What do we pay people to do, and why?
There are, somewhat loosely, three kinds of jobs. There are those worth doing in themselves; they would be worth doing whether or not they were necessary, and worth doing whether or not one was paid to do them. In this category fall many scholarly or intellectual activities, including science and other pursuits of knowledge, art, writing literature, etc. . There are those with no inherent value, but which are valuable as means to an end, and ought to be done even if nobody was paid to do them. Most skilled and unskilled labor falls into this category: farming, road work, etc. -- but also (arguably) things like entertainment production (it is good to have some produced entertainment -- games, movies, the like -- available, though obviously quality matters here and far more is produced than is really optimal), medicine, and many sorts of engineering. Finally, there are those which are worth doing only if, and only because, one is paid to do them. The production and (especially) sale of useless gadgets, and many facets of advertising (is anyone prepared to maintain that telemarketers or the producers of obnoxious internet pop-up ads are doing something worthwhile or that needs doing?) fall into this category.
It seems to be nearly tautological that it is desirable to have as many people as possible doing the first sort of activity (things good in themselves), and that labor ought to be directed toward the second (instrumental goods) just insofar as is necessary to uphold society and improve the general human condition -- and whenever such an activity can be done with less effort, it ought to be done so, to free up time and energy for enjoyment and for pursuit of activities good in themselves.
Now originally the vast majority -- nearly all -- of human effort was devoted to the second kind of activity. Absent large-scale organization, industry, advanced technology, and automation, it takes much of the general effort of society to feed, clothe, shelter, and defend itself. The people who pursued philosophy (and later science), for instance, were generally those who were lucky enough to be wealthy enough not to have to do ordinary work.
Well, we now have large-scale organization. We have massive industrial capability. We have quite a lot of labor-saving and labor-easing technology, and an increasing amount of automation capable of doing our labor for us. Especially in the West, we have the capacity for an unprecedented amount of our society to simply not need to work on those necessary, but in themselves valueless, tasks that have so long occupied our efforts, and with every advance in technology this becomes more and more true.
What have we done with this capability? Now that we are so much more efficient, do we now have so much more free time to think about things which are valuable in themselves? Are we a society of scholars, devoted to knowledge? Or, at least, do we have more and more free time to associate with one another and develop friendships?
You need only turn on the television, or browse the internet, or walk through a store, or be rudely interrupted at dinner (provided that you are one of those people with enough free time to have a regular dinner with family, of course) by yet another telephone call insisting that you need to refinance your mortgage, to see that this is, of course, not the case. More and more people are doing that third kind of job -- the kind you only do because you are paid to do it. Do not mistake me: I have no ill-will towards those who can get no other job than to sit at a phone bank and call perfect strangers in order to get them to buy something. Those of us lucky enough to have a more meaningful occupation should pity, not despise, them.
But it is a particularly damning commentary on our society that we have used our enormous efficiency and technological capability, not to give ourselves more free time for relationships and contemplation, not to make ourselves a society of scholars in pursuit of knowledge, but instead to create make-work. Such an enormous portion of our vast resources are devoted to the "manufacture of silly luxuries and then of sillier advertisements to persuade us to buy them". What evil have we done, that the fruits of our efforts should not be contemplation or leisure but a suffocating deluge of pointless products and irritating advertisements for them? What evil have those poor folks in the telemarketing call centers done, that we should refuse to pay them except to provide a worthless "service", at best useless and at worst actively harmful to themselves and their fellow human beings? What kind of a society are we, that we should allow and even encourage all of this, valuing sales above knowledge, make-work above rest, and money above everything?
May God have mercy on us all.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Musing on Memories and the Past
Apparently "tomorrow" means "in a week". I keep meaning to write, but then I get distracted and lose the inspiration. I apologize in advance for the somewhat stream-of-consciousness style of the below; I am rather tired and wanted to dump out some of my thoughts that I had been meaning to write about, and that is how it happened.
Last week there were several days of warm weather -- it was above 50 degrees (F) one day -- and this led to my thinking about the past. There is something about a fresh breeze, moist and cool-but-not-cold air blowing in my face, that brings up memories and vivid emotions. There is something powerful about the past. I remember things I did, places I have been, thoughts I have though, and (perhaps most poignantly) emotions I have felt, and there is something otherworldly about them. Sometimes I can almost feel myself back in the past situation; on other occasions, it is as if I am remembering not my own life but the life of some past self who, somehow, is not the 'I' that I am now.
Of course I know that I am the 'I' of those memories, occasional feelings to the contrary aside; my ontological theory of myself is not so muddled as all that. But there is the fact that the past often seems so arbitrary; I remember what did happen (or I do at least insofar as my memory is correct), but it seems like it might just as well have happened otherwise. I went, for example, to Mathcamp in the summer of 2004; might I have not? What if I had done differently? The past is strange; it is immutable, but it is hazy. My memories are my view of my past, but they are as through a glass, darkly; at times I hardly recognize myself. The past is so fuzzy to me, it almost seems as though it should not be so set in stone. Surely I could go back and fix those mistakes I remember making; make different choices. But no, the past is fixed; there is no going back; there is only going forward. Exiles cannot return home; none of us can return to the past. It seems strange that there should be something so irrevocable about a contingent thing, but that, I suppose, is part of the grand miracle of the universe.
The past is irrevocable. It cannot be changed. But of course that is also to say that all actions are, in a sense, irrevocable. When I choose to do one thing rather than another, I make not a momentary but a permanent choice. For all eternity I have done what I have done, and there is no possibility of later erasing it. Lewis talks about the mistaken conception people have that the mere passage of time wipes away sins and mistakes. Of course it does not; it cannot. No matter how distant I feel from that young fool who cheated, or lusted, or did some other evil, no matter how many years ago it was, it is nevertheless true that I did it. "What has been done cannot be undone." (How grateful I am -- at least in my lucid moments -- for God's forgiveness! There certainly can be no other way out.)
And another thought. There is something almost mystical about memory, especially memory of emotion. I stand and let the breeze wash over me, and I remember that summer of 2004, where I recall -- it was in Maine -- standing in the cool moist breeze and feeling those same emotions which I feel now in remembering it. Lewis talked of a certain poignant feeling which he remembered and longed for, but when he honestly examined his memories, he found that the emotion he remembered was this kind of longing itself. This must be akin, if not the same. It is certainly with some fondness that I see myself standing as I remember doing some four and a half years ago, though some of the things I remember thinking about that summer were rather foolish. (I like to think that I have learned better. I remember thinking, soon after, as I realized my foolishness, that I was learning something. I am not certain how sure I am that I have, indeed, learned anything meaningful.)
I get the same sort of experience remembering such things as I get from thinking about certain literature (the good kind, that has deep ideas and makes one think). The memories have the advantage that they are trying, at least, to tell a story that is very close to me, though the storyteller is generally rather inferior. (I wonder how I should tell the story of my life... Would it be any good? Would anyone -- even myself -- think it interesting or profound?) I think I can learn from literature; I think I can learn from my memories, though quite often it is difficult to say exactly what I have learned. Quite often it is even more difficult because I do not try to say it until I have begun to forget. I emphatically maintain that this does not mean I have not learned anything. But what, exactly, is it that I have learned just now?
I couldn't say.
Last week there were several days of warm weather -- it was above 50 degrees (F) one day -- and this led to my thinking about the past. There is something about a fresh breeze, moist and cool-but-not-cold air blowing in my face, that brings up memories and vivid emotions. There is something powerful about the past. I remember things I did, places I have been, thoughts I have though, and (perhaps most poignantly) emotions I have felt, and there is something otherworldly about them. Sometimes I can almost feel myself back in the past situation; on other occasions, it is as if I am remembering not my own life but the life of some past self who, somehow, is not the 'I' that I am now.
Of course I know that I am the 'I' of those memories, occasional feelings to the contrary aside; my ontological theory of myself is not so muddled as all that. But there is the fact that the past often seems so arbitrary; I remember what did happen (or I do at least insofar as my memory is correct), but it seems like it might just as well have happened otherwise. I went, for example, to Mathcamp in the summer of 2004; might I have not? What if I had done differently? The past is strange; it is immutable, but it is hazy. My memories are my view of my past, but they are as through a glass, darkly; at times I hardly recognize myself. The past is so fuzzy to me, it almost seems as though it should not be so set in stone. Surely I could go back and fix those mistakes I remember making; make different choices. But no, the past is fixed; there is no going back; there is only going forward. Exiles cannot return home; none of us can return to the past. It seems strange that there should be something so irrevocable about a contingent thing, but that, I suppose, is part of the grand miracle of the universe.
The past is irrevocable. It cannot be changed. But of course that is also to say that all actions are, in a sense, irrevocable. When I choose to do one thing rather than another, I make not a momentary but a permanent choice. For all eternity I have done what I have done, and there is no possibility of later erasing it. Lewis talks about the mistaken conception people have that the mere passage of time wipes away sins and mistakes. Of course it does not; it cannot. No matter how distant I feel from that young fool who cheated, or lusted, or did some other evil, no matter how many years ago it was, it is nevertheless true that I did it. "What has been done cannot be undone." (How grateful I am -- at least in my lucid moments -- for God's forgiveness! There certainly can be no other way out.)
And another thought. There is something almost mystical about memory, especially memory of emotion. I stand and let the breeze wash over me, and I remember that summer of 2004, where I recall -- it was in Maine -- standing in the cool moist breeze and feeling those same emotions which I feel now in remembering it. Lewis talked of a certain poignant feeling which he remembered and longed for, but when he honestly examined his memories, he found that the emotion he remembered was this kind of longing itself. This must be akin, if not the same. It is certainly with some fondness that I see myself standing as I remember doing some four and a half years ago, though some of the things I remember thinking about that summer were rather foolish. (I like to think that I have learned better. I remember thinking, soon after, as I realized my foolishness, that I was learning something. I am not certain how sure I am that I have, indeed, learned anything meaningful.)
I get the same sort of experience remembering such things as I get from thinking about certain literature (the good kind, that has deep ideas and makes one think). The memories have the advantage that they are trying, at least, to tell a story that is very close to me, though the storyteller is generally rather inferior. (I wonder how I should tell the story of my life... Would it be any good? Would anyone -- even myself -- think it interesting or profound?) I think I can learn from literature; I think I can learn from my memories, though quite often it is difficult to say exactly what I have learned. Quite often it is even more difficult because I do not try to say it until I have begun to forget. I emphatically maintain that this does not mean I have not learned anything. But what, exactly, is it that I have learned just now?
I couldn't say.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Let's try this again
So it's been almost a year since I last posted here. I keep wanting to write things and then not doing it, because I don't have a vehicle for it... except I do. Silly me.
So I'll give this another shot; maybe I can actually post with some regularity this time. Right now I am slightly tired and should get to bed soon, so perhaps an interesting post will come tomorrow.
For now, I will tie up a little bit of a loose end from before by giving an indication of the solution to the problem I mentioned in my previous post. The following describes how to compute the function f(x) from just the k-subset x of [n] (no reference to other values of f). First, view x as a binary string of length n, with 1's in positions corresponding to elements of x and 0's elsewhere. Then, count along this string, beginning at the end (at the imaginary position n+1) with a cumulative count of 0, subtracting 1 every time you reach a 0 and adding 1 every time you reach a 1. So, for instance, the subset {1, 3, 4, 7} of [7] yields the binary string 1011001. Starting at the right end of this with 0, we get in the 7th position a running total of 1, then 0, then -1, then 0, then 1, then 0, then 1. This gives us the new string (1)(0)(1)(0)(-1)(0)(1) (from left to right). Now, to obtain f(x), find the leftmost position in this last string generated where the value is both minimal and at most 0. (If all the values are greater than 0 f(x) is not defined.) Notice that x does not contain the number corresponding to that position (this is easy to see by minimality) -- in the case above, we find that the leftmost minimal value occurs in position 5, and 5 is not in x. Add to x that number (in this case insert 5 into x) to obtain f(x).
It is not terribly difficult to show by induction that this actually gives us the correct function f(x). In particular, this means that f is defined on all k-subsets of [n] whenever k
Okay, bedtime now.
So I'll give this another shot; maybe I can actually post with some regularity this time. Right now I am slightly tired and should get to bed soon, so perhaps an interesting post will come tomorrow.
For now, I will tie up a little bit of a loose end from before by giving an indication of the solution to the problem I mentioned in my previous post. The following describes how to compute the function f(x) from just the k-subset x of [n] (no reference to other values of f). First, view x as a binary string of length n, with 1's in positions corresponding to elements of x and 0's elsewhere. Then, count along this string, beginning at the end (at the imaginary position n+1) with a cumulative count of 0, subtracting 1 every time you reach a 0 and adding 1 every time you reach a 1. So, for instance, the subset {1, 3, 4, 7} of [7] yields the binary string 1011001. Starting at the right end of this with 0, we get in the 7th position a running total of 1, then 0, then -1, then 0, then 1, then 0, then 1. This gives us the new string (1)(0)(1)(0)(-1)(0)(1) (from left to right). Now, to obtain f(x), find the leftmost position in this last string generated where the value is both minimal and at most 0. (If all the values are greater than 0 f(x) is not defined.) Notice that x does not contain the number corresponding to that position (this is easy to see by minimality) -- in the case above, we find that the leftmost minimal value occurs in position 5, and 5 is not in x. Add to x that number (in this case insert 5 into x) to obtain f(x).
It is not terribly difficult to show by induction that this actually gives us the correct function f(x). In particular, this means that f is defined on all k-subsets of [n] whenever k
Okay, bedtime now.
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