Paranoia Will Destroy Ya

I just got the Hofstadter volume from the Library of America and I’ve been enjoying/suffering through a reread of “The Paranoid Style in American Politics”.

Cover of the LoA volume; photo of Hofstadter and titles: "Anti-Intellectualism in American Life"; "The Paranoid Style in American Politics"; Uncollected Essays".

“Enjoying” because Hofstadter is a knowledgeable and deeply insightful writer with a dryly witty style; “suffering through” because the fringe movements he was writing about in the early 60s are the right-wing mainstream of today and it’s sickening to think how widely this dementia has spread through the body politic.

But it does help to explain why some people internalize any mental poison that someone like Trump or Margery Taylor Green pours in their ears. They have a place already prepared for it there, a long habit of paranoid thinking that takes on different details, depending on what is politically fashionable, but is always the same in form and effect: the nation/way of life/race is under attack by shadowy and nefarious forces, which justifies any action to defend it. The menace may change (Communists, black people, Jews, drag queens, immigrants, etc.), but there is always a menace and you are always being urged to war against it.

And you can’t make peace with Nefarious Forces Unnamed. You cannot compromise with Nefarious Forces Unnamed. Which means you can’t coexist with Nefarious Forces Unnamed, and the very existence of a pluralistic government becomes intolerable.

And so here we are. It would be nice to know where we can go from here, but Hofstadter doesn’t provide any clue for that (at least not in this essay).

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Gormless Gomes on the Ground

This afternoon I was reading up on Danish King Gorm (a.k.a Gorm the Old, a.k.a. Gorm the Lazy, a.k.a. my new role model), and idly wondered if it was the same root as the gorm in English gormless “clueless”.

An old king sits on a throne with his eyes closed, pressing one hand against his temple. A queen stands before him, apparently speaking to him. Members of the court stand sadly around them.
People try to explain to Gorm that being old doesn’t necessarily require you to be lazy; he pretends not to listen.
Detail from a painting by August Thomsen.

It would seem not. It looks like the -r- was added to gorm after r-deletion dialects emerge in Early Modern English; older forms are spelled gom, gome, etc. The Tyrant OED throws up its hands and despairs of finding an etymology for gom(e).

There’s an archaic English word gome meaning “human being” (usually used of a man but can also describe a woman) which I thought and still think might be the source of English gorm. If you lack the discernment of a human (gom<e>), you’re gormless. This is plausible, but so is every folk-etymology to the folk-etymologist who proposes it.

English gome is cognate with Latin homo (“a human being”) and both ultimately stem from PIE *dhghem- “Earth”, making them cognate with groom, chthonic, humble, homage, hombre, omerta, and the cham– in chameleon and chamomile. That’s a rich, earthy brew of etymologies, even if none of them is the one I was looking for.

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Is this SALAMI Intelligent?

This is not exactly new, but it’s always fun to watch Cory Doctorow sticking a pin in the AI-hype bubble.

I especially enjoyed the proposal of an Italian ex-M.P. to rename AI as “Systematic Approaches to Learning Algorithms and Machine Inferences” or SALAMI.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

graphic shows a pyramid red-glowing indicator's, like HAL-9000's from 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, merged with a representation of the Gartner Hype Cycle.
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What Counts and What Doesn’t

In certi momenti, non sono le parole scritte che contano. Una voce, una carezza, un gesto di tenerezza, saranno sempre più forti e risolutivi di un miliardo di parole scritte dal più grande poeta di tutti i secoli. Noi viviamo di queste voci, di queste carezze, di queste tenerezze, non di libri. Io che scrivo lo so.

–Giorgio Scerbanenco

“In certain moments, it’s not written words that count. One voice, one caress, one gesture of tenderness will always be stronger and more decisive than a billion words written by the greatest poet of all time. We live by these voices, by these caresses, by these tendernesses, not by books. I, a writer, know this.”

a thin middle-aged man with a beaky nose typing on a portable typewriter
GIORGIO SCERBANENCO
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A Ganelon By Any Other Name…

Typo of the day (which I discovered in an old slideshow from earlier this year): Gabolen. I’d intended to write Ganelon (the sinister traitor-knight in Charlemagne’s court). But Gabolen sounds like a pretty convincing name; maybe he/she/it will appear in a Morlock story someday.

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The Final Problem

This is going to be a tough post to write—no easier because I’ve seen it looming for a while.

Lennie Briscoe, the Great Detective, has gone to investigate the ultimate mystery. His spine gave out last night and we just couldn’t let him suffer any more. There are a lot of cold empty places around the house today that used to be warm and philosophically fuzzy.

Omnia mutantur; nihil interit.

left: a youthful boxer dog poses with a paperback

right: an elderly boxer rolls around on the grass. The caption reads DIGNITY... ALWAYS DIGNITY...
Left: in summer 2023, Lennie pretends to read Philosopher or Dog? (He already knew the answer was “Both!”)
Right: in summer 2022 Lennie gives a practical exemplum of his philosophic acumen
by rolling around in the grass like a crazy person.
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Happy Easter!

Οὐκ ἔστιν ὧδε, ἠγέρθη γὰρ.

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Winter Is Over

The Spring Equinox notwithstanding, I know that winter has ended when the westering sun doesn’t reach through the southern window of my bookroom to punch me in the eye as I’m writing on my computer. That happens sometime around the beginning of April.

in the foreground: a bookcase stacked with books; beyond it: an open window showing trees, blue sky, a street
the view from my writing desk
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The Hood, the Bad, and the Bitey

I was looking up something else in Cleasby & Vigfusson’s Old Norse dictionary when my eye fell on gríma, meaning “a kind of hood or cowl”; by extension “the night”. A lot of badasses, starting with Óðin, are called Grímr (e.g. Þorgrímr, Steingrímr, Hallgrímr, Grímulf, etc). The root appears in women’s names with the -a ending: Gríma, Hallgríma, etc. C&V add “a serpent in poetry is called grímr“.

I always assumed these tough-guy names were cognate with English grim, and there may be some kind of connection, but English grim seems more directly related to ON gram “angry” (also the name of Sigurð‘s sword and Hrolf Kraki’s dog).

I’m sure Tolkien had ON gríma in mind when he named Wormtongue (a.k.a. Gríma), Théoden’s Unferthian evil counsellor.

An old king sits wearily in his throne; standing over him is a sinister cowled figure with snakelike protrusions issuing from his cowl.
a detail from Gabriel Danilchik‘s drawing of Théoden and Wormtongue
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Further, Deponent Sayeth Not

The joke, such as it is, doesn’t really come off in English. But the Latin means something like “‘I am Spoke/I have spoke<n>,’ spoke Spoke.”

Live long and prosper, Spoke.

image: Jean-Luc Picard as Locutus of Borg

text: "ego sum Locutus," locutus est Locutus.
Locutus of Borg; artist unknown, I’m afraid
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