New Language Is Required For The 21st Century

I am a great admirer of the science fiction of Isaac Asimov. I have used his work to illustrate points about…

* ignorance and anti-intellectualism – Quote of the Day #23

* disagreement and racism – Quote of the Day #26

* wishful thinking and religion – Quote of the Day #33

* even the lockdown – I Don’t Want to Live in Airstrip One

In 1981, Asimov predicted the power of the internet companies in his short story A Perfect Fit which appeared in his 1983 collection The Winds of Change…

“…everything is computerised and no step, however small, can be taken these days without a computer.”

I have included the full story at the end of this post.

Words are important. Vitally important. Certain words have been twisted completely out of shape in recent years. The word ‘racism’ springs to mind. One of the most emotive words in the English language that has been completely distorted is ‘paedophilia.’ From the Encyclopaedia Britannica…

“Pedophilia, also spelled paedophilia, also called pedophilic disorder or pedophilia disorder, in conventional usage, a psychosexual disorder, generally affecting adults, characterized by sexual interest in prepubescent children or attempts to engage in sexual acts with prepubescent children.“ [My emphasis]

It is routine for the media to refer to the revolting Andrew Windsor – by far the most arrogant and entitled member of the dysfunctional clan of benefit scroungers who are still the hereditary heads of state of sixteen countries (and that’s up against some stiff competition) – as a ‘paedophile’ for his alleged involvement with Jeffrey Epstein and Victoria Roberts. Roberts was 17 at the time of these alleged events so, whatever else it was, it was not paedophilia. But the media shy away from using the same word to describe a man who ‘married’ a six year old, used to fondle her in the bath and who consummated the ‘marriage’ when his ‘wife’ was nine; they will say such descriptions, widely attested in Islamic sources (see here for example) as ‘Islamophobic’ or, hilariously, ‘racist.’

The abuse of words like ‘racism’ and ‘paedophile’ in the media is mirrored by the decay of the language used to describe politics. I am not sure that the words ‘left’ and ‘right,’ originating in the eighteenth century, are of any relevance in the 2020s; I felt strongly enough about this in 2018 to write a three-part post ‘Left’ and ‘Right’ are Outdated Concepts Part One, Part Two and Part Three. I think there is some merit in the political Cartesian plane that plots the old left-right economic scale on the x-axis and a social authoritarian-libertarian comparison on the y-axis -see This is What I Believe Update. I am firmly in the left-social libertarian quadrant; most political parties these days, whatever their name or alleged ideology, are in the right-authoritarian quadrant.

If the eighteenth century terms ‘left’ and ‘right’ are out of date then so are the nineteenth century descriptions ‘Marxist’ and ‘Communist.’ These words have become common insults online – I’ve seen everyone from the Establishment shills at the BBC and the Guardian to the brutal hypercapitalists of the neoliberal European Union and the racists and supremacists of Black Lives Matter described as ‘Marxists’ or ‘Communists.’ I even made the error as describing BLM as “racist Communists” on this blog but, unlike some, I don’t memory hole my mistakes. The BBC and Guardian are the mouthpieces for one section of the British ruling class, the EU is a fanatically pro-business organisation with capitalism written into its foundation documents and BLM is the opposite of Marxist – instead of working class consciousness and solidarity, they preach racialism, division and the superiority of one race over another.

Eighteenth and nineteenth century political language is out of date – as is the political language of the twentieth century. The terms ‘fascist’ and ‘Nazi’ are thrown about with reckless abandon by a certain type of pretend radical. Donald Trump is not a fascist nor is he a Nazi. And nor are Nigel Farage, Jacob Rees-Mogg or Boris Johnson. There are not legions of blackshirts, brownshirts or any colour shirts (shirts of colour?) rampaging through the streets of Western cities itching to fire up the ovens again. To use ‘fascist’ or ‘Nazi’ as generic, all-encompassing evils to describe your political opponents on the right displays an extraordinary lack of knowledge about the specifics of Italian and German history that gave rise to these movements. Plus it makes you sound like Rik Mayall in The Young Ones.

This brings me to Isaac Asimov and the immense power of the internet oligopoly in the 2020s. Whatever their pose as ‘nice guys’ dressed in California casual, the internet overlords as ruthless in their pursuit of profit as any nineteenth century industrialist. You know who I’m talking about, the sort of people who inspired Marx and Engels to write the founding documents of Communism, the sort of people who sent children down the mines or up chimneys. Hyperbole? California recently voted to deny employment rights to workers in the ‘gig economy’ after a campaign that was funded by powerful internet companies.

You do not have to be a fan of Donald Trump (I’m not and I have said so repeatedly on this blog, staring in February 2017) to be alarmed by his unpersoning by the MAGA companies (Microsoft, Amazon, Google, Apple). To suggest that the internet companies have a right to censor Trump because they are private companies is to entirely miss the point. The internet is still a very new technology and in its infancy as a political tool but it has given the MAGA companies unprecedented power over both political debate and the political process. They should not have the right to censor anyone let alone the elected president of one of the world’s leading democracies. For years now, Rupert Murdoch has been the bête noir of a certain type of pseudo-leftist. Why is it acceptable for Bezos, Dorsey and Zuckerberg to have such power over public discourse when for decades Murdoch has been denounced as altogether too powerful?

There was a brief internet flurry over this tweet…

This pathetic comparison is both completely absurd and disingenuous. The MAGA companies are far more powerful than some Christian fundamentalist running a cake shop. There are also lots of other cake shops. And the usual crowd screamed blue murder when the bakery story was in the headlines. The obvious retort is that if Twitter can ban Trump than it’s fine for the Christian baker to refuse service to a gay couple. You can’t have it both ways. Any daft Trumpist reading this should take note that the reverse is also true. It’s revealing that some ‘progressives’ and pseudo-leftists make chosen to make a fetish of private property rights in this case because it demonstrates that far from being the anti-Establishment radicals they claim to be BLM, Antifa, etc are in reality the stormtroopers of neoliberalism.

Language has become corrupted. We need to stop thinking in terms of the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The internet oligarchs are too powerful and must not be allowed to control political debate in the twenty first century.

As promised…

A Perfect Fit by Isaac Asimov (1981)

Ian Bradstone, wandering his way sadly through one more town, was stopped by a cluster of people at the open door of an emporium. His first impulse was to turn and flee, but he couldn’t make himself do so. The fascination of horror drew him reluctantly toward the cluster.

His curiosity must have turned his face into one big question mark, for someone at the outskirts explained the matter pleasantly. “3-D chess. It’s a hot game.”

Bradstone knew how it worked. There would be half a dozen people conferring at each move, all trying to beat the computer. The chances were that they would lose. Six wood pushers add up to one wood pusher. He caught the unbearable glitter of the graphic and closed his eyes against it. He turned away bitterly and noted a makeshift setup of eight chess boards balanced on pegs, one above the other.

Ordinary chessboards. Plastic chessmen.

“Hey,” he said in explosive surprise.

The young man at the multi-board said, defensively, “We can’t get close enough. I set this up myself so we can follow. Careful! Don’t knock it down.”

Bradstone said, “Is that the position as of now?”

“Yes. The guys have been arguing for 10 minutes.”

Bradstone looked eagerly at the position. He said, raptly, “If you move the rook from beta-B-6 to delta-B-6, you get the upper hand.”

The young man studied the board. “Are you sure?”

“Certainly I’m sure. No matter what the computer does, it’s going to end up losing a move to protect its Queen.”

More studying. The young man shouted, “Hey, in there. Guy here says you should bump the rook up two levels.”

There was a collective sigh from the inner group. One voice said, “I was thinking that.”

Another said, “I get it. It leaves the Queen with the potentiality of vulnerability. I didn’t see that.” The owner of this second voice turned. “You! The fellow who made the suggestion. Would you do the honor? Would you punch in the move?”

Bradstone backed way, his face contorted in sheer horror. “No—No—I don’t play.” He turned and hastened away.

***

He was hungry. Periodically he was hungry.

Occasionally, he came across fruit stands of the type set up by small entrepreneurs who found a disregarded space in the interstices of a thoroughly computerized economy. If Bradstone were careful, he could walk off with an apple or an orange.

It was a frightening thing. There was always the chance he might be caught and, if he were, he would be asked to pay. He had the money, of course—they were very kind to him—but how could he pay?

Yet every day, on a dozen occasions, he would have to undergo a transfer of credits, to use his cash card. It meant endless humiliation.

He found himself outside a restaurant. It might have been the smell of food that had reminded him he was hungry.

He peered cautiously through the window. There were a number of people eating. Too many. It was bad enough with one or two. He couldn’t make himself the center or hordes of staring, pitying eyes.

He turned away, his stomach growling, and saw that he was not the only one staring into the window. A boy was doing the same. He was about 10 years old and he didn’t look particularly hungry.

Bradstone attempted a tone of hearty good nature. “Hello there, young fellow. Hungry?”

The youngster looked at him suspiciously and edged away. “No.”

Bradstone made no move to come closer. If he did, the boy would undoubtedly run. He said, “I’ll bet you’re big enough to do your own ordering. You can order a hamburger or anything else, I’m sure.”

Pride overcame suspicion. The boy said “Sure! Any time!”

“But you don’t have a card of your own, right? So you can’t complete the order. Right?”

The boy started at him warily out of brown eyes. He was neatly dressed and had an alert and intelligent air about him.

Bradstone said, “Tell you what. I have a card and you can use it to order. Get yourself a hamburger or anything else you want. Tell you what else. You can get me something, too. Nice T-bone steak, and a baked potato and some squash and some coffee. And two pieces of apple pie. You have one.”

“I got to go home and eat,” said the boy.

“Come on! You’ll save your father some assets. They know you here, I’m sure.”

“We eat here lots of times.”

“There you are. Eat here again. Only this time, you handle the card. You do the selection—like a grownup. You go in first.”

There was a tense feeling in the pit of Bradstone’s stomach. What he was doing made perfect sense to him and would not harm the child at all. Anyone who might be watching, however, might come to a horrible and quite wrong conclusion.

Bradstone could explain if given a chance, but how humiliating to have everyone see that he had to maneuver a little boy into doing something for him he could not do for himself.

The youngster hesitated, but he entered the restaurant and Bradstone followed, maintaining a careful distance. The youngster sat down at a table and Bradstone sat down opposite.

Bradstone smiled and handed him his card. It tingled his hands unpleasantly—as always, these days—and he was relieved to be able to let go of it. It had a hard, metallic glitter that made the muscles around his eyes twitch. He couldn’t bear to look at it.

“Go ahead, boy. Make the selection,” he said in a low voice. “Anything you want.”

The boy hadn’t lied. He could handle the small computer outlet perfectly, his fingers flying over the controls.

“Steak for you, mister. Baked potato. Squash. Apple pie. Coffee.—You want salad, mister?” His voice had taken on a fussy, I’m-grown-up sound. “My mom always orders salad, but I don’t like it.”

“I guess I’ll try it, though. Mixed green salad. They got that? Vinaigrette dressing. They got that?”

“Don’t see about the vin-something.—Maybe this is it.”

Bradstone ended up with French dressing as it later turned out, but it did wll enough.

The boy inserted the card with ease and a skill that roused Bradstone’s bitter envy, even as his picturing the act made his stomach lurch.

The boy handed back the card. “I guess you had enough money,” he said importantly.

Bradstone said, “Did you notice the figure?”

“Oh, no. You’re not supposed to look; that’s what my dad says. I mean it didn’t get rejected for the food.”

Bradstone crushed down the feeling of disappointment. He couldn’t read the figures and he couldn’t make himself ask others. Eventually, he might have to go to a bank and try to invent some way of maneuvering them into telling him.

He tried to make conversation. “What’s your name, sonny?”

“Reginald.”

“What are you studying at home these days, Reggie?”

“Arithmetic mostly, because my dad says I have to, and dinosaurs because I want to. Dad says if I stick to my arithmetic I can get the dinosaurs, too. I can program my computer to get the graphics of dinosaur motion. You know how a brontosaurus walks on land? It has to balance its neck so the center of gravity is in the hips. It holds its head way up like a giraffe unless it’s in water. Then—Here’s my hamburger. And your stuff, too.”

It had all come along the moving belt and had stopped at the appropriate place.

The thought of one full meal without humiliation overcame Bradstone’s wistfulness at the thought of manipulating a computer in the free search for information.

Reginald said, quite politely, “I’ll eat my hamburger at the counter, mister.”

Bradstone waved. “I hope it’s a good hamburger, Reggie.” Bradstone needed him no more and was relieved to have him go. Someone from the kitchen, undoubtedly a Computer Maintenance technician, had emerged and engaged Reginald in friendly conversation—which was also a relief.

There was no question about the profession. You could always tell a Comp Maint by his lazy air of importance, his exuded sense of knowledge that the world rested on his shoulder.

But Bradstone was concentrating on his dinner—the first full meal he had enjoyed normally in a month.

***

It was only after he finished—quite finished in the most leisurely possible fashion—that he studied his surroundings again. The boy was long gone. Bradstone thought sadly that the boy, at least, had not pitied, had not condescended, had not patronized. He had not been old enough to find the event an odd one; had only concentrated on his own adulthood in being able to handle the computer outlet.

Adulthood!

The place was not very crowded now. The Comp Maint was still behind the counter, presumably studying the wiring of the computerization.

Radstone with a pang, the major occupation of technologists virtually the world over; always programming, reprogramming, adjusting, checking the tiny electrical currents that controlled the work of the world for everyone—for almost everyone.

The comfortably warm internal feeling produced by an excellent steak stirred the feeling of rebellion within Bradstone. Why not act? Why not do something about it?

He caught the Comp Maint’s eye and said in an attempt at lightness that didn’t ring true even in his own ears, “Pal, I guess there are lawyers in this town?”

“You guess right.”

“You couldn’t suggest a good one not too far away, could you?”

The Comp Maint said politely, “You’ll find a town directory at the post office. Just punch in the request for lawyers.”

“I mean a good one. Clever guy. Lost causes. Like that.” He laughed, hoping to get at least a smile out of the other.

He didn’t. The Comp Maint said, “They’re all described. List your needs and you’ll get evaluations, ages, addresses, case loads, fee levels. Anything you want you can get if you play the keys properly. And it’s working. I vetted it last week.”

“That’s not what I mean, buddy.” The suggestion that he play the keys properly sent the usual frisson skidding up his spine. “I want your personal recommendation. You know?”

The Comp Maint shook his head. “I’m not a directory.”

Bradstone said, “Damn it. What’s wrong with you? Name a lawyer. Any lawyer. Is there a law against knowing something without a computer to play with?”

Use of the directory is a dime. If you’ve got more than a dime registered on your card, what’s the problem? Or are you—?” His eyes widened in sudden thought. “Oh—. Son of a—. That’s why you got Reggie to order your meal for you! Listen, I didn’t know—.

Bradstone shrank away. He turned to hurry out of the place and nearly collided with a large man who had a ruddy complexion and a balding head.

The large man said softly, “One moment, please, Aren’t you the person who bought my son a hamburger a while ago?”

Bradstone hesitated, then nodded, dry-mouthed.

“I would like to pay you for it. It’s all right. I know who you are and I’ll handle your card for you.”

The Comp Maint interposed sharply, “If you want a lawyer, fella, Mr Gold is a lawyer.”

The sharpened interest in Bradstone’s eyes made itself evident at once.

Gold said, “I am a lawyer, if you’re looking for one. It’s how I knew you. I followed your case with painful attention, I assure you, and when Reggie came home with a tale of having eaten dinner already and of having used the computer, I guessed who you might be from his description. And I recognize you now, of course.”

Bradstone said, “Can we talk privately?”

“My home is a 5-minute walk from here.”

***

It was not a luxurious living room, but it was a comfortable one. Bradstone said “Do you want a retainer? I can afford one.”

“I know you have ample funds,” said Gold. “Tell me first what the problem is.”

Bradstone leaned forward in his chair and said, intensely, “If you’ve followed my case, you must know I have been subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. I’m the first person who has received this kind of sentence. The combination of hypnosis and direct neuroconditioning has only been perfected recently. The nature of the punishment to which I have been sentenced could not be understood. It must be lifted.”

Gold said, “You underwent due process in great detail, and there was no reasonable doubt that you were guilty—.

“Even so! Look! We live in a computerized world. I can’t do a thing anywhere—I can’t get information—I can’t be fed—I can’t amuse myself—I can’t pay for anything—or check on anything—or just plain do anything—without using a computer. And I have been adjusted, as you surely know, so that I am incapable of looking at a computer without hurting my eyes, or touching one without blistering my fingers. I can’t even handle my cash card or even think of using it without nausea.”

Gold said, “Yes, I know all that. I also know you have been given ample funds for the duration of your punishment, and that the general public has been asked to sympathize and be helpful. I believe they do this.”

“I don’t want that. I don’t want their help and their pity. I don’t want to be a helpless child in a world of adults. I don’t want to be an illiterate in a world of people who can read. Help me end the punishment. It’s been almost a month of hell.”

Gold sat in thought for a while. “Well, I will charge you a retainer so that I can become your legal representative, and I will do what I can for you. I must warn you, though, that I don’t think the chances for success are great.”

“Why? All I did was divert $5000—.”

“You planned to divert far more, it was decided, but were caught before you could. It was an ingenious computer fraud, quite worthy of your well-known skill at chess, but it was still a crime. And, as you say, everything is computerized and no step, however small, can be taken these days without a computer. To defraud by means of a computer, then, is to break down what is the essential framework of civilization. It is a terrible crime and it must be discouraged.”

“Don’t preach.”

“I’m not. I’m explaining. You tried to break down a system and in punishment the system has broken down for you alone, and you are not otherwise mistreated. If you find your life unbearable, that merely shows you how unbearable it is that you tried, after a fashion, to break it down for everyone.”

“But a year is too much.”

“Well, perhaps less will still serve as a strong enough example to deter others from making the same attempt. I will try—but I’m afraid I can guess what the law will say.”

“What?”

“It will say that if punishments should be made to fit the crime, yours is a perfect fit.”