Review : Unruly (I)

David Mitchell's Unruly : A History of England's Kings and Queens has been on my "I'd quite like to read that" list for some time. Finally, mission accomplished. As the popular comedian I most strongly identify with, this one was an obvious choice.

Incidentally, should you prefer to hear from the man himself without reading the whole book, he gave a nice interview about in on History Hit, which is now available on the rest of YouTube. You can skip this post entirely and just watch that if you want, I don't mind.

Anyway, the book is very good. It's clear that Mitchell has read most of the same books that I have, so I can't say I learned too much about history from this. As an overview of the thousand years c.500 – 1500 AD though, it's excellent. It's extremely readable, obviously very funny, and surprisingly analytical. There was a lot more big-picture thinking going on than I expected, rather than just being a potted hilarious historical romp going king by king. I mean, it does have that as well. But Mitchell tries to identify what medieval rulers needed to do more generally to make a success of things, and he goes well beyond merely regurgitating the popular histories. You get genuinely new analysis here, not just Dan Jones doing stand-up.

By and large, the balance of jokes/anecdotes/history is darn good. Only in the case of Cnut, where Mitchell can't help but making cunt jokes instead of describing anything terribly serious, does this become a bit irritating. I get the temptation, and I don't mind the cunt jokes, it's just that the balance is off. He also doesn't really give much of a sense of how much time has passed per monarch, but this is really quibbling. As a book, I'm giving it 8/10.

Quite honestly... and this may be a crime to say... I thought it was a lot better than professional comic historian Terry Deary's latest effort. Sorry Terry !

I'd certainly like a sequel, but this isn't likely to happen. He ends with Liz I, after which the monarch's power was significantly diminished and their history becomes more soap opera and less high politics. Mitchell doesn't really want to go any further because this would be a different challenge, and as we'll see, he views medieval monarchs as something entertaining but not the figures of history he's actually most keen on. Maybe we can look forward to a different history book from him at some point though.

I don't think I feel the need to go into a detailed review of this. I'd rather just get on with – unusually for me – a listicle of David Mitchell's Top Tips For How To Be A Successful King. But there are a few things that don't fit into this sort of categorisation that I really think I should get out of the way first. If I don't, I might explode or something. 

Listicle 1 / 2 : The Things Which Aren't About Being King Which I Found Quite Interesting

It's Good To Be the King ?

Michell has an understandable love–hate relationship with his subjects (can kings be subjects ?), who were indeed a bunch of thugs. Still, it feels a bit harsh to say that Henry II and Edward III never really achieved anything comparable to Nelson Mandela or whatnot... I mean, they didn't, but they were also living in a totally different age, so they also simply couldn't. It's also a bit mean to call Matilda a twat for waging a pointless war but not William I for doing exactly the same thing, or for that matter Harold. May as well say that Harold should have just given up and handed William the keys to the kingdom.

The odd thing is that Mitchell by and large totally gets this, refusing to judge the past by the standards of the present. Quite right, too ! But it then seems a tad unfair to say that they weren't as important as, say, Shakespeare, and somewhat nihilistic to say that "it's all pointless in the end" because the achievements of one were often undone by the next. Mitchell is caught between genuinely admiring them by their own standards and hating them from his own. Which does at least lead to some hilarious outbursts*, but seems to miss the quite valuable points he makes about how leadership works. As we'll see next time, I think plenty of these remain more relevant today than they we might want them to.

* Norman propoganda against Harold being unsuccessful, Mitchells suggests that "they should have just said he was a paedo". The conquest ? "A moderately major thing but it would have been nicer if it hadn't happened". "Allowing good men to do nothing is the purpose of civilisation", and on controversial views more generally, "I am passionately committed to whatever it is you already think". Sensible bloke, David Mitchell.

He also notes that the actual desire to be in charge was weird, and I'm fully on board with this. As he says, if you're in charge, you get the blame. Far better to take the approach of modern political leaders : be the person who appoints people to make the decisions and then blame them when they get it wrong. Absolutely ! In fact I'd go further. I cannot for the life of me understand people who want to be in charge at all; I, for one, would like to avoid having other people telling me what to do, but this is totally orthogonal to any impetus to instead be the one bossing people about myself.

And while Mitchell is dead right that sometimes raw humanity speaks to us across the centuries, it's hard to see anything of basic human warmth in the "love" between Edward II and Piers Gaviscon... sorry, Gaveston, that's Mitchell's fault. No, they were both abusive cunts and it's hard to see anything remotely heartwarming or romantic about it. But then this is classic Mitchell, saying stuff that makes a lot of sense only to suddenly throw out something where my only response is "Say what now ?".

Lastly, an interesting parallel for British contemporary politics. Everyone was sick to the back teeth of the unbearable Richard II. The problem was that the usurper Henry IV over-promised on how he'd do a better job, but far worse was that the populace now demanded not just improvement but perfection. The result was pointless rebellions at the drop of a hat which only made the job all the more difficult; had they just accepted the change, things would probably have been alright. They went from a total loser to someone half-decent, but they ended up buggering any improvements they might have gotten.

In short, it's good to be the king, but only when circumstances align really quite precisely. The rest of the time it's a pretty thankless and shitty job. Better than being a peasant, to be sure, but that's a very low bar.

Terminology Problems

Refreshingly, Mitchell doesn't give a shit about historians silly quibbles over the Dark Ages or the Anarchy or the Plantagenets, saying that they were dark and it was anarchy (but they weren't actually flowers, so that one doesn't work as well). It doesn't matter that they didn't call them this at the time :  that's what we call them now, so let's get on with it. Admittedly, this is somewhat weakened when he points out that some of the earliest Dark Age poetry is sophisticated and melancholy, hardly the writing of a barbarian. But even so, a label's a label, like how quibbling over "slaves" versus "enslaved" seems to me to be really a waste of breath fighting a truly pointless culture war*.

* Also the word "moron" has some rather unsavoury origins in eugenics, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop using it.

A tangentially-related issue is that he's unafraid to pick a side, saying, "I reckon I've got the right to enjoy history in whatever way I like". Indeed ! And as he says, historians pretending not to have picked a side "are more misleading in an insidious way, because they definitely will have done, even if they don't know it". That's been my view for ages : better to just declare where you stand than pretend you're not standing anywhere. Or if you really are sitting on the fence, you can tell us that too, but that's not the same as being truly objective. That's just knowing that you can't decide who your favourite is, not that you're completely dispassionate. 

Religion : Don't Blame God

Mitchell doesn't think religion was the cause of much or any of the Dark Age violence, because this was happening anyway. At the same time, while there were a lot of devout believers as well as cynics and hypocrites, religion totally failed to stop the violence. Wacky ideas that kings were divinely-appointed bullies wasn't what made them become bullies, but it had exactly no impact in their bullying. Even when they started to really believe it, the Christian stuff about being nice to each other rarely actually overruled human nature. If a king wanted to chop someone's head off, then "thou shalt not kill" was hardly going to stop them from some impromptu anatomy lessons.

He also describes early religious belief, rather nicely, as about not merely words on a page or going to Church every Sunday, but "the underlying truth of existence". And this, I think, does encapsulate something important. There are a lot of caveats to this, not least because the variations are extreme (this is definitely not a complete definition of religion !), but it has a tantalising explanatory power. It helps tremendously in explaining why people got so very cross about seemingly trivial details of procedural theology.

That is, as someone who isn't a complete moron, it's hard not to get angry at anti-vaxxers or Flat Earth conspiracy nutcases. The latter shouldn't really matter, as it doesn't actually impact my own life in any way. But when you study for years and years and someone simply says, based on absolutely nothing, "you're literally wrong about everything", it's hard not to get pretty pissed off about that. That's what a Flat Earther does just by professing their idiotic beliefs, even if they're not trying to convince anyone, even if they don't literally say "you're wrong" so directly.

So it was with early theological debates. It wasn't about calculating the date of Easter correctly : it was about their entire world view. It may seem silly now, but then, that's the hindsight of 1500 years of advancements for you. At the time, the world's finest minds were as invested in this stuff as we are in Maxwell's equations or the theory of evolution.

Context is key

I've frequently mentioned the somewhat confusing network-versus-hierarchy analysis as to how the Vikings were so initially successful but then became vulnerable once they settled down. On the surface, it all seems a bit incoherent : a centralised hierarchy (like the Saxon kingdoms) is supposedly easier to conquer than a decentralised network, which itself should have a hard time coordinating the resources for an invasion. But the Vikings did assemble such forces and were fabulously successful at first, but then, when they moved into colonisation, they were eventually picked off by a resurgent, unified Wessex.

Part of this can be explained by the fragmented nature of the Vikings once they stopped conquering. They were, in effect, a false network, lacking a unifying purpose. But also, adds Mitchell, as purely raiders there was simply nothing for the Saxons to attack in response. As settlers, they had territory which could be occupied. Sure, you couldn't just kill one king and claim the whole Danelaw. But you could assemble enough forces to take a town and then just keep doing that over and over. Just because it was more difficult than having to kill a single leader doesn't mean it wasn't possible. In a sort of reverse Occam's Razor, sometimes the easiest solution isn't the right one.

And the Saxon defences, once Alfred got them all sorted out, were essentially decentralised. Each burg could act as an independent fortification that had to be taken and couldn't be ignored. The fact that Wessex was politically centralised doesn't mean its military had anything like the same structure.

To my mind that quite satisfyingly explains how centralised Wessex survived and was able to overthrow the decentralised Vikings. How did the Viking network manage to assemble and coordinate an invasion ? In Mitchell's words, sometimes things in history just happen, and like the Star Wars prequels, there's no point in trying to explain them.

Couple of other points on this though. Context matters in that fragmented Viking settlements were not the same as massed Viking raiders. Similarly, castles were tremendously good for the state when the state was well-managed, but they made warfare endemic when it faltered : now any lordling could raise a formidable obstacle and cause chaos. But if strength could become weakness, so too could weakness occasionally become strength. Whereas trying to buy off the Vikings had been disastrous for early Anglo-Saxon kings, for the much stronger William I, this had actually worked quite well. Any sort of rules about what's a good idea and what's best avoided, then, had jolly well better take account of the circumstances and not stand as absolutes.

Finally, Mitchell clearly believes in a meritocracy. Appointing the best people is self-evidently a good idea. But he also concedes that in the wrong circumstance, it can fail spectacularly. For a weak society, trying to appoint the best ruler would almost always end in chaos and disaster. It was far better to have a strict system for appointing the ruler even if this was manifestly unfair, because you could usually learn to cope with a bad leader but it's bloody difficult to cope with continuous warfare in a protracted power struggle. Regardless of whether you get a strongman or a hapless imbecile, a simple procedure to decide who's in charge has the appeal of clarity. When the alternative is unrestrained violence, that can be not just a feature that's nice to have, but actually sensible and even necessary. And a strongman, ironically by being militarily powerful, can be better for this, ensuring peace through superior firepower.

I like this a lot. It's long seemed to me that some of the more irrational features of functioning democracies aren't just weird holdovers from a stupider age, although some of them are, they're actually necessary to account for just how irrational people can really be. A totally logical system would likely fail almost instantly because people just don't always respond sensibly to perfectly sensible things.

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That's my assortment of "other interesting things David Mitchell has to say". Don't judge the past by the standards of today and don't get all bent out of shape for things that happened a long time ago. There's no point taking it too seriously : it's already happened, everyone involved is dead now, and getting morally invested in it won't help.

Which doesn't mean that there aren't interesting lessons to be learned though. The influence (or lack thereof) or religion is important, as is understanding how the same actions can have very different consequences in different circumstances. That means that anyone hoping for a sort of how-to leadership guide in the next post had better be aware that harrying the North is no longer such a surefire way to shore up your political capital.

With that in mind, how, then, should a medieval ruler aspire to lead his subjects ? Tune in for part two !

LLMs Ex Nihilo

WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT ? SERIOUSLY ? WHEN YOU GET RIGHT DOWN TO IT ?

– Death, Soul Music (Terry Pratchett)

That's the scale of the problem we're facing when dealing with the issue of whether computers can think. Forget the robot uprising crap, we're talking full-on "meaning of life stuff" here. Allow me to explain.

As I've said previously, I've made peace with the idea that we'll probably never get a "truth engine" that can analyse data and form a truly objective, impartial conclusion. We might well get something that does better than we do at formulating conclusions though, which is not to be sniffed at. So instead I'm comfortable with describing AI (mostly but not entirely meaning LLMs) as "thinking engines" instead. That is, they process data and produce conclusions, and that's all I mean by "think". I'm using the word in a very broad, very liberal sense.

I tend to object rather strongly to the notion that LLMs currently go any way beyond this. I don't think they're conscious because I don't think they have any sort of subjective inner awareness. They're not really deterministic but they are still essentially algorithmic robots. They can be described as having a kind of understanding in a useful, productive sense, but not at all in the human-like way. They don't form mental images. They have no sense of the ineffable about them, no emotions, no desires of their own, they are nothing but data processors – and I think there's a very great deal more in a genuine mind than merely analysing raw input data.

The following article from Vox is remarkably thoughtful for a popular piece with a clickbaity headline. It's worth reading in full, but there are two essential points I want to highlight. The first is that minds are not necessarily all alike :

Radically different materials can execute the same basic operation. Biology may have produced the first flying entities. But the reason that birds can soar above the treetops isn’t that they’re made of organic tissue — it’s that their wings perform a set of aerodynamic tasks, such as generating lift and minimizing drag. As airplanes vividly demonstrate, if you put metal and fuel together in just the right way, you can replicate these functions and take to the skies.

To be sure, biological neural networks and artificial ones aren’t identical in design or behaviour. But neither is a cardinal [presumably meaning the bird, not the bishopy sort] and a Boeing 747. Nonetheless, the airplane replicates the avian functions that are necessary for flight. Likewise, computational functionalists wager that computers can instantiate all the neural operations that are relevant to consciousness. So, as long as they recreate a brain’s elaborate algorithms with sufficient precision, they actually can be conscious.

I will gloss over that "be" for the moment, because I take the point that minds might be qualitatively different from each other. Indeed, it would be surprising if they were not, animals having enormously different biology, senses, appendages, and environments with which they have to interact. So I'm prepared to concede that a conscious LLM may have little enough in common with the mind of a bumblebee or a dog or a professor of geology.

But how fundamental can this difference be before we stop calling it a mind at all ? For sure, it could be so different that we have very great difficulty in recognising an alien or robotic intelligence as being conscious. It seems to me, however, that if it doesn't have subjective, inaccessible, inner awareness, if it can't imagine things and those imaginings have no direct correspondence in the real world (just as we can imagine yellow without yellow being present), then we have no business calling it a mind, really. Thinking ? Understanding ? Yes, but only in the (still useful !) sense of data processing. Not at all in the philosophical sense. I see no reason whatever to presume that a network of probabilistic word generation algorithms, however elaborate, would count as truly having a mind any more than would an abacus. 

The article then explores (quite nicely) the notion of computational functionalism, wherein it's the process that's conscious, not the thing itself. I'm sympathetic to this view. Indeed, this could be interpreted as far more subtle than ordinary materialism or physicalism, in which some physical thing actually is conscious. You could even see it as a hybrid step, as close to dualism as a physicalist interpretation would allow*. And in that sense, I don't think it's crazy.

* That is, an electron is a real physical thing. But the mere movement of an electron isn't a thing. You can't say that movement is a physical object, because that's nonsense. So the process of electrons moving around, in a complex EM field, as being conscious is not really the same claim as saying the electrons themselves are actually little bits of minds.

The article's second major point is where I come unstuck :

We can name the physical laws that enable birds to get off the ground. And we have always had reason to believe that inanimate objects could emulate their movement; grains of sand have travelled through the air since time immemorial. By contrast, no one has ever seen a rock experience pain or pleasure, even momentarily (in part, because it’s impossible to directly observe the internal experience of any being or entity other than oneself).

There's the crux. You can't observe consciousness from the outside because it only exists internally, and whether this is because it's a process or an actual substance makes no difference at all. If you see a bunch of neurons firing, do you see yellow ? No, a bunch of neurons firing doesn't look yellow. If you see hormones diffusing throughout the brain, can you honestly say, "yep, I'm witnessing anger ?". No, you cannot. You have no idea what's going on in the conscious mind of the subject. 

The physical and the conscious clearly have some deep, intimate connection, but they are absolutely nothing like each other. There's a world of difference between saying that one gives rise to the other (I'm perfectly comfortable with that) and saying that the two things are literally the same.

A possible escape route is that maybe we can't say a person is angry or horny or introspective from a mere brain scan due to sheer complexity. Maybe we need to know everything in great detail, and we just can't capture the full neurochemical state in enough resolution to make more than a crude guess as to what a person is thinking. Perhaps if we could do so, we would literally be able to read minds.

I claim that this is not the case. I think the Hard Problem is actually the Impossible Problem. I claim that even if we had absolutely all physical information about the system, we would still never know what a person was thinking, not really.

Imagine, if you will, a stupendous spreadsheet listing the configuration of every atom, every subatomic particle in a human body. Could you use this to learn an awful lot about brain states, even a reasonable guess as to what the person was thinking about ? Yes, certainly. But no list of numbers ever actually is yellowness or being horny. The numbers [255, 255, 0] may describe perfectly to a computer how to produce the colour yellow, but it makes no sense to say that that list actually is yellow. They give rise to it, and that is all they do, all they can do.

"What ? That argument is stupid, I'm seeing [255, 0, 0] right now !" said no-one ever. You cannot experience a colour just from a list of numbers : they might give rise to your internal state, but that's not at all the same as saying they actually are the colour itself. That would be insane. Complexity is simply not the issue here at all.

Which brings me to the "meaning of life stuff" I promised earlier. What's been running around in my head is the opposite case : the idea that connections and processes are literally all there is. In that case, you could certainly say that an LLM had a similar consciousness to a human. You wouldn't have to resort to panpsychism, because you could legitimately say that only certainly processes were complex, and not everything in existence undergoes such processes.

But the result would be, I think, extreme nihilism of such a degree as to be actually offensive. I've postulated that meaning arises through knowledge of the connections between different things, that we can be said to understand a thing based on how much we know about how it relates to other things and our ability to predict its behaviour in novel situations. The more moral sense of the word "meaning" may encode something similar : meaningful experiences are those which affect many of our internal links, our own local knowledge of how things relate to each other.

Now suppose that those connections are all there are. That is, knowledge, understanding, and ultimately consciousness itself, arise from connections between items of information and nothing else. That's it. We've hit rock bottom. A mind is a set of relations between physical things and there's nothing else to it. Mystery solved, we can all go home for tea and biscuits.

Or, quite honestly, we may as well all do whatever the fuck we want, or just not bother. I find this idea unspeakably bleak, because if that's all there is, then we're just... electrons and magnetic fields. Atoms bashing about. We have no more claim to moral value than a rock. Without something deeper than the visible connections (some continuing series of connections, possibly going all the way down), we could not rightly say that murder or torture was wrong, and that I simply will not accept.

"But,", you may say, "maybe the moral meaning is something that emerges from the system if it can't be found within it reductively". Ah yes, you might say that. But that concedes the point that there's more to the system than what's visible, doesn't it ?

Fortunately for my own mental health, I think this idea has absolutely no merit in it. The idea that a mind literally is the observable processes, or the physical constituent parts of the nervous system, is to me absolutely and incomprehensibly WRONG. 

Now to be sure many people accept the materialistic world view without falling into moral degeneracy; some at least have probably even fully embraced the "it's all just atoms" perspective without becoming absolute cunts (though I would be a wee bit skeptical as to just how many have really thought this through). And that's fine, I guess, as long as it helps them get through the day. But I cannot escape the feeling that for me personally, this doesn't work. If other people want to live in such a reality, then good for them, I suppose. But for me ? I think I'd rather hit myself in the face with a brick, thanks. After all :

If droids could think, there'd be none of us here.

– Obi-Wan Kenobi, Star Wars

We All Screen For i-Screens

I'm still finding it hard to get my head around the fact that there are people who think modern life is too easy. 

I mean, I just don't get it. At all. Sure, navigation is easier because you can outsource that to Google Maps, and you can order takeaways online, yes... and that's what's shutting down your critical thinking skills ? You don't have five hundred thousand other things demanding your attention instead ?

Wow. Must be nice. I only wish I had that problem.

Some have it that technology itself is the issue, and that we should claw back a more manual existence, both mentally and physically. I'm not entirely without sympathy here : as I've said before, I do think single-purpose "devices" like books are inherently better for developing focus and deep thought than devices which are designed to be multi-functional. Of course, in practise we need both sorts, but I think this maximal focus is particularly important for children. Reducing reliance on tech in schools is perfectly sensible, not least because kids will find their own ways to distract themselves regardless.

A good learning trajectory, I think is to first learn the fundamentals, do enough of the really hard basics yourself such that you develop a solid intuition for it, then gradually move up to dealing with the higher-level stuff, outsourcing the low-level aspects to dedicated tools. Do at least some addition and multiplication yourself before handing it over to a calculator; do at least a few Fourier transforms and differential equations the hard way before letting a computer handle it; look through an eyepiece before relying on a telescope's CCD*. Even if you forget the details later – and you will – you'll still be far better equipped to spot when things go wrong and figure out solutions. You'll also learn critical and analytical thinking along the way, and maybe even a little wisdom. Those kinds of skills have much broader applicability.

* Though there is no case whatever to be made for going back to an era in which you needed an acoustic coupler to send emails. Sometimes simplifying things is just good.

Then, so my pedagogical theory goes, you can start to ease off on the low-level stuff. To keep doing everything from first principles, solving every equation by hand, doing every task the hard way, is largely counter-productive, or even self-destructive, and futile. No, the point is that by having earned these core skills, you can free up your cerebral burden to concentrate on the bigger picture : deciding what problems to solve, how you want to solve them, and of course why. Your mind is still fully engaged, it's just doing less of the slog-through stuff (though it should probably also keep doing at least some of this) and more of the philosophy. 

This is likely true in general, it's just much more important when you're young because you have so much more to learn anyway. So yes, reduce tech even to zero for the youngest, then gradually introduce it at later stages of children's development. 

In that sense, I completely agree with Wes Streeting* that we should both reduce screen time for the youngest children and also more carefully monitor and regulate it for older children. That's common sense. Children need more sources of stimulation, and need to learn how to interact with each other far more than they need to learn how to use computers. Plenty of time for that later. 

* I had a lot of respect for the man until he decided he secretly loathed working for Keir Starmer for so many years despite being one of the most prominent faces of the refurbished Labour Party. Nevertheless, he's right about this. 

But for adults, I think "screens" as a being the, or even a, cause of society's ills doesn't have much merit to it. Multi-functionality is probably a bigger contribution, just because it's innately easier to get distracted and lose focus with a device that can do essentially unlimited things : if your main means of working is also your entertainment system, then it would be a rare person indeed who never got distracted by anything. 

Still, I think most people learn to overcome this. Most people are not so lacking in self-control that they find the mere presence of a shiny object irresistible.

No, I think the real problem is exactly as set out in this Aeon piece : it's a deliberate design problem. It's the way apps and social media have been constructed to form addictive, habit-forming, compulsive behaviours. It's not that they're just easy to use in a way which makes you want to continue out of a sense of progression and accomplishment – these kinds of apps aren't the pinnacle of productive user experience. It's more like they feed a constant low-level stream of dopamine, a sense that if I keep going just a bit longer, I'll get to the good stuff... which never arrives. We keep going out of a compulsion that's much harder to override than a genuine desire to continue in a task we actually enjoy.

Or, worse, they continuously enrage rather than engage. The brain seems to relish in arguing and it's addictive. Culture wars and Karens seem to strike at something deep in the subconscious.

To digress slightly, as this other article points out, unchecked complaining wires us to see the world differently, to insist that absolutely everything is awful and sink into a pit of doing nothing but whining. Complaints become a reflex action which overrides real thinking. It's such a common problem, and kudos to the article for noting this as a major symptom of the "these days" fallacy. That one in particular winds me up the wrong way (so I guess this is the wrong time to rant about it).

I think this sort of attitude is exactly what the press feed on : the tabloids in particular, but not exclusively. They present everything in the worst possible light. They make us believe, as the ancients did, that progress is impossible. They cultivate the death of hope for the sake of immediate profit. They seek out a deeply (small-c) conservative mindset, so common in the pre-modern era, the same one* which kept social change and improvement at bay for thousands of years. Both progress and conservatism tend to be self-reinforcing : progress by immediately normalising every development such that progressive voices always have something to complain about, and conservatism by insisting that nothing ever really changes so it isn't worth trying. Mix them together and it's all too easy to degenerate into nothing except perpetual whining**.

* I recommend making the time to watch this video as well as the one in the previous link. They're both more nuanced than the somewhat hyperbolic rhetoric I've adopted here, which should not be taken literally.
** PLEASE, for the love of sanity, just shut the fuck up for five fucking minutes about Donald Fucking Trump. 

And with digital devices this is ramped up to eleven. Which swings me nicely back to the Aeon piece I want to concentrate on. Because, it's not the devices themselves that are responsible for this. They just make this much, much easier to do. No, the problem lies with the human beings designing the algorithms, deliberately keeping everyone pissed off so they can't think rationally and see through this endless stream of utter garbage.

Consider a simple observation. The same person who cannot get through a novel can watch a three-hour video essay on the decline of the Ottoman Empire. The same teenager who supposedly lacks attention span can maintain game focus for hours while parsing a complex narrative across multiple storylines, coordinating with teammates, adapting strategy in real time. That’s not inferior cognition. It’s different cognition. And the difference isn’t the screen. It’s the environment.

...The fragmentation correlates not with screens in general but with specific design patterns: notification systems, variable reward schedules, infinite scroll. These are choices made by specific companies for specific economic reasons. They are not inherent properties of the medium.

Though I would interject to point out that this doesn't mean there isn't a real problem with declining attention spans, it's just that the cause is not the digital or screen-based nature of the entertainment. And spending hours on a complex game, where things are constantly changing, isn't really the same as spending hours on a single difficult problem. But I take the point that not all forms of modern approaches are by any means bad, especially the tendency towards multi-hour YouTube videos.

In the 18th and early 19th centuries, novel-reading itself was the existential threat. The terms used were identical to today’s moral panic: ‘reading epidemic’, ‘reading mania’, ‘reading rage’, ‘reading fever’, ‘reading lust’, ‘insidious contagion’. The journal Sylph worried in 1796 that women ‘of every age, of every condition, contract and retain a taste for novels … the depravity is universal.’

The predicted disasters were apocalyptic. J W Goethe’s epistolary novel The Sorrows of Young Werther (1774) was blamed for triggering copycat suicides across Europe. Johann Peter Frank’s six-volume A System of Complete Medical Police (1779-1819) listed ‘reading of poisonous novels’ among the causes of suicide. Arthur Schopenhauer in 1851 described ‘bad books’ as ‘intellectual poison’. If the manipulative potential of novels were truly that great, as one historian dryly notes, women would have been eloping in hordes.

They didn’t. The disaster never materialised. But the panic served its purpose.

The expansion of literacy from a tiny elite to the general population scared a lot of conservatives. The panic wasn’t really about literacy declining. It was about literacy escaping elite control.

The historical pattern is well described, but I don't think much of the modern panic is really all about "elite control". There might be that aspect to it, a sort of snobbery : "you shouldn't be doing this largely harmless thing you enjoy because I never did that, or I just don't like it", rather than much in the way of "you plebs shouldn't learn anything". And to be fair, the author does go on to note that some of the panic arises from people enjoying themselves in the "wrong way" rather than learning the wrong things. 

But the main concern is that the new ways of learning will be genuinely harmful, both in terms of the effects on attention, memory, cognitive skills, and the actual information conveyed. Nobody is now concerned that women will overheat their brains by learning, but people do worry they will be misinformed : this is not the same moral panic as in earlier eras. Still, while digital media is different on all fronts from printed materials... the article is right that this doesn't make it necessarily better or worse. Merely talking to your friends is no more likely to give you the correct information than reading a book or watching a YouTube video is.

Indeed, for all the problems of echo chambers, the internet still gives you vastly better access to genuine expertise than in previous eras. People only remember the classics of literature and forget the trashy novels, the crappy magazines, the stupid TV series of yesteryear, the misinformation and delusions of past ages. We have a survivorship bias, remembering the geniuses but forgetting the contemptible fuckwits of earlier eras (largely because we have out own to deal with).

I would accept that this is all part of the continuous pattern the author describes, and if anything I might say the similarities are actually stronger. Then as now, the concern wasn't (all) about control, but conservatism : the tendency to see anything different as bad... but stemming from legitimate observations that some things the next generation do really are indeed just bad. The mistake is to think the previous generation never did anything equivalent, just because the mistakes they made were different.

What demonstrates that these panics were exaggerated? The predicted disasters never arrive. Adolescent aggression continued after comic book restrictions – because comics weren’t the cause. Novels didn’t trigger mass elopements. Radio didn’t destroy children’s capacity for thought. Each panic uses identical rhetoric: addiction metaphors, moral corruption, passive victimhood, apocalyptic predictions. Each time, the research eventually shows complex effects mediated by content, context and individual differences. And, each time, when the disaster fails to materialise, attention simply shifts to the next technology.

Absolutely fair. Which is not to say that there are never any disadvantages to new approaches at all – there absolutely are – but in terms of the apocalyptic rhetoric, I think all of it is nonsense.

These publications and technologies existed alongside serious thought. The penny dreadfuls didn’t prevent Charles Dickens, John Stuart Mill or Charles Darwin from flourishing. What’s different now isn’t the existence of shallow content, which has always been abundant. What’s different is the existence of delivery mechanisms actively engineered to prevent the kind of attention that serious thought requires. The penny dreadfuls didn’t follow you into your bedroom at midnight, vibrating with notifications.

This distinction matters because it changes everything about the available responses... if the problem is design, then we need design activism and regulatory intervention. The same screens that fragment attention can support it. The same technologies that extract human attention can cultivate it. The question is who designs them, for what purposes, and under what constraints.

Yes, this ! Far from making life too easy, the modern user experience is far, far too difficult. Every single fucking website requires you to click through a list ten feet long to reject cookies, dismiss the "subscribe" box, actively opt-out of signing up for notifications.... The stream of interruptions is what kills attention and renders impotent any attempt at focus. Having digital access to work and entertainment is not the problem at all : having the experience be equivalent to finding oneself in a rowdy nightclub in order to read a short article about snails is where it's all gone wrong. 

At best, technology is a proxy for the real problems : taking ourselves offline will help only because those same problems don't exist in most other media. But there is absolutely no reason whatever why those problems have to exist in our digital worlds.

These aren’t concessions to declining attention spans. They’re recognitions that human understanding has always been richer than any single medium could contain. We’re not abandoning literacy. We’re discovering what literacy meant all along: not just the ability to decode symbols on a page, but the capacity to move fluently between all the ways humans encode meaning.

Exactly. If the goal is to be able to think deeply, to be able to process, analyse, and evaluate complex information, then insisting that there is only one correct way to do this simply wrong.

The pattern I observe repeatedly: people who ‘can’t focus’ on traditional texts can maintain extraordinary concentration when working across modes. They struggle with philosophy textbooks but thrive when they can listen to lectures while taking visual notes, discuss ideas in study groups, and write while pacing. 

We haven’t become post-literate. We’ve become post-monomodal. Text hasn’t disappeared; it’s been joined by a symphony of other channels. Your brain now routinely performs feats that would have seemed impossible to your grandparents. You parse information simultaneously across text, image, sound and motion. You navigate conversations that jump between platforms and formats. You synthesise understanding from fragments scattered across a dozen different sources.

But expansion without architecture is chaos, and that’s where we’ve stumbled. The people who cannot sit through novels aren’t broken. They’re adapted to an environment we built. We hand them infinite information and wonder why they drown. We give them tools designed to fracture attention and blame them when their attention fractures. We built a world that profits from distraction and then pathologise the distracted.

Once again, exactly this. It's the content that matters, not the way it's presented. Those who prefer thinking by discussion should do so (for me, trying this for the low-level stuff is like trying to pee while someone's looking right at me). Those who prefer to read their information alone should be able to, and those who want pre-recorded audio-visual should have it. And deep focus on a complex problem can indeed require multi-modal processing as much as it can solitude and simplicity.

What we need is to prioritise and customise the user experience, facilitating access to the information that's required, when it's required, and in what format. Simply hurling everything at everyone, and making them click away a dozen different unnecessary dialogue boxes to get what they need but then having to organise it themselves, and ejaculating pop-up windows at them at random... this isn't helping anyone. Not in science, not in social media, and not in society.

Not all deep thinking needs to be multimodal though. Clearly, the geniuses of the past were able to manage just fine without any of our modern devices and made the breakthroughs that made our modern world possible. My suspicion is that the process of synthesis, the all-important moment when multiple factors come together to create a new, meaningful statement about the world, is something that happens primarily in the mental domain. The external cognition we use is a necessary precursor to that crucial moment, that threshold when all the collective information we've considered crystallises into a hard, transmissible fact. That moment is a purely mental one.

A genius, then, I might define as someone who can do as much of this process purely in their head as possible. Good for them. But most of us mere mortals need our external supports, and fortunately for us, the impact of any breakthrough depends only on what our discovery is, not how it was made. At least in the terms of knowledge work, rather than insisting that we all refrain from reaching for our digital aids and deliberately make out lives more difficult, what we should be doing is streamlining the experience as much as possible, letting us organise things efficiently, collating and comparing what's relevant while discarding what we find superfluous as we choose. 

Often, this means beginning with a wealth of multi-modal data, sifting and examining in vibrant and unpredictable ways until we eventually reach the key moment of discovery. That the final step usually requires intense focus does not mean the preceding labyrinth should follow the same "everybody fuck off and leave me alone" part of the process. Nor does the fact that the route to discovery is often convoluted and fraught with wrong turns and dead ends mean that we should never try and reduce this as much as possible. 

In both science and society, sometimes we need to struggle and sometimes we need to simplify, and to say it's all just one or the other is just wrong-headed : you want people to think critically about their social media posts, but you don't want them to spend hours selecting the appropriate font; solving a scientific problem should involve some amount of difficulty thought but it shouldn't be debilitating. And simplification is all too often compensated for as we just do more and more of the original activity, or something else comes along that consumes all the time we've saved.

No, I think the road to improving things lies almost entirely in terms of reducing our struggles, not in cultivating them – at least for adults. Maybe one day we'll have to deal with people genuinely getting lazy and stupid because everything is too easy, but that day is probably somewhere – as H. G. Wells predicted – around the year 800,000 AD, not next Tuesday. 

Until then, we should actively work towards more digitisation and more simplification... what we need less of is not technology, but interruptions not of our choosing. We need to minimise unwanted distractions and addiction-forming interfaces. We need designs that respect how people genuinely work, and think in longer timescales : maybe giving everyone dopamine hits is good for quarterly profits, but it's absolutely shit for the economy when, years later, they all forget how to turn their devices on because their brains have been turned to mush by a relentless barrage of doom-scrolling websites that insist they fill in another 300-question survey every twenty minutes.

The Better Angels Of Our Scientific Nature

I've pointed out many times that what seems rational is constantly evolving as evidence changes. If you don't notice things disappearing over the horizon gradually, or the shadow of the Earth on the Moon during a lunar eclipse, then a flat Earth is an entirely sensible thing to believe in.

A contrary view from comes from the New Atheist crowd, who are apt to insist that all of humanity's history would have been better if people had just never believed in anything religious. This is a garbage and meritless claim, for many reasons/ For one thing, as Pratchett pointed out :

“The amount of belief in the world must be subject to an upper limit... It follows that if a major focus of belief is removed, there will be spare belief.”

You can't just stop believing in things by choice. Can't be done. And this follows in part from the above, that at one point, the evidence for the now-discarded ideas seemed very good indeed. Supernatural explanations made a lot of sense, because we understand minds and agency at a much more instinctual level than we do the conservation of momentum or the hysteresis curve. 

It follows, then, that at one point we really had very little option but to believe in supernatural agency for a good many things : we literally have to believe in something, and without a rational explanation available, the gap is filled with angels and demons.

Which leads me in to this thoroughly interesting Aeon essay which examines this in a lot more detail. More than that, it shows how philosophical musings on the nature of angels was anything but the proverbially-empty question : how many angels can dance on the head of the pin, it turns out, is a tremendously useful vehicle for exploring the nature of space and matter. Inquiries may have begun from a world view that now seems preposterous, but the full examination of these early ideas, when done with careful rigour and logic, led directly to some of the scientific notions we now find most fundamental of all.

This view of angels as immaterial ‘intelligences’ became pretty standard in medieval philosophy and theology. But the scholastic period saw an increasing desire to systematise, systematise, systematise. The precise nature or essence of angels became a serious cause for debate, and these debates were not mere thought experiments. Rather, because of the real belief in the existence of angels, theologians and philosophers could think through angels as a way of understanding the nature of the physical world and things like place, bodies and motion. 

This was motivated by significant theological concerns. One concern was that, if angels are immaterial intelligences, then what makes them different to God? For us, our bodies are what make us limited, able to exercise force only directly, such as when I throw a ball. Does this mean angels, having no body, could exist everywhere or act at a distance? This was dangerous territory for theologians, potentially challenging God’s omnipresence and omnipotence.

And again, I've gone on enough times about how Christianity isn't really monotheistic, because if you allow other supernatural powers which aren't under god's direct agency, then you've all but conceded paganism. However, the author here has a much more interesting point : that to make sense of angels conceptually, you have to grapple with basic physics. And no, the "it's just magic" explanation was not enough for medieval theologians.

The view was that angels had to be located (i.e., limited) but without a body. The key to understanding the angelic debates of the scholastic period is to understand what conceptual tools the physics of the day provided. For all intents and purposes, this physics was Aristotle. For Aristotle, physics was simply about things that move and, on his account, bodies don’t move because of gravity or kinetic energy or the warping of spacetime but because of their natures. 

Similarly, there was no concept of absolute space, but rather a concept of ‘place’, which, unlike Newtonian absolute space or Albert Einstein’s spacetime, does not exist entirely independent of the bodies that inhabit it. As the philosopher Tiziana Suárez-Nani points out in Angels, Space and Place (2008), ‘space … as an undifferentiated and homogenous receptacle, was alien to the medieval mind.’ For Aristotle, bodies could not exist without place, which served as a kind of container. Likewise, there had to be bodies for there to be place. In other words, a vacuum is not possible in Aristotle’s view.

I think it's worth pausing for a moment to consider just how profoundly different this is from the modern concept of space. For us, space is a container : it consists of nothing in itself, but it's where everything goes. It's the "fabric" of the Universe which can itself expand, warp, contract etc., but it's not really a physical thing. It's more the reference system we have for other objects. It isn't defined by them, though it is intimately connected*. It can, in principle, be absolutely empty (vacuum energy notwithstanding), and indeed that's exactly what we mean by space itself. The kind of vacuum-abhorring "place" that Aristotle espoused was something altogether different from our modern notion.

* And people say dualism is some sort of mysticism ! Don't worry, I'm not going there today.

So, what has that got to do with angels? If you recall, theological concerns at the time required angels to have a specific location – to be limited and bodiless – in order to avoid angels with limitless power, rendering them omnipotent as well as omnipresent. Normally, the material body of something locates it, so how can immaterial angels be located? Aquinas and others solved this problem creatively, locating angels not by their physical dimensionality but by their operations. Aquinas proposed that an angel has a different type of location than a bodily being. An angel is in a place by virtue of applying its power to the physical objects in a given place. This limited both an angel’s operations and their location, locating them by their operations, rather than by a body.

Right, so you can have angels which aren't omnipotent or omnipresent and are still immaterial and supernatural. Hooray ! But :

Importantly, the Condemnations of 1277 forbade believing that angels are located by their operations rather than by their substance, so Aquinas’ solution for angelic location was now off the table. If an angel exists in a place solely by its operations, as Aquinas claimed, then what happens when it’s not operating? Angels had to be rethought.

Here’s what Scotus did: he made ‘place’ more mathematical, less tied to location and more similar to our notion of dimension. When thought about in terms of dimension, the ‘place’ occupied by an object stays the same as the object moves through locations. In this sense, its ‘place’, redefined as dimension, is the same, even though it changes location. In other words, Scotus, as aptly stated by Lang, ‘neutralises’ place radically. On the Aristotelian account, direction or location were part of the definition of ‘place’. When redefined more mathematically as a kind of dimension, direction is no longer a necessary feature of this new kind of ‘place’. You can have an idea much more like that of ‘space’, something that doesn’t inherently contain ‘up’, ‘down’, ‘left’ or ‘right’ in its definition.

Technically, this meant that God could create a rock in no ‘place’, if place referred to Aristotle’s definition of place, which was a location within the outermost rim of the heavenly spheres. Whereas Aristotle had defined place as a necessary defining feature of physical bodies, Scotus did not. Instead, he created a hybrid account in which something can exist inside the outermost rim of the celestial sphere (occupying place in the Aristotelian sense), but it doesn’t have to; it could equally just occupy space by having dimension outside of that sphere.

And to use another Pratchett quote : all places are indeed one place, but that place is very large. 

Ahem. We even get something akin to the Uncertainty Principle cropping up :

The image Lang uses, citing Scotus, is of a surface that must have colour, but whose colour can be anything. Angels can occupy a place however small or large, just not infinitely so, and they must operate in a place, though they themselves exist in the place indeterminately... To posit angels as immaterial external forces was indeed oddly closer to a classical physics that sees an invisible force like gravity working on bodies externally. In fact, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz accused Newton of having introduced occult forces with his theory of gravity, because gravity seemed to be a supernatural force acting on bodies at a distance.

I mean, it just tells you a lot about human psychology when you find scientists accusing each other of being occult because their rigorous, predictable, mathematical theorems are somehow similar to angels... I'm not sure what exactly it's telling us, but it's certainly a lot, whatever it is. It's interesting to consider "angels" as a proxy for "force", though it would seem very strange to suggest that God ordered the world using ultra-obedient angels rather than just making things go round and round. Why didn't planets move directly according to his will ? Perhaps this again points to a seriously profound mismatch between our modern concepts and the medieval mindset. 

The role angels played in such thought experiments was unique: angels transcended the purely physical world but were still ‘creatures’ that abided by the rules and the logic governing the Universe.. .angels, precisely because of their intermediary status, allowed human beings to think about dimensions of created reality that yet transcended our direct human perceptions.

While it is easy enough to ridicule the suggestion that movement is the result of occult forces such as angels, we cannot, having ascended the ladder of knowledge, so easily kick that ladder out from under ourselves... We equate ‘up’ with ‘more’ when we say ‘the stock market rises’ because when we see, for example, rocks piled up, we learn to equate higher with more. We say we ‘grasp’ an idea because we have experienced reaching for a piece of fruit on a tree. In addition, we have a very hard time imagining a nonphysical thing. What we imagine, when we imagine a soul or an angel or a demon, is some kind of insubstantial, but still ghostly, object.

I would say slightly the opposite on this last point. We have no problems at all imagining ghosts in an abstract sense. Ghost ? Sure, it's a person who can walk through walls, wails around a lot waving chains and making woo-woo noises. Easy peasy. But try and explain how this works on the physical level and we come quickly unstuck. How can it be perceived if it doesn't interact with light ? How can we hear its woo-woo noises if it can walk through solid walls : why would its lungs interact with the molecules of the air, and why doesn't it fall through the floor ? Nevertheless, the imaginary concept of a ghost is simplicity itself.

Although occult forces such as angels and demons may be ridiculed in modern culture as ‘hand-wavey’ explanations of quite logical, down-to-earth scientific phenomena, I would suggest the inverse. That what is most down-to-earth might in fact be to think about the invisible forces of nature as angels, agents, immaterial intelligences with certain properties familiar to us, but amplified. Properties like agency and intention. It is only in thinking through, and with, these more familiar concepts that we can then discover a less intuitive set of concepts, like spacetime, which require grounding in concepts like dimension, body, place and movement. These necessary grounding concepts were sharpened, historically, by thinking through the relationship between the material and immaterial world, and angelology played a significant role in their honing.

And I find myself in strong agreement. I presume that the author doesn't mean that we really should think about things as all being imbued with intentionality or anything like that, only that we naturally do. Such a beginning is our jumping-off point, something we can easily understand in order to progress to the next level. Saying that electrons, in suspiciously Aristotleian-fashion, want to reach the lowest energy state, is a very handy lie-to-children. Pretty soon (sometimes immediately) we realise that the electron doesn't necessarily want anything at all, in the literal sense, but the metaphor helps us understand. Only with that basic concept in hand can we get to the hard mathematics, to try and consider – insofar as our observational data permits us – what's really going on.

Right then, time to write to Dan Brown and tell him to write a blockbuster sequel. I'm sure philosophical musings on the nature of immaterial angels and their implications for cosmology is a guaranteed cinema hit.

The Shock Of The Constantly New

I continue to be impressed enough by my reMarkable tablet that I remain subscribed to their newsletter, although not so much that I have any intention of upgrading until mine breaks.

I rarely do more than glance at newsletters unless there's something especially interesting, and this "newsletter fatigue" is probably something the good people at reMarkable want to think about a bit more carefully. Still, they really do seem goal-oriented with their products far more than they are profit-motivated. They genuinely want you to not only like but actually benefit from their pricey yet highly effective digital notebooks.

This rather short but interesting offering* goes into a bit more detail about some of the thinking strategies they suggest employing. While some of their newsletter content is, as to be expected, advertising in the guise of research, this one isn't. The title "Thinking in the Age of AI" is a complete misnomer, as AI doesn't factor into anything here. It's much more focused on thinking in the age of distractions, which has been a problem for a good while longer.

* It's an 18 page PDF that's probably about two pages of actual content, but it is good content, to be fair.

Instead of being a simple article, this is actually an exercise book designed to help concentration (on your trusty digital notebook, of course). I've not tried this, and I honestly don't see the point of writing down how I feel about my innermost mental states for the sake of my own reflection, but the advice seems sensible enough.

Anyway, they say there are three failures of the modern mind :

1 : Cognitive overload. Self-explanatory, really... when there's too much to process and it all comes at once, nothing gets processed well. Nuance is lost and the response is anxiety, tunnel vision, and even a threat-response style of thinking.

2 : Attentional fragmentation. Closely related, a stream of endless novelty. Even if you could process everything in sequence, constantly switching from topic to topic inevitably means a loss of focus. Worse, and I think here is much their most interesting point, is that modern devices train the brain to expect distraction. The unspoken comment here is that we become dependent on it, because that's what we expect our phones to do... if they stop doing it, we go looking for extra simulation. Turn off notifications and we end up scrolling. And this is bloody exhausting and unproductive.

3 : Meaning drift. If we have constant short-term distractions, then on the longer term we're also having to deal with constant, bigger changes. Change outpaces the brain’s ability to build coherence. Which means that even when we do make sense of things and make progress, the ground keeps shifting from under our feet.

A long time ago I remember having a discussion about why the world feels so politically inept, with one of the main proposals being that the pace of technological change is just too rapid for everyone to keep up with. I was rather skeptical at the time, but now I'm not so sure. Is this because I've gotten older and my thinking less flexible, or have the notifications just been ramped up to 11 ?

I'd like to think it's more the latter than the former. I don't feel any less tech-savvy than I did a decade ago; I've always hated techno-socialising so I can appear more backward than I actually am. I hated Facebook then I hate Tik Tok now. I didn't want to constantly check everyone's status in my PhD days and I don't want a single more WhatsApp alert today than is absolutely necessary. I do, however, very much enjoy writing Python code (with and without AI) and getting most of my exercise in VR games. Safe to say I want more technology in my life, not less.

But what I don't want is the unfocused kind of alert swarm that plagues social media like a ravening horde of locusts. I don't want to subscribe to some website's shitty notifications. I don't want to feel compelled to respond to messages instantly instead of within 24–72 hours. I'm trying to get stuff done here : I can't stop for a few minutes without losing my whole train of thought. It does my head in. Sometimes it almost physically hurts.

So maybe this kind of technological "progress" does have a role to play in the explaining the broader political narratives after all. Not through misinformation, but undermining cognitive capabilities in a far more insidious way : overwhelming the brain's capacity for rational thinking by a constant demand for attention, attention, attention. 

In fairness, I can imagine that the larger technological developments may feel like they undermine our basis for how we go about our daily lives, because as we all know...

Lord Vetinari represented stability. It was a cold and clinical kind of stability, but part of his genius was the discovery that stability was what people wanted more than anything else. He’d said it to Vimes once, in this very room, standing at this very window: “They think they want good government and justice for all, Vimes, yet what is it they really crave, deep in their hearts? Only that things go on as normal and tomorrow is pretty much like today.”

... but I think the kind of things which undermine that feeling of desirable, predictable stability is not nearly so much technological as political. And rather than just the clichéd view of childhood as being a golden era and everything went downhill since then, I'll point to the 2008 credit crunch as the point where things started to go very much awry. Then of course we have Brexit, Trump, Covid, Ukraine, the ongoing pointless conflict in the Middle East... it's all of these things, I think, that undermine people's basic world view. 

These are the sorts of things that cause people to lose hope and confidence, not the mere existence of smartphones and virtual reality headsets. The fact that energy supplies are shifting to renewables is not in itself a source of anxiety : if it's a factor at all (except for those who'll need to shift employment) then this comes about only from sensationalised reporting in the fascist side of the press, not because everyone is low-level scared of windmills.

No, the technological aspect does feed into all this but only thanks to its extreme commercialisation. The need to constantly keep aware of pointless developments on a wide variety of topics we're not really interested in from people we've never met... that feeds into the general malaise. And I don't think it even needs to do anything so direct as to decrease out attention spans : being addicted to this kind of crap can simply be fucking depressing.

So what can we do about it ? Well, I don't propose to Put The World To Rights today, and as I said, all this all seems like a second-order effect on the grand scheme of things anyway. But the article does at least offer some good ideas for getting one's shit together. And this doesn't involve shutting everything down completely, but rather in managing things in a more structured way :

1 : Calm down and choose one thing to do next. Breathing and stretching exercises to get your brain to shut up for a minute, and then carefully think about a single thing you could do to meaningfully progress in your task. And then just get on with that for at least ten minutes.

2 : Deep work for 90 minutes. I hear various claims that the human attention span is actually much shorter than this, but I don't believe them. In my experience, when in a good state of flow, 90 minutes does sound about right. This is as much time as it takes to really get to grips with a complex problem and make some useful progress before fatigue begins to sit in. Turn off all distractions during this block, they say, and it's hard to argue with that. The compulsion to check on the latest alert is just too overwhelming.

3 : Decompress for 20 minutes. Take a break to do some housework or whatnot. Change your mental input so that your brain can properly consolidate what it just learned.

4 : Open attention for 30 minutes. Turn on the notifications again, check those messages, allow more free-flowing, unstructured, unfocused attention. Deliberately taking in new input can help in refreshing thinking and even fostering creativity.

5 : Review. Try to keep track of what specifically works for you and what doesn't. How much time do you really need in each block ? Which distractions do you need to take the most care to avoid ? Do you need to work like this every day or maybe just once per week ? Try to schedule this approach ahead of time.

I will add just a few things that help me manage the hellscape that is modernity. First, to-do lists are absolutely essential. I use a combination of simple notepad files (for the more complex descriptions) and the Microsoft ToDo app, which is useful because it allows scheduling, multiple items in lists, lists of lists, and has a very satisfying "ding" sound every time you mark a task for completion. It's also a handy way to jot down all those facts you need semi-frequently (I have a dedicated list "Things to Remember"), for which it has a search function. I also try and be both realistic and flexible here. I try not to schedule more for a day than I can actually do, but if I don't get something done, I just move it to the next day and don't let this become just another thing to worry about.

Second, one aspect where I do record my inner mental state is when I can't avoid having to stop. Writing down the key part of what I was thinking – what I was suspecting might be going on and what I want to try next – helps enormously in getting back into the flow state much faster. If I have to stop for a longer period, like going on holiday, I right a lengthier description, including where all the files are and a short description of what led me to this point in the process (sometimes my "What You're Working On Right Now" file might be a page or two in length). I've long since given up on the fool notion that "I'll just remember it", because I bloody well won't. 

And third, I go for a walk. Sometimes I continue thinking about what I was working on, sometimes I use it as a dedicated break. Either way, the different environment is mentally stimulating without being overwhelming, and even when I think I've had a great idea (Microsoft's app is again good for recording these), the enforced inability to try it out right there and then prevents my brain from over-focusing on the problem. Forcing a temporary shutdown is important, as while it is possible to maintain flow for longer than 90 minutes, I doubt most people can do much longer very often. In my experience, if you try this, you get a sort of false flow : something that can feel like you're making progress but rarely accomplishes anything productive. Forcing myself to stop is by far the best way to avoid this.

Well, that's what mostly works for me, anyway. It doesn't make the world a better place, but it makes my small corner of it a bit more manageable. 

Review : The Making Of The Middle Ages (II)

Welcome back to my review-summary of John Haywood's The Making Of The Middle Ages. Last time we looked at the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, as one does. In this concluding part, we need to look at what happened to a fragmented (and sometimes not so fragmented) Europe in the aftermath of its first superstate, especially Britain because it's my blog and I can if I want to. I'll finish with a look at some of the deeper structural changes that were happening, which are directly relevant to an awful lot more than just Dark Age European history.

3) What happened next ?

Haywood has a somewhat pointless comment that the term "Dark Ages" only really applies to Europe; as a European, I would take it for granted that European studies are first and foremost concerned with, well, Europe.

Across the continent, the complexities of the changes are far too complex to attempt a summary here. Broadly though, Haywood notes that the collapse of the Roman free trade area meant a reversion to a simpler existence; there was just no other way people could get by. But change was enormously inhomogeneous. For those at the top it could be a true catastrophe, with their whole lifestyles depending on the resources of an Empire which was, quite suddenly, not there. For those at the bottom it might not have made much difference : instead of farming on the estate of some local governor, they now found themselves... still farming. 

But it wasn't anything like this simple. Peasants were now without the protection of the army against a series of invasions; they could be both at once the most and least affected by the change (and Haywood needs a better lower-level description to explain this better). The elite didn't suffer in the same way everywhere. In a few places, as we've seen in other books, they could sometimes sustain their lifestyles long after Rome had faded into legend. The organs of administration sometimes survived locally, but not always; political change was extremely rapid, but social change – the basic beliefs and ways in which people ran their own lives – could be much slower and more varied. 

Barbarians might, for instance, find themselves living as pagans surrounded by people who had been Christian* for centuries. Different laws were enacted that gave different rights to different groups. On the short term there was a chaotic mixture of beliefs that led to hatred and massacres; on the longer term, toleration of pagans made them more susceptible to conversion. 

* Or rather, monotheistic. Jewish treatment was highly varied : the Khazar Khanate even had Jewish leadership.

And again, not everywhere, and not all in the same way. In Britain a deliberate decision not to destroy the sacred shrines and holy places of the locals allowed priests to rebrand them for a Christian age. In Scandinavia, with tremendous irony, the supposedly more peaceful and moral Christian religion was enforced by methods of such brutality that even HBO would shirk from depicting them, including forcing live venomous snakes inside the unfortunate pagans by means of red hot pokers. Quite how you manage to do this probably doesn't bear thinking about.

Oddly enough, the "let's be nice to everyone" approach actually worked out far more successfully in the end. Funny that.

Whether we should see the end of Rome as the lights going out or an oppressive chain being lifted is not a question that has a single valid answer. In some case it could be either, in others, not really one or the other. The warrior culture that often replaced it was different, but it could sometimes just be a different kind of nasty. While Rome wiped Carthage from the map, you can't really imagine even the nastiest Roman general just heading out at random and declaring, "Let us go against the people with whom God is angry" as one barbarian warlord did. 

Haywood's presentation of the people who filled the vacuum of Empire is nuanced : their art could be as sophisticated as anything Rome ever produced, their technical skills their equal (or superior, as in the case of the composite bow), but their politics... that could be primitive and shite. They had a sophisticated, highly developed society, but their warrior, honour-based culture all but made peace impossible. They were not the monsters of later Christian legend, but they absolutely could be barbaric.

In the south, maps here again help with understanding the stupendous advance of the Arab invasions. Here was a civilisation as aggressive, imperial, and sophisticated as Rome had been, and it faced all the same problems of monumental scale but at a speed of advance unprecedented in Roman history. Haywood essentially presents this as more a conversion than a conquest, with the early Caliphate fragmenting almost immediately because there was simply no way to sustain an empire this large that had arisen this quickly. 

Nonetheless, the map of Europe dominated by the Caliphate, Carolingian Empire, and Byzantium is fascinating : three centuries after the fall of the West, Europe was already dominated once more by vast power blocs. No simple narrative can be told here. As on the smaller scale of Britain, there is no one story to tell. Sometimes provinces fragmented into a multitude of miniature kingdoms, sometimes they were subsumed once again into massive empires. The end of the Pax Romana led eventually to modern Europe, but not at all in a straightforward way.

One particular instance exemplifies this. I was aware that the Magyar people moved into Hungary sometime during this period, but I had absolutely no idea that they essentially invaded all of Europe. Virtually the entirety of the continent, except Britain, and this is the first I've heard of it ! It's like someone had conspired to hide the existence of the Vikings from me... I find it properly bizarre that we've forgotten this*. Granted, they were raids rather than an invasion proper, and short-lived. It just goes to show the power of simplifying the narrative, I guess.

* Its's not just me, right ?

4) What about Britain ?

There's a second outstanding point where I feel like a owe Haywood a beer. It's incredibly well-known in British popular history that Rome abandoned us due to a lack of resources; the famous letter sent by the Emperor in 410 AD instructing the British to "look to your own defences" is widely touted as categorical proof for this version of events.

So I was very much caught off-guard by Haywood's repeated assertions that it was Britain who left Rome, not the other way around. I felt sure this must be another of his more dubious throwaway claims, because why would so many popular historians insist so strongly, and so clearly, that this is undoubtedly what happened ?

But apparently... it isn't so straightforward as that. The text of the famous letter hasn't survived, only a reference to it in another document which in context doesn't even refer to Britain at all. I consulted ChatGPT about this and (checking the citation links) got somewhat mixed messages. Haywood's blunt assertion that we decided to leave and even expel the Romans looks to be heavily overstating the case, but it's by no means a unique view among historians. It still feels to me more plausible that Roman rule collapsed in Britain rather than being the result of local dissatisfaction; I find this earliest possible Brexit hard to swallow. Even so, learning how unreliable the letter is as evidence is very much like having the rug pulled from under one's feet.

More securely, all these maps of the enormous scale of mass migration and conquest across Europe do help – in another case of "show, don't tell" – why scholars of previous eras were so keen to believe the scant historical records of genocide in Britain by the Anglo-Saxons. Vast migrations really were a thing on the mainland, and when you chart this, when you see all those arrows drawn across the land (other books lack this context), it becomes much more difficult to believe that Britain alone could be such an outlier. Previous scholars might have been biased and had their own agendas, but we do them a disservice to attribute their beliefs solely to their prejudices. They weren't stupid.

Haywood nonetheless favours a mixed model, which I think is by far the most likely set of events. In some cases there may have been local massacres, in others a purely cultural change (essentially ideas spreading as a social contagion), in others an "elite transfer" where only the rulers were replaced. Thomas Williams presents much the most convincing argument for this, with the evolution and development of subsequent British minor kingdoms being so varied that the simplistic "the Saxons killed everybody" or "the Saxons never even showed up" interpretations both now look faintly preposterous.

Here Haywood feels in much better agreement with my other recent reads on Dark Age British history. He favours a somewhat later Christian conversion than others, pushing the final end of native paganism more towards 700 AD than Ronald Hutton thinks likely but still well within error bars. He also treats Ambrosius Aurelianus as a perfectly credible figure behind the myth of Arthur, something that Max Adams mentions but rejects without explanation despite their obvious similarities.

Conclusions : Networks and Hierarchies

Haywood does an excellent job of considering how the multitude of different polities in Dark Age Europe functioned as organisational systems. He considers both the economic forces governing them but also their religious and political ideals : the deliberate choices their leaders made, for good and ill, in a conscious effort to shape their own realities. Nobody here is purely a victim of circumstance nor wholly immune to forces beyond their control. Rulers shape their world just as much as they are shaped by it.

But one important system-level process which emerges repeatedly here is whether a state is a network or a hierarchy. Niall Ferguson considered this in his dedicated but somewhat hit-and-miss book The Square And The Tower, but I think Haywood helps clarify things. Broadly, a centralised state can marshall immense, well-coordinated resources : its military force can be highly destructive and highly targeted. This presumes, of course, that the state is well run (such that it really is a hierarchy, not just the semblance of one) and its ruler(s) intelligent. Depending on the details it can be slow to assemble its forces. A centralised administration can also be vulnerable to decapitation : kill the leader and you get to claim the whole empire.

By contrast, more egalitarian networks tend to be less coordinated. They can respond to local problems extremely rapidly, but find it difficult to assemble organised, large-scale invasion forces. They can be easy for a centralised state to raid but extremely hard to fully conquer, since each individual town and village is essentially an independent unit : there's no single person you can replace as ruler. You have to take them all one at a time.

These are only ever rough guidelines though. Centralised Lombardy, says Haywood, was much easier for Charlemagne to conquer than the more egalitarian Saxony, and similarly decentralised Ireland was a much tougher nut to crack for the Vikings than the poorly-run but centralised kingdoms of England. Conversely, the Viking decentralised network was extraordinarily effective during its invasion phase, but it lost all unity after England was (mostly) conquered. This made it disproportionately vulnerable to the disciplined, centralised, resurgent Wessex.

All this points to Ferguson's claim that networks tend to beat hierarchies as needing a lot of qualification. A group of disconnected villages is not a true network, any more than a centralised state where nobody actually cares what the ruler thinks is really a hierarchy. You don't necessarily need a ruler to be successful, but you do need coordination and communication. Once this is lost, once the network loses common purpose, it collapses into tiny, vulnerable fragments. Restoring unity may be much more difficult than replacing a failed leader in a hierarchy.

What eventually emerged from the wreck of Rome was a compromise : feudalism. This is essentially a decentralised hierarchy, or a sort of coordinated series of hierarchies. Yes, the king supposedly has the last say, but the power of medieval monarchs was very far from absolute. His immediate underlings often had wealth and armies of comparable power to his own, with a power base residing at significant distances from the royal court. And similarly for the dukes and earls and suchlike : centrally concentrated power with a clear sense of who the ruler was, but with their own agents – barons and counts and other lesser nobles – widely dispersed within their own provinces, and each having their own forces.

Which underscores two things. First, it's important to understand the actual structure of a network in practise, as opposed to its theoretical organisation. Second, that the network/hierarchy distinction is subtle, perhaps more subtle than centralised = hierarchy or decentralised = network.  

Max Adams also considered if kingdoms raised their kings or it was kings who raised kingdoms. That is, did a feudal structure emerge by itself, eventually resulting in centralised rulers, or did powerful warlords clobber their opponents and eventually enact feudalism ? This probably can't be satisfactorily answered, though a theoretical, sociological approach to understanding the currents of history sounds like a thoroughly good idea to me.

Two final practical points. There's an interesting parallel between the Merovingian kings, the later stages of the Roman Empire, and the early medieval Welsh. How so ? Well, just as the Romans sought to break into several self-governing units but maintain a single polity, so the Merovingian kings actually managed this for a time. You could point to a map of France and say this ruler controls this part, this one that, but all are Merovingian : again, a sort of decentralised hierarchy. And they in turn had inheritance laws which distributed their wealth somewhat equally among their children, a far more egalitarian approach than most European kings and strikingly similar to that of the Welsh. Understanding how this worked in detail, I think, is another area which requires a thoroughly holistic approach, and probably a purely network-based analysis is doomed to fail.

And this "consider ALL the things !" approach goes further. Last time I mentioned that you really have to consider systems in their entirety before reaching general conclusions. Selecting a single important aspect to say "look, this happened before, so if it repeats, this other thing is likely to happen as well" is a valid starting point, but it can't be the end of the analysis. Factors which can seem extraneous can be anything but, and one of the strangest examples of this is the nature of medieval scholarship. The interesting thing here is that medieval scholars were concerned with cultivating different ways of thought, teaching how to think more than what to think... but paradoxically, this didn't result in many novel ideas. Other authors certainly disagree with this, but still it's worth considering : in progressive circles, we so often take it for granted that teaching how is more important than what, but if we really want more creativity, perhaps there's more to it than that.

Finally, if rulers were both shaped by but also shaped their own environment, then the importance of long-term thinking becomes apparent. The institutional reforms of Heraclius (especially in terms of who could own what) didn't work in the short term, albeit because of the Arabian storm that would sweep away much of the battered Empire in a few short years. But they did save the foundations. His reforms led the way for a comeback : if not to anything like the old Roman state, then to a nation that would be in the top rank of European powers for centuries to come. 

Failure is indeed not fatal... but success is equally not final. Perhaps a greater understanding of the structures of our own age would better help us make sense of the confusing omnishambles in which we find ourselves, but mere data alone is not enough to convey understanding. And in the end, nothing lasts forever.

Review : The Making the Middle Ages (I)

I picked up John Haywood's The Making Of The Middle Ages : An Atlas of Europe as a treat to myself for no particular reason at all. I'm pleased to say that once again, Thames & Hudson do not disappoint. Physically, this is an exceptional product of thick paper, outstanding print quality, more than enough maps that the "Atlas" subtitle is fully earned, and accompanied by insightful, analytical text that attempts to draw out the large-scale trends driving Europe in the period c.400 – 1000 A.D.

I have two small complaints about the text. First, there are a few throwaway comments that appear to be pure bunk. Nothing very substantial*, but it does distract somewhat. Second, the balance is a little off, concentrating a bit more on the Fall of the Roman Empire than in the actual birth of European nations : an extra fifty pages here would have solved this nicely.

* One is that Marcus Aurelius inexplicably broke a tradition of emperors appointing successors meritocratically rather than dynastically, which simply isn't true at all. Another is that Britain in the Dark Ages was indeed a grim, dark place, which is massive oversimplification at best. A third, more serious accusation is that the Vikings were purely piratical, but for that one, wait for the post(s) on Neil Price's PhD thesis.

Against this, the maps are outstanding. They are not just there for eye candy, but significantly enhance the text itself : at a glance, the points that Haywood describes become clear, and trends that are complex to present in text become obvious in map form. A further compensation is that Haywood takes a much more economic, materialistic approach to history than most popular historians. He looks for the reasons driving the shifting demographics and political boundaries beyond the personal choices made by the great and good, without neglecting the importance of individuals during pivotal moments.

The only logistical issue I can raise is that it would have been extremely helpful to have a more detailed contents with a full list of maps. A better epilogue with a more thorough synthesis of the broad narrative and conclusions would also have boosted this from the "excellent" to "truly outstanding" category. As it stands, I'd probably give it... 8.5/10. Not too shabby, that.

I doubt every piece of analysis here will survive the judgement of history, and nor should it. These kinds of theories are offerings, suggestions to be made for examination, not pronouncements about what really happened. Plenty of them, though, seem very good indeed. So let's dive into what makes this such an interesting read.

1) The Non-Decline Of The Roman Empire

Haywood's interpretation of the late stages of the Roman Empire is very different from the classical, "collapsing morality and deplorable loss of manly virtues" of Gibbon and other antiquarians. The Roman state, by the start of the fifth century, would not have been much recognisable to Julius Caesar, but only in the same way that modern Britain wouldn't be familiar to Henry VIII. The original J.C., had he found himself thrown forwards into the worlds of Stilicho and Aetius, would have had a lot of radical unfamiliarity and a monstrous dose of culture shock to deal with... but if he'd persevered, he'd have been able to understand the lineage. He's have been able to say, "yep, this isn't the Empire of my day, but it's still definitely the Roman Empire".

The crucial point here is that, as in earlier times, the organisations and systems of the later Empire fundamentally worked. The structural changes which had occurred were basically sensible, necessary, and beneficial, and the Empire remained an unquestionable superpower; Haywood is excellent at stressing all this in a way that's sometimes obscured in other histories. But this is not to say that things were optimal... far from it. 

The Empire had reached the innate limits of its maximum extent. For one thing, communication delays alone made further expansion hugely impractical, but worse was that the grandeur of the imperial throne – the allure of pretensions to world rule – made it chronically unstable. It might well have been possible to devise a better system of government and succession, but whether one could have actually been implemented is another matter entirely.  

So things were functioning, and showing no obvious signs of collapse : the underlying problems the Empire faced were real but subtle. Past historians were too unkind to say it was all corruption, incompetence and cowardice, but there really was something rotten in the state of Roman Europe. To understand what was going on will take a bit of explaining, so bear with me for a little while.

One of the best cases of "show, don't tell" in the book is the series of maps showing the Third Century Crisis and the Tetrarchy. Something that comes across very quickly in any reading of Roman history is just how unstable the Empire really was : in its ~500 years of development, the heartlands were truly secure for perhaps one century out of that. The rest of the time it was constantly being split apart and reformed by rebellious governors, seceding provinces, and the occasional invader. But what the maps here show is just how similar the temporary fragmentation was in both the Crisis and the Tetrarchy; quite possibly, as though one directly inspired the other. The four political blocs the Empire broke into are not quite the same in each case, but they're of such similar size and number that it's impossible to believe they're unconnected.

On paper, then, the Tetrarchy was a decent plan, aiming to maintain the Empire as a very real polity without making the thing an ungovernable, bloated monster; more a federation of mini-Empires than one gigantic behemoth. It would also, I suppose allow aspiring Emperors a career trajectory which would satisfy their ambitions without burdening them with the superhuman demands of running the whole thing. It might have worked (after all, the Empire had already naturally split along such lines of its own accord), had the system had enough time to make this a cultural norm rather than being immediately undone by the phenomenally energetic and ambitious Constantine.

But there were more basic economic problems which the Empire had to grapple with beyond political management. What Rome was essentially trying to do, post-Hadrian, was essentially a Utopian dream : a stable, self-sufficient system, relying primarily (though not entirely) on its own internal resources. This meant abandoning the idea not only of imperial expansion – it simply couldn't expand any further – but also of economic growth. Indeed, limiting expansion now put the Empire, if anything, on a reduced budget rather than merely on a fixed income. The only real way to increase growth with first millennium technology, says Haywood, was to increase population : without conquest, population growth ceased, and windfalls from ravaging the barbarians dried up completely.

But to give Rome its due, it actually managed to adapt to this remarkably well. Its reorganised army – substantially larger than during its expansionist phase – consisting of border garrisons and mobile field armies behind the lines was able to handle barbarian raids very effectively, for the most part. The larger army demanded higher taxes, but most of these were paid in kind (not cash) so the effect on the economy was significant but not crippling. Even incorporating the migrating barbarians into its own military was generally successful.

There were two other major factors which proved much more difficult to address. One was that the reorganised Empire become essentially a theocracy with extremely strong state control. Your taxes might not be unbearable but you absolutely had to pay them. This was a profoundly illiberal and hierarchical society which was definitely Not A Nice Place To Live. Survival without economic growth meant iron fiscal and social self-discipline. During economic growth, the Empire could reward its citizens; when it flatlined, it became more oppressive, demanding more of its citizens than it gave back in return. For the ordinary person, there was far less of the glory that was Rome and far more of the grudgingly-paid taxes that was Rome. Consequently, they weren't especially likely to rise up in support should some invader come knocking at the gates.

Worse, and related, it was stagnant*. Of technological development, which could have given economic growth, there was naught, nor were there any fiscal innovations beyond "adjust taxes". If the Empire's moral corruption and slide into decay probably owes more to Gibbonish rhetoric than reality, then it seems that it certainly didn't do anything for its own self-improvement either. It may not have been declining, but it certainly wasn't progressing.

* Haywood says several times, without any justification or explanation whatsoever, that it was a period of chronic population decline. This is something of an annoyance because he leans on this quite heavily, but on the face of it it seems unlikely.

My reading of Haywood on this point is that this is a significantly more nuanced version than that of Gibbon. In Gibbon's thundering yet ponderous rhetoric, the Empire became corrupt and decadent because its rule was given over to people who were just worse than their illustrious forebears, out of some tired cliché that everything just entropically decays over time. Haywood's version does away with the stupid fallacy that the rulers were "just worse people", explaining that yes, there was corruption, but the systems were reformed for very good reasons. The rot in the state of Rome was not so much morally decadent leadership as it was economic pressure and a lack of ability to innovate. It was politically and technologically stagnant, and economically on a slow but irresistible decline.

2) The Fall Of Rome

Stagnation played a real role in the Empire's eventual collapse, and in this sense, internal problems were not entirely an invention of Gibbon's fertile imagination. The wealthiest, says Haywood, could indeed escape taxation through bribery and corruption, while the poorest had no choice but to pay up. The economic basis of the empire was attacked to sustain its elite; it was, in a very real sense, eating itself. The topical nature of this particular bit of commentary would seem to be self-evident.

As of course is the stuff on immigration, with Haywood describing here a very interesting feedback loop. The Empire never achieved true self-sufficiency and economic independence, and its reliance on external economies was nowhere more apparent than along its vast borders. The highly developed artisans and workshops of Rome produced luxury goods that were a magnet to external barbarians (even when they weren't being pushed onwards by warring tribes behind them), who in turn supplied the Empire with food. The problem was that this meant the barbarians were increasingly Romanised without being incorporated : the wealth of the border regions encouraged migration there and thus, without allowing them citizenship, the result was inevitably raiding and incursions. Rome was experiencing a serious crisis of short-term thinking, its own economic gains coming at the cost of strengthening its enemies.

Ultimately, Haywood basically agrees with Peter Heather. The final Fall wasn't due to a systemic problem, even if that system was flawed and did need overhaul. It was more a case of being simply overwhelmed : Rome just did not have the resources to deal with the scale of the threats it now faced. Where I think he does need to strengthen his argument, however, is in the statistics... Haywood presents the barbarian forces as so outnumbered by the Romans that it becomes a wonder they ever achieved anything. A fuller, even more economic analysis of where the tax revenues of Rome actually went might not be as enthralling as the the last, desperate victories against the Huns, but it might be more illuminating.

Still, Haywood's maps charting the collapse are an outstanding resource. At a stroke, the scale of the problem becomes obvious. Roughly speaking, the end took about a generation. There isn't really a clear moment you can say "this was the day the western Empire fell", but the classical date of 476 AD isn't a bad one. 

What isn't evident from the maps alone – and perhaps what led to complacency – is why this time things were different. The initial territorial losses are clearly substantial and problematic, but not on a scale the Empire hadn't experienced before. The accompanying data and interpretation help explain what had changed. Rome's vassal kingdoms might not have seemed all that much of a deal in terms of pure territory, but they were kept subservient out of fear and respect. Once that was gone, once they realised that Rome was now a paper tiger, the final institutional collapse came very quickly. It was by no means a total breakdown of society, with some local institutions surviving longer after the central administration was lost, but the idea of Rome as a polity was ended.

Nor could it be revived. Justinian's reconquests were as economically unsustainable as the western Empire itself had become – in fact the situation was very much worse. The damage done to Italy meant that it was held by the east* as a fife by sheer military end economic force. For any armchair generals wondering if Rome could have been restored to its full glory through, say, better support of Belisarius, the answer must be a firm "no". The resources needed for this did not exist, nor could the conquest have become a self-sustaining process.

* Haywood has a nice comment that we probably can point to a clear moment when the eastern Roman Empire truly became the Byzantine Empire : the reign of Heraclius. At this point, sweeping institutional reforms, though much needed, were so radical that it became a genuinely different entity. Up until then, the east survived as very much a direct, natural evolution of its predecessor; it was indeed still the Roman Empire despite the loss of Rome. After this point it was something new, more an heir to Rome rather than its literal continuation.

There's important, much more general lessons in cherry-picking here. Sometimes people decry claims that "this time it'll be different" as a sort of fallacy. And indeed, looked at in some narrow ways, such as purely through maps, situations can appear remarkably similar, such that claiming any real differences can seem foolish. Haywood shows how this is dangerous, that while some data can be a useful guide, you have to consider the situation in its entirety. So if you want to claim that, say technological advancements won't put people out of work (or indeed the opposite), you might be right, but you can't limit your study to how previous changes enfolded – no matter how similar they might appear. You can't draw a correlation without looking at all the extraneous circumstances, examining all of the context in which previous changes happened.

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Phew ! So Rome did decline, albeit more slowly than sometimes described, and the decline by itself wasn't inevitably leading to collapse. It could have been arrested, but lacked the innovation and boldness needed to do so. The east managed it, reverting from a near-total collapse into a powerful European state that kept going (albeit with varying degrees of success) for another thousand years. In the concluding part, we'll look a bit more into this, as well as how the rest of Europe fared (especially Britain), as well as considering the underlying systems at work in more detail