Why I am a hard agnostic

I believe that the nature of deity is both unknown and unknowable (by humans).

As I understand it, "the nature of deity is unknown (and may or may not be knowable)" equals 'soft' or 'weak' agnosticism, and my position is 'hard' or 'strong' agnosticism. I was a soft agnostic up until relatively recently.

(Quick aside: that terminology bothers me because it's possible to be a strong weak agnostic -- i.e. you believe very strongly in the soft-agnostic position -- or a hard soft agnostic, or also a soft hard agnostic ("I'm pretty sure the nature of deity is unknowable as well as unknown"). Not sure what would be good alternative terms, though. Also, hard agnosticsim != militant atheism.)

I've been fairly sure for many years that the nature of deity is unknown, what with implausible theologies and the power of science, etc etc, blah blah woof woof -- this argument has been made, and people have responded to it, a million times.

There are two possible arguments, I think, for why we cannot know the nature of deity (as opposed to merely "we don't know it, but we might figure it out"). One is the "perverse liar god" argument, and it's sort of tongue-in-cheek. If there's an omnipotent deity, then it could make itself unknowable, never mind why it would want to. It could even put on an understandable mask while leaving its true nature hidden.

The other possible argument is "fundamental limits of human understanding". The human brain may be the most amazingly complex awesome thing in the universe, capable of conceiving arbitrarily complex and abstract ideas... but is it capable of understanding something omnipotent, omnipresent, omni-everything, possibly vaster than the universe? I highly doubt it, given how hard it is to truly grasp (say) the sheer size of a galaxy. (And I do mean truly grasp. Saying "oh, it's so many frillion light years across" does not count.) A galaxy has got to be a lot smaller than an omni-deity.

You'll note I said "fundamental limits of human understanding", not "fundamental limits of any understanding". I don't doubt that an omnipotent deity could understand itself perfectly well. It's perfectly possible that there are forms of understanding out there that are orders of magnitude more powerful than our piddling little thoughts, or maybe even have a completely different basis -- call them "super-understanding". But given that humans are limited to human understanding, can we understand super-understanding? I doubt it.

(For a very readable, math-flavored analogy to the topic of super-understanding, see Scott Aaronson's fabulous essay Who Can Name the Bigger Number?, which you should read anyway. He discusses Turing machines and Super-(Super-Super-...)Turing machines, among many other fascinating topics.)

And by the way, I have high standards for what I'm willing to call understanding deity. I'm not willing to settle for a grammatical string of English words, or a bunch of math, or whatever, that describes deity perfectly. I am perfectly capable of 'understanding' (sneer quotes!) a sentence like "God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth", in that I know what all its words mean and I can parse the sentence, because that is perfectly fine English. But can I fully appreciate the impact of a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in its being, wisdom, power, etc? Can my body generate a sufficiently large visceral/emotional reaction to the import of that idea, or will it run out of neurotransmitters first? Can my humble heart and mind contain the infinite? I think not.

Now, since I'm feeling a bit Hofstadterian, try this one on for size: "God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, truth, abstraction, recursion, subtlety, and inscrutability." Can this new, improved sentence give us a true, visceral understanding of an omni-deity? It's certainly an improvement.


(God-sentence is from Chapter 7 of Anne of Green Gables. I love that book.)

It was the Summer of the Library Books. San Mateo County glowed red...

[The title is an allusion to the pseudo-medieval text on the cover of one of the Redwall books: "It was the Summer of the Late Rose. Mossflower Country shimmered...]

"A red sun rises. Ash has been spilled this night." -- all right, that was worse. I couldn't resist making another allusion, though. All the wildfires in Northern California have been sending so much smoke into the air that, many days, the sky has been silvered over and the sun has turned red long before setting. (I don't remember exactly how long before setting, but the sun's been red while still five or more diameters above the horizon.) It's actually a beautiful sight, for all it's a symptom of fire and destruction elsewhere, and for all the smoke is causing trouble for people with asthma (especially in cities closer to the actual fires).

Other than that, though, mostly the weather has been fantastic. There have only been two days so far that I'd call "uncomfortably hot". Take that, friends back in Boston. It doesn't even matter that my house doesn't have air conditioning! I don't need it!

For the first time in four years, I'm not doing any kind of science research internship thing over the summer. This is mostly because I was too lazy to get myself a lab job, although it's lovely to have all this spare time. And since I have almost nothing but spare time, I've been lavishing attention on my book heap. I've taken an inordinate amount of books out of the library, bought a few from Barnes & Noble, and pulled several out of my family's rather large collection. I even have time to reread books! What a luxury.

(Because I've started to get a little tired of just reading, I'm also teaching myself Scheme in fixnum days.)

Here are some lists of books, with comments. I may write up more details on some of the sciency ones.
(Lists are not in any kind of order, and are not exhaustive (I'll probably remember more and add them later).)

Finished

• The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien. This is a lot more fun than I remember it being when I read it as a kid. Tolkien's prose style is maybe a little difficult for kids -- but this time around I kept wanting to grab a bunch of random kids and read aloud the fun parts, really perform them. On a totally unrelated note, it's also fun to reread The Hobbit after knowing Lord of the Rings; Tolkien is constantly hinting at things. For example, it makes so much more sense that the Necromancer could cause Mirkwood to be nasty and gross if you know that the Necromancer is actually Sauron. And, there are the Dwarves charging into battle yelling "Moria!".


• This is Your Brain on Music, Daniel J. Levitin. This one had me itching to make funny waveforms to screw around with my auditory perception, and to listen to the pieces of music he mentions with a totally different ear. Unfortunately, I was stuck on an airplane. Quite a ride. I took note of several small things Levitin said about his approach to his area of research, and am planning to write them up.


• When You Catch an Adjective, Kill It: The Parts of Speech For Better And/Or Worse. Ben Yagoda. This one's good for dipping into because each of the chapters (Adjective, Adverb, Article, Conjunction, Interjection, Noun, Preposition, Pronoun, Verb) is relatively short and stands alone. Yagoda writes as a serious linguist, but not a dry one: he clearly enjoys language for its own sake, as any geek ought to. This is not a writing-advice or prescriptivist book (although it does contain some tidbits of writing advice).


• How To Dunk a Donut: The Science of Everyday Life, Len Fisher. This is an interesting popular-science book. Rather than describing one small area for the public, Fisher describes applying a "scientific" approach to random topics like "Why do cookies crumble when you dunk them in milk?". I'm somewhat wary, because some of his projects seem to have been solicited by companies who want publicity for their cookies or whatever. Similarly, some of the "scientificness" of his approach seems to consist of wrapping things in numbers and graphs. A very laudable goal, but in some places the description is pretty dense for a book with that goal.


• Proust Was A Neuroscientist, Jonah Lehrer. This was really well-written and engaging. Lehrer's idea is to show how various artists/musicians/writers (mostly of a certain Paris avant-garde club, it seems) anticipated recent developments in neuro / cognitive science. For example, Walt Whitman's "the body includes and is the soul" lines, and embodied cognition. I thoroughly enjoyed the arts-description parts and the science-description parts. And sometimes the connection between the two was strong and clear, as in the chapter on Proust; not so much in the chapter on, say, Stravinsky (that one felt forced). Still, eminently worth a read.


• The Time Machine, H.G. Wells. Oh boy, did I ever get the wrong impression from the movie version of this. The book is a lot more realistic and a lot more... quietly horrifying? I don't think it's at all plausible that class separation will lead to humans splitting into two species, but it's thrillingly creepy to imagine humans evolving into either the Eloi or the Morlocks. I guess this one is halfway between dystopia and SF. (And I'm still a fan of the virtual-encyclopedia guy from the movie.)


• Across the Wall, Garth Nix. I'm a big fan of the Abhorsen trilogy, and the first half of Across the Wall is a shorter story that's part of the canon. The rest of the book is a bunch of short stories outside the canon that I didn't find all that interesting. Nix writes young-adult stuff; Abhorsen aged well, IMO.


• Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. Wow! Franklin gets short-shrifted among the Founding Fathers because he didn't do "hero" stuff like command armies or ride at midnight through Massachusetts, because he doesn't look all that dignified and because the things he did do were quietly behind-the-scenes and/or sounded silly (kite, anyone?). But his autobiography is full of all kinds of interesting things, like the brilliant way he basically tricked the people and the legislature into funding a new hospital. And it's packed to the gills with advice that's a little antiquated, but still good. This is a real self-help book, not some lame thing full of whining and words like "self-actualization". I would have liked to hear more about his experiments with electricity.

In Progress

• Le Ton beau de Marot: In Praise of the Music of Language, Douglas Hofstadter. What can I say? This is a book about translation -- but it's also a book by Hofstadter, which means it's a book about the idea of translation stretched and twisted and abstracted and applied to all different kinds of things, and at the same time it's also a book about poetry and music and elegance and math and computer science and AI and love. The book describes itself as something of a memory of Hofstadter's wife, Carol, and it's touching to read it as the world's longest, most elaborate love letter.


• Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid, Douglas Hofstadter. This one is also about music and elegance and poetry, but with a much larger dose of logic and math and AI and symmetry and abstraction. It's more work to get through, but it's so worth it.


• On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen, Harold McGee. A really well-written guide to food, "scientific" in that it describes foods using scientific terms, not "scientific" in the sense of nutrition-reductionism. Sort of a Hacker's Guide to Culinary Experimentation.

On Deck

• I Am A Strange Loop, Douglas Hofstadter


• Diamond Age, or, A Young Lady's Illustrated Primer, Neal Stephenson


• Vaccine, Arthur Allen


• Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, Susanna Clarke


• On Intelligence, Jeff Hawkins


• Dante's Inferno (anybody got recommendations about which translator to read?)

Perverse, Ugly, Terrible Beauty

Neurophilosophy writes about amyloid plaques and Alzheimer's, showcasing this really interesting 3D rendering of the plaque's constituent protein fibrils -- larger picture with the original article at Discover. The article and the post are really informative and you should go read them because I'm not going to address their content. (Gasp!)

My first reaction on seeing the image was, "How strangely beautiful". Even though this is a picture of a prime suspect in an absolutely horrific disease. Even though it's got a rather menacing fire-and-brimstone color scheme. Even though I shudder at the idea of these nasty little fibrils snaking their way through my brain, withering neurons like the Goo of Death from Princess Mononoke.

It's well established that good, hardworking, well-oiled biology is a joy to behold (if you have the right mindset). Listen to PZ Myers rhapsodize about the time he got a close-up look inside his hand. Read Dr. Sidney Schwab's eulogies to the body unmarred, and to the regal liver and warm, welcoming intestine. You've all seen The Inner Life of the Cell; watch it again and marvel.

It's also pretty well established that diseased, shattered, out-of-control biology is ugly, ugly, ugly. Hear Dr. Schwab, again, on how injuries and cancer ravage and ruin the anatomy that was so lovely. And who hasn't shuddered (inwardly) at the sight of scabs and puckered scars?

But somehow, I find there's a genuine (albeit perverse, ugly, terrible) beauty to diseases and such evil things. In the same way that it's interesting to watch flames blacken and consume a sheet of paper, it's interesting to imagine a cancer burning its way through a tissue. There's an elegance to the way viruses hijack and pervert cells to their own nefarious ends. And so on. I'm not saying that I think diseases are a good thing, or anything that causes pain/death is "nice" or "pretty"; far from it. But can't you see the grace, the sweeping lines, the eye-drawing colors, of those evil amyloid fibrils?


(Having thus far skirted the edge of hell, with these paragraphs I commit my soul to the inferno.)

I'm quite the Douglas Hofstadter fan, and I'm right in the middle of rereading his book Le Ton beau de Marot: In Praise of the Music of Language. In the introduction, Hofstadter dedicates the book to his wife, Carol, who was "hit from out of left field by a strange and eerie malady with the disgusting name of glioblastoma multiforme... vanishing from our midst almost as suddenly as if she had in fact been hit by a bus, with so much of life still left in her... all cut short by some cell gone wrong." Le Ton beau de Marot is in large part a commitment of their shared soul to paper. The book is stimulating, beautiful, and moving; I cried when I read of her death and his grief. I don't mean to minimize any of that. But I have to disagree with Hofstadter on one point. I don't think the name glioblastoma multiforme is "disgusting". "Strange and eerie", yes, and awful and dreadful (in the sense of inspiring awe and dread). But not disgusting. There's even some euphony, some beauty in the sound of the term.

Of course, I say this as someone who has never lost a close and treasured friend or family member to cancer (and I'm very grateful for that!); I certainly don't blame Hofstadter for describing as "disgusting" a name associated with so much pain and grief. His reaction is completely natural; in fact there would probably be something wrong with him if he didn't react that way. You could as well say that I am incapable of tasting all the bitterness as that Hofstadter is incapable of seeing any of the beauty. Nothing wrong with that.