Read. Reflect. Repeat.

Author: yuganka (Page 4 of 7)

Overcomplicated (Samuel Arbesman)

Complexity science for 12 year olds

Overcomplicated has to be the most vacuous book I’ve ever read. In fact I’m amazed that something like this could be passed off as a book.

There is such a lack of research that my mouth actually hung open in astonishment at a few places. Consider this absolute gem from page 83 – “A number of years ago, research was conducted to design a type of computer circuit”.

How many years ago? Where was the research conducted? By whom? What type of circuit?

These are the most basic questions any responsible author will answer, not only because they are important to understand the example, but more importantly because they place the example in a certain historical context. With none of that information, the reader is left wondering how to assimilate the sentence. Really, what was Arbesman thinking?

Arbesman treats the book like it is “Complexity Science in the 21st Century – for 12 year olds”. Science books are a little difficult to write for precisely this reason – very few authors have the wherewithal to properly explain difficult concepts. It requires a certain level of skill and experience which Arbesman clearly doesn’t have. On the contrary, Arbesman ends up explaining even the most basic things, thus insulting the reader’s intelligence.

But even the above factor could have been forgiven by innocuously assuming the book was actually meant for younger children and mistakenly got published for adults, were it not for probably the biggest shortcoming of the book.

Arbesman gives you no details. None at all. The level of generality which he manages to maintain throughout the book is remarkable. His narrative is nothing but a repetitive, stale and hollow enterprise – he gives no information, the sentences are just castles of sand holding no details. The information the entire book gives could very well be summed up in the following lines – as the level of technology increases, the parts eventually become so complex that no single human has any idea about how they work – they become kluges which are essentially patch upon patch of new parts (for example, both in the software and the legal world) which can’t be understood as a whole, are not understood in entirety by any one person, and behave in ways not expected by humans – their creators.

I lost count of the number of times he used phrases like “it’s just too complex” and “we fail to understand why they work”.

The other really disappointing aspect of the work is the number of references.

Arbesman’s idea of a book is to heavily reference the works of other authors and then present a patchwork formed by integrating all of them. There is absolutely nothing original that he offers – his whole narrative is essentially a summing up of recent research in a few topics, and even that could have been acceptable if only he had mentioned anything worthwhile from those references. He keeps quoting people and what they think, but not about any real research that they undertook.

I have read a few books on science, so I know it isn’t impossible to explain even the most difficult concepts in an engaging manner – where the reader actually turns over the last page with a satisfied smile on his face. But those books require real skill, intent and hard work – and Arbesman gives an impression of lacking all of these.

In all likelihood, Arbesman got up one fine day with the thought “let’s write about complexity science and finish a book before I go to sleep today” and proceeded in all earnestness. But he forgot that a book of science cannot thrive on (subjective) quotes – it must embrace facts and their analysis.

This book is amateurish, poorly researched and lacks substance. It is a huge disappointment and a complete waste of time. If you really want to read about complexity science, please go for Chaos by James Gleick.

Vengeance

You toss about on your bed
Yearning for my company,
Night after night of bitter unrest
Embroiled in a lovely agony…

My thoughts do reach the deepest confines
Of your mind, which begs my leave,
And I beg you to read the signs
And find what I cannot reveal!

I know you crave for my presence today
I feel the pain you bear,
But, oh, I laugh at the inscrutable ways
Of time,
We all have its share!

For a time there was
When I tossed about
Delirious in your love,
And roamed the streets
Searching for an out
Weeping with the heavens above!

I love you still
But you do, too,
In my love are you finally bound,
My alter ego has risen with vengeance
Determined to exact its pound.

The Sands of Love

The divine Painter had resolutely chosen,
A course He, for him, panned
The limited hues of his colours, frozen,
Played a game – dealt a cruel hand
Like how the currents of a brimming river
Fool around with the banks fragile sand.

Heedlessly is it tossed, irreverently cast aside
The waves don’t care if it even exists
Swayed to and fro – drugged and hypnotised
Savouring this sweet misery, for suffering it insists.
Like how the heart of an unrequited lover
From yearning for his love cannot resist.

Those that erupt from his innermost desires
Knows he that these seething flames
Will engulf his life, towards death will this fire
Drive all his hope, faith and beliefs – he’ll be drained!
Like how the laments of the agonizing disfigurement
Drives millions of roughed up grains insane

While the waves they cannot blame
Yet, the anguish, too, they cannot endure
Their pale and lifeless days – sealed by their fate
Cannot be attended to and nourished, for sure.
Like how the stranded suitor, abandoned to his ways
Searches throughout his life for that elusive cure

The Imposter

Will you be fooled by his disguise?
Can you peel off the layers,
See through his eyes
His vicious smile
That celebrate with guile

The charm with which he entered your world
And screened my voice from you
Muffled all those elusive words
That to me were due

So wonderful a net has he admittedly cast
Such a perfectly executed ploy
My faith is the victim, and it is fading fast,
Succumbing to schemes that destroy

For if the devil could come and pick
And mould you as he pleased
You failed to see his skillful trick
Your eyes were blinded by deceit!

While one refrains from picking a rose
With its heavenly smell divine
For her to roam the fields, when morose,
There happiness she shall find…

The other violates that very flower
Plucks it from the stem
And with all his flattery and hollow power
Gifts it to the maiden

Who jumps and laughs and blushes and accepts
With glee this momentary luxury

How could she sense
How life’s turning wheel
Had driven me out of her memory.

How could she feel
What her continued absence
And indifference had done to my psyche.

How could she know
What her friend had to show
For she was stuck with his adversary.

Grandma

She glances as I near the door
Her eyes can’t reach me
But she can see me, nonetheless
…watch me
Extending a shivering hand in warped time
Reaching for the door
Searching for the knob, or is it?
…watch me
Bulge my lips and tilt it right
Shake my head and drop my eyes
Oh…those foreboding eyes!

Flooded with dread, chilling as the winter dawn!
The future they could clearly see
Courage withered, certainty long gone
Even a final glimpse they could not concede.

Oh…those foreboding eyes!
Longing for something, but in vain
Clutching at strands of memories
Fighting bursts of agony
In trying to live them again.

…watch me
Look at her!
See her state!
A treasure of virtues – my creator she gave
But tamed by time, her time she bides
Behind her rickety body, the ebb of her tide!

A furious flood of feelings I fight
Holding my breath, beseeching time to rest…
Begging, oh please rest!
And let me take in my source of life
And pour it unto my heavy chest.

Something salty brushes against my lips
I yearn to stay but I choose not to
Some work I have, the hinges twist
The door opens, reluctantly I go through.

She could not have studied my face
In the penumbra of her vision had I stood
Yet what ailed me, where my insecurities lay
She knew it better than I ever could.

She was still glancing as I closed the door,
Still watching…
She strained her ears as I descended the floors,
Still listening…
She smothered her wish as the engines roared,
Still yearning…

Why I Read

I distinctly remember three of the earliest books that my mother bought for me when I was small. They were The Ugly Duckling, Jack and the Beanstalk and a third book the name of which I don’t remember. But I remember the third book because it had a handle. Yes, a book with a handle. A tiny briefcase appropriate for the small hands that were meant to hold it.

Then followed a hiatus of an appreciable duration, the reasons of which I neither remember nor feel important enough to go into at this point. I was mainly occupied with John Grisham, Khaled Hosseini, Dan Brown and a couple of others during these years, with a singular spurt for Rowling in the months preceding the release of Half Blood Prince.

All of a sudden, I find I have turned 16 and my interest has started to lean towards cosmology. I read Brian Greene, Michio Kaku and a bit of Paul Davies during this time.

A chance visit to a roadside bookstall in 2008, with my parents in tow, refuelled the hunger for books within me, and I bought five of them, among them The Agony and the Ecstasy. And, in a visit to a bookshop the following year, I bought Crime and Punishment.

These two books, along with All Quite on the Western Front, an early 70s edition of which I had borrowed from a friend, had a tremendous impact on me, the nature of which deserves and demands another post of its own. But suffice it to say, they completely transformed my beliefs about what was possible to be achieved through writing, what I expected from the books I read after that, and my general perception of the power of the written word.

In the next few years I read a variety of authors from varied genres, and Dostoyevsky receded into my subconscious and unconscious.

And then one fine day, I asked myself the question – “How exactly did the words of Dostoyesvky effect this transformation in me?”.

And lo and behold. I realised I remembered nothing of importance.

I distinctly remembered the name Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov – the kind of eventful name only dementia can make you forget; I vaguely remembered the names of the other characters, and I only remembered the plot from an eagle’s view.

What was happening? I remember reading somewhere that the books we read are like the food we eat – we cannot pinpoint which part of the body stored the nutrients we got from a particular meal we had at some point in the past, but the energy of that meal was absorbed by our body, and some part of it lives on in our muscles and bones.

This is a beautiful romanticised way of looking at what we read. The books live on within us through their afterglow, a glow that instils warmth in our mind and soul. Their remnants are vague memories, memories that became the changes they effected. This is the transformative power – the words we read are not mere words, they are forces and their nature changes depending on what they interact with. The unlucky soul who could not experience the love of his parents will look at Harry Potter as, more than anything else, an orphan who searches throughout his life for emotional stability. To someone else who could never go to a good school, Harry Potter may be a source of envy, for he had such good teachers and mentors throughout his seven years at Hogwarts.

Books transform into a reflection of how the reader looks at the world. And since each reader holds a different prism in his hand, a given book could take on innumerable interpretations, in fact as many different ones as the number of people who read it. The only dimension of the human condition that comes so close to such a fragrant diversity of perceivable forms is the world of art, literature included.

I was born in the last decade of the twentieth century. Millennia of human history had already played out before me. Why does this fact not bother me? Why does it not overwhelm me with a feeling of being disjointed from that history?

Why do I feel so at-ease since my childhood days?

In other words, why does an understanding of the sheer magnitude of the quantity of information relating with the history of mankind not unnerve me, and how do I, so effortlessly, take my place in the scheme of things, taking all of that information to be self-evident?

Where did I imbibe all of this?

Each successive generation has access to more information about its past. Before the invention of writing, all of this information was passed on orally, and this is in fact how the myths and legends, prevalent in virtually all cultures around the world, formed. And this is also why we know almost nothing of that period, except through archaeological remains, or in ancient treatises that mention them.

The written word is the storehouse of mankind’s knowledge. It is the sum total of all we know, what we think about the things we know, and what are the next things we could possibly come to know. It stores the past, and shapes our future.

I did not grow up to become a cosmologist, but Stephen Hawking did. And he told me about black holes.

I did not grow up to be a neurologist, but Oliver Sacks did. And he told me about visual agnosia.

I did not grow up to be a philosopher, but Immanuel Kant did. And he told me about the relation between things as they actually are, and things as they appear to us.

Need more?

I did not grow up to be a musician, but John Powell did. And he told me what an arpeggio really is.

I did not grow up to be a mathematician, but Ian Stewart did. And he told me about the Riemann Hypothesis.

I did not grow up to be a poet, but Thomas Campbell did. And he told me about Lord Ullin’s Daughter.

I did not grow to be an X, but Y did. And he told me about Z.

I can fill anything I want into X, and find a corresponding Y. And Y will, then, lead me to a Z.

A new Z each time I read. What else can I want from my life!

And that is why I read.

On the Perception of Colours

A man can only experience the world from his own perspective. The way he sees, and hears, and smells, and touches, determines what his world is composed of. I do not know, and cannot know, how my brother experiences the world. I can never know what my mother’s world is like, except through how I perceive it through my senses, and my mental capacities.

Really, this thought is profound and we should give it more thought. What I see, is a world composed of thousands of people, where each person supposedly has his own unique perspective on life. It is funny how even when two people are looking at the same apple, their perceptions of the apple can’t be identical, for each perception of the apple is a macroscopic result of the aggregate effect of trillions of molecules moving rapidly in the head, and also the interpretation of the person – which is so abstract an entity that it can’t possibly be quantised, and whatever can’t be quantised can necessarily not be compared.

So, two people are looking at the same apple kept some distance away from them. Both say that it’s not just an apple, but a Pacific Rose apple, that it’s not just red, but more like Block Red in colour, that it’s not just warm, but lukewarm… Let us suppose that both of them can think of a host of properties that any given apple can possibly have – how soft it is, how long is its stalk, what is the precise shade of green that the leaves have etc. Now, even if I were to concede that both of them agree on the precise values of all the properties that they can think of related to that particular apple, and that they do not disagree on any of those, and I further concede that the definitions and meanings of all the words used as adjectives, and the relative magnitudes of the numbers used to describe it wherever required are all understood with common knowledge, can we still say that the two perceptions of the same apple that the two of them saw from their own perspectives, are identical?

We can’t. For even if we had mutually decided on the definitions of the terms we were using, we have no way to verify that we are referring to the same idea. Let me clear this up.

Suppose there is a person, A. And imagine that due to some quirk of the cells in his eyes, his perception has switched for the colours ‘red’ and ‘green’. So, for him, the colour that the leaves of a tree have, is identical to the colour we see in an apple. One possible objection to this is that it’s simply not possible, as the red and green parts of the spectrum don’t occur together. But it is just a thought experiment, and that consideration can be kept aside for now.

Remember that throughout his childhood, A has been taught that ‘Leaves are green’ and that ‘Apples are red’. So, he has labeled the colour that the leaves are having as green when the colour is, in fact, red for him.

Now, suppose A was applying for the post of a traffic policeman, and C got to know about this. He went and told the Head of Traffic Management, that A was unfit for the job, as he had a defect in his vision – his vision was such that he saw red instead of green and vice versa – a condition that would put the lives of people at risk as he would be giving signals contradictory to what the traffic light demanded – he would ask the cars to move when the light was ‘Red’ as he would be seeing it as ‘Green’.

The Head said, “Crikey! That is a weird condition! Let me send someone to take a test!” And it was decided that B would go to take a colour test of A.

Here is the conversation.

B : Look at that tree. What colour are its leaves?

A : (turning his head and observing the tree) Light green.

B : Are you sure?

A : Absolutely.

B : What other things are green in colour?

A : Well, the outer covering of Avocado is a shade of green, a Mantis is green in colour and even Emerald is a shade of green.

B : Okay… And give me examples of things that are red.

A : Well, apples are red, the rising sun exudes shades of redness and, in fact, your shirt has red stripes on a background of white!

B : (turns his chin downward to cast an observant glance at his shirt, and raises his head, impressed ) Well, that’s good enough! I wonder why C told me your vision is defective! It isn’t defective at all, I would say!

A : What had he said?

B : He said that you see ‘Red’ instead of ‘Green’ and vice versa!

A : Well, in my humble opinion, that is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard about myself!

Understand what is happening here. A has put the label ‘Green’ on everything which is actually red in colour! When he was growing up, and the teacher would show to him a leaf, which would actually be appearing ‘red’ to him, she would say ‘this leaf is green in colour’, and A would feed that information in his mind. And the same thing happened for every red thing.

Come to think of it, it’s not really a handicap at all. A has labeled the world just like everybody else, he is merely experiencing the world differently. And it is this experience that is crucial.

Is there any way to show to A that the colour to which he has given the name ‘red’ is actually the colour to which all the rest of his species has given the name ‘green’? I’m afraid not! No matter what method you choose, or what apparatus you bring, or what conversations you have, this factor can’t be conveyed, unless the two parties are aware of the situation. A would stop at the ‘red’ light which would actually be appearing green to him, but he’ll be calling it ‘red light’ nonetheless.

Hypothetically, it isn’t much difficult to scale up the above case and say that a significant number of people suffer from this same physical quirk – switching of colours in their vision. What they perceive as red, we perceive as green, although both label the any given object as having the same ‘labeled’ colour. Maybe each person is labelingand saying that leaves are green, but some are perceiving it as blue, some as red, some as yellow and so on. Remember that we can’t even say that the waves with a wavelength so and so are called ‘Red’ and so and so are called ‘Green’, as even here the same issues will arise as discussed above. The labeling can be done and matched and verified in a number of ways, through such experiments as mentioned above, by taking pictures, by using prisms etc. But the perceptions can never be compared.

So, the world is nothing but the intersection of a billion perceptions of itself. It can only be understood in terms of the labels that everyone, or most of us, agrees to give it. In that sense, it’s a blatant example of the muscle that the power of majority wields.

But realise that in labeling, even those in minority won’t know that they are a minority! If the leaves are ‘green’, they are green for everybody, and even those who are perceiving it as having the colour ‘blue’, would still end up giving to them the label ‘green’.

In fact, we should thank our lucky stars that our perceptions can’t be compared, for the very possibility of such a comparison would have resulted in total chaos and absolute anarchy in the human thought system. Imagine a future where we could take a picture of how we are perceiving the world – much like an ECG measures the workings of a given person’s heart.

So, A snaps this ‘perceptograph’ of himself watching a tree – the tree has red leaves. B and C bring a perceptograph where the same tree has green leaves. Others bring in yellow, purple, brown and blue versions of the leaves and then the ‘International Labeling Committee’ is befuddled as to what labeling is correct.

It takes a vote on the issue, and it turns out that 37.4% of the people say that it’s basically a shade of green, 21.8% say blue, 16.3% say red, 10.2% say yellow and the rest are divided between purple and brown.

After viewing the results, the Committee is perplexed as no colour has got even a simple majority. Then, out of the blue (pun intended), activists from the ‘Go Blue Foundation’, headquartered in Washington, file a petition asking the ILC to accept the label for the colour of leaves as ‘Blue’, for they have already spent billions of dollars trying to appeal to citizens of the US, where a large percentage of the people perceive leaves as being blue coloured, to shift to renewable sources of energy. If the ILC were to label the leaves as being anything other than ‘blue’, then GBF will suffer huge losses of billions of dollars in trying to re-brand itself, and it will have no option but to sue ILC for damages. At this, the Head of ILC tries to bring to their notice that, forget about a majority, blue hasn’t even received the maximum number of votes! This leads to howls of protests from the activists of GBF, who shriek even louder, and the Head of ILC wrings his hands in despair and passes the motion, labeling the leaves of trees as having the colour ‘Blue’.

Chaos and anarchy prevailed on Earth from that day onward, with signature campaigns on perceptographs emerging from the remotest corners of the world, trying to raise their voice for standardisation, but to no avail.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time (Mark Haddon)

A murder mystery novel which kills our ignorance

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time is the story of Christopher, a fifteen year old boy having Asperger’s syndrome who sets out to find who killed his neighbour’s dog. In the process he ends up finding certain surprising things about his family history.

Asperger’s syndrome is a kind of autism. Autism, in itself, is not a single condition. It is, rather, a spectrum of conditions, of which Asperger’s is a mild form.

People with Asperger’s have difficulty understanding societal conventions, principally because they are unable to imagine that other people are also thinking beings having their own thoughts. In a classic experiment, a variation of which is also mentioned in the book, a kid with Asperger’s is shown a box having a certain label but containing something different. The kid tells what he sees on the label and is shown to be wrong by taking the actual product out of box. So far so good.

If the kid is now asked what a third person will answer when asked what was in the box, the kid replies what was actually there in the box, and not what the label says.

It is because the kid equates his own knowledge with that of other people around him.

Such is Christopher. He follows a strict daily routine and prefers uniformity in surroundings and in his daily interactions with people, leading to discomfiture and unpleasant feelings when this structure is disturbed. Christopher is very observant and says he “sees everything” – not just the number of cows in a field, but the marks on their body, the direction in which they are standing, the gradient of the field, and so on. As a result, his brain easily overloads with information when he is in a new place.

People with autism are known to sometimes cover their ears and groan, and only now have I realised why they do so. They are simply trying to ward off the extra information their brain has suddenly been overburdened with.

We are able to actually step into the shoes of Christopher and understand his thoughts and Haddon must be commended for what he has done. At a few places, Christopher’s thoughts are completely opposed to what we would have thought in that situation, but these thoughts bring out even more clearly his logical thought process.

Through Christopher’s father, this book has also managed to express the internal conflict of those who live with people having an autism spectral condition, in so far as this was possible when narrating through Christopher’s eyes.

Christopher’s father loves him a lot and tries to keep Christopher’s routine as close to what he is comfortable with as possible, but he is only human and terribly fails at a few places, not necessarily in his role as a father. But these actions have a profound effect on Christopher, and his resulting actions serve more as a testing ground of his father’s temperament than of his own. In the process, these few scenes beautifully bring out the father’s internal struggle.

This book claims to be a murder mystery novel. It is, but only incidentally. In a far greater scope though than one would have imagined, it is a mystery novel which manages to solve the mystery by the time we reach the last page.

Now, the actions of someone suffering from an autism spectral condition do not seem mysterious to me; I know what they feel and think like. And this is more than what I had expected from this book.

The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)

The silent roar of Howard Roark

Since its publication 73 years ago, The Fountainhead has given its readers a unique reading experience indeed.

The protagonist Howard Roark presents a depiction of man that would seem impossible to most of us. And that is precisely the point. Howard Roark is a person who rises on his own, is an independent body, mind and soul. An independent force. He rises against that inevitable influence that society has on its members – over time it builds a set of conventions, then it conditions its members, since their birth, to believe those conventions are sacred, then it establishes another set of conventions to punish those who flounder the first set of sacred conventions, and in most of the cases, these steps are enough.

Then arrive men of ideas, who are trying to find a new path. The trouble? The new path isn’t a part of the convention yet! So all hell breaks loose.

This conflict between the individual and the collective would not be so vitriolic if the collective didn’t regard the individual as a threat. The fact that it does is more of a judgement on the collective’s insecurities than it is on the individual.

Fountainhead is a beautiful book. It champions ideas too idealistic. But why should that matter? Rand deserves credit not only for her literary prowess but also for her ability to beautifully transform her thoughts and philosophy into a powerful work of fiction.

There is one important thing to understand here. You cannot become Howard Roark. You either are Roark or you are not. I’ve heard people say that the true power of this book, as it was intended by the author, is experienced in the late teens and the very early twenties as at that time, we have an idealistic outlook towards the world and believe everything is possible. Then as some years pass and we reach the late twenties, we begin to grow averse to the ideas espoused in the book as they seem unrealistic and impractical.

I think this has a very valid reason. The age when a child’s personality is slowly taking shape – the common denominator of his personality that will stay fixed for the rest of his life even as additional traits will get added and subtracted as time shall pass – is from about three to six. If a child could read and understand The Fountainhead at that age, it would impact him in ways we aren’t in a position to imagine or extrapolate.

By the time we reach an age when we can actually get to grips with this masterful work, our basic personality has already formed. However, till the late teens we believe we can still change certain traits of ours and we feel we have the power. So the magic of this book enchants us.

The real disappointment dawns when we are in our twenties and realise it is not possible to act like Roark. However much anyone may mock Rand, and there is no dearth of people who do, at some level, and in varying degrees, they all will agree that living like Roark is not an unwise way to spend one’s life, even if they may not step into his shoes if given the chance. The antagonistic feelings that may arise in someone’s mind for Rand’s work betrays the very thing that that feeling is supposedly a result of. They understand that they can no longer have the independence that Roark has. Of course some people may genuinely dislike her philosophy, but I’m not referring to that set of people here.

This book has a few recurring themes that strengthen its foundation, and form the bedrock of its narrative, effortlessly carrying the story forward.

Of love, and such a conception of it which we may not have come across before, and which I had assuredly not.

Of power and its nature, how is it held and wielded. What is the role of someone who holds power? Is it more important to hold power over others, or over oneself?

Of beauty, and whether the beauty of a thing or an idea depends in any way on its existence in the physical world.

And of patience, self-assuredness and determination.

Howard Roark may not exist. But neither do unicorns. Do we also berate the person who dreamed up the unicorn?

On Anarchism (Noam Chomsky)

Like most other concepts, anarchism is poorly understood

To me “anarchism” conjures up, or at least used to before I read this book, an image of a society that follows no laws, gives absolute freedom to its members, and hopes to sustain itself by appealing to the better nature of its inhabitants. No wonder I never considered it to be feasible, much less an alternative to the existing democratic structures.

The dawn of industrial revolution in the 1700s meant the western nations were in need of raw materials to feed their rising industries. This led them to set up their tents in, mainly, African and Asian countries, at a time when most of them had little or no concept of a “nation”. With time, they came to control the raw materials, the industries and international trade emerging from these countries. The indigenous people were transformed into machines, into cogs of a wheel which kept the industrial revolution alive.

It was in this background that socialism (the state should own the means of production) and communism (abolition of private property and creation of a collectivised classless society) emerged. Their aim was basically to restore dignity into the lives of the labourers and abolish “wage slavery”, which forced them to sell their health, life and soul barely to stay alive.

Socialism and communism arose in various forms throughout the world, especially in Asia and Eastern Europe, a process which continued into the first half of the twentieth century. As we entered the second half of the twentieth century, however, another idea had extended its roots deep into the minds of some emerging nations.

Democracy in the twenty-first century, as in the latter half of the twentieth century, emerged as the result of centuries of struggle against the western imperial powers which had set up their tents throughout the world. It was the result of a long struggle, a struggle for equality, for freedom, for making the administrative machinery answerable to the governed, and for providing appropriate mechanisms for bringing about changes in those very machineries.

In most implementations of a democratic setup, it promised, at the very least, equality before law, ensured the rights of each person were as important as any other’s, and strove towards a society where each person could live his life free from the chains of exploitation.

Most democracies supported, not necessarily driven by something innate in their philosophy, but as a barometer for individual freedom, a free market economy. This meant that people with the required resources, which included land, labour, capital and raw materials among other things, could set up their industries and employ other people to do certain jobs. This was an important development, as the anarchists later proclaimed, in that it perpetuated wage slavery but this time under the guise of freedom of the individual, thus escaping the conscious moral revulsion associated with it in the previous centuries.

This, from what I could gather from the introductory portions of the book, was the seed which precipitated the dawn of anarchism as a possible political alternative.

What is anarchism, in its core? As Chomsky explains in the book, an anarchist demands that every form of power must justify the reasons it is holding that power, and this prerogative lies on the power-wielding authority and not the governed. Be it religion, capitalism, government or any other framework that holds any kind of power, if it can’t justify itself, it must be done away with.

The Spanish revolution of 1936-37 is the most pertinent example in our study of a truly anarchist society. As Orwell writes in Homage to Catalonia, from which Chomsky quotes extensively, anyone who had been lucky enough to be in Spain, especially cities like Catalonia, Aragon or Barcelona during the time, would have been surprised by the level of cohesion and practicality that an anarchist society could offer. Everybody was equal, each did the kind of work he or she wanted not because of the compulsion of earning a living, but merely because he wanted to do that work. It would have been a revelation for the sceptics.

But why this scepticism? Why does the term anarchism seem to represent the paragon of impracticality, is labelled flawed before the word is even completely uttered, and is consequently hand-waved into impertinence?

Chomsky cites this as a result of a trend where leading historians, many of whom have received the most decorated honours, commentators, analysts and even the press, failed to objectively report the Spanish revolution and its events, mostly due to an inherent liberal bias they had, and also on account of the dominant political narratives that were playing out in the western nations, and even those with a communist government at the helm, who were not supportive of a positive portrayal of the anarchist revolution that had swept parts of Spain.

Chomsky doesn’t blame them per se, but he doesn’t spare them either. Through extensive quotations from some of the sources that managed to honestly represent, though still not completely, the developments in Spain during the revolution, he proves that some of the most followed and respected authors, whose works are considered canonical works of the revolution, failed to honestly report some of the most important and crucial moments of the anarchist movement. What a pity.

Chomsky ends the book with an exposition on the nature of the connection between language and freedom, for, he says, having an independent mind, of which (human) language is possibly the principal indicator, is one of the prerequisites of freedom.

I must admit, this book is a bit scholarly and the casual reader may not find it interesting enough in parts, but it is a great comment on how the course of history, and of the lives of the people who read it, can be influenced and moulded, sometimes unknowingly and sometimes with intent, by a few voices.

In this tale of the Spanish revolution, we find a message of grave importance. How often have we misunderstood history, not only because we haven’t got as many sources as we would ideally want, but also because the thought of questioning the credibility of the sources often escapes us. It’s not something we naturally do.

Chomsky shows just how much we stand to lose by staying in this mould, and how much to gain by breaking free.

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