-northwest, Holden reveals truth northward? Mr. Almond’s claim makes little sense.

Because “velocity” contains more syllables than “speed,” it sounds more erudite. Pity that sense doesn’t accompany this apparent erudition. Mr. Almond would have benefited from researching velocity, although I cheer his interweaving of science with literature.

At least his error bakes a casserole for thought: I love the idea of approaching truth north-by-northwest. If you find a compass that points toward truth, do let me know.

A sad day in Happy Valley

Posted Jan 22, 2012 by Natalie D. Preston

Updated Jan 22, 2012 at 03:48 PM

I heard news upon returning home from a six-mile run.

Coach Joe Paterno dead at the age of 85.

JoePa, as he was commonly referred to, and Coach Bobby Bowden had a back and forth relationship in their quest for the title of the most winningest coach in NCAA Division 1 college football. As a tried and true Seminole, my first allegiance was to Bobby Bowden, but that didn’t stop me from rooting for Penn State and JoePa’s and his efforts.

My support even followed me to Michigan State University. Spartans didn’t know what to think of an alumni relations staff person who openly supported Penn State and Florida State.

But, no worries. I survived and soon returned home to the Sunshine State.

Around the time of my relocation, things started to turn bad for Penn State. Of course, bad then was nothing compared to the bad of a few months ago. Nonetheless, the football team was on a horrible losing streak. One season after another they had more losses than wins or finished 50-50.

And, like a lot of high profile football programs, the school administration, boosters, football fans and alumni had little tolerance for not being a ranked team or receiving a bowl game invitation. Soon, full-page ads appeared in newspapers calling for the firing of JoePa.

At the time, I thought the move was premature. So what? The team had a few bad seasons. Look at the overall impact that JoePa had on the football program and university fund-raising.

The man himself was not just a motivator, father figure and football coach. He was probably one of Penn State’s most effective fund-raisers—and if the U had handled his firing differently JoePa’s positive impact on fund-raising would probably continue in light of his death.

Just like I survived Michigan State, JoePa survived folks calling for his firing. In fact, he did better than survive. He led the team to a major comeback.
Penn State became a ranked team again and was back on the bowl circuit. They even beat my beloved Florida State in the Orange Bowl in 2006.

When the teams were announced I said that Penn State got cheated. They were higher ranked and deserved to play a better team in the Orange Bowl. However, the game proved me wrong. After several overtimes, Penn State squeaked by us with a 26-23 win in Miami.

The upswing continued for JoePa and Penn State until October of 2011.

The alleged sexual misconduct is horrible and anyone who did not act to notify university authorities and law enforcement should be investigated. Furthermore, anyone found to have participated in sexual misconduct with a child should have their genitals removed.

Period.

It’s rare that I don’t have a comment on something, but I will refrain from addressing the actions of the Penn State Board of Trustees.

However, I will say this.

JoePa died of a broken heart and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

From Lancaster with “Love”

Posted Dec 25, 2011 by Nicole Yunger Halpern

Updated Dec 25, 2011 at 07:20 AM

The first time I heard the word, I shook myself as though having caught a pie in the face after stumbling upon a food fight. My parents had called me “sweetie,” parental types had called me “honey,” and southerners north of Tampa had called me “sugar.” None of these experiences, though, prepared me for the electronics-store clerk who called me “love.”

Sweatshirted and gangly, he pronounced the word so it rhymed with “drove.” The pronunciation came part and parcel with the noun—for I’d just moved to Lancaster, Lancashire, United Kingdom.

Lancaster hunkers beneath a perpetual rain cloud three hours north of London. The Floridian in me shivers here, the New Hampshirite gambols about without a hat, and both agree that I need a larger umbrella. What the city lacks in sunshine, it compensates for in sunniness: Within ten days of arriving, I received four invitations to meals at people’s houses. And store clerks call everyone and sundry “love.”

Although I came to conduct physics research, Lancaster’s lingo has intrigued me as much as my condensed-matter reading has. Locals call my host institution not a “university,” but a “uni.” As I used to own a virtual pet called a “uni,” references to the school stir up guilt about my having neglected the animal for a decade.

“To splash out” means not “to venture outside, i.e. into the puddle that is Lancaster,” but “to splurge.” Thank a hostess for your use of her “bathroom,” and she might protest: “But the bath is upstairs, and you used the downstairs toilet!” The term I thought I’d hear more in Britain than in the States—“Happy Christmas”—hasn’t shown its face.

Many of us don’t notice the conversational cobblestones that we tread till they shine but that trip up listeners. At the public-speaking club I used to frequent, commentators identified “filler words” with which presenters peppered speeches that needed no spice. Common fillers include “um”; “like”; “and”; and my golden calf, “so.” Uncommon fillers include “in principle”—a favorite of a physicist I know.

Physicists qualify with “in principle” statements that we could qualify with “in practice” if we weren’t too lazy to justify the latter qualification. For example, I can measure the mass of a proton (a positively charged particle of the sort found in atoms’ cores) in principle. Having only the foggiest notion about how to weigh protons, I might not obtain a result until some 21st-century Einstein proves that protons don’t exist. But I can bumble through that measurement, given enough textbooks, equipment, and patience.

Physicists usually refer to measurements while saying “in principle.” But, in principle, one could refer to everyday topics—as my acquaintance did: “I could hold extra office hours in principle, but I’ll have to check my schedule.”

Now that I’ve questioned a native about “love,” I barely flinch when addressed by the term. I also look forward to the next linguistic pie I’ll suffer to the face. Lancaster bakeries sell heaps of pies—chicken-and-mushroom, steak-and-kidney, mince. I have as clear a notion of what’s in mince pies as of how to weigh a proton—but learning sounds delicious.

Santa Stopped by Today

Posted Dec 24, 2011 by Gary Beemer

Updated Dec 24, 2011 at 12:16 PM

I’m not sure how you feel about the new round of TV commercials dissing Santa Clause, but I find them a bit discouraging. You just don’t mess with the Jolly Old Elf, and you certainly don’t try to outdo him with the latest gaggle of electronic gadgets. The Santa tradition is about a benevolent soul who toils all year long with his elfin helpmates to produce toys that require skill to make, and imagination to play with. Tapping icons on a glass screen may stimulate many, but true genius lies in toys like wooden trains, erector sets, logs and Legos.
Today, a knock came at our door and we were given a very special gift that affirmed our belief that the Spirit of Santa lives on. Included with the gift was a short note, and instead of trying to paraphrase it, I’d like to share it with you word-for-word.

Merry Christmas! You are now the proud owner of a handcrafted, custom-made bread-board/cutting board. It was made with love by an old retired school teacher living in Florida! Your board is made of maple, cherry, sapele, and walnut. With minimum care your board should last a lifetime. Just remember, its only enemies are heat and moisture. After use, towel dry and prop up so that it can air-dry completely. Since using a board for raw meat requires extra thorough cleaning with soap and water, such use is not recommended. Never store near a window with direct sun, clean with strong chemicals or put in the dishwasher. Your board is finished with mineral oil to keep it water-proof and to assure a soft luster. This is the only finish approved for use on cutting boards and butcher-block surfaces, as it is non-toxic and will not spoil or go rancid. But it will not last forever. Depending on usage, it may need re-oiling every six months or so. To renew the finish on your board, apply a small amount of mineral oil onto each surface and rub into the wood with a paper towel.  Allow to air-dry for 24 hours, then buff briskly with a soft cloth. Your board is a unique, one-of-a-kind work of art that will last you for many years. And of course, it comes with a 100 year, money -back guarantee! If it ever breaks, warps, or separates, return to the old man in Florida for a complete refund..

Thank you David… and Merry Christmas! I’m certain that I will still have this thoughtful gift long after my gadgets have burned out and faded away.

Thanksgiving by the Numbers

Posted Nov 23, 2011 by Nicole Yunger Halpern

Updated Nov 23, 2011 at 09:18 AM

Thanksgiving affords an opportunity to reflect, to connect with family, and to break one’s vows to eat only vegetarian food. More importantly, Thanksgiving affords an opportunity to brush up on our math. Between optimizing your turkey-to-stuffing ratio and tallying up the fortune you’re paying the grocer, have a gander at this turkey-inspired math glossary.

Exponential – The rate at which your guest list grows once you recall that Aunt Harriet’s clan has moved into town.

Proper fraction – The percentage of Aunt Harriet’s clan members whom you want to invite.

Variable – The number of family members Aunt Harriet plans to bring, given that Harry has caught the flu, Henry’s girlfriend is visiting, and Henrietta can’t tolerate the temptation to break her vows to eat only vegetarian food.

Negative number – A quantification of your morale once you realize that you have to cook for an exponentially growing number of guests.

Rational – The number of pumpkin pies you plan to bake.

Improper fraction – The ratio of the number of pies that Harry begs you to bake to the number of pies you want to bake. Aunt Harriet scolds Harry not to act like a pig.

Irrational – The jaw-dropping number of pies Aunt Harriet begs you to bake. You think Aunt Harriet should take to heart her advice to Harry.

Digit – The bit of his hand that Harry sticks into the pie batter while you’re tossing the salad. As Harry licks his finger, Aunt Harriet swears that he hasn’t contaminated the pie, that his fever subsided hours ago. Days ago, she means. Weeks!

Complex – A characteristic of your calculation of the amount of whipped cream you should purchase.

Real – The possibility that you’ll blow your lid before the crock pot does.

Imaginary number – How many sheep you count en route to sleeping off those pies.

Infinity – The number of blessings for which we should offer thanks. Including Aunt Harriet’s departure.

Caveat: Apply this glossary to algebra exams at your own risk. If you use it and your teacher spits fire, enjoy detention. If s/he laughs and only laughs…I don’t know about you, but I’ll give thanks this Thursday.