27 January 2006
Shameless Publicity
My sister has recently had her wuxia novel published, and it's out in shops now! It's titled Shaonian Xiake Liu Mailin, and is published by Lingzhi Media. Get your own copy soon!
10 January 2006
Fall of the House of Hwang
Word is out that Hwang Woo-Suk's cloning work was faked, according to a panel convened by his (former) employer, Seoul National University. The press release from the University was released on their website today. It is useful to read where the work went wrong, but chilling also because of the possibility that so much of our so-called scientific progress is flim-flammery hidden under fluff. For every big scandal there are probably dozens more smaller fish that evaded the net.
What concerns me, though, is that the panel was so quick in ascertaining Hwang's guilt. One month seems awfully short to do all the tests they did in there, though of course I have no idea how much manpower the panel had at its disposal. As with all matters where emotional investment is at stake (given Hwang's former hero-status in South Korea) there is danger of a witch-hunt, of needing to pin blame and to destroy utterly the blamed in order to blunt the shame of mistaken admiration. There might be, too, an element of professional jealousy involved, given that Hwang dominated the field (and funding) in which the scientists that now make up the panel work in. Could it not be possible that they might find some delicacy in destroying his career, in striking him while he is down?
Regardless of these concerns, though, Hwang's career is over; he might have difficulty even teaching high school science in Korea. It is unlikely that anyone will let him rest in Korea; he would probably have to leave the country to continue his life. In an era where life scientists are seen as the high priests of a rational religion, feted and nourished by the state, which is afraid of angering the gods of that religion by failing to do so, we should not forget that scientists are as human as any one of us, susceptible to the same temptations, tempers, and treachery. It is very tempting to hero-worship someone who does well in something we believe will bring us good fortune, to put him or her on a pedestal and shower him with tributes. But very few people can handle being a hero with good grace. That is the reason why heroes are best taken from antiquity, because we might be crushed when they fall from grace and we are still standing beneath the pedestal looking up, slack-jawed and immobile.
What concerns me, though, is that the panel was so quick in ascertaining Hwang's guilt. One month seems awfully short to do all the tests they did in there, though of course I have no idea how much manpower the panel had at its disposal. As with all matters where emotional investment is at stake (given Hwang's former hero-status in South Korea) there is danger of a witch-hunt, of needing to pin blame and to destroy utterly the blamed in order to blunt the shame of mistaken admiration. There might be, too, an element of professional jealousy involved, given that Hwang dominated the field (and funding) in which the scientists that now make up the panel work in. Could it not be possible that they might find some delicacy in destroying his career, in striking him while he is down?
Regardless of these concerns, though, Hwang's career is over; he might have difficulty even teaching high school science in Korea. It is unlikely that anyone will let him rest in Korea; he would probably have to leave the country to continue his life. In an era where life scientists are seen as the high priests of a rational religion, feted and nourished by the state, which is afraid of angering the gods of that religion by failing to do so, we should not forget that scientists are as human as any one of us, susceptible to the same temptations, tempers, and treachery. It is very tempting to hero-worship someone who does well in something we believe will bring us good fortune, to put him or her on a pedestal and shower him with tributes. But very few people can handle being a hero with good grace. That is the reason why heroes are best taken from antiquity, because we might be crushed when they fall from grace and we are still standing beneath the pedestal looking up, slack-jawed and immobile.
Blood in the Streets
Harold Pinter, in his Nobel Lecture quoted a poem by Pablo Neruda which I think is worth reading in full:
I Explain a Few Things (Explico algunas cosas)
You will ask: And where are the lilacs?
And teh metaphysical blanket of poppies?
And the rain that often struck
your words filling them
with holes and birds?
I am going to tell you all that is happening to me.
I lived in a quarter
of Madrid, with bells,
with clocks, with trees.
From there one could see
the lean face of Spain
like an ocean of leather.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because it was bursting
everywhere with geraniums: it was
a fine house,
with dogs and children.
Raul, do you remember?
Do you remember, Rafael?
Federico, do you remember
under the ground,
do you remember my house with balconies where
June light smothered flowers in your mouth?
Brother, brother!
Everything
was great shouting, salty goods,
heaps of throbbing bread,
markets of my Arguelles quarter with its statue
like a pale inkwell among the haddock:
the olive oil reached the ladles,
a deep throbbing
of feet and hands filled the streets,
meters, liters, sharp
essence of life,
fish piled up,
pattern of roofs with cold sun on which
the vane grows weary,
frenzied fine ivory of the potatoes,
tomatoes stretching to the sea.
And one morning all was aflame
and one morning the fires
came out of the earth
devouring people,
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with airplanes and with Moors,
bandits with rings and duchesses,
bandits with black-robed friars blessing
came through the air to kill children,
and through the streets the blood of the children
ran simply, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackal would spurn,
stones that the dry thistle would bite spitting,
vipers that vipers would abhor!
Facing you I have seen the blood
of Spain rise up
to drown you in a single wave
of pride and knives!
Treacherous
generals:
look at my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
but from each dead house comes burning metal
instead of flowers,
but from each hollow of Spain
Spain comes forth,
but from each dead child comes a gun with eyes,
but from each crime are born bullets
that will one day seek out in you
where the heart lies.
You will ask: why does your poetry
not speak to us of sleep, of the leaves,
of the great volcanoes of your native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets,
come and see
the blood in the streets,
come and see the blood
in the streets!
trans. Donald D. Walsh
from Spain in our Hearts (Espana en al corazon)
I Explain a Few Things (Explico algunas cosas)
You will ask: And where are the lilacs?
And teh metaphysical blanket of poppies?
And the rain that often struck
your words filling them
with holes and birds?
I am going to tell you all that is happening to me.
I lived in a quarter
of Madrid, with bells,
with clocks, with trees.
From there one could see
the lean face of Spain
like an ocean of leather.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because it was bursting
everywhere with geraniums: it was
a fine house,
with dogs and children.
Raul, do you remember?
Do you remember, Rafael?
Federico, do you remember
under the ground,
do you remember my house with balconies where
June light smothered flowers in your mouth?
Brother, brother!
Everything
was great shouting, salty goods,
heaps of throbbing bread,
markets of my Arguelles quarter with its statue
like a pale inkwell among the haddock:
the olive oil reached the ladles,
a deep throbbing
of feet and hands filled the streets,
meters, liters, sharp
essence of life,
fish piled up,
pattern of roofs with cold sun on which
the vane grows weary,
frenzied fine ivory of the potatoes,
tomatoes stretching to the sea.
And one morning all was aflame
and one morning the fires
came out of the earth
devouring people,
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with airplanes and with Moors,
bandits with rings and duchesses,
bandits with black-robed friars blessing
came through the air to kill children,
and through the streets the blood of the children
ran simply, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackal would spurn,
stones that the dry thistle would bite spitting,
vipers that vipers would abhor!
Facing you I have seen the blood
of Spain rise up
to drown you in a single wave
of pride and knives!
Treacherous
generals:
look at my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
but from each dead house comes burning metal
instead of flowers,
but from each hollow of Spain
Spain comes forth,
but from each dead child comes a gun with eyes,
but from each crime are born bullets
that will one day seek out in you
where the heart lies.
You will ask: why does your poetry
not speak to us of sleep, of the leaves,
of the great volcanoes of your native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets,
come and see
the blood in the streets,
come and see the blood
in the streets!
trans. Donald D. Walsh
from Spain in our Hearts (Espana en al corazon)
07 January 2006
The New Year and Beyond
Finally, I can tell people who ask that I'll be going to college next year, rather than the clunky phrase 'the year after next, viz. 2007,' which requires some explanation. I'm glad to leave 2005, with all its trials, tribulations, and griefs behind, and to look forward to what lies ahead. Most people maintain their sanity, after all, by putting their lot in what is to come, rather than what has already passed, because we are helpless to change the latter while the former at least offers us the illusion that we have some degree of control over it.
In all honesty, I don't know what I want to do with this year. One year's service in the army is over and at the rate things are going, the remaining year shall be over without too much effort. Most of my good-intentioned resolutions for the new year that I made at the beginning of last year have gone unfulfilled: it's hard to find the discipline to accomplish them, and for all the excuses that I might muster, they all eventually fail to assail the fact that it is my own shortcoming that has thwarted them. This year I shall not make resolutions that I cannot keep, nor promises that I cannot honour, because promises broken to oneself diminishes one's standing in one's own eyes, rather than that of others, a far more biting diminution. My fate is not in my own hands, this I accept. Yet it would be perverse to use that to justify idle inaction. As before, I shall strive, though fraught with inadequacy and error, to do what is right, and to better the happiness that is mine and others'. That alone will require a substantial portion of my energies. The highest commendation I can imagine is that it will be energy well spent, and not squandered.
Here's to a happy new year, a blessed one, and a fulfilling one for all. I promise my next update will be less sentimental: this promise I am unlikely to break.
In all honesty, I don't know what I want to do with this year. One year's service in the army is over and at the rate things are going, the remaining year shall be over without too much effort. Most of my good-intentioned resolutions for the new year that I made at the beginning of last year have gone unfulfilled: it's hard to find the discipline to accomplish them, and for all the excuses that I might muster, they all eventually fail to assail the fact that it is my own shortcoming that has thwarted them. This year I shall not make resolutions that I cannot keep, nor promises that I cannot honour, because promises broken to oneself diminishes one's standing in one's own eyes, rather than that of others, a far more biting diminution. My fate is not in my own hands, this I accept. Yet it would be perverse to use that to justify idle inaction. As before, I shall strive, though fraught with inadequacy and error, to do what is right, and to better the happiness that is mine and others'. That alone will require a substantial portion of my energies. The highest commendation I can imagine is that it will be energy well spent, and not squandered.
Here's to a happy new year, a blessed one, and a fulfilling one for all. I promise my next update will be less sentimental: this promise I am unlikely to break.
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