My take on Newton

As a scholar of the early modern period, I cannot not have something to say about the great Isaac Newton. But I confess that I am intimidated both by his work and the thick forests of works that have been written about him, and I know I’m not up to the task of being a Newton scholar. Still, it seems I should have something to say – so here goes.

newtonWhat to say about Isaac Newton? From what I see, the popular picture of him is well represented by the remark Newton is said to have made: “I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.” The quote suggests an innocent, humble genius who modestly puts forward a theory that rocks the world – though he regards as but a portion of an infinite, unknown ocean. This is how we like our great scientists – brilliant and self-effacing, with the souls of poets.

Of course, we don’t know that Newton ever really said this. It’s doubtful. I gather that its first appearance is in the Reverend Joseph Spence’s Anecdotes, Observations, and Characters of Books and Men, which was not published until 1820. The editor of Spence’s collection, Samuel Weller Singer, notes that the quote demonstrates “our great philosopher’s modest opinion of himself and his discoveries,” marking it as “only another proof of his consummate wisdom.” Oddly, Singer goes on to note that the quote parallels a passage in Milton’s Paradise Regained, where a superficial thinker is described as “Deep vers’d in books, and shallow in himself, / Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys, / And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge, / As children gathering pebbles on the shore.” These words are spoken by Jesus Christ as he mocks the foolish perusers of wearisome books who ignorantly gather up trifles without assessing them with “equal or superior judgment.” Singer, it would seem, unwittingly skewers himself here.

Spence’s source for the quote is Andrew Ramsay, who claimed that Newton said it “a little before he died.” But Ramsay himself was in France over the years 1724-30, and Newton died in 1727, so it’s not clear how Ramsay would have known this. The indications point to this quote being either something Ramsay made up or heard somewhere, or some misattribution on Spence’s part – or anything other than something Newton actually said. The quote went on to a life of its own, picked up uncritically like a pebble on a shore in later biographies such as David Brewster’s Memoirs of the Life, Writings, and Discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton (1855; vol. II, p. 331), and even in Richard Westfall’s more recent scholarly biography, Never at Rest (1980; p. 863).

In any case, the real Newton was far more complicated than the image of a boy on the seashore would suggest. His early life was marred by misfortune, especially as his stepfather was a cruel man intent upon putting a great distance between the boy and his family. After demonstrating a singular ineptitude at farming and other useful trades, he washed up at university and sought solace in his own self-directed studies of philosophy, math, science, and religion. At all of these, of course, he was brilliant, but extremely reluctant to show his work to others, fearing ignorant rejection or ridicule. Over time, as allowed his discoveries to become public, he struck with white-hot rage at anyone daring to question his conclusions or – heaven forbid! – claim them as their own. He seems to have been most at peace when left to himself; in this, perhaps the boy on the shore quote supplies the right image.

What was he doing, when left to himself? We might characterize his efforts as falling into three departments. First, of course, there was the Department of Math, Physics, and Optics, where he made the discoveries for which he is justly famous – calculus, universal gravitation, reflector telescope, composite nature of light, and all that. The 17th century had no shortage of great scientific minds, including Boyle, Hooke, and Huygens – but they all foolishly chose to have lives that overlapped with a genius whose achievements forced them all into “also starring” roles.

Second, there was the Department of Biblical Studies. Like almost everyone in the age, Newton took the Bible extremely seriously. But, not quite like everyone, he believed himself to have discerned truths both unorthodox and revelatory. Most infamously, Newton denied the doctrine of the Trinity, maintaining that God the Father and God the Son were not of the same substance, but distinct entities. He had to keep this view well-hidden, as there were dire consequences for this heresy. Newton also made extensive studies of the book of Daniel and the book of Revelation, meticulously connecting historical events to the opening of the seven seals, the sounding of the seven trumpets, the seven vials of wrath, et cetera.

Here, for example, is a characteristic sentence from Newton’s treatise on the book of Revelations. The passage is Newton’s interpretation of chapter 12, verse 15 and 16: “And the serpent cast out of his mouth water as a flood after the woman, that he might cause her to be carried away of the flood. And the earth helped the woman, and the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed up the flood which the dragon cast out of his mouth.” Here goes:

Here since the Dragon which persecuted the Woman is the Empire that instrument of the old Serpent, the waters which he cast out of his mouth must be the people of the Empire they being the flood of enemies which the Empire spewed out against her in the persecution, & the Earth which took part with the Woman against the Dragon must (according to what we explained above) be the people of forreign nations which bordered upon the Empire. The forreign nations therefore so soon as the Dragon had spewed out waters as a flood after her were to take her part & swallow up those waters: & accordingly so soon as the 14 year’s persecution of Theodosius was finished, wherein the Church which had flourished from the Apostles time till then almost sunk under the vast numbers of Apostates which the Persecution had made to fall from her, & other enemies raised against her by the Empire; so soon I say as this persecution had thus filled up the number of the Churches enemies, the northern nations invaded the Empire & waged the wars of the four first Trumpets, & as many of them as were Christians took part with the Church insomuch as within a while to found divers kingdoms of the true religion, as the Visigothic the Ostrogothic the Vandalic the Burgundian, & for some time the Suevian, the Alan, [and] the Lombardic.

I am able to offer this passage only as the result of the monumental effort of The Newton Project to make all of Newton’s writings freely available online. So far, the project has made available over two million words of Newton on the subject of religion – and they are not yet done. Along with the works on prophecy, Newton also had manuscripts on early church history, the genealogy of ancient peoples, and chronology. This was serious work, taken on with meticulous attention by a devout and brilliant scholar – not, as it is sometimes made out to be, the silly dodderings of a scientist past his prime.

Finally, there was the Department of Alchemy. According to The Chymistry of Isaac Newton, a sister to The Newton Project, Newton wrote or transcribed about a million words on the subject of alchemy, ranging from modest observations about dyes and pigments to speculations about the philosopher’s stone. These are the works that caused such scandal when brought to the world’s attention in the 20th century. Surely the modest and brilliant boy on the seashore, the one who brought light to nature’s forces hidden in night, could not have been – a magician? an alchemist? a wacko?

The shocked reaction to the rediscovery of Newton’s alchemical works reveals the great distance between the man who lived from 1642 to 1727 and the myth that had grown up around him. Of course, in the early modern period it was not at all weird to be interested in alchemy. It was taken seriously everywhere, in varying degrees and different ways, for there was no way to distinguish it from what we would recognize as bona fide chemistry, metallurgy, or pharmacology – there wasn’t an “it” there to be distinguished, at least not yet. Newton, as well as many others in his day, set about trying to discover the hidden forces and structures of nature, using whatever theories and accounts were at hand – and many of these we would now identify as “magical thinking.” Newton showed restraint unusual for his day when, in failing to account for the force of gravity, he said “hypotheses non fingo,” considering that he was fingo-ing all over the place in his private alchemical speculations. He knew he had not yet unlocked the deeper secrets of nature – “the great ocean of truth” – and his alchemical investigations were at least in part driven by that curiosity.

So, without paying strict attention to the numbers of words or measures of impact, one might say that Newton was one-third scientist, one-third biblical scholar, and one-third alchemist. He was half-time recluse, and half-time vicious polemicist. Oh, and another thing: he was one part scholar, and one part Warden and later Master of the Mint.

Being in control of London’s currency occupied the final 30 years of Newton’s life (from about 55 to 85 years of age). It was not simply a matter of pounding out coins. There were persistent problems with counterfeiters and “clippers” (those who shaved off corners of silver coins and sold the clippings as silver), as well as more global problems of fluctuating currencies and devaluation. Newton’s job was to bring on-going stability and soundness to British currency – a task to which he dedicated himself with the same laser-like attention he brought to all his endeavors. (Scholars seem to have mixed opinions about how good he was at this.) He sent 28 counterfeiters to the gallows, and on occasion went in disguise to capture his prey. (Here, if anywhere, is good material for a movie.)

One of the ordeals Newton regularly faced as part of his job was the Trial of the Pyx. The pyx was a triply-locked box into which samples of newly-minted coins would be dropped through a one-way chute. Every few years, the pyx would be unlocked under the watchful eyes of officers of the mint and the king’s men, and the the coins would be assayed in weight and purity. If the coins were of poor quality, the warden would be subject to fine or imprisonment. Newton’s coins always passed. (The Trial of the Pyx shows up improbably as a climactic scene in Neal Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle. It helps that some magical gold of Solomon and some prestidigitation are involved.)

As his fame as a scientist continued to grow, he was at times challenged by others with mathematical puzzles. In one case, Johann Bernoulli had set a problem for the great mathematicians of Europe.  He allowed six months for an answer, at the end of which Leibniz requested that the deadline be extended by a few months more. Soon after the extension was granted, Bernoulli sent the challenge directly to Newton, who found it in his mail, sat down, and solved it overnight. He sent in his answer anonymously, but Bernoulli wrote that “we recognize the lion by his claw.” Newton also served as president of the Royal Society from 1703 to his death – so his former life was not completely left behind, though he was now moving in powerful circles of government and politics, and taking advantages of some of the luxuries his life he could now afford (scarlet drapes, silver chamberpots, etc.).

So, in all, given such an incredibly complicated life, it is a shame that the “boy on the shore” quote has such currency. Newton was anything but a dopey lad picking up pebbles. He was more like a storm – or better, a convergence of storms, blowing forcefully in several directions at once, in some places clearing the ground of debris, in others piling up massive tangles of driftwood. He was several lifetimes in a single person – scientist, prophet, magician, and G-man. He does not fit our preformed categories – but rather, characteristically, he forces us to reshape them in a style of his own making.

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The Magical Dimensions of the Globe

WhoGlobeThere’s a particularly good episode of Doctor Who (“The Shakespeare Code”) wherein the Doctor and Martha visit Shakespeare and save the world from a conspiracy of witches. The witches’ plan is to take possession of Shakespeare and force him to write magical incantations into the (now lost) play Love’s Labours Won. (It’s not really magic, of course, but some quantum dynamical dimension of psychic energy… well, whatever.) When the play is then performed in the Globe Theater and the psychic words are spoken, a transgalactic portal will open up, through which an entire population of witches – really, in fact, members of an alien species known as the Carrionites – will march through and take over the world. Luckily, the Doctor is wise to the plans, and he and Martha improvise a counter-spell on the spot and disaster is thereby averted.

It’s crucial to the plot that the witchy words be spoken in the Globe, because the witches had previously forced its architect to frame the theater according to magical dimensions: fourteen symmetrical walls into which some sort of string-theoretic alchemical pentagram might be interpolated, or something like that. The point is, the layout of the place is critical for the magic to do its work.

I have recently been reading Frances Yates’ classic work of history, The Art of Memory (1966), which suggests that this latter point may not be so far fetched.


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Museums of religion

“What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?” – Nietzsche, The Gay Science


Along with a few others, I have often balked at the New Atheists’ triumphalism. My worry has been that, yes, even though God is dead, we should worry a bit about what comes next. Religion has long served most (all?) societies as an institutional moral foundation. A great many human beings – across classes, incomes, employments, races, and nations –  have been brought up to believe in a moral structure to the universe, an objective right and wrong that is embodied in divine beings who care about how we live. At the center of our many great cities are tremendous, soaring buildings that serve to inspire us – and perhaps also intimidate us – into benevolent lives. Even if we follow Plato’s arguments in the
Euthyphro, and admit that these divine beings aren’t responsible for making these moral truths true, we still will insist that religious superstructures add a powerful reinforcement to any moral intuitions. There is more than a shade of difference between “This seems right to me” and “The almighty God commands it.”

Okay, it’s all fiction. But (or I have thought) it is a fiction we should not lightly abandon. As Voltaire wrote, “If God did not exist, we would have to invent him” – for, as Dostoyevsky wrote, “If God did not exist, all things would be possible.” And while it is true that I know many morally upright atheists, and try myself to be one, there is the worry that the morality with which we atheists easily coast along is in fact a kind of hangover from religious upbringings. Cultural inertia carries all of us along in a quasi-religious direction, but the resistance of every day will eventually erode that force, and then where will we be, with neither compass nor horizon? At the end of my book on Spinoza’s theology, I wondered whether some form of his pantheism may offer as more hope in a moral future.

But my recent travels in the Netherlands have made me think I worry too much. In the past, when I have entered into a cathedral, I have done so with a peculiar feeling of trepidation, worried that I might in some way offend the people for whom the buildings are houses of God. I whisper quick instructions to my kids, taking their hats from their heads and insisting they move slowly and quietly, with reverence and respect. I offer occasional explanations of this or that stained glass window, of the stations of the cross, of the candles burning before altars. I hope that they get a sense of the deep spiritual power of these places. And when I have caught sight of someone kneeling in prayer, I feel like a rude intruder.

But this time, as we entered various magnificent churches, I had none of those feelings, since the buildings have been turned entirely into museums. Informational boards are set up, explaining the history of the building, and telling of the famous people buried beneath our feet. Visitors converse at normal volume levels, and freely roam everywhere. You can walk up around the altar and take a selfie, if you want.

There still are functioning churches in the Netherlands, to be sure; there is even a Bible Belt (De Bijbelgordel) of conservative Protestants. But, as some Dutch friends explained, for most citizens religion is a thing of the past. “Then are most people atheists?” my wife asked. No, they answered; it’s more like, for most people, religion just is not a live issue. (They liked my term “post-theist.”)

And, at least so far as I can see, the Dutch are not experiencing any sort of moral drift or spiritual ennui. Their society, as a whole, evidences a far greater “Christian” morality in its sense of social justice than does the allegedly Christian United States. (Our friends tell us that the Dutch are having to import prisoners from other nations, since theirs are going empty.) And while I am sure that people knowledgeable about Dutch politics and society than me can point to many real problems, those problems will not seriously compete with tens of thousands of handgun deaths, the cruelty of anti-abortion lawmakers, the ignorant battles over Texas textbooks, and state-sanctioned executions. (My own state recently legalized death by firing squad, in case we have trouble securing the favored drugs for lethal injections, since other nations are feeling moral qualms about assisting us in killing our own citizens.)

Okay, okay; let my rant subside. I know that my very limited experience is not broad enough to establish serious conclusions about such matters. But it has been enough to suggest quite strongly to my own mind that the worry “what happens if religion dies?” is misplaced. There are scores of factors going in to the form of morality in a society, and while religion is implicated in some of them, its presence or absence is not decisive.

Posted in Meanings of life / death / social & moral stuff, Nietzsche | 4 Comments

Learning from Hume; or, Hume and Particle Physics

Philosophy students are typically taught the wrong lesson from the great Scottish skeptic David Hume. The standard story goes something like this. British empiricists like Locke and Berkeley wanted to connect everything we know to what we experience through the senses. The welcome consequence of this strategy is that all the stuff we see and interact with stays known – but the spooky invisible stuff, ranging from magical spirits to substantial forms and other metaphysical clutter, all goes by the wayside. But (the story continues) Hume pointed out that this strategy ends up far more corrosive than anyone expected: for, if we hold our beliefs to what we actually experience, we shall have no knowledge of causality. We see one event, and another; but never do we experience the metaphysical glue that connects the two, and forces the second event to follow the first.

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Multitasking and multipurposing

jit-data-structures-03-loresThe other day was entirely typical, but I paused to consider the wonder of it all. I was trading moves back and forth with a friend playing Civilization. I was the American civilization under Roosevelt, and because of some luck with natural resources, advantages in constructing Wonders, and some devilishly clever economic planning, I was king of the world. My stack of cavalry units and catapults overtook Japan without a single casualty, and I followed up by conquering Russia for dessert. (I have been playing the game for some time, and I was not always good at it.)

At the same time, I was watching in bits and pieces an excellent BBC documentary on “Science and Islam.” I had just read a book on the enlightenment of central Asia, and it was fascinating to see some of the places, palaces, markets, and texts I had been reading about. Of course, all the while I was assessing the rise and fall of Islamic caliphates in terms of Civilization – what research strategies they were following, how religion was interacting with politics and science, the awesome military strength of the Mongols, etc.

And between both of these endeavors, I was reading Frances Yates’ The Art of Memory, which recounts the various methods developed in the ancient, medieval, and early modern worlds of refining one’s memory to fabulous extent. The general advice coming from the ancient world is to have in mind a building you know very well, and to place in that building – your “memory palace” – little odd tokens and situations that will help you remember whatever it is you want to remember – a lecture, a long list of names, the sequence of events of some exciting episode, etc.

Here’s an example from Quintilian. Suppose you want to remember the case in a lawsuit. “The prosecutor has said that the defendant killed a man by poison, has charged that the motive of the crime was to gain an inheritance, and declared that there are many witnesses and accessories to this act.” So in one room in your palace you might arrange the following:

We shall imagine the man in question as lying in bed if we know him personally. If we do not know him, we shall yet take some one to be our invalid, but not a man of the lowest class, so that he may come to mind at once. And we shall place the defendant at the bedside, holding in his right hand a cup, in his left, tablets, and on the fourth finger, a ram’s testicles. In this way we can have in memory the man who was poisoned, the witnesses, and the inheritance.

(I might explain to puzzled readers that the Latin word for witnesses was testes. And no, this is not because Romans used to hold one another’s testicles when swearing oaths to one another, as inviting as such an image may be. No one, then or now, can make a compelling promise while engaging in mutual groping.)

The technique might sound implausible, but there are many stories of orators remembering long speeches through such a method. The Jesuit Matteo Ricci (1552-1610) was supposed to have had a stunningly capacious memory palace, and he used it to awe the Chinese in the hope of converting them to Christianity. (Read or hear more about Ricci here; and you might find amusement in a poem I wrote for my friend Jerry on the topic.)

The fundamental trick of a memory palace is to re-purpose something you already remember easily. It is important to start with a place you know well, a place that does not require any clever trick for remembering. Then the place is modified in such ways as to encode or model something new. The new memory rides upon the structure of the old one, in just the way that Doug Hegdahl, a prisoner of war in Vietnam, reportedly remembered the layout of the prison camp by fitting a description of the camp into the old tune “Old MacDonald had a Farm.”

This mix of things – Civilization, the BBC documentary, and The Art of Memory – caused me to wonder how much of our learning consists in mapping new information onto old structures. I certainly was using the structure of Civilization to help me understand the dynamics of medieval Islamic history, just as the details of the BBC documentary were making my musings over Civilization more nuanced and complex. My understanding of memory techniques right now is riding upon my understanding of repurposing structures of data to new ends, which is at the same time my understanding of Turing machines, and how computers can run games like Civilization.

It is as if in one’s head is some finite number of structures, which become repurposed in multiple ways to serve as models for new things we are learning. Just as it is said there are really only four (or six, or ten) basic scripts in the world, which get turned into countless novels and films by changing the names and places, there may be only four (or six, or ten) basic structures we can comprehend, which can then model anything, with only a change of data values.

Posted in Books, Historical episodes, Machines / gadgets / technology / games | 3 Comments

Early modern revolution

43819_maxIn the 16th and 17th centuries, Protestants invaded Catholic territories both geographic and ideological. Armed with sharp invectives and printing presses, anti-Catholic firebrands overturned centuries-old accounts of God and the natural world, flooding markets with new bibles, new confessional literatures, and new treatises of astronomy, astrology, medicine, alchemy, and magic. The Catholics reacted with ultimately futile attempts to limit the contagion of heresies, prohibiting books and authors and doing everything they could to stop their publication. But as the Reformation became institutionalized and protected by princely powers, the revolution could not be stopped, and the modern world was made.

The hottest fighting was in the areas of religion and science – in the broadest strokes, Luther vs. the pope, and Copernicus vs. Ptolemy. But tightly implicated in both religion and science was metaphysics, the philosophical understanding of matter, spirit, and causality. Medieval Catholicism had found ingenious ways to appropriate Aristotle’s metaphysics in its various accounts of the world. But the oncoming deluge of new books, and the radical ideas contained in them, placed new disruptive pressures on the standard metaphysical accounts. Just as Ptolemy’s theory of the heavens started to wobble, Aristotle’s account of substance, essence, and accident became increasingly suspect. Galileo demonstrated success in applying mathematics and geometry directly to moving bodies – without needing to work out any of the Aristotelian substantial forms. When it came time to explain and predict, his Simplicio was no match for his Sagredo.

So there was a philosophical challenge to be met in the wake of the early modern rebellion. The challenge was to find a new metaphysics to go with the new science – and along with that, a new metaphysics of human beings and their ways of coming to know themselves, the world, and God. The good news and the bad news was simultaneously this: everything was up for grabs.

Not all the philosophers saw the challenge in the same way. For the most ambitious among them – Bacon, Comenius, Descartes, Newton, and Leibniz – the challenge was to co-establish traditional religion and the new sciences, each perfect and together complete: a new System of the World. For Spinoza – and, much later, the German Idealists –  the challenge was to surmount old-style thinking in a radical way that transcended (and yet, in true Hegelian fashion, also preserved) both the new physics and traditional monotheism. For Hobbes, Locke, Pascal, and Bayle, the challenge was to negotiate a middle way between the Scylla of religious zealotry (those many snapping mouths) and the Charybdis of godless scientism (that all-consuming, sucking vortex). So there you have it: the Establishers, the Transcendentalists, and the Negotiators. All of them sought some way past Aristotle and past the entrenched positions of myriad religious confessions. At stake for each of them was the future of Europe.

It is imperative not to be so seduced by the intrinsic glory of their philosophical thoughts that the historical and political contexts of these philosophers is ignored. True: what they wrote stands the test of time. But to see them in context, to see their intellectual moves in a world being torn apart by cannon and treaty, is to accord them proper humanity; and thus to make them more real to us than any disembodied mind can be. When Spinoza wrote to Henry Oldenburg and compared our ignorant place in the universe to that of a little worm in someone’s bloodstream, he was not merely invoking the theme of the microcosm in the macrocosm. He was writing to a friend across a channel where two hundred English and Dutch ships had recently clashed and sent three thousand men to watery graves; he was writing to a friend whose city (like his own) was being ravaged by plague, and who was about to be sent to the Tower on suspicion of treason; and he was writing as a man who before long would himself succumb to the blind actions of a worm in his blood, mycobacterium tuberculosis. Spinoza’s advice – to see the universe as determined to follow its own laws, and to console ourselves by turning our minds to what is eternal and divine – was not just pretty words; it was offered as a palliative for existential anxiety and despair. When we ignore their complicated circumstances, we risk mistaking these philosophers for university professors, with nothing more at stake than records of publication. These philosophers regularly saw the corpses piling up from bad politics, angry religions, and ignorant doctors; and – strange as it may sound to us – they believed a better metaphysics could help reduce their number.

But how did they deploy their metaphysical insights? For it is not enough just to think them up. They had to be shared, published, promoted, or poured directly into the ears of those in power. All of them wrote books and letters that were meant for wider circulation. Some of them crafted proposals to be sent directly to electors and princesses, dukes and emperors. Some of them tried to establish societies of savants, in the hope that the impact of a larger group would have greater effect. One of them (Spinoza again) was ready to put his opinion on a sandwich board and march directly into a hostile mob. Translating ideas into impact required then, as now, shrewd thinking about audience, rhetoric, and medium. This very practical business – the marketing department of philosophical enlightenment, as it were – must always be borne in mind when coming to grips with a philosophical text. It does not pay, on every occasion, to say directly what one thinks is true; nor is it wise to alienate those who are in a position to advance the cause.

It must also be borne in mind that, in a very real sense, none of these philosophers had a firm grip on reality. Not because they were crazy, of course, but because the state of knowledge was – in hindsight – very confused: alchemy and astrology shouldered up against early physics, the distinction between magic and natural change was fuzzy at best, and political philosophy was often imbued with millenarian enthusiasm. Newton himself thought the mystery of alchemy might explain gravity’s otherwise “spooky” action at a distance. We may find amusement today over the Royal Society’s early discussions of stones found in the skulls of venomous snakes that were said to draw poison from wounds, of patients in whose veins ran milk instead of blood, and of salamanders living quite comfortably in fire; but these accounts run alongside much more practical observations of sea tides and expedient methods for crafting lenses. It was all of a piece; and philosophers seeking an adequate metaphysics often found themselves trying to accommodate an exceedingly generous range of seemingly authentic observations. Endeavors to found universal learned societies were often predicated on the expectation that Christ’s rule on earth was about to begin; arguments that clarified and fortified Protestant Christianity were mounted in the hope of converting the Jews, a prerequisite for the end times. It was, by our lights, a weird and wacky world; though of course to the people living in it, it was of course just – the world.

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On appreciating systems

How wonderful it would be to be a systematic thinker! One marvels at the Aristotles, the Aquinases, the Descarteses, the Kants, and the Hegels and the Marxes (well, the Karl Marxes anyway), the Freuds – those who know how to approach anything, how to incorporate any material into a systematic empire, those who can see the universe as fulfillments of their own plans. It may sound like I am satirizing them, but I really do admire them: I admire their imagination, their enthusiasm, and their persistence. Chiefly I admire their ability to take their own thought so seriously, since every time I have tried to construct a system, it turns into fits of giggles.

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