![[via]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/f05d17f3913a80f03085a250c204ca00/tumblr_mg2ox3BNDM1qzx0kho1_r1_1280.jpg "http://themadeshop.tumblr.com/post/39602932030/via")
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A Short Rant About Self-Referential Design
This is some nicely-designed text on a nice coffee mug, and I like coffee and also nicely-designed things, so I’ll start by admitting I see the appeal of things like this.
But also something feels somehow not good about all these new self-referential design objects I keep seeing (bookcases that spell out “read your books,” christmas ornaments in Pantone colors, flasks with semi-clever aphorisms about drinking inscribed, etc.). If I had to sum it up in one sentence, it might be: There’s probably an important difference between “liking coffee” and “liking liking coffee.”
And that difference is that “liking coffee” is a great and fine thing, but “liking liking coffee” sorta makes you seem like an insufferable sort of person who is so self-absorbed that they actually get more pleasure from the outward signification of their accumulated personal preferences than from the actual objects of pleasure themselves. Which is kind of awful, if you think about it.
Though I admit writing rants about this sort of thing is also pretty insufferable in and of itself.
‘Let us imagine that a portion of the soil of England has been levelled off perfectly and that on it a cartographer traces a map of England. The job is perfect; there is no detail of the soil of England, no matter how minute, that is not registered on the map; everything has there its correspondence. This map, in such a case, should contain a map of the map, which should contain a map of the map of the map, and so on to infinity.’ Why does it disturb us that the map be included in the map and the thousand and one nights in the book of the Thousand and One Nights? Why does it disturb us that Don Quixote be a reader of the Quixote and Hamlet a spectator of Hamlet? I believe I have found the reason: these inversions suggest that if the characters of a fictional work can be readers or spectators, we, its readers or spectators, can be fictions.
To paraphrase Bateson’s argument, a culture that believes that common colds are transmitted by evil spirits, that those spirits fly out of you when you sneeze, can pass from one person to another when they are inhaled or when both handle the same objects, etc., could have just as effective a “map” for public health as one that substituted microbes for spirits.
Idea of copyrighting the Copyright symbol is Copyright © 2012 The Made Shop
(Source: futurejournalismproject, via schlomo)
![When I was out in L.A. recently, Rian and I had a great—if too brief—brunch, and afterwards we ended up stopping by a bookstore where he bought me Douglas Hofstadter’s (amazing) book Gödel, Escher, Bach.
Within minutes of opening it I realized two things: 1) this had the potential to become my new favorite book, and 2) this appeared to be thematically identical but oddly arguing in exactly the opposite direction of my erstwhile favorite book: Infinite Jest.
Both G.E.B. and Infinite Jest (in at least one reading) are fixated on the relationship between recursion and identity: both in their explicit content, and of course—because we’re talking about recursion and smart-aleck genius authors here—in their implicit form and hidden structure.
I suppose when I say “explicit” I’m probably referring a little bit more to G.E.B., because it’s maybe a bit less obvious finding those themes (or calling them explicit) in Wallace’s work. But, vastly simplifying here (and also focusing heavily on what was interesting to me), Infinite Jest is, in my reading, essentially a recursive circling around the existential horror of a worry that ‘self’ and identity are purely materialistic, self-defined, and infinitely recursive. The book opens with Hal locating himself (‘his self’) physically:
“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies. My posture is consciously congruent to the shape of my hard chair. […] I am in here.” (bold/italic emphasis mine)
—and pretty much continues this self-locating search in various voices, transpositions, and inversions for the remainder of the text (“call it something I ate.”).
Then, mirroring this core project, the novel’s action is propelled around a central MacGuffin — the “entertainment” or the “samizdat” — a film so entertaining that viewers lose interest in everything else and are compelled to continually re-watch it. This always struck me as, essentially, a lethally recursive entertainment.
Recursion: the process a procedure goes through when one of the steps of the procedure involves invoking the procedure itself
This samizdat—infinite regression on a lethal scale—is an early hint of Wallace’s perspective on recursion: it is (literally) associated with stagnation, paralysis, and ultimately death. Hofstadter’s view, as we will see, is quite the opposite.
Amusingly, as (badly-kept) inside jokes, both Infinite Jest and G.E.B. are also structured recursively. And I think the distinct manner of recursion for each is telling. (Note here that recursion need not be infinite. While endless regression is a danger of any self-referential system, it is not a defining quality. Self-reference can spiral inwards endlessly, or it can move forwards, in a sort of vibrating harmony, provided the system has a way of “bottoming out” or escaping its loops at some point.) Wallace admitted that Infinite Jest is based on the structure of a Sierpinski Triangle, which is a diagram that contains within itself an infinite number of copies of itself. The structure is actually fractal, which means it’s of the infinitely regressive variety of recursion. Hofstadter’s structure for G.E.B. is also recursive (i.e. self-referential), but not infinitely so. Its overt structure is fugue-like, alternating rigidly between a series of humorous dialogues between Achilles and the Tortoise and a series of formal descriptions of those same themes raised in the dialogues (a bit like A B A B A B … , but with a sort of forward momentum; so more like 1A 1B 2A 2B 3A 3B … or something). In addition to this overt structure in G.E.B., many of the sub-sections and dialogues take on a sort of local formal recursion (like a dialogue whose internal structure implicitly mirrors the explicit conversation subject, or even sentences that formally illustrate their own subject matter).
I think these two distinct formal codings of recursion in Wallace and Hofstadter give an interesting clue to each works’ larger themes and tones, hinting at what recursion meant for each of the authors. Both writers are clearly fascinated by self-reference and self-awareness (and the possible causal relationship between those two). But while for Hofstadter the recursive process of ‘strange loops’ is exciting and positive and generative (and even perhaps self-generative), for Wallace recursion—while fascinating—is consuming and negative and destructive (and even perhaps self-destructive).
Here’s typically insightful and hilarious Wallace talking about self-consciousness in an interview:
“There’s good self-consciousness, and then there’s toxic, paralyzing, raped-by-psychic-Bedouins self-consciousness.”
As a visual metaphor, I think Wallace’s idea (and fear) of self-destructive recursion can be seen in the old symbol of a snake eating its own tail:
While Hofstadter’s idea (and love) of self-generative recursion is best seen in M.C. Escher’s drawing of two hands drawing each other:
Partly I love these two books simply because I’ve always been fascinated by recursion (I clearly remember ‘inventing’ Zeno’s paradox as a child at night in bed thinking of eating a licorice (or, rather, half a licorice, and then half again, and then half of that, ad infinitum — infinite licorice!) and then discovering in college decades later that some Greek guy beat me to it). But apart from that interest, I think I really love both books because I have this overwhelmingly concrete sense of loving both authors, and not just their writing. Which has led me to form a working theory that perhaps a certain highly-developed sense of self (a self sensing the world, a self sensing that there is a self sensing the world, a self sensing a self sensing a self…) as a person, and then the resultantly clever/humorous/penetrating/absorbing self-reference in writing, leads to a feeling of being more “alive” or “honest” or “generous” or something — at least in experience with friends and writers.
Early on reading G.E.B. I had the clear thought that if I was ever faced with that impossible choice of picking reading material for an extended stay on a desert island, I would just have to demand two books: Infinite Jest and Gödel, Escher, Bach. Partly because they complement each other and partly because they negate each other. I can easily picture being happy reading one, and then the other, and then the former, and then the latter, and then… well, you get it…](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lkuahjJwBZ1qzx0kho1_r2_500.png "http://themadeshop.tumblr.com/post/5280861529/when-i-was-out-in-l-a-recently-rian-and-i-had-a")
When I was out in L.A. recently, Rian and I had a great—if too brief—brunch, and afterwards we ended up stopping by a bookstore where he bought me Douglas Hofstadter’s (amazing) book Gödel, Escher, Bach.
Within minutes of opening it I realized two things: 1) this had the potential to become my new favorite book, and 2) this appeared to be thematically identical but oddly arguing in exactly the opposite direction of my erstwhile favorite book: Infinite Jest.
Both G.E.B. and Infinite Jest (in at least one reading) are fixated on the relationship between recursion and identity: both in their explicit content, and of course—because we’re talking about recursion and smart-aleck genius authors here—in their implicit form and hidden structure.
I suppose when I say “explicit” I’m probably referring a little bit more to G.E.B., because it’s maybe a bit less obvious finding those themes (or calling them explicit) in Wallace’s work. But, vastly simplifying here (and also focusing heavily on what was interesting to me), Infinite Jest is, in my reading, essentially a recursive circling around the existential horror of a worry that ‘self’ and identity are purely materialistic, self-defined, and infinitely recursive. The book opens with Hal locating himself (‘his self’) physically:
“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies. My posture is consciously congruent to the shape of my hard chair. […] I am in here.” (bold/italic emphasis mine)
—and pretty much continues this self-locating search in various voices, transpositions, and inversions for the remainder of the text (“call it something I ate.”).
Then, mirroring this core project, the novel’s action is propelled around a central MacGuffin — the “entertainment” or the “samizdat” — a film so entertaining that viewers lose interest in everything else and are compelled to continually re-watch it. This always struck me as, essentially, a lethally recursive entertainment.
Recursion: the process a procedure goes through when one of the steps of the procedure involves invoking the procedure itself
This samizdat—infinite regression on a lethal scale—is an early hint of Wallace’s perspective on recursion: it is (literally) associated with stagnation, paralysis, and ultimately death. Hofstadter’s view, as we will see, is quite the opposite.
Amusingly, as (badly-kept) inside jokes, both Infinite Jest and G.E.B. are also structured recursively. And I think the distinct manner of recursion for each is telling. (Note here that recursion need not be infinite. While endless regression is a danger of any self-referential system, it is not a defining quality. Self-reference can spiral inwards endlessly, or it can move forwards, in a sort of vibrating harmony, provided the system has a way of “bottoming out” or escaping its loops at some point.) Wallace admitted that Infinite Jest is based on the structure of a Sierpinski Triangle, which is a diagram that contains within itself an infinite number of copies of itself. The structure is actually fractal, which means it’s of the infinitely regressive variety of recursion. Hofstadter’s structure for G.E.B. is also recursive (i.e. self-referential), but not infinitely so. Its overt structure is fugue-like, alternating rigidly between a series of humorous dialogues between Achilles and the Tortoise and a series of formal descriptions of those same themes raised in the dialogues (a bit like A B A B A B … , but with a sort of forward momentum; so more like 1A 1B 2A 2B 3A 3B … or something). In addition to this overt structure in G.E.B., many of the sub-sections and dialogues take on a sort of local formal recursion (like a dialogue whose internal structure implicitly mirrors the explicit conversation subject, or even sentences that formally illustrate their own subject matter).
I think these two distinct formal codings of recursion in Wallace and Hofstadter give an interesting clue to each works’ larger themes and tones, hinting at what recursion meant for each of the authors. Both writers are clearly fascinated by self-reference and self-awareness (and the possible causal relationship between those two). But while for Hofstadter the recursive process of ‘strange loops’ is exciting and positive and generative (and even perhaps self-generative), for Wallace recursion—while fascinating—is consuming and negative and destructive (and even perhaps self-destructive).
Here’s typically insightful and hilarious Wallace talking about self-consciousness in an interview:
“There’s good self-consciousness, and then there’s toxic, paralyzing, raped-by-psychic-Bedouins self-consciousness.”
As a visual metaphor, I think Wallace’s idea (and fear) of self-destructive recursion can be seen in the old symbol of a snake eating its own tail:
While Hofstadter’s idea (and love) of self-generative recursion is best seen in M.C. Escher’s drawing of two hands drawing each other:
Partly I love these two books simply because I’ve always been fascinated by recursion (I clearly remember ‘inventing’ Zeno’s paradox as a child at night in bed thinking of eating a licorice (or, rather, half a licorice, and then half again, and then half of that, ad infinitum — infinite licorice!) and then discovering in college decades later that some Greek guy beat me to it). But apart from that interest, I think I really love both books because I have this overwhelmingly concrete sense of loving both authors, and not just their writing. Which has led me to form a working theory that perhaps a certain highly-developed sense of self (a self sensing the world, a self sensing that there is a self sensing the world, a self sensing a self sensing a self…) as a person, and then the resultantly clever/humorous/penetrating/absorbing self-reference in writing, leads to a feeling of being more “alive” or “honest” or “generous” or something — at least in experience with friends and writers.
Early on reading G.E.B. I had the clear thought that if I was ever faced with that impossible choice of picking reading material for an extended stay on a desert island, I would just have to demand two books: Infinite Jest and Gödel, Escher, Bach. Partly because they complement each other and partly because they negate each other. I can easily picture being happy reading one, and then the other, and then the former, and then the latter, and then… well, you get it…
Recursion is the process a procedure goes through when one of the steps of the procedure involves invoking the procedure itself
“Always take them out of the oven before you think they’re done.”
This was my Dad’s rule for baking cookies, and I have a very clear memory of first ‘discovering’ recursion at the tender age of about 8 or so and then trying to explain to him that his rule was actually logically impossible to follow. That the rule implied a new definition of ‘done’ each time you applied it, and therefore you had to reapply it and take them out a bit earlier, which is of course a new definition of ‘done’ and so you must re-apply the rule, ad infinitum.
He just told me that if you don’t follow the rule then you’ll burn the cookies.
I am finding that perhaps is one of the best ways to start a statement. It is a polite offering. It is confidently uncertain. It asks us gently to contemplate. It does not force us to agree, rather it asks us to accept a possibility for long enough to start to see something change within it or within us. […]
Muphry’s law is an adage that states that “if you write anything criticizing, editing or proofreading, there will be a fault of some kind in what you have written.” The name is a deliberate misspelling of Murphy’s law.
(Source: petervidani)
{via the new shelton wet/dry}
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