A Malarial Brain

[plissaman]

Friend pulsed me off-line.  "Wot the hell you know about malaria?  Somewhat over the Top, mon frere!"   I wuz stung!  I have promised that ALL my postings will be of real events that I have experienced or witnessed, so in defense, I note that I indeed contracted malaria as a child in Africa.  It was a thoroughly disagreeable experience, but I recovered without too much mental warpage, far as I can tell.  Incidentally, there is no cure and the disease, a faithful lover, is yours forever.  This obliges me to consume copious draughts of gin and quinine tonic for medicinal reasons - a regimen that I observe with resigned dedication.  There are relapses, sometimes caused by exhaustion from hard work, that I avoid by being a lazy slob, and sometimes caused by exasperation of the Plethora of Fools.  That irritant I have not yet solved.

Peter Lissaman, Da Vinci Ventures

Expertise is not knowing everything, but knowing what to look for.

1454 Miracerros Loop South, Santa Fe, New Mexico 87505,USA
tel:[phone]

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[lrudolph]

I was engaged in a (so far not unexpectedly fruitless) search
for any evidence that any working scientist (as contrasted
with aged eminences grises who begin to take up Philosophy
in their declining years) has ever committed to print any
suggestion that her or his work has ever been in the slightest
degree influenced by Tarski's definition of truth, when I
found M. Delbrück's 1970 Nobel prize lecture, and found in
it, as its last section, some thoughts that may be relevant to
this list's recent entanglement in rogue vortices.  In any case
they're relevant to the studio offer which I (if I weren't in
Massachusetts) would certainly take up.

==begin==

Artist versus Scientist

Twenty years ago the Connecticut Academy of the Arts
and Sciences had a jubilee meeting and on that occasion
invited a poet, a composer, and two scientists to
``create'' and ``perform.''  It was a very fine affair.
Hindemith, conducting a composition for trumpet and
percussion, and Wallace Stevens, reading a set of poems
entitled ``An Ordinary Evening in New Haven,'' were
enjoyed by everybody, perhaps most by the scientists.
In contrast, the scientists' performances were attended
by scientists only.  To my feeling this irreciprocity
was fitting, although perhaps not intended by the
organizers.  It is quite rare that scientists are asked
to meet with artists and are challenged to match the
others' creativeness.  Such an experience may well humble
the scientist.  The medium in which he works does not lend
itself to the delight of the listener's ear.  When he
designs his experiments or executes them with devoted
attention to the details he may say to himself, ``This
is my composition; the pipette is my clarinet.'' And the
orchestra may include instruments of the most subtle
design.  To others, however, his music is as silent as
the music of the spheres.  He may say to hiomself, ``My
story is an everlasting possession, not a prize composition
which is heard and forgotten,'' but he fools only himself.
The books of the great scientists are gathering dust on the
shelves of learned libraries.  And rightly so.  The scientist
addresses an infinitesimal audience of fellow composers.  His
message is not devoid of universality but its universality is
disembodied and anonymous. While the artist's communication
is linked forever with its original form, that of the scientist
is modified, amplified, fused with the ideas and results of
others, and melts into the stream of knowledge and ideas which
forms our culture. The scientist has in common with the artist
only this: that he can find no better retreat from the world
than his work and also no stronger link with the world than his
work.

The Nobel ceremonies are of a nature similar to the one I referred
to.  Here, too, scientists are brought together with a writer.
Again the scientists can look back on a life during which their
work addressed a diminutive audience, while the writer, in the
present instance Samuel Beckett, has had the deepest impact on
men in all walks of life.  We find, however, a strange inversion
when we come to talking about our worki.  While the scientists
seem elated to the point of garrulousness at the chance of talking
about themselves and their work, Samuel Beckett, for good and valid
reasons, finds it necessary to maintain a total silence with
respect to himself, his work, and his critics.  Even though I was
more thrilled by the award of the Nobel prize to him than about
the award to me and momentarily looked forward with intense
anticipation to hearing his lecture, I now realize that he is
acting in accordance with the rules laid down by the old witch
at the end of marionette play entitled ``The Revenge of Truth''
[by Isak Dinesen].

        The truth, my children is that we are all of us
        acting in a marionette comedy.  What is important
        more than anything else in a marionette comedy is
        keeping the ideas of the author clear.  This is
        the real happiness in life and now that I have at
        last come into a marionette play, I will never go
        out of it again.  But you, my fellow actors, keep
        the ideas of the author clear.  Aye, drive them to
        the utmost consequences.

==end==

Lee Rudolph

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Meets Fridays 9a-11:30 at cafe at St. John's College
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