An Astonishing Level of Humanisation

I've mentioned the difficulties of both promoting/censoring violent action on social media before and I can't really think of much to add to that post. In brief, there are plenty of cases where the kind of language I'd use about certain people in ordinary conversation wouldn't be appropriate online, where the differences between rhetoric and genuine advocacy are often easily misunderstood. There are, of course, cases where I believe violent action should happen (violence is sometimes necessary and even actively desirable), but often "should" is in a highly abstract moral sense : that is, it would be right if this thing happened, as opposed to, "I want to join/start/support an actual mob". Likewise there are things I would endorse after the fact, wouldn't lose any sleep over if they occurred, but wouldn't ever actively instigate.

But I'm in danger of just re-running that whole post. I might do that at some point, given recent degenerations of major social media outlets into fascist safe spaces. Not today though.

Instead, what I want to mention is this bizarre piece in The Atlantic about the killing of UnitedHealthcare's CEO, and how this is being outright celebrated across the internet. The Atlantic, I have to say, is a truly strange publication. Sometimes it offers highly intelligent, comprehensive reviews that provide in-depth context to a story, and sometimes it goes off on bizarre rants about how subtitles are basically worse than the Holocaust. This piece is much closer to the latter.

For some context of my own, I got really quite disgusted by some of the reaction to the deaths of those aboard the Titan submersible a couple of years ago. Sure, the company who designed and operated the Titan seem shady as hell, but I saw no evidence that this was true of the passengers. Rejoicing because some people died simply because they were rich ? What's wrong with you ?

This time my sympathies lie elsewhere. Two particular quotes do often come to mind :

For the corrupt man it's better not to be alive, for he necessarily lives badly. – Plato

No attempt at ethical or social seduction can eradicate from my heart a deep burning hatred for the Tory party. So far as I am concerned they are lower than vermin. – Nye Bevan (founder of the NHS)

Obviously, some violence is justifiable in some conditions. Only the most diehard pacifist would argue otherwise; pretty much everyone else would agree that you're allowed to fight back against oppression. The Atlantic piece does not seem to understand that at all. It seems to actively confuse simply "being a person" with "being a good person". The title, "An Astonishing Level of Dehumanisation" aptly sets the tone, and as the piece elaborates :

At Jewell’s South Hamilton High School, the Times reported, Thompson was valedictorian, a star athlete, homecoming king, and class president. A teacher described Thompson as an excellent student, a model person, “a super kid.” As a corporate leader, he kept a low profile; friends and colleagues remembered him as mild-mannered and humble, down-to-earth and self-deprecating. He was a passionate advocate for the Special Olympics and a devoted father to his sons, Bryce and Dane. His obituary described his love for his sons as “limitless.”

“Brian was an incredibly loving, generous, talented man who truly lived life to the fullest and touched so many lives,” his wife, Paulette Thompson, told Fox News.

Err, hang on. All murderers are human. Very few indeed are truly monstrous, moustache-twirling pantomime villains cackling with delight as they torture kittens. All of them are somebody's son or daughter. Few indeed (though I think not none, despite the claims of various ancient philosophers) are malevolent purely for the sake of being malicious. Most people believe they're acting correctly most of the time – and that's precisely what makes the worse sort of villains so dangerous. 

Which means that just because it's absurd to equate "being a billionaire" with "being evil", it doesn't follow that the two are mutually exclusive either. No demographic – none at all, be it race, creed, religious affiliation, wealth, anything – has a monopoly on evil. When it comes to judging whether someone is good or bad, you have to fully consider the individual. You can't reduce it to demographics.

So the mere fact of Thompson's humanity simply isn't relevant to the case here. I don't have a hard time believing he loved his family or had perfectly ordinary, harmless interests outside his career. Without ever having heard of the guy before his death, I'm not the least bit surprised that other people loved him. I don't doubt it. Instead I claim it doesn't matter. Not at all.

Why ? Because that doesn't negate his actions as a CEO. Being loved, taking care of one's pets and/or elderly relatives, helping the disabled... none of that would give anyone pause for thought in condemning someone for, say, stabbing a stranger in the street. So it seems awfully strange to me to use any of this to mourn the passing of someone who seems to be a straightforward, clear-cut, self-serving villain. As AOC said :

For anyone who is confused or shocking or appalled, they need to understand that people interpret and feel and experience denied claims as an act of violence against them.

I mean... yeah ? When you hear about the kind of claims Thompson's company denied people, when you hear how many they denied compared to other companies, it's hard to see them acting as anything other than a force of oppression, nakedly profiting from the misery and suffering of the masses. It's very hard indeed to see it as anything other than a black-and-white case of this guy being the villain and the other side... not. 

Should he have been murdered ? No, of course not ! I mean it. What should have happened is that America realised it had a phenomenally stupid, ludicrously inegalitarian society and healthcare system and restructured itself accordingly; what should have happened is that Thompson spent his billions on providing healthcare to those less fortunate on the grounds that that would be patently the right thing to do. None of that happened or showed any indication of happening. And if you cut off all legal avenues of change to people, or, worse, make it so that they technically have legal possibilities but make them de facto impossible to actually exploit... well, look at history. Look at how democracy started. It wasn't because the tyrants generously decided to stop being oppressive one fine Greek morning.

The Atlantic nutjob raises another line of argument :

What a lot of people who are celebrating Thompson’s death and demonizing UnitedHealthcare don’t seem to understand — or don’t seem to want to understand — is that in every modern health-care system, some institution is charged with rationing care... if they didn’t do it, someone else would need to. The reality of scarcity is not their fault, nor is it “social murder.”

Reality of scarcity, eh ? Doesn't seem very plausible when some have basically enough money to live in a solid gold house and others, err, don't. Doesn't seem very plausible when plenty of countries are able to provide free or affordable healthcare to their whole population and the US chooses not to. And it certainly doesn't seem very plausible given the obscene levels of wealth at work in the health industry itself, let alone that UnitedHealthcare denies claims at a rate twice the industry average. Or when you hear the horror stories about denying payments for anaesthetic and the like. And if even in the US, with its jaw-droppingly awful insurance system, most companies manage to do so much better than this, then you can't give UnitedHealthcare the excuse that everyone does it by necessity. That's an absurd claim to make. 

There’s legitimacy in the frustration and anger many people feel. Nevertheless, turning to lethal violence is horrifying and ominous. So, too, is applauding and justifying assassinations...  consider what happens when the logic of those who are celebrating Mangione is applied to a different issue.  

The list of organizations and individuals who could be targeted because their critics on the left or on the right believe they support policies that lead to suffering or death is endless: gun-rights lobbies; those who want to defund the police; individuals opposing childhood vaccinations, and those who administer them; groups that want to cut funding for the global AIDS initiative; those that want the United States to withdraw from the Paris climate accords; those that oppose a higher minimum wage. So who decides which Americans are guilty of “social murder”?

This is a (somewhat) better point. It's a perfectly fine to note that the rule of law is important. Nobody wants anarchy or the tyranny of the mob; again, changing the system so that people wouldn't have felt oppressed would be, by far, the better outcome. It's also fair to point out that those in charge have to think differently and more statistically than the rest of us. That's why we have them, to make the difficult choices we can't make ourselves. Somebody has to be the one to make the unpopular choices; that we disagree with them is not as problematic as when we get mad at them for simply making the choice at all.

On that note : it isn't really fair to equate the actions of a madman with a shotgun who goes on a killing spree with those of a CEO, or political leader, whose (in)actions cause far greater causalities. The one voluntarily chooses evil, the other often has no choice but to decide between the lesser of two evils. The idea that choosing the lesser evil is still choosing evil is wrong-headed, because some level of "social murder" is unavoidable. But... and it's a big but... this doesn't mean that some CEOs and executives aren't straightforward villains either. Just because some unpleasant choices are unavoidable doesn't mean that all of them are. It certainly doesn't mean that some CEOs and leaders aren't criminally awful people. "Social murder" may not be morally equivalent to regular murder, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be stopped or its consequences are less real.

And I think there's also a fair helping of whataboutism at work here. Again, being rich hardly by itself equates with being a villain; likewise, each issue that polarises people is something to be dealt with on an individual basis, not something that can be readily generalised. Nor is it fair to equate "those who support policies" with "those who actively implement or profit monetarily from those policies". 

Crucially, while it may be indeed "horrifying and ominous" to resort to violence, certain aspects of American life are already horrifying and ominous. Pointing out that the horrible nature of the situation and the potential for further violence only ducks the question of how else the oppressed people, exactly, are supposed to change their lot; why are they supposed to suffer oppression and corporate violence routinely but are forbidden to retaliate ? This is cowering from the root cause of the problem. Again, nobody wants anarchy and violence, but you won't avoid it merely by declaring that such an outcome is bad. You have to tackle the issues that led here, and not all of those are at all equal. Crying, "slippery slope !" is nowhere near adequate to the task at hand.

This is not, I hasten to add, advocating for holding the rich and powerful literally hostage. Far from it. We are not, by nature, in a "war against all" in which peaceful coexistence is only maintained by continuous threats – that is cynical dystopian nonsense, of which more in the links. No, what I'm saying is that class wars only arise when the social contract fails, when unreasonable and unbearable demands are brought with no possibility of changing or avoiding them. Treat people fairly and reasonably and most of them will respond in kind. Treat people kindly and they won't have any grievances to address, still less any need or inclination to resort to pointless violence.

The thing is, in the end it doesn't really matter if you think this is "right" or not. What really matters is that if you push people too far for long enough, they will fight back. Whether or not they "should" is absolutely irrelevant. If you don't want them to, you have to either address their concerns or change their minds. Doing nothing is a recipe for disaster.

Finally :

The American health-care system certainly has its flaws, but those are hardly the fault of UnitedHealthcare alone. Nations such as the United Kingdom, which offer the sort of single-payer public health care that Tolentino extolls, have long wait lists for treatment, significant staff shortages, and outdated hospital infrastructure. Public satisfaction with the U.K.’s National Health Service is at a 40-year low; only 29 percent of the British public is “quite satisfied” or “very satisfied” with the NHS.

Srsly ? Sure, the NHS is in trouble, but that might have had something to do with, oh, I don't know, 14 years of Tory austerity, perhaps. During the Blair era it was routinely cited as one of the best in the world. Just as the author omits to mention how bad UnitedHealthcare is in comparison with other health insurance companies, not providing context for the UK's difficulties is disingenuous in the extreme. The author's following quote about how bad the service is I find to be downright misleading, and utterly missing the fact that we have free healthcare for all while the Americans don't.

I'm not sure I've succeeded in managing the fine line I've tried to walk. My point really is that the Atlantic arguments don't make a lot of sense. Just because someone isn't entirely evil doesn't mean they don't commit awful acts. Just because they aren't of the same moral category as someone who derives sadistic pleasure from torturing their victims doesn't mean they aren't committing oppressive, immoral acts. I find it unfair to simply say that "violence is bad" without acknowledging that a violent response was undertaken only in retaliation to acts of violent oppression. And equating different healthcare systems which are demonstrably unequal is outright misinformation. Finally, being appalled by one particular kind of violence should not be an excuse to avoid dealing with the other. Granted, they're not the same. But the consequences are, and you can't avoid dealing with the one merely by saying that the other is bad. It doesn't matter how you think people should behave – push them far enough, and eventually they will snap.

Review : A History of Britain In Ten Enemies

What better way to start the New Year than with a book review ? Let's keep it light to get back into the swing of things and start off with Terry Deary's A History of Britain In Ten Enemies. As the author of the Horrible Histories books*, this is guaranteed bestseller, and indeed it was one I both bought and received for Christmas. I'm not sure that's ever happened to me before.

* Which are amazing. The TV sketch show is genuinely brilliant and I would recommend it for viewers of all ages.

The book is... pretty good, overall, but very much a mixed bag. As I expected, it's pretty light on the detail and heavy on the jokes. Not all of the punchlines land well : some are just not funny, some are real groaners, but some are literally laugh-out-loud funny. You might not like it, but you'd have to be a pretty weird sort to ever get bored reading this. While the length of 200-odd pages mean it never gets into anything terribly meaty, the breadth of its coverage is really quite impressive given the space. It sort of reminded me of All The Countries We've Ever Invaded but in reverse.

In terms of style it feels aimed at a younger or more attention-lacking audience than your standard history book, though it's not for children as in the Horrible Histories series – there are a few bits which would be more Horrific than merely Horrible. The short, uniform-length sentences do become at times quite irritating, and sometimes the jokes are a bit forced and unnecessary. Probably the worst aspect is that it's sometimes hard to tell if Deary is being genuinely revisionist or merely trying to be provocative, and some of the claims made are either misleading or simply downright wrong. I'll say that with some confidence : I'm not a historian, but I've read enough to know (on occasion) when Deary is not so much going against the grain as leaving it completely. More on that shortly.

On the other hand, there is not a whiff of patriotic zeal to be found anywhere. For every point Deary awards to the British, he's sure to take one away again soon after*. Nor, thankfully, does he ever languish in the sort of anti-society, nihilistic, holier-than-thou self-loathing that afflicts a good many commentators**. It's cynical, but it's an amusing, wry cynicism that never takes itself too seriously. Righteousness is not a condition that ever much affects Deary. He doesn't ever judge the past by the standards of the present, or go out of his way to pronounce moral judgements except when it's unavoidable. He has axes to grind but no hobby-horses to ride, so to speak.
* There's a lot of good-natured mockery here. The American chapter is likely to find few fans across the pond, describing it as "calling itself the land of the free, apparently without irony... they also have a fondness for guns, eating unhealthy food, and playing rounders professionally."
** Much as "science advocates" are sometimes not themselves researchers, perhaps "historical commentator" would be a good term for Deary, who isn't a historian. 

I guess I have to say that I agree with Deary's sentiments pretty much entirely, even if I take all his specific claims with a rather large pinch of salt. Chief among these for setting the alarm bells ringing was his assertion that there were only a few prisoners killed at Agincourt : not even hundreds, says Deary, let alone the thousands as described in the "stories". This I find straightforwardly unbelievable. I've read several much longer and more in-depth books on Henry V's Agincourt campaign and nobody else has ever contested that the mass executions happened; they are attested by both sides. Exactly how they were viewed at the time is certainly more contestable, but I know of no reason to doubt that they took place. For a dramatic bit of revisionism like this, very much more evidence is needed than a simple denial as Deary gives. 

Similarly, his estimate on the number of combatants puts things on such an equal footing as to make the victory either seem totally unimpressive or requiring an absurdly efficient killing process from the English. Sure, the typical ratio of 5 French : 1 English is probably an exaggeration*, but again, more justification is needed to reduce this down to something more like 1.5 : 1.

* But not necessarily. If I recall correctly, Juliet Barker reckoned it probably was on the higher end of things with ~5-6,000 English and as many as 36,000 French, but with a full third of those (12,000) not actually involved in combat – thus giving an effective ratio of more like 4 : 1. This isn't crazy; other battles have been won with such ratios.

Another strange one was how British historians have viewed King John. I've grown up learning of him as being widely regarded as one of our worst-ever rulers, but Deary says it was actually the Catholic Church who hated him more than the British. This simply doesn't ring true to me at all; citation : again, longer books than these have not alluded to anything like this. Deary can also have a rather simplistically negative view of the Church as being simply a Bad Thing* which feels hopelessly one-sided. Again, is he being provocative or sincere ? It's very hard to tell, and I would have greatly preferred an approach of "here's what I honestly think". I don't mind disagreeing with an author but I do object to second-guessing their intentions. I like a good argument, but we have to do it in good faith or it's just not interesting.

* To the point that Henry VIII splitting from Rome was unquestionably a Good Thing in Deary's mind. He should perhaps have read Dominion first.

Deary does rather better in the chapters on the Dark Ages. He quotes Beecham that one should "try anything once, except incest and folk dancing", hilariously linking this back to an early incestuous monarch who was at least never accused of the going full Morris. He tells the story of Vortigen without the whole incident with the dragon, which I found very informative but he seems to think everyone already knows. I suspect he might be showing his age there a bit : we just don't learn about this in school any more, probably because nobody trusts the Dark Age materials enough (quite rightly, in my view).

In terms of the Vikings Deary is not a fan of the tendency to portray them as a complex people and ignore their bloodthirsty side; for Deary, they're more straightforwardly marauding rapists. Well, they certainly did do that, but this doesn't mean they didn't have more interesting and positive aspects to their characters and societies as well, but it's a perfectly respectable opinion. He gets a bit weird in his interpretation of the English though, e.g. describing Alfred's achievements as "underwhelming" is a truly strange thing to say, and calling Cnut the first king of Britain without even mentioning Athelstan is practically criminal. Likewise, Harold Godwinson come across here as basically a good guy, but in other books he seems to be much more of a gangster and a thug (which, yes, is different from the typical sort of militaristic-despotism which was endemic to medieval monarchs).

Adding further to the oddness of the whole thing is the grapeshot-like approach Deary takes to adding extra information and context to famous events. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't. He does mention, for instance, the total failure of the French attempt to counter-invade England following Crecy, and the repeated failed Spanish Armadas that came after the main event (all of which were even less successful than the first)... but not the utter failure that was the English Armada. He describes Nelson as a "throughly unsavoury character" because of his tenuous links with slavery, but then again, details the Dutch raid on the Medway (which we are apt to pointedly ignore) in some detail as the shambolic failure of the British which is clearly was.

Finally, one thing I found lacking was the counterfactuals. I don't have a hard time believing, as per the blurb, that without Hitler Churchill would have just been an opposition windbag, but more exploration of what effect our enemies had on us, what might have happened without them, would have been interesting. Deary does explore how enemies act as a unifying force, sometimes on their victims but sometimes on themselves (e.g. Joan of Arc was more successful in uniting the French than actually attacking the English). There's a degree of subtlety here – it may be a light book and parts of it are questionable but it isn't stupid – but it feels under-exploited.

And of course... we've had a lot more than ten enemies. The books feels like it was rattled off rather quickly. I for one would definitely like a much longer, more carefully-written sequel that consults more with professional historians, justifies its claims more carefully, and expands both in breadth and depth. We've had All The Countries We've Ever Invaded; the time is surely right for All The Countries Who Ever Invaded Us. 

As it stands, I'm giving it 7/10 as a good read. I'd normally knock a lot more points off for inaccuracy, but I'm cutting the author some slack because he more than deserves it. I can't imagine there's anyone alive who's done more for getting children interested in history, and I very much hope he manages a few more books for adults before he too fades into the past.

Review : Pagan Britain

Having read a good chunk of the original stories, I turn away slightly from mythological themes and back to something more academical : the historical and archaeological evidence for the early world views prevailing in the British Isles. I begin with Ronald Huttons' Pagan Britain.

The Review Bit

Ronald Hutton is, like Dianne Purkiss, one of televisions' most distinctive historians. He doesn't have Purkiss' uniquely weird voice (though it is a bit odd), but his typical garb makes him look like a would-be follower of Matthew Hopkins. Apparently he is in fact a pagan himself, though he keeps that private and you'd never guess it from this excessively level-headed book.

I have to say it's a bit of a strange one. Really, I do mean "excessively level-headed" here, it's not a compliment. By no means could you call it a bad book, but it often becomes a right proper trudge. It's thorough to a fault. For the most part it's a good, meaty, detailed read, but it does sometimes become dry and on occasion tedious. 

As a compendium of different interpretations I doubt you'll find anything better anywhere. The problem is that Hutton is resolutely noncommittal on almost everything, able to distil the different ideas, who believes them and why, all well enough, but Hutton himself hardly ever professes his own opinion. This can make it deeply frustrating. Hutton is trying much, much too hard to be even-handed, treating everything as equally credible when this is clearly not the case. Only at the very end, for example, does he decide to explicitly say that aliens didn't build Stonehenge, a process which feels like drawing blood from a stone.

Look man, crackpots are crackpots. It's okay to call them out on it. There's absolutely no need to placate the nutcases. 

To me this is not the right away of doing a book like this. I much prefer Francis Pryor's view that it's necessary to venture strong opinions to test and debate – strong but weakly held, because you can freely abandon them. Having done a truly monumental amount of work in assembling the myriad of different ideas considered in this dense 400-page tome, for Hutton never to even give his best guess on almost anything becomes damned annoying. Worse, he doesn't seem to think we can even have opinions on anything : there's simply no way to decide, the evidence always too thin or inconclusive. He seems resolutely lacking in self-awareness of his own postmodernist attitudes.

Come off it man ! Look, it's fine if you're wrong. Just give me something to evaluate. I'd rather have a wrong answer than no answer, or more accurately, I want your opinion even if you aren't confident of it. Your opinion is valuable – don't sell yourself so short. At times, he seems to exalt personal choice to the status of actual evidence, which is damned strange. No, dammit, not every opinion deserves equal respect !

A more minor second point of irritation is Huttons' inconsistent and weird use of the passive voice. Like the man himself, this just comes across as damned odd. It's a popular text, and anyway the passive voice is a horrible and disingenuous thing that makes people sound artificially aloof and objective. Better by far to admit opinions are opinions than pretending you're above the fray, because I simply don't believe you. On the limited visitor numbers allowed at Sutton Hoo, for example :

This arrangement protects the site and does justice to it, and it is an unworthy emotion that makes the present writer remember fondly his boyhood image of the place, as a flock of low tumuli, deserted among the misty heath.

This is a weird mangling of academician-speak and solid narrative prose, made all the stranger by his sometimes using "I" like a normal person. His insistence that "nonetheless" is actually three separate words is equally grating.

Which is far from saying there's nothing of interest in here. Actually there's plenty, occasionally with moments of profound insight (a couple of which I'll cover below) which are eloquently expressed. It's just that this is buried in unnecessary and inconclusive depth. That said, he does give a first-rate history of histories, covering why people believed different things about the past at different times by placing them in a very interesting social context. But while it's good to be aware that evidence, beliefs and biases all change over time, and that our current findings are always provisional, I don't see any point in using this to justify holding no opinions at all. Just because the broader context might shape our ideas in ways we're not always aware of, doesn't mean that all of our ideas are wrong. You're still allowed to have preferences, for goodness' sake.

Overall, I give this one a solid 7/10. There's some genuinely great stuff in here, but it's a far heavier read than it really needs to be.

Hutton's Pagan Britain

There are two points Hutton makes which I think are almost make the book worth reading by themselves. The first is a question : how come invasions only seem to start at the beginning of (written) history ?

More worrying, in view of the complete abandonment of the invasion hypothesis during the later twentieth century, is that invasions are a major theme of actual ancient history. As soon as Britain emerged into history, parts of it were occupied successively by Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Irish, Vikings and Normans. The undoubted arrivals of new goods and technologies in [late prehistory], however, are now ascribed wholly to travelling salespeople, traders, friendly foreigners looking for work... This picture certainly fits the apparent archaeological and genetic record, and it may well be that everything did change as soon as history began... [but] it deserves more consideration, and explanation, than it has so far received.

This is a fascinating observation that I've never heard discussed before. A related point is that Hutton is firmly against Pryor's pacifist view of prehistoric Britain, calling this simply unsustainable. If we can't be sure of the causes or even the exact modes of violence specifically (e.g. it's almost impossible to distinguish, archeologically, between the rituals involved in killing a criminal as judicial punishment versus for ritual sacrifice to the gods) then we can be at least sure that large-scale violence did happen. I tend to agree with this. Pryor's arguments that ancient Britons would build such monumental hill forts, with clear defensive capabilities, just for shits and giggles rather than actual defence never seemed very credible to me. If you're going to build something as sheer statement of power, you don't opt to make it a defensive structure unless you have some need for defence. Otherwise you'd go for the prehistoric equivalent of a triumphal arch.

I detect in Hutton an undertone of skepticism that military-scale invasions didn't happen in prehistory, though he never claims this directly. But if there is this correlation between the use of writing and the occurrence of invasions, what's the connection ? Is it just that they're now better attested by the records ? This is problematic, as I'll return to at the end. Could it be that writing is needed for the formidable logistics involved ? Maybe.

The second point is the nature of paganism. It takes a while for Hutton to state this, but when he does, he puts things with commendable eloquence.

This was a form of religion which embodied no divine revelation and depended on no books, dogmas or orthodoxy, resting instead entirely on prescribed ceremonies. It had no specific founder or leader, no concept of conversion, made no demands on foreigners and was centred on the community and not the individual. It left ethics to society to prescribe, freed worshippers to decide how to venerate their own deities, and aimed for earthly well-being, not salvation in the next life. It had no concept of sin, though a very active one of blasphemy and impiety. 

Just as politics isn't necessarily related to morality, so too can religion be a quite separate part of a person's world view. Tom Holland made it clear that Christianity and later Western thinking tended to create other religions by saying "these people believed in this god, therefore they were of such-and-such a faith", whereas for the actual believers, their world view wasn't nearly so clear-cut. In paganism, which god one prefers to worship has an entirely different significance compared to, say, the difference between theists and atheists. There was no set doctrine or dogma concerning any particular pagan deity (as is abundantly clear from all the mythology books I've been covering here lately), no particular set rituals to observe or way of acting the god would approve of. For pagans, the gods were simply there. They provided an explanation for how the world worked, far more than they provided any guide to right action (but see Hamilton's Mythology).

This, though, could be a weakness. Just as politics coupled to morality creates fierce polarisation but also passion among adherents, so too does the same happen when spiritual beliefs combine with ethics.

Pagans simply did not take religion as seriously as Christians did, because they did not regard it as embodying divine law or carrying a choice of salvation or damnation as a consequence... It seems that the more aggressive, determined and monopolist religion had the edge over its rivals, simply because it cared more about winning, and demanded absolute victory.

By contrast the pagans didn't see anything special about Christianity at first, for a while quite freely reverting to paganism when the Christian god failed to deliver. The mindset that religion wasn't actually very important took a while to shift... but not that long. Hutton reckons Britain was pretty much entirely Christian by 600 AD (or 700 at the absolute most), invasions by the Scandinavians notwithstanding.

I'm not entirely convinced by that. Firstly Thomas William's Lost Realms did an incomparably better job of charting the shifting beliefs in Dark Age Britain, which as Hutton also acknowledges, happened very inhomogeneously. But secondly Hutton's own arguments about paganism as more a world view than a religion proper. He says that witches do not represent the survival of paganism because there was no ordered structure or community of belief, but surely that's hardly a black mark against it given the very nature of the pagan world view.

Perhaps a compromise can be reached here. After an unnecessarily thorough dismissal of many ideas which Hutton argues (often persuasively) do not represent pagan ideas persisting after the domination of Christianity, he concludes that some ideas did survive the conversion. Magical thinking is one, especially the idea that certain objects could have inherent magical power (much, much more on this when I'll cover Keith Thomas' Religion And The Decline Of Magic). Pagan symbols are another, e.g. dragons and giants certainly predate Christianity. Furthermore certain festivals definitely have pagan origins, while fairies are perhaps one of the strongest persisting beliefs. Fairies and fairyland weren't inherently good or evil but certainly had no place in Christianity either. Since they were more-or-less orthogonal to Christian belief, causing little or no interference with what the Church saw as correct behaviour, Christian priests were content to let people believe in them : they weren't rival gods, they were just things people thought existed for some reason.

So maybe we could say that pagan thinking persisted long after the rise of Christianity, even if most of its specific beliefs fell away. Perhaps people have an innate tendency to see magical behaviour in the world, and if left to itself (without a monotheistic, organised, morality-driven Church to actively refute these ideas, or equally a powerful, evidence-based academic organisation) this eventually leads to paganism proper : the rise of the small gods.

Certainly there does seem to have been muddled thinking in Dark Age Britain, despite Tolkien's eloquent protestations to the contrary. Not only was there frequent backsliding to paganism and confused mixtures of symbols, but elsewhere there were ideas which look bizarre from the perspective of modern Christianity. Italy, of all places, saw some of the weirdest ideas, like the benandanti : Christian shamans who were believed to send forth their spirits to battle witches. Or the idea that the planets were governed by magical spirits whose powers could be drawn on by earthly wizards. Again, I leave the confused distinction between wizard and priest to a future review.

For a third and final point I turn back to history. In large part the book is, often frustratingly, about archaeology more than paganism, and it's pretty decent at that, even while Hutton so often refuses to commit to any opinions. But there is one memorable case in which he does decide the evidence is clear enough to pass judgement, and I have to say it's damned odd. 

I've mentioned the varying beliefs about the reality or otherwise of the Anglo-Saxon invasions in many of the history books I've read recently, with it now quite clear that professional historians and archaeologists have rather a strong mix of opinions. But Hutton, strangely, persists in the view of the invasions as a) definitely having happened and b) causing wholesale genocide. This in spite of the fact that he acknowledges the genetic evidence doesn't support it and the actual textual evidence is extremely limited : three sources, all writing long after the events. Of all the times, of the most minor of details, where the evidence seems abundant and he says that things are just far too unclear to decide anything, on this the grandest of issues he becomes very decisive on the flimsiest of reasoning ! And surely, the compromise here is obvious : localised, brutal massacres are easily mythologised as truly genocidal, even when nothing on such a scale actually took place.

It is indeed an altogether strange book. In the footnotes he often protests angrily that he's been misquoted or misunderstood, but I have to say I came away sympathetic to his detractors : if he'd just commit to something like a normal person, we could all have a jolly good argument and go away happily. He tries to weasel out of things so much that the reader is almost forced into putting words in his mouth or he'd have said very little at all.

Again, I don't want to say it's bad : it isn't. The context he presents for the shifting beliefs of historians is excellent and provocative, his thoughts on the nature of paganism insightful, the sheer breadth and depth of his review downright extraordinary. It is, in fact, a very good book. But I'm not at all sure I'd want to read more by the same author. We'll see.

Review : "Viking" Tales

Following Flame Tree's Celtic Myths and Tales, next I wanted a deeper exploration of Norse mythology. Unfortunately, their Viking Folk and Fairy Tales book doesn't quite fit the bill. Although it does have some Norse mythology, most of it is a collection of much later folk and fairy tales. So I'll avoid the Norse gods and concentrate on the fairy stuff here; perhaps their "Norse myths" book, which wasn't in the bookshop, will eventually satisfy my original design.

Let's get the obvious out of the way. Strictly speaking "Viking" was more an occupation than a region, but since it's become more-or-less interchangeable with "Norse" I don't really care about that. But Norse tends to imply medieval Scandinavia while many of these tales are much later, and a few are German. So the title is wrong, but there isn't really a good alternative that would be sufficiently snappy. "Germano-Nordic Fairy And Folk Tales With Some Connection To The Era Of The Vikings Which Have Varying Degrees Of The Supernatural And Wider Significance About Them" wouldn't really cut it.

I have to say that while as usual I enjoyed the introduction, when I got past the relatively short collection of older tales I was for some time disappointed. Many of these tales are incredibly tedious stories for children that I should have skipped, especially the one about the stupid child who gets stuck on a reindeer. Or the one about the honest man who gives a polar bear to a king and is duly rewarded. They're just outright boring.

Fortunately after a prolonged interlude of these dull, uneventful, normal stories the book goes back into the fairy realm. And these are more than sufficiently weird as to become hugely entertaining once again. In some ways they're even weirder than the Celtic stories : not quite as lacking in causality, but significantly more graphic and much more violent. If I doubted the Celtic stories were originally intended for children, this is even more true of the Scandinavian tales.

I'm writing this one up much later than usual, but thanks to my wonderful ReMarkable tablet, I took excessive notes. Even so, there are a few things which stuck in my head anyway.

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Probably the most obvious is the frequent use of repetition, both in the myths proper and the later folk tales. Thor goes through a whole sequence of tasks which serve to demonstrate both his own prowess (at drinking from a huge horn, and strength, by lifting a cat which is actually a giant snake in disguise – if you thought that was weird, you have no idea what's coming) and as pseudo-explanations (his drinking from the horn causes the tides). There are rarely stories in which just one thing happens. In some of the early stories, as in the Celtic tales, there are magical objects which are even unnecessarily repetitive as they serve exactly the same function.

Sometimes repetition has a more obvious use. Many of the folk takes use it as a warning : typically, the first two would-be heroes fail to follow the instructions (or to give help to someone in need) and fail miserably, sometimes fatally, while the third acts correctly and is duly rewarded. Only rarely is the pattern broken, like in the Celtic tale of Geraint, whose repeated threats to his wife climax unexpectedly into nothing. Usually the narrative is a good deal more predictable than that.

There are also plenty of variations on a theme. Sometimes this takes the form of a recycled motif : the beautiful girl who hides up a tree above a well, with plain-looking passers-by being fooled by her reflection, occurs in many stories both Celtic and Norse. Similarly the Cinderlad/Cinderella stories, featuring a hero or heroine who rises literally from playing in the ashes to unsuspected (and often totally unjustified) brilliance, are found in numerous versions in both cultures, though often with huge differences.

In other instances the stories are copied wholesale, even featuring layers of repetition. "The Last Home of the Giants" and "The Dwarf's Banquet" are essentially the same tale. The daughter of the king of the giants runs away with her (forbidden) true love. They hide in the mountains but eventually escape to an island when the Norse gods kill most of the other giants. Later, in the Christian era, another couple similarly flee their sovereign's wrath and escape to the same island, where they witness the giants resurrected for their annual festival with the dwarves. Breaking the rules, they sneakily watch, and the spell is broken so the giant princess' lover is condemned to remain a statue forever. The only difference between the two is that in the Last Home the modern couple learn their father has forgiven them and it has a relatively happy ending.

Remakes are of course nothing new but the similarities in this case are so strong that one wonders what the point was. Especially odd, and characteristic of such tales, are the dwarves, who are introduced ad hoc and play no obvious role in the proceedings whatever. Yet someone felt they were so essential that they just couldn't leave them out of the rewrite.

Repetition appears to be a key hallmark of both the earliest myths and the later stories. Modern storytelling strives to avoid this at all costs, whereas the earlier stories it's obvious, maybe even sometimes the whole point. It's also a clear similarity that makes the fairy and folk tales feel distinctly similar to the older, genuine myths. Escaping from a one-eyed giant who lives on an island is found throughout European legends. More specifically, Ashipattle features a cast of magical characters of bizarre, arbitrary abilities that distinctly resemble those in the tale of Culhwch and Olwen : in this case, one character has to weight their legs to slow them down, another has insatiable hunger so eats stones, while another quenches their alcoholism by sucking on a bung. Ashipattle himself is a Cinderlad, so these remakes and retellings borrow freely between very different genres.

Variants abound also of Snow White, of which more later, and the "Master Maid" stories, in which a hero undertakes a series of challenges in order to woo the daughter (or captive beauty) of a giant, eventually escaping by throwing a series of magical obstacles against the pursing giant who doesn't care that they fulfilled his tasks. Sometimes, as we'll see, they can be unbelievably brutal and violent. They are seldom if ever graphic in their description. Indeed, lack of physical description might well be another chacteristic common to all European myths. Nevertheless, if the details are lacking, it's clear enough that the events are sometimes bloody in the extreme.

There are of course aspects which are distinct to each culture. Being tarred is a common Nordic punishment not found at all in the Celtic tales. Extremely long noses, perhaps three feet or more, are a common (to the point of obsession) attribute of Norse witches, often used for stirring pots. While Celtic myths feature giants aplenty, they usually only have one head... whereas Norse trolls can have up to fifteen. Exactly where all those heads go is never stated, though sometimes they're similar to the Greek Hydra : all need to be cut off to kill the beast. Another distinctly Norse element is that it's always, always, always the youngest daughter of three who the would-be hero gets to wed and bed, with the other sisters often more antagonistic than helpful. Heroines, at least as the main protagonist, are rare, though "Prince Hlni" does feature a princess who rescues a prince. I can't recall any heroine with the withering put-downs of the Welsh Rhiannon.

Perhaps more interesting are the heroes. They can be pure and noble, but they can also be petulant and often downright reluctant. They whine when their promised reward is denied or delayed to them, they often start from extremely humble beginnings. Frequently they turn out to have incredible powers for no reason whatever, having been content their whole life to laze around until suddenly they decide to slay the 15-headed ogre than nobody else can match. Perhaps their greatest similarity to modern heroes is their tendency to adopt alter-egos so that they can live an otherwise normal life*. There's a similarity to Cinderella, of course, but they sometimes also have their powers bestowed on them by magic objects.

* Although why they'd want to do this is an utter mystery. At least Clark Kent has a reasonably interesting day job, whereas the lifestyles of most of the Cinderlads are frankly utterly shit.

Sometimes the protagonists aren't very nice at all. John Dietrich (not the CFO of FedEx) is an interesting character : a boy who accidentally enters fairyland and becomes an ineffective despot. He wants to leave to marry some teenage bimbo* he meets while inside, but the fairies refuse, saying that if anyone leaves before their time then the kingdom will fall. After making them whip each other (!) he eventually discovers their weakness is an aversion to the smell of toads. At which point they're allowed to leave and all is well. It appears to be a mythological explanation for the local nobility. In a few cases, the protagonist learns the error of their ways and becomes a decent chap (it's always a chap) after all, but these are rarer. 

* At times, the excessively twee descriptions of beauty and the like become unbearable, so I put my own spin on things.

At other times the whole story is just tragic. The Norse myths end in cataclysm, but The Little Match Girl is downright insufferable and pointless in its manipulation : the poor girl hallucinates, lights some matches and dies. That's it. Or the one about the old man who selfishly protects his hay for some reason. The dialogue is actually decent, but the constant build-up as to the mysterious reason he's obsessed with his hay results in a truly abysmal anti-climax of absolutely nothing.

I could go on, but I'd better try and wrap things up. Three final points. First, paganism is often treated quite respectfully : believers go to "churches" rather than a temple, and for the most part seem like relatively normal people. This view is, however, very mixed, because there are plenty of evil trolls and hideous witches as well. In one particularly bad bit of propaganda, Christianity is shown to be not so potent as the author would prefer, explicitly stating that backsliding into paganism is all too easy.

Secondly, for a lot of the weirder stories, the explanation can surely only be mushrooms. I'm serious. "Father Weatherbeard" is a bizarre mash-up of Taliesin and the "Master Maid" stories featuring animals transforming into humans left right and centre, with witches bribed with tobacco. In Minnikin, two brothers – Minnikin and King Pippin (them give themselves the stupid names) – are born who can immediately walk and talk and bugger off. They steal eyes from witches (forcing them to give up the traditional magic sword but also a collapsible voice-activated boat and the secret of brewing), rescue princesses from trolls, win treasures of clothes of different metals, and two princesses both want to marry one of these seriously weird babies. Or then there's Murmur, an ugly child who hatches from an egg, who eats 12 tonnes of porridge, murders people by the dozen, wields a 1.5-tonne club to defend the kingdom and is impervious to cannons. My notes about this one end with "something about a fat milkmaid who scares the devil away. The king won't give him his promised reward so he hurls him into space."

There are more. I could go on. But you get the idea.

The final point I want to end on is the brutality. In Katie Woodencloak, the eponymous heroine (a variant of Cinderella) escapes her evil stepmother with a talking bull. They flee through three woods made of metals, in each of which is a multi-headed giant who cries "WHO IS THIS THAT TOUCHES MY WOOD ?"*. The bull fights each of them but is so severely injured that he takes weeks to recover. Afterwards, for no particular reason, Katie hacks his head off, and it's not a clean job – she weeps throughout the whole grisly ordeal but does it anyway. In many stories such a decapitation is needed to restore the enchanted animal to its original human form, but if this is supposed to be the case here, it's hardly clear.

* You do your own joke.

The most violent tale of all, though, must surely be the deceptively-named The Twelve Wild Ducks. Don't say I didn't warn you.

A queen with a nosebleed wishes for a daughter "as white as snow and red as blood". A troll-witch grants her wish in exchange for her twelve sons, which she gives. The child is given the idiotic name of "Snow White and Rosy Red"; she is explicitly one person, not two sisters. She grows up and goes looking for her brothers, who she discovers in a Goldilocks-like sequence living as magical ducks who transform back into humans only within the confines of a forest cottage. They think about killing her, but instead decide to have her make them clothes of thistledown to free them. This is done, but she's at once abducted by a rapey king. When she gives birth, his mother is jealous, so smears blood over her lips, throws the child in a snake pit, and says that SWRR has eaten her own child (SWRR, for some reason, cannot speak to defend herself). The king believes her, but, astoundingly, says it's okay because SNWRR is clearly very sorry and won't do it again. This happens twice more, at which point the king is compelled to have her burnt at the stake. But SWRR summons the magic ducks who return themselves to human, her voice is restored and she tells the whole tail. The punishment for the wicked mother is to be put in "fast bonds between twelve unbroken steads so that each may take his share of her." SWRR's children are all somehow fine and it all ends happily ever after. Except for the king's mother, of course. Perhaps best not to dwell on that one.

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My mythology binge has by no means ended, but it is currently taking a hiatus as I read some more conventional texts. But it's the wild insanity of the stories I find so appealing. The same story can veer from something so twee it would make Lark Rise to Candleford vomit in disgust into violence that would make even HBO producers hang their heads and stare awkwardly at their feet. 

By no means are all of these stories timeless. Many of them are utterly crap, sometimes because the stories are inherently a bunch of bollocks but sometimes only because none of the symbolism makes sense any more. And yet there's enough complexity and variability of the characters, and more than enough crazed magic and sheer batshit madness, to make them endlessly fascinating. Many of the tales seem at first simplistic and daft, but the collective whole is anything but. Why do some elements reoccur so frequently ? Why must the trolls have so many heads ? What does everyone get tarred ? And should I think of the idea of an ugly baby eating 12 tonnes of porridge as comic or creepy ?

Maybe, perhaps, some of these stories were originally intended for children, but I rather doubt it. Their violence can be appalling and the morality opaque : anyone looking for a clear lesson will often go away unsuccessful. They comment on religion in a host of ways : from unsubtly denigrating paganism in crude terms and imagery, but acknowledging the reality of its beliefs; while at other times depicting it gently and with far less prejudice. Both plots and characters vary wildly in terms of their complexity, to the point that any attempt to generalise would be foolish. Ultimately, it's that extreme variation and that utter disregard for plausibility that keeps me coming back for more.

Review : GladIIator

I seem to make a habit of reviewing Ridley Scott movies so I suppose I'd better give Gladiator II a go. This review is spoiler-free.

In a nutshell, it's good. You will be entertained. Is it great ? Nope. It doesn't compare with the first movie, and if you expect it to be of the same stature, you'll come out twisted and bitter and spitting bile at the world. If, however, you just want a decent movie, you'll have a nice time. It is in fact a perfectly decent action movie, but it's not anything like the gripping drama that was Gladiator.

To me it felt like what would happen if you gave an unlimited budget to a made-for-TV movie. It would be easy to write a pretentious, technically-oriented critique of the problems of the movie that would come out as an absolutely scathing review, and to be honest I'm a bit surprised I haven't seen more of those. But this would also be a bit of an unfair thing to do.

There are few things the movie actually does badly. There are a good many things it does adequately, and a few it does brilliantly. Overall, the positives outweigh the negatives. Its flaws are not so much what it does wrong as what it doesn't develop sufficiently. Very few things indeed are outright bad but a good many miss their full potential... I, for one, am very intrigued to see if there's a director's cut. Ideally, this should be at least another hour longer, but probably better if it was two.

That is... the butter has been spread too thin here. While it is sometimes too much of a remake rather than a sequel, with too many obvious "we just rewrote the line from the first movie" incidents, there's also plenty of new and potentially interesting material. The main character's initial primary nemesis both symbolises everything our protagonist hates about Rome but is himself also fighting to Make Rome A Great Republic Again, which could have added some very interesting character dynamics, but... didn't. Ultimately the relationship falls flat because there's just not enough time to do anything with it.

The main problem is that there's just too much stuff. There are too many characters, to the level the main characters are all relegated essentially to the screen time normally expected of of secondary characters, and the secondary characters to that of walk-on parts. Consequently there are some scenes that could be epic but fail to stick the landing; what should be a fine blade turns out to have a dull edge. There's little at stake emotionally. We just aren't given enough time to learn why we should care about the characters; paradoxically, the plot seems to be diluted by scenes which don't really seem to add anything terribly important to the narrative. A lot of it honestly feels like filler : not actually bad, in fact perfectly enjoyable to watch, but just not really needed.

Gladiator, by contrast, had an edge of the utmost clarity the whole way through. It was, to be fair, a simpler tale, but also a more complete one. The backstory was sufficiently told through dialogue without being exposition. It's immediately clear that Marcus Aurelius and Maximus were the good guys and Commodus the villain, with the others being a little bit more shades-of-grey (especially Quintus) but all their roles being immediately clear. For instance, we see Maximus acting with courage and honour from the word go and then we see Commodus betray him. The source of his rage and charisma are instantly apparent. We know what they're about and their motivations are understood.

Not so in Gladiator II. We're essentially dropped into the middle of the character's life with little or no explanation as to who he is or what he's doing there. He apparently has the respect of his men but this isn't really very well demonstrated, and to be honest, the actor is a bit flat and the dialogue sometimes a bit off. It isn't bad, by any means. But it could have been better.

Visually it's a similar story. In some ways it's an absolute visual treat, but it never really crosses the boundary from "cool-looking special effects" to "looks like it was actually filmed in ancient Rome" (though the visuals of the cityscapes are probably the best depictions of classical Rome I've ever seen). Again, there's just too much stuff here. Gladiator's opening battle was almost entirely physical effects, and consequently it might have only been 10 minutes long but they were 10 absolutely outstanding minutes. Gladiator 2 has tonnes of spectacle, loads more than Gladiator, but only occasionally does it reach the standards of its predecessor.

One of the things that I found most off was Connie Nielsen's accent. "He was a solider of Rome", she says at the end of the first movie with the pronunciation of the "they mostly come at night, mostly" girl from Aliens. It was almost to the point of being mock-British but delivered with huge charisma. Here, she's become faux-American, her stern demeanour replaced with something softer and less interesting, and her accent just... off. Her character, as well as a certain other well-known name from the first movie, isn't given anything like the narrative they deserve.

Denzel Washington's performance has received a lot of high praise, and his acting is, well, it's Denzel Washington. But like all the other characters, he's doing potentially interesting things but not in terribly interesting ways. It's a good role but not a great one. Likewise the dual emperors. To have autocratic rulers who are actually insane is an incredibly topical, err, topic, but we don't actually need there to be two of them : again, things are spread too thin. Yes yes, I know there were two emperors in reality, but Gladiator's strength came from chucking out historical accuracy in favour of a clear narrative and historical plausibility. The sequel has a clear narrative but it's lost the time to develop what's actually interesting about it, while still not gaining anything of any significance in terms of accuracy.

Which brings me to my final point : it doesn't really follow on all that naturally from the first movie. Gladiator ends very satisfyingly, whereas here the subsequent developments feel a bit forced. Not implausible by any means, but the first just didn't give any clue that any of this was likely. Again, this could potentially be remedied with extra sequences to explain just how the death of Commodus affected the political structure of the Empire; it isn't at all clear what went wrong with the plan to restore power to the Senate. That's a pretty gaping plot hole. Sure, it might be more accurate, but I took it as a given that Gladiator was postulating what could have happened rather than what did. To now revert to something very much closer to historical accuracy is as jarring as the more frequent opposite case. If you establish that a story is pure fiction, to try and bring it back to reality is as odd as if you tried to make a documentary suddenly veer into fantasy.

As I said, if I were to treat this like a proper critic, I'd probably hate it. But I don't hate it at all, I rather enjoyed it... because it was fun. It was entertaining. Ultimately, it got the job done. It's lighter entertainment than a Gladiator sequel deserves, but it's still solid light entertainment.

Whose cloud is it anyway ?

I really don't understand the most militant climate activists who are also opposed to geoengineering. Or rather, I think I understand them (or some of them at any rate), but I don't understand what their goal is supposed to be.

To a certain extent of course it makes good sense. The basic thinking that we've messed things up, so the best thing we could do is to step back, isn't unsound. It's completely natural to assume that because we got things so very badly wrong before, any further, deliberate intervention has a serious risk of making things very much worse. It could even be hubris to assume we're capable of getting things right, such is the complexity of the system we're dealing with.

I'm not unsympathetic to this view by any means. Anyone who is not merely advocating but actively gung-ho about the prospect of trying to alter the climate is someone to steer clear of. What I don't get is not the skepticism, but the denialism. And many of the reasons claimed for opposing geoengineering in principle (rather than objections to the specifics, which are often legitimate) are, so far as I can tell, a terribly toxic mixture of naivety and cynicism.

The most common retort is that geoengineering will distract from the more important business of cutting emissions. This, I think, is wrong-headed for a multitude of reasons. First, geoengineering takes many forms, and I'd argue that deliberately rewilding, planting trees, encouraging sea grass and other growth, all fit the bill of actively changing nature to help reduce the CO2 content of the atmosphere. And these solutions clearly aren't opposed to environmentalism in any sense : quite the opposite, they are perfectly aligned with classical environmentalist movements.

Second, how exactly are we supposed to reduce the existing CO2 without inducing the removal of carbon ? We have, so the claim is, already done horrible damage, but apparently we should now just back off and leave well enough alone. This is like going into someone's house, breaking all their furniture, starting a small fire in their dustbin but then slowly tip-toeing away claiming you don't want to make things worse. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me; if you make a mess, you have a responsibility to clean things up (or at least to try). I find it extraordinarily strange to claim that we've done such awful damage but shouldn't try and repair it.

And thirdly, our efforts to reduce emissions have been pretty pathetic so far. Yes yes, you can whine about overthrowing capitalism or some other damn fool idea as much as you want, but it isn't helping : it's schoolyard politics. The point is that geoengineering solutions appear to have little or nothing to do with this, and it doesn't look at all likely that if we took all the money away from geoengineering research we'd really invest it in other energy solutions instead. That idea seems crazy-naïve to me.

Which is why I don't understand what the goal of the opponents is supposed to be. Live in a shitty, overheated planet and make the best of it ? Sit back and watch everyone and everything suffer horribly ? That prospect is surely crazy-cynical, the product of people who've had the hope beaten out of them. It's daft.

No, the right solution seems clear : diversification. More than any other this feels like a situation where the idea of a single magic bullet is never going to work. Instead, we need to try and cut back our energy requirements wherever possible, change our energy production methods, change our farming techniques, change our construction strategies, work to a controlled decline in the population (otherwise Nature will do this for us, except it won't be controlled), and, yes, actively solicit the removal of atmospheric carbon. The idea that we can just, somehow, stop emissions tomorrow and that alone constitutes an acceptable solution is frankly bizarre. We know that simply isn't going to happen and it wouldn't be enough anyway. Pretending we should be singularly focused on this outlandish objective, at the exclusion of all others, is hindering the cause, not helping it. It's an outrageously unrealistic goal which distracts from what we really need to do, which is everything.

Which is not to say that some geoengineering "solutions" aren't a hell of a lot more scary than others. For example, injecting sulphur dioxide into the atmosphere to obscure the sunlight just slightly. The NYT piece linked doesn't have much in the way of data but some choice quotes :

“There certainly are risks, and there certainly are uncertainties,” he said. “But there’s really a lot of evidence that the risks are quantitatively small compared to the benefits, and the uncertainties just aren’t that big.” The only thing more dangerous than his solution, he suggested, may be not using it at all.

Once solar geoengineering began to cool the planet, stopping the effort abruptly could result in a sudden rise in temperatures, a phenomenon known as “termination shock.” The planet could experience “potentially massive temperature rise in an unprepared world over a matter of five to 10 years, hitting the Earth’s climate with something that it probably hasn’t seen since the dinosaur-killing impactor,” Dr. Pierrehumbert said.

On top of all this, there are fears about rogue actors using solar geoengineering and concerns that the technology could be weaponized. Not to mention the fact that sulfur dioxide can harm human health.

Dr. Keith is adamant that those fears are overblown. And while there would be some additional air pollution, he claims the risk is negligible compared to the benefits.

To be clear, I'd probably put this way down my list of preferred geoengineering solutions. Injecting chemicals known to be harmful is, pretty obviously, not exactly the ideal solution. But all the same I take great issue with :

Raymond Pierrehumbert, an atmospheric physicist at the University of Oxford, said he considered solar geoengineering a grave threat to human civilization. “It’s not only a bad idea in terms of something that would never be safe to deploy,” he said. “But even doing research on it is not just a waste of money, but actively dangerous.”

Now this is extremely foolish. Consider the trajectory of the climate. Now consider what happens if (or rather when) we fail to reduce emissions and things get bad. What exactly do you think people will do then ? It seems to me that when pushed, there is every chance that desperate people will look for desperate solutions. Only, if we don't do the research now, future generations may implement it regardless, heedless of the unknown consequences because that is exactly what desperate people do. Better by far to research this now while we have time. Do as many simulations as possible, run controlled tests where possible, monitoring how the chemistry changes in laboratory-reproductions of the upper atmosphere and eventually in small-scale open tests. Likewise :

Then a professor at Harvard, Dr. Keith wanted to release a few pounds of mineral dust at an altitude of roughly 20 kilometres and track how the dust behaved as it floated across the sky. A test was planned in 2018, possibly over Arizona, but Dr. Keith couldn’t find a partner to launch a high-altitude balloon. When details of that plan became public, a group of Indigenous people objected and issued a manifesto against geoengineering.

Three years later, Harvard hired the Swedish space corporation to launch a balloon that would carry the equipment for the test. But before it took place, local groups once again rose up in protest. Within months, the experiment was called off.

“A lesson I’ve learned from this is that if we do this again, we won’t be open in the same way,” Dr. Keith said.

That last is pretty sinister. Either we can approach this rationally and sensibly and have controlled, transparent research, or we can respond with knee-jerk, absurd levels of ideological purism and reap the whirlwind. We are going to need geoengineering research : in this technique, in all techniques, because we need as many solutions to the climate crisis as we can. Nothing less is adequate.

(Note : I say research. Not necessarily this particular solution, which I'm instinctively against. But not investigating it at all, not even considering the possibility without any actual data to back up the objections, that's mad. Even more so for other solutions which can be much more limited and controlled in their affected area, e.g. algal blooms in reservoirs.)

A second, more academic article explores the prospect of marine cloud brightening. Instead of making the sky darker, it proposes injecting small amounts of salt into clouds to make them more reflective. This would still not be among my top priorities for geoengineering (I think those would probably be rewilding and direct carbon capture) but salt is at least a lot better than sulphur dioxide. That article is also much more measured, setting out a detailed program for how practical tests could proceed and when they should stop. It also makes it clear that it would not be, by any stretch, any sort of "quick fix", with the results possibly not known for decades. Which is exactly why we should start as soon as possible. It might also help us better understand how particulate matter in the atmosphere behaves more generally, something we're been doing anyway... better, surely, to study things in more controlled conditions than making observational inferences where there are numerous confounding variables.

Well that's really all I wanted to say on the matter. It's right to be cautious about geoengineering schemes, but it's silly to treat them as all being equal, and foolish in the extreme to restrict research on any of them. We need to do this now while we can still can. Otherwise we may find ourselves in a situation where we don't have the luxury of investigation at all.

Passing paradigms

I now turn away from my mythology binge – which continues in the background unabated – and back to an assortment of articles I've been meaning to read for bloody ages. Let's start with this one, a piece from the London Review of Books on scientific paradigms. Sounds dry ? Well, read this bit and then decide :

As Morris tells the story, ‘the bile just flowed out of him.’ Kuhn ‘started moaning. He put his head in his hands and was muttering, “He’s trying to kill me. He’s trying to kill me.”’ At the end of his tether, Kuhn threw an ashtray ‘with malice’, maybe at Morris, maybe just in his general direction: ‘It came hurtling across the room, spewing butts and ashes.’ (Kuhn and ashtrays were constant companions; he smoked upwards of six or seven packs of cigarettes a day, and died of throat cancer.) First Kuhn threw the ashtray, then he threw Morris out of graduate school. 

If I were the editor, I'd pick something from that for the big quote-in-bold designed to grab the readers attention. But what in the world could provoke such fury in the ivory-tower world of philosophy of science ?

That would be Thomas Kuhn's one-hit-wonder of 1962 : The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. I've had this in the back of my mind for a while as something I should probably read, but after reading this piece I've decided firmly against it. There's too much in it that would annoy me, but also far too much I'd misunderstand. Kuhn himself wasn't exactly thrilled by the book's reception :

Invited to a seminar by Princeton undergraduates inspired by what they took as the book’s anti-authoritarianism, Kuhn erupted, telling them that they just hadn’t read the thing properly: ‘I kept saying, “But I didn’t say that! But I didn’t say that! But I didn’t say that!”’

So I'm probably far better off with the article, providing the author, one Steven Shapin, has done their job well enough. I'll pass over the biographic stuff and stick to the ideas. 

Very broadly, Kuhn seems to have been the one who came up with the idea that science advances in revolutions. We tinker away diligently enough, but then some moment of genius happens which throws it all away, and suddenly we're in a whole new world. This idea seems so ingrained in popular culture that I took it for granted that it was just a natural conclusion that everyone reached; to find out that this is not so is interesting by itself (though what the model of progression was before Structure Shapin does not say). 

Regular readers will know I despise this idea. Or more accurately, one particular aspect of it : that singular geniuses are largely responsible and we an essentially ignore everyone else (the "great man" of history theory). And though of course our ideas and world views shift, I'm less sure of whether that feels like the popular notion : a sudden moment of revelation in which the nay-sayers are cast down and the plucky underdogs revealed as unfairly-shamed geniuses. I rather doubt it ever seems like that; popular science reporting has it that something akin to this happens all the time whereas to those of us on the inside it seldom feels much of anything like the popular depictions.

Anyway, the initial definitions of paradigms :

Kuhn plucked the word ‘paradigm’ from linguistics – where it referred to the permutation of forms having a common root, like the conjugation of verbs or the declension of nouns – and repurposed it as the term for a key regulative resource in scientific inquiry, a concrete model of ‘the right way to go on’... A New Yorker cartoon shows tramps leaning against a wall: ‘Good news – I hear the paradigm is shifting.’

Paradigms are one of the few bits of philosophy of science that we were explicitly taught as undergraduates. Our lecture's model was simply that the paradigm is the prevailing wisdom, the conceptual framework by which we default to interpreting data. Paradigms, he said, can of course change. Such a shift might or might not be dramatic and exciting, depending on how it happened. But though it would presumably be beneficial, it wouldn't be inevitably good or bad, it would just be a thing that happens. This is a much more neutral view. Only once does the article come close to this, with Kuhn later describing paradigms "as concrete, non-rule-like regulative structures".

Nothing here seems terribly offensive. So what got people so riled up that "groups of philosophers had "‘gathered and said that the book should be burned’" ?

Not so much, perhaps, of the nature of paradigms themselves. Having a framework within which to interpret data is inevitable. What seems to have really ticked people off is the nature of how Kuhn proposed they changed and who got to decide when such a change had occurred. In standard prevailing wisdom :

Science methodically compared theoretical expectations against observational and experimental evidence; it purged itself of bias and prior expectations; its knowledge was cumulative; the quality of that knowledge was guaranteed by explicit methodological standards shared throughout the scientific community; the various bits of science were part of a fundamental unity, whether of concepts, facts, or methods; it arrived at, or at least approached, truth. 

But :

Structure denied all this. Scientists were not notably open-minded. Their training encouraged the embrace of what Kuhn frankly called ‘dogma’: theirs was ‘a narrow and rigid education, probably more so than any other except perhaps in orthodox religion’. If the account in Structure were accepted, Kuhn wrote, the notions of ‘“scientific progress” and even “scientific objectivity” may come to seem in part redundant.’ We may ‘have to relinquish the notion’ that scientific change brings scientists ‘closer and closer to the truth’. Scientific knowledge did not accumulate: it moved from moments of puzzle-solving ‘normal science’ governed by one paradigm, through ‘crisis’ and ‘revolution’, to subsequent moments of ‘normal science’ governed by another paradigm... there was no independent way of adjudicating between them; the embrace of a new paradigm ‘can only be made on faith’.

...either side of a paradigm shift scientists live and work ‘in a different world’. There were no bodies of facts, methods for establishing facts, or theories for interpreting the facts, that were paradigm-independent; there was no ‘neutral algorithm’ for judgment. This was the Kuhn who was taken to be a reality and reason-denying relativist.

Ahh, now this is spicy stuff indeed. A rant here on my part would seem inevitable, were it not that the article reveals that this is far more of how Kuhn was misinterpreted rather than what he actually meant. 

Two thoughts though. "Dogma" is a trigger word, so I have to say I don't believe there is such a thing as scientific dogma* : provisionally. That is, I don't believe we have things we believe with inflexible rigidity. We use the term "Law" only to underscore the robustness of a finding, not to declare from on high that it is forever unchallengeable. The only sense in which I think we have "dogma" is a much weaker one. We have common "maxims, norms or (his preference) values of science"; there are useful heuristics for interpreting data, default frameworks which can safely be assumed to correct for everyday purposes. These are by no means set in stone, we just don't challenge them routinely because we feel that to do so would make no progress, with there being more obvious mysterious avenues that would be better explored instead.

* As for "faith", that is too big a topic to condense here, so see this post instead.

Secondly, the profound revelation of a paradigm shift according to these (mis)interpretations of Kuhn... well, this reminds me of one of my all-time favourite Star Trek quotes :

For that one fraction of a second, you were open to options you had never considered. Not mapping stars and studying nebulae, but charting the unknown possibilities of existence.

Scientists are not closed-minded to such revelations. On the contrary, I claim that such things are, in a smaller way, very normal. To illustrate : a useful tactic, I've found, is to think on different scales. Especially while coding. It happens regularly that I find my code doesn't do the thing I want it to do, and my first efforts are always to check for the small stuff : maybe I used the wrong variable, got a positive or negative sign wrong, that kind of thing. Then I move up a level to checking the structure : maybe I haven't indented a loop correctly, maybe I've not iterated correctly, etc. 

But if all that seems secure, I move to the largest scale (or if you prefer, higher level) : the basic premise of what I've written. Maybe the actual line-by-line execution is doing exactly what I wanted it to, but I've got the whole foundation of how to do the task wrong. Figuring out that I've done the wrong thing in the right way is, in some ways, one of the most rewarding parts of debugging code, albeit sometimes the most frustrating as it means not a mere tweak to a section but a full rewrite.

Paradigms, I claim, are just like this. They're on a grander scale to be sure but the principle is the same. And I don't think it's true at all that scientists aren't especially open-minded towards paradigm shifts. Rather we go deliberately looking for them, but we're still skeptical when we find evidence of them. Such a profound change deserves a very high level of confidence, just as you wouldn't want to start believing you could suddenly breathe underwater without some seriously compelling reason.

Even this, though, may not be enough to warrant hurling an ashtray at someone or calling for the book to be burned.

Structure implicitly challenged the notion that there was such a thing as a unified scientific community; rather, there were many communities, each of them organised through its commitment to specific achievements, specific methods and specific standards of fit between expectation and evidence. The much treasured idea of ‘scientific unity’ was also sacrificed: science was a ‘ramshackle structure with little coherence among its various parts’.

This I think is actually a good description of academia but a lousy one of science itself. Academics and individual disciplines certainly have different standards and methodologies, but the collective scientific world view is stupendously self-consistent. To call it "ramshackle" is nonsensical.

But there were even more controversial parts of Structure :

One philosopher targeted what he called Kuhn’s ‘purple passages’ – for example, where he said that there was no standard for scientific judgment higher than ‘the assent of the relevant community’ ... Campus radicals seized on Kuhn’s book as a brilliantly subversive exposé. Just as they had suspected, science wasn’t the open-minded objective pursuit of truth, but merely one more mode of authoritarianism. Scientists were just as dogmatic as anyone else, and one way of seeing the world was as good as another. If there were no better criteria for judgment than communal assent, why should anyone bow down to scientists’ pronouncements? Oh thank you, Mr Kuhn, for telling us about paradigms,’ he remembered the students saying. ‘Now that we know about them, we can get rid of them.’

Kuhn stood accused of being yet another philosophical ‘corrupter of youth’. Philosophy of science here bled seamlessly into Cold War politics.

That would seem to explain the vitriolic responses. When you both treat science as yet another religion, another mythological framework to be debunked, when you see scientists as another type of authoritarian High Priest, you essentially demolish the whole edifice. It denounces the entire practise as not worth doing. And that is deeply, deeply insulting. And just plain wrong.

But this doesn't seem to have been Kuhn's intent at all. I will attest myself, again on an altogether different scale, to having been misinterpreted on many occasions. This is deeply frustrating, because instead of writing what I want to write in a way that expresses things in a (to me) lively but clear way, I have to add caveats and provisos and clarifications that can rob the text of all its force. So I'm gonna give Kuhn the benefit of the doubt on this one.

What he actually seems to have been driving at is much more modest :

You should not, Kuhn had written, think that scientific change brought practitioners ‘closer and closer to the truth’. The outcome of change, in Kuhnian terms, was ‘the selection by conflict within the scientific community of the fittest way to practise future science’. 

This I think it would be harder to have much of a problem with. What seems the most promising line of inquiry ? Well, first we assume the code is basically okay, so we check for typos... but then we realise that's all fine, so we move to considering the whole premise of the operation instead. And lo, we get a code we can use for a good while longer, until we need it to do something else (I'll leave aside the notion that we don't ever reach some "objective truth", which is too big a topic for today).

In his Last Writings, Shapin says that Kuhn was intent on "showing how progress might occur across paradigms and why the involvement of subjectivity in science could be considered innocuous." That too is nothing problematic. Subjectivity in science is nothing to be squeamish about, simply because it's a) inevitable, it being folly to think you can mitigate all effects of bias completely and b) limited since you can objectively test your findings : you can get a binary yes/no answer. It is a step much too far, but by no means inevitable, to presume that because science isn't perfectly objective and rational that it's also totally corrupt, totally at the whims of the researcher's moods. It isn't anything of the sort.

Finally :

A theory should be accurate and consistent; it should have broad scope; it should simplify accounts of phenomena; and it should be fruitful in disclosing new phenomena or revealing new connections between them. There were, Kuhn acknowledged, substantial problems in applying these values... These were what Kuhn called the maxims, norms or (his preference) values of science, though he felt no need to offer systematic evidence that these values were generally agreed and invoked.

And there's nothing wrong with that either. We just don't need exact, specific instructions as to how fruitful a theory must be, how much more accurate the predictions of one model should be in order to consider it as overturning another. General guidelines are helpful and good. Overly-strict rules, in this case, would be the opposite. I believe it's helpful for scientists to actively think philosophically about what they're doing and why. But there's no need to do this constantly, let alone resort to hurling ashtrays because of methodological differences. That would make for an entertaining conference, though...

Review : Mythology

Unlike many books, I didn't pick this one up because it was cheap but because it wasn't. It was more of a case of "I can afford this and it looks lovely".

And it is. Unbeknownst to me, it's a 75th anniversary edition of Edith Hamilton's 1942 classic "Mythology"*. Physically this is a beautiful book, hardback cover, thick pages, fully illustrated, with lightly silvered paper edges. It's an absolutely first-rate piece for the coffee table. It's also stonkingly well-written, a mixture of Hamilton both retelling the classic stories and providing insight and commentary. She's not in the least bit afraid to pronounce judgement without distracting from what the myths themselves say either. For example early in the introduction :

* Yes, I know, it's got "75th anniversary edition" printed in large letters on the front cover, but I didn't read the blurb.

Of course the Greeks too had their roots in the primeval slime. Of course they too once lived a savage life, ugly and brutal. But what the myths show is how high they had risen above the ancient filth and fierceness by the time we have any knowledge of them. Only a few traces of that time are to be found in the stories.

Perhaps the only flaw I could possibly find with the book is that the Norse section, though excellent, is tiny and tacked-on, like it should be the start of a whole new volume that was never finished. I have no idea if that's the case, but the great bulk of the book is about the Greek myths, so I'm going to concentrate entirely on that section here. A more minor quibble is that Hamilton doesn't really labour any of the more sordid stuff, yet to her great credit, this doesn't make it any the less compelling. I do think there's rather more of the filth and slime in the stories than she gives credit for though.

There were three major themes I found interesting, so let's start with those.

1) The Greek Miracle

This is how Hamilton describes the anthropomorphic Greek gods : surprisingly, they are in essence rational. That is, they are no longer primal, elemental forces beyond all human ken, but essentially human themselves. If the Greeks of pre-antiquity had little understanding of physics, then they had some knowledge of a theory of mind. They had no way of knowing about static electricity, but an angry man hurling thunderbolts they could readily understand. Rather than seeing this as a primitive attempt at describing the world with crude substitutions, Hamilton views it as a laudable and earnest attempt to make use of the best, most plausible explanations available. The Greek "preoccupation with the visible" led to a "humanised world, free from the paralysing fear of an omnipotent unknown".

In contrast, Celtic and other myths are full of figures beyond comprehension, beyond reason. Hamilton notes that the Roman gods, prior to their transplanting Greek ideas, were simply unpersonified powers of sheer will, useful and practical but inhuman. Celtic fairyland is not located on any map, nor does Aladdin's genie live in any real place. In these wilder myths, both time and space are malleable and causality an optional extra. In stark contrast the Greeks were explicit about naming exactly where everything took place : winged horses were given real stables at locations you could visit as a tourist; the sequence of events in the stories is perfectly logical, even if the characters might not always be sensible. Their internal motivations are loud and clear, whereas in the Celtic stories they are virtually absent.

Mankind in the Greek myths, says Hamilton, is put front and centre. They might not treat us very well, but the gods are more concerned with us than in ordering the structure of the cosmos. They are formidable to be sure, but they are not omnipotent or omniscient. The stories even make them amusing : one could laugh at the gods, though admittedly not to their faces. They were hugely complex figures : beautiful, capricious, dangerous, cruel, yet not terrifying. Their reasons and behaviour, even if those were often worse than that of ordinary mortals, could be understood. And though there were moments of true savagery, they were, she claims, exceedingly rare.

More surprisingly, Hamilton also describes magic as being extremely infrequent in the stories. Here she means human sorcery rather than the supernatural more generally, since gods and monsters are ubiquitous : in Greek myths, unlike the Celtic tales, it's gods all the way down. But indeed, there are basically two famous human witches and a smattering of lesser examples; in Celtic mythology, magic is everywhere and available to essentially everyone*. Celtic magic is bewildering in its unpredictability; Greek magic followed distinct rules. And even the Greek gods were created by the universe rather than the other way around : mind from matter, not matter from mind. Hamilton's view of the Greek myths is as a mixture of science, religion, and literature all blended into one astonishing whole.

*What's especially weird is that, as Philip Matyszak points out, the Greeks and Romans viewed magic as an essentially normal, daily occurrence in their real lives, making its dearth in their stories all the stranger. I have no idea why this should be.

2) Changing Beliefs

All this makes the question, "did they really believe all this ?" barely meaningful. While Buxton noted the versatility of the myths, Hamilton charts the change of the stories over time. By the time the Greek playwrights and poets set forth the tales in their most fully-developed forms, centuries of re-evaluation meant that ideas of the gods had shifted dramatically. Zeus, once a whimsical rapist, shifted into the primary giver of justice (even in Plato this is loudly apparent). Olympus may once have been understood to be physically atop a mountain, but even by Homer's time this literal version had been replaced with a more spiritual interpretation : the gods existed, no doubt about that yet, but they weren't equivalent to giants living in a hall on a very visible nearby hillside.

Even by the end of the Roman Republic, genuine belief in the gods was waning. Philosophy had, perhaps, dealt them a killer blow. "If the gods do evil then they are not gods", said Euripides, decrying the notion that the gods would demand sacrifice. Plato's interpretation was a little more sophisticated, saying that it was the loss to those committing the sacrifice that the gods would respect, rather than the silly idea that they could be bought off with some burnt meat. Or as Hamilton quotes from Pindar on the story of Tantalus, brutally punished for feeding the gods his own children :

A tale decked out with glittering lies against the word of truth. Let a man not speak of cannibal deeds among the gods.

The poor demanded gods behave with some measure of decorum; the need for hope in a just and ordered reality was irresistible. The problem, of course, is that if the gods are comprehensible then they are not gods either. Making the gods conform to human expectations rather than the other way around, as Plato insisted on very forcefully in order to manipulate the masses, was fatal. The morality might be more appealing but a god you can negotiate with is largely missing the point.

Another example that comes to mind to me here is King Alfred as depicted in The Last Kingdom. The on-screen portrayal is magnificent : Alfred is indeed great, but he's hardly nice. One moment in particular took me a good long while to properly understand. When asked to show mercy to the wayward son of one of his most loyal followers, Alfred refuses. It makes him seem cold, aloof, and haughty, but that's the whole point. By setting himself apart from other men, holding himself to higher standards and not succumbing to loyalty, Alfred appears above mere mortals. Here is someone, or so perhaps he intends men will say, who has that spark of the inscrutably divine about him, someone truly kingly, even godlike.

Without this similar haughtiness, when tales could be re-written completely to suit the fancies of the day, belief in the gods was doomed. Of course it took centuries to die out fully, and Roman writers freely incorporated them into their literature without really caring much whether they were real or not. But ultimately, it's hard to believe in a god you can control. 

This puts the rise of Christianity in a new light : yes, it had the social-moral appeal of a god risen from the lowest of the low, but the notion that you could bribe it with sacrifice was done away with completely. Sure, aspects of this crept back in, because people need some aspect of control. But this never reached the same degree as with paganism. You can pray, you can pledge to make yourself better to atone for your sins, but ultimately it's god who judges. You cannot bribe*. This would give Christianity a devastating combination of attributes. The god appealed strongly to the poor and downtrodden, giving the new religion genuine and literal revolutionary appeal against the old order, but restored the aloof superiority and power of the earlier, more primal Greek ideas.

* And when bribery was introduced, such as buying the remission of sin, it split the Church. This is corruption in a human system, not part of the faith itself.

3) Interconnections

What this sizeable collection of tales makes clear that Buxton's analysis didn't was that the Greek mythological world was essentially an Expanded Universe. It was, in a way, a franchise operation. Characters might have their own main central "box set" collection of tales but they also get frequent cameos in other stories. Odysseus is hardly the main character at all in the Iliad but he was given his own successful spin-offs, not just in the Odyssey but in various other stories as well. Hercules has his own main show but crops up everywhere, especially on the early stages of the voyage of the Argo. Medea begins in one story and ends in another; Theseus and other heroes have whole series of escapades in which they may or may not, at any one time, be the central focus of the tales. Likewise with Daedalus, who does much more than make wings (some of it extremely unpleasant). 

Even apparently minor side-characters, like the monster Scylla that threatens Odysseus' ship, have backstories of how they came to be. And it's not just backstories. Polyphemus, the most famous Cyclops, goes on to become a figure of fun who can't get a girlfriend. Oedipus' tale continues long after the famous "oops-I-did-my-mother" moment. 

What strikes me about this is that it's almost as if the world of Greek myth, for all its constant evolution and retellings, was constructed as a vast pseudo-history. Characters rarely exist in isolation but have complex family trees and endless backstories, a sort of mirror-world of endless supernatural adventures. All characters are connected but all of them are characters, larger-than-life figures who lead impossibly interesting, weird and wonderful lives, some of which are more fleshed-out than our surviving records of real people of the time. Together with their complex and detailed motivations, this network of relations between them all helps make the characters in Greek myths feel all the more like real, believable people, even when they do outrageously impossible things.

Which is not to say there was a Hellenistic equivalent of a bible, no single Authorised Book to sign up to, let alone any dogma to follow. But the intricacy of the relations, the need to at least make some effort towards self-consistency, maybe points towards an early tendency in that direction. I wonder if this made the whole thing any the more or less believable to the Greeks themselves. On the one hand, such a complex web of connections might be thought too detailed for anyone to have just "made up". On the other, everything was a story, and you'd have to assume that at least some people would have been suspicious of just how amazing all the character's lives appeared to be and wondered where all the normal people were. 

Especially so given that so many of the stories were well-developed literature. Indeed the explicit motivations of the characters, the logical (but carefully contrived) sequence of events, the general self-consistency at least within individual stories, all give Greek myth much more in common with modern literature than Celtic stories. Even some of Plato's dialogues contain more in the way of emotive description of the scenery than anything from Wales or Ireland. In Celtic stories things are constantly happening for no reason, motivations are hardly mentioned, violence is constant and cruelty rampant. In the Greek stories all of these are heavily toned down. There's less of the primal appeal to the base and the bloody and far more of the refined literary appeal to the head and the heart.

In Persians : The Age of The Great Kings, Llewellyn-Jones mentions that the Persians didn't really have a modern concept of historical truth. While the Greeks of course did have such a notion, it's tempting here to see the emergence of this as evolutionary. Greek playwrights were happy to use their gods as purely literary figures without a sense of blasphemy; Plato's outright declaration that the people must believe in moral gods took this to a whole other level. There is perhaps not a clear distinction but a spectrum between the purely whimsical fictions and the hard-headed historical truths, with the mythical tales always being accepted as lying somewhere in between the two. Truth and literature were not so easily distinguished.

---

Differing perspectives

Which brings me to my final section : no author has a monopoly on what the Greek myths mean. While there is some overlap with Thames & Hudson's Myths That Shape The Way We Think series, Hamilton provides a much more comprehensive set of stories – and also a sometimes quite different analysis. Whereas Buxton was convinced that, unlike the Celtic and Norse, the Greek myths were largely recorded by those who actively believed in them, Hamilton makes it abundantly clear that this is at best a simplification. Not only the tales themselves but belief in them shifted over time. In fact the whole notion of "truth" dissolves when applied to myth and is probably best avoided.

Sometimes the analysis is more directly at odds. Matyszak made the claim that romantic love didn't exist in the ancient world, and that "love" was essentially an interchangeable term for the act and the emotion : regardless, disturbingly, of whether that was reciprocated or not. Here both authors may have good points. In Hamilton's description of the tale of Cupid and Psyche, when Cupid is sent by Venus to make Psyche ugly (she had the unfortunate distinction of being so beautiful she was distracting Venus' worshippers), he falls he love with her so he does... nothing. He doesn't pursue her himself. He literally takes no action of any kind.

Poor Psyche is therefore admired by all but in the unique situation of being pursued by no-one, since Cupid shoots no arrows. It would be a stretch too far to proclaim this is a clear example of Cupid's own romantic love (and probably too childish to say Cupid is just firing blanks...) but it's also a far cry from the serial rape that characterises most of the Greek gods infatuations. Cupid at least doesn't act from his own base and selfish physical needs, quite unlike Zeus or (especially) Apollo. There is at least a hint that romantic love is possible; personally I still find the claim that this was an invention to be extremely far-fetched.

On this subject in particular I think Hamilton underestimates the savagery of Greek myth. The story of the terrified Daphne, pursed by a lusty Apollo and turned into a laurel tree, is a deeply disturbing tale of attempted rape; similarly the story of Arethusa pursed by the river god Alephus... but this is worse, because she's turned into a spring and their waters mingle. So she doesn't even really escape, unlike Daphne. 

In many stories the rape is successful and not viewed as anything especially heinous. In others, especially perhaps later stories, things turn out quite differently. Apollo rapes Creusa, but is later shamed by the Oracle of Delphi into essentially paying child support. Mind you, Apollo is a particularly nasty piece of work who burns a girl alive for cheating on him. Interestingly he's supposedly the god of truth who can never himself be deceived. Having the god of truth being a serial rapist would seem to rather undermine Frank Herbert's claim that respect for truth is the basis for all morality. You can't be a moral rapist, even if you're honest about it.

As might be obvious by this point, compared to the Celtic stories the focus on love and sexuality is much more predominant. Even bestiality is common, sometimes as a result of madness. Strangely, homosexuality is rare, though asexuality is relatively common. Plenty of huntresses just wish men would bloody well sod off.

But it isn't just love and sex in which the darker aspects of Greek myth are visible. Perhaps I'm just looking for it too hard, but there's plenty of savagery here despite Hamilton's claim to the contrary. Dionysius' followers, the Maenads, run through the forests tearing animals apart, with Dionysius himself being "the god who dies", being ripped apart every year on Hera's orders. Tantalus and others murder their children and eat them, as does Cronos himself, and even Zeus swallowed Athena's pregnant mother. And Hercules is on occasion an actual murderer, sometimes due to madness but sometimes not.

To Hamilton's credit, though, she sees the value in these early authors despite their many obvious faults. Whereas "Homer never wondered about anything", Hamilton notes that Hesiod was determined to address the larger, cosmological questions despite his flagrant misogyny. And Pandora, that "beautiful disaster" (a.k.a. a hot mess) can be interpreted variously as being actually the cause of men's evil, or merely providing a focal point rather than being the actual source. Interpreting the myths in any single way would be to misunderstand and underappreciate just how incredibly versatile they can be.

The very last difference I want to end on is Theseus and Hercules. If Hamilton understates the brutal nature of some of the myths, her claim that this aspect was played down certainly has merit nonetheless.

Hercules, says Hamilton, was by far the most popular hero in classical Greece. He was a bit of a hot mess too : not really stupid exactly, but hardly the brightest penny in the fountain. Big, burly, and willing (possibly even able) to fight the gods themselves, he had the usual complex flaws of most Greek heroes. He would mostly fight for a sense of justice we today would recognise, defending the weak and overthrowing tyrants and so on. But he would make many mistakes, sometimes causing the deaths of innocents. Yet he would also punish himself incredibly harshly for his transgressions. If he sometimes should have known better, he would at least do anything anyone could ever possibly do to atone for his sins. This level of subtlety in the character work is not absent from Celtic stories but it's certainly rare, whereas in the Greek myths it's all too common.

And Athens had an even more sophisticated hero, who they uniquely preferred to the simpler charm of Hercules. Theseus was more compassionate and more intelligent by far than Hercules, able to understand concepts the big guy with the club couldn't make sense of. Theseus' great skill is, in prelude to Christianity, forgiveness. He doesn't inflict petty revenge on those who oppose him. When Oedipus, later in life, was cast out from his city, Theseus alone received him. When Hercules went mad and killed his wife and children, Theseus alone forgave him, saying the deed was not his own, and fearing not that he himself would be morally tainted by association. The heroism of Theseus is not only in fighting men and monsters (though he does plenty of that) but in making moral choices. Here indeed Greek myth appears to have risen well above the primeval muck and slime.

Lest we get carried away, like Hercules, Theseus too was far from perfect. At one point he tries to help his friend abduct Persephone from Hades because his friend wants to – ahem – "marry" her. Yet having any moments of moral sophistication at all is a powerful development all the same. And these imperfections are part of what gives the myths their enduring appeal : their blend of sophisticated moral reasoning together with the base and most primal human instincts, the terror of monsters with the light of reason, the strength of "naked will and courage" embedded in intricate and sophisticated plots, the familiarity of modern values shining through against the dark savagery of the distant past. They can be appalling violent, but also deeply thoughtful. There's usually more to them than meets the eye.