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Intelligence

Fools have ways to love that intelligent people do not have. The practical part of intelligence—especially in society—is mostly negative. The surest way to do something smart is not to do anything stupid. In any situation not requiring skill fools simply have more actions to choose—some of which, though inadvisably, are ways to love.

Love is judged by those beloved not by a standard measure, but proportionately to the powers of the lover. This is just: children and pets must be loved, and their love in return must be prized in proportion to their powers. But, though just, it is problematic. Without demonstration, I posit a geometric increase: twice the intelligence requires four times the cause of love to love so well. The religion of romance, the civilized circumvallations of lust, do not serve the sentimentality of fools—fools do not need them (though fools may enjoy wrapping themselves in them, as they do with politics). They serve the want in intelligent people, who must artfully cultivate an eye for, artfully indulge a susceptibility to, the causes of love if they are to love wholly enough to deserve love in return.

Seducers are superstitious and needless. The increase of the human race has never waited for want of the art of seduction. The classes, countries, and periods that most perfect seduction are least in progeny. But while affecting nearness to the basic facts of life, and partied equally on both sides, the art is elaborated with the vain ingenuity of the astrologer, with the patient fantasy of the demonologist, according to the mode in superstition—with potions and spells, with pheromones and evolutionary psychology. The pursuit is in the blood; the art that overlies it only reconciles uncommon minds to being led on common strings.

Life is easy, love is easier; the very birds and bees manage it. But intelligence makes things difficult—it makes us seek out difficult things. The faculty restless and capable enough to solve the problems of food, shelter, and reproduction cannot rest incapably on those solutions. It wants challenges. It elaborates gourmandise, architecture, romance.

This is not our tragic parting with nature; it is our true nature, before all others. The tragedy—there is tragedy—is that intelligent insight is distinct from intelligent perspective; the more completely absorbed in a problem, the less the ability to judge it. The lesson for intelligent people is that what makes life worthwhile is not at all the same as what is needed to live. To expect life to be worthwhile in itself is an error; but it is an error equally silly to expect that solving life's problems is enough to make life worthwhile. Life is easier, and life is harder, than that.

Form and content

Separating form and content is like separating language and meaning—possible, but artful. It is artful because it cannot be neutral. It cannot be neutral because content can neither be represented without any form at all, nor presented without some influence on how it is read.

In webdesign plaintext is often treated as nonformat, but it is format too—it raises the questions of character sets, markup versus markdown, hard versus soft wraps—it is haunted by carriage returns and line feeds—and displaying it raises the question of monospace or proportional fonts, wrapping or truncating, syntax highlighting, &c. Nonprogramming designers can think of it as nonformat only because they do not have to deal with it directly, just as printers could think of handwriting as nonformat, because it was the stage in the process of printing that they had no responsibility for. But questions of form in plaintext are serious and important for those who have to deal with it directly. (If you think webdesigners are overearnest about grids, you have yet to ask an programmer about whitespace.)

Plaintext permanently enacted what typewriters had already established in practice—the idea of punctuation and capitalization as part of content, not form. In manuscripts punctuation was so often indistinct, and its use so inconsistent between writers, that printers were free to omit, add, or switch points as they pleased. Yet even though writers bred to the age of WYSIWYG use boldface and italics significantly—also underlining, which was once just how writers and typists denoted italics to printers—still, because bold and italic characters are not part of ASCII (the plain text standard set by typists) they are so often unavailable, inconsistently displayed, or subject to sudden disappearance between programs, that they cannot quite gain the status of content.

Of course the phrase—separation of form and content—usually frames as a goal what might be more blatantly put by webdesigners as a command: programmers shall not meddle with design—or put by programmers as a judgment: just get it working, you can figure out the design later.

The phrase is also misleadingly abstract. As used it is meaningful only within a certain scheme: a database contains plaintext which is then filled into a template and served to a browser. This is not the only way it could be done. Quite different architectures are possible. Consider RSS, for example, where there is no browser and no design.

RSS is much closer to the intentions of the web than the web itself is. The fact that the web has any place for designers at all is the result of its abuse. Originally the web consisted of absolutely semantic markup. All pages shared one design—the design they inherited from the operating system being used to view them.

The early dominance of Netscape, however, by rendering pages in a consistent way across all platforms, let us get away with sneaking in the habits of graphic design on paper—the very metaphor of pages suborned it. Then the war between Netscape and Internet Explorer was fought around incompatible features for visual presentation.

Eventually all this was reeled back into CSS, but that was a capitulation, not a victory: the idea that the web meant the freedom to design was irreversible.

In current terms, the web was meant to be like Facebook—you put information in and let presentation be handled upstream—but it turned out like Myspace. To call this system separation of form and content is a little disingenuous.

As for the second kind of neutrality: I will use the Ruricolist as an example. Superficially it may appear that the Ruricolist is a blog by accident. The content seems separable from the form. That is true: it is practical to abstract these essays and present them in those other forms; indeed I have printed them in books. Yet the content of the Ruricolist exists because of its form. Only because there exists a form so familiar and flexible as the blog did I feel free to try something unusual.

My object in the design of this blog has always been to keep it as transparent as possible. I chose Blogger as least distinctive of all blog services, Minima as the least distinctive of all blog layouts, and Times New Roman as (to me) the most transparent of all fonts. (True, Georgia has become the look of blogging almost as resistlessly as Computer Modern Roman has become the look of science. But I still notice it; I do not notice Times New Roman at all.)

I have made adjustments to Minima gradually, to make it plainer and more readable (to my easily tired eyes): putting the columns in the golden ratio, opening up the linespacing, imposing an approximation to the traditional typographic scale. And now that Minima is no longer inevitable—I never see new blogs use it—I have replaced the header and markedly increased the font size. I might abandon it altogether if one of Blogger's new layouts has so low a figurative index of refraction.

I could have run the Ruricolist off its own domain; but I chose not to, because independence would mean irrelevance. Here among millions, being unusual just makes me eccentric; off on my own, being unusual would just make me weird. And once I decided on Blogger I was tempted by fancy layouts. With unassuming Minima, I can get away with using semicolons and subclauses, saying withal and writing sovran, and have it seem I refuse to be forbidden any of the resources of the language, I refuse to write down—not that I regret the century I was born in.

Presenting the Ruricolist with, say, Scribe would turn it into an exercise in antiquarianism. Likely it would be more popular on those terms, but they hold no interest for me. Writing an eighteenth century essay series as a blog is the kind of idea that, although clever in itself, gains nothing from actually being done. I wanted to extrapolate the form, not pastiche it.

Questions on youth

I

What ends youth, and when? Settle first what youth is. Is it innocence? Strength? Speed? But this is glib. The idea of youth is so fraught, tangled, enmeshed that no systematic approach to it is possible. So I will glance as I may.

II

Why is it easier to imagine an evil old man than an old evil man?

I can very easily imagine a man who has become evil by becoming old; and what I imagine is something serious and dangerous. But when I imagine an evil man who has become old, what I imagine is pathetic and sad. This is not a modern divagation: the evil old man or woman is an archetype. So too (though not often) is the evil man whom age leaves weak, bereft, and lost.

The same asymmetry obtains between a wise old man and an old wise man; between a kind old man and an old kind man; between a foolish old man and an old fool, &c.

Call this folk gerontology. It seems to teach that old age so divides life that after it we may acquire new traits and retain them vigorously; but that those traits we bear from youth into old age fade and diminish in it. (Note that traits does not include abilities—the type of the Old Master is an exception.) It defines youth to be either a time when we do not possess the qualities that will later distinguish us, or a time when we are distinguished by qualities we are bound to lose.

I see no basis in any kind of fact for this distinction, but the universality of it suggests that it is there to be established.

III

When does youth end? We have a tribal answer—youth ends with ordeal. We have a a number of civilized answers—youth ends with marriage, vocation, mastery or battle. But none of these formal occasions are satisfactory. Compare a person the day before and the day after, and you will measure no difference.

The notion that youth has a formal end implies a tripartite division of life into ineffectual youth, active maturity, and honorable senescence. Another familiar division is simply into strong youth and feckless eld. I cannot say which is the more natural. The second division matches the general pattern of animals, but the first is more distinctively human (given our prolonged childhoods). The trichotomy is the most common division, but the dichotomy seems agreeable to high civilization—at least to ours and the classical world's.

But our idea of youth and the classical idea of youth are not therefore the same. The phenomenon of formal education, the conceit that children have wisdom in their mouths (if nowhere else), the sense both of the suitability of play to children, and its unsuitability for adults—these give us an idea of youth shyer and more delicate than the robust vision of the ancient world. Alexander conquered the world and was thought young. But being young among the moderns ends as soon as anything happens that has not happened to everyone else. Classical youth was individualizing; modern youth ends with individuation.

IV

Speaking of Alexander, remember that Caesar, at the age of 30 and still unknown, wept because by that age Alexander was already Alexander. But Caesar would get his chance to be Caesar. In the vigor, ingenuity, audacity and arrogance of his later actions the qualities of youth are certain. Yet had a fever taken Caesar that year then his death, had it been marked at all, would have been marked as an old death. So to the question, "Can youth be recovered?", we can answer yes—for a Caesar.

V

Can you marry and be young? Of course you must be old enough, but can old enough be young? Or does to marry imply a sobriety and commitment that is only mocked by being called young? Or can one have children and be young? Does that responsibility compel youth's end—is youth passed on in making youth?

Without state-of-nature castles in air I note that once you have passed on your genes nature is done with you. Only culture has use for you, while you persist consuming resources without any direct role in the natural order. Nature arranged the habits, abilities and vices of youth toward the end of reproduction. Once that end is fulfilled, nature loses interest. Quote, "The noblest works have proceeded from childless men" (and women); is this because the refusal to get or bear prolongs youth by refusing its consummation?

VI

How seriously should youth be taken? The ancients took youth seriously and expected great things from it. We have two modern views to chose between.

We have youth as the best days of my life, a moment of strength and hope that sets almost before it has risen, our sole fragile chance at bravery, and once over beyond recall even in memory, only to be longed for—when not regretted.

We also have youth as a surfeit of dangerous energy, an unshielded, ungrounded, overcharged capacitor in continuous danger of shorting out, melting down, spinning free—a turbid, turgid, tumid white heat of hormonal drive limping on impaired judgment between transitory moments of release and refractory calm; something we are lucky to survive and would never wish on anyone, let alone ourselves.

This choice is important, because it determines how the rest of life is to be arranged. If youth is the best, then we should aim to be comfortable once we are useless. If youth is the worst, we should aim to be free once we are sane.

VII

Can youth be accurately remembered? Must it incandesce with a rose radiance as it decays to its half-life, or can it be remembered justly as it was? To ask another way: is life necessarily disappointing? Obviously if youth always becomes a retrospective paradise then what comes after will always be a disappointment. At best you can be philosophical, and try to remind yourself that your vision is distorted. But I think it can be remembered justly, though it requires artificial means—old photos to look at, old journals to read, old friends to converse, old shows to rewatch.

VIII

What does high school do to people? Listening to those who go—at least to Americans—it seems to have no lasting effect besides trauma and regret, and no benefit beside the war-buddy friendships formed among survivors. It appears as a sort of circular hell, where everyone is damned by someone, and demon to someone else. In trying to think about youth the implodably massive fact of the institution draws everything else into its orbit. Perhaps this is why there is so little good thinking done about youth: people trying to think about youth end up thinking about high school. What would youth look like without this wheel to break on?

IX

How far can the advantages of youth be extended? We are not only animals. By conscious discipline and ingenious technology we have learned to formalize or commoditize generally what life grants only as special advantage. We universalize gifted strength with machinery, gifted memory with writing, gifted health with medicine, &c. (I call this universalizing the index of civilization.)

If youth has any positive content, it must be abstractable. And if we find that youth is not abstractable, then we know that youth has no positive content. But we have had great success—and largely within living memory—with such abstractions. We have established that it is not unnatural or ridiculous that the old should learn, love, and plan as intensely, as bravely, and as hopefully as the young; that the use of technology to extend and preserve physical powers does not defy nature, but serves it; and that community of purpose is as much possible to the old as to the young. More may yet be done.