Let’s start with mangroves, found in coastal areas and along riverbanks. Mangroves are unusual and a bit counterintuitive: they spread seaward while also helping defend the land behind them. These trees serve as vital defenses against coastal damage.

Their seeds grow into seedlings and when these seedlings fall, they either become fixed in the mud or float away to another site.

A banyan can look like a whole forest even though it is one tree. Roots drop from its branches, take hold in the ground, and grow into new supports like trunks.

I was surprised to learn that one such tree, with a circumference of 2,000 feet has been estimated as being capable of sheltering 20,000 people. That is a massive amount of shade. India has several giant banyans. Thimmamma Marrimanu in Andhra Pradesh currently holds the Guinness canopy record at about 5.41 acres (an area equivalent to three soccer fields); The Great Banyan in Kolkata is another famous specimen at about 4 acres. A tree covering this much area went completely against what I would expect from a tree.

The ombú is tree-like in size, but so swollen and massive in form that it feels almost architectural. The ombú tree attains heights of 60 feet and a spread of 100 feet and it has a wide trunk.

Its trunk and roots are thick enough and in some cases enough for a person to sit upon.

The traveller’s tree looks like a palm, but botanically it is not a true palm. The traveller’s tree of Madagascar, fan-shaped, has a trunk up to 30 feet tall. The foliar fan consists of 30 to 45 leaves, each as much as 36 feet in length. Their fans look majestic.

Its leaves have hollow bases from which, reportedly, travellers could get portable water. It can hold water in leaf bases to withstand dry conditions.

The talipot palm reverses the usual picture of a tree’s life: it spends decades preparing for a single, enormous flowering, and then dies. The talipot palm of tropical Asia is a surprising one. What is fascinating and surprising about this tree is that it flowers only once, often after as many as 75 years, and then dies after fruiting.

It is one of the largest palms, also fan-shaped, with leaves up to 16 feet in diameter. Its leaves have been used to write manuscripts and have also been used by healers.

The double coconut is remarkable for producing one of the most extraordinary seeds in the plant world. It grows to 25–34 m (82–112 ft) tall and has fan-shaped leaves. Its fruits take about ten years to mature, weigh 25 to 45 kilograms, and look like a pair of coconuts.

Wikipedia notes that, “The seeds of Lodoicea (double coconut) have been highly prized over the centuries; their rarity caused great interest and high prices in royal courts, and the tough outer seed coat has been used to make bowls such as for Sufi/Dervish beggar-alms kashkul bowls and other instruments.”

The coast redwood is not just among the tallest trees; it is the tallest tree species on Earth. Pacific Coast redwoods are among the tallest trees; the species reaches up to 115.9 m (380.1 ft, that is, which makes it taller than the Statue of Liberty) in height.

Not just the tallest but also one of the long-lived, living 1,200–2,200 years or more. This tree is found along coastal California and Oregon within the United States.

The tallest tree on Earth is a coast redwood, but the tallest flowering plant is the Australian mountain ash. Its tallest living specimen stands 100 m (328 feet) tall.

The oldest known specimen is about 500 years old. Interestingly, studies have shown that low-intensity fires can lead to the growth of younger trees without killing the parent trees. Old-growth mountain ash forests are some of the most carbon-dense forests in the world.

The oldest living tree that is still a single, individual tree is a bristlecone pine, reported to be more than 4,800 years old, in eastern California (though Wikipedia explains that the precise location is a closely guarded secret).

Scientists are curious why this tree lives so long. They are hard to cultivate and in gardens they fall victim to root rot. They do well in rocky soils though, areas with little rain.

Old Tjikko is old in a stranger way: the organism is ancient, even though the visible trunk is much younger.

Although it is a 9,568-year-old spruce in Sweden but it’s not an individual tree that old but rather a clonal tree (a clonal tree is a group of trees that are genetically identical and connected, having grown from a single original tree) with regenerated new trunks, branches, and roots.

Pando looks like many separate trees, but they are all part of one enormous organism joined underground by the same roots. In other words, what appears to be a forest in the picture below could actually be a single Pando tree. For me, it is one of the most counterintuitive trees on this list.

Wikipedia notes that, “As a multi-stem tree, Pando is the world’s largest tree by measures of weight, landmass, and species.” Pando has an estimated 47,000 stems that appear to be individual trees but are part of a single tree connected by a root system that spans 106 acres.

These are only a few words on these trees from a layman; an expert would no doubt have much richer insights into these and many other wonders of nature. Reading about trees and writing this post has inspired me to look for resources to learn more about trees. If you know of any good ones, I would be grateful for your recommendations.

References:

• Encyclopaedia Britannica. Encyclopaedia Britannica, 15th edition.

• Wikipedia

I recently had to read this paper on the ACM’s website.

It opened as what looked like a PDF, and I thought it would be easier to zoom in. I pressed Command-+, and, lo and behold, it zoomed out instead of zooming in. It decreased the font size; I was expecting it to increase it. Pressing Command-- zoomed in, which is normally used to zoom out. The usage is inverted on ACM’s website.

The keyboard shortcuts for zooming are an established mental model in the browser. This made me think. Why invert it? Why introduce a custom keyboard shortcut that is the opposite of what the medium you are displaying your text on already uses?

This is not just a preference issue. It is an error and trust issue. Established shortcuts turn into procedural memory, or muscle memory. When you invert them, you create slips: the user performs a well-learned action and gets the opposite result. In practice, this means more errors, and more time spent correcting them. The interface starts to feel unpredictable. This goes beyond “don’t make users think” as this feels like an avoidable user error.

There is also an accessibility angle here. For many users, zoom is a primary way of accessing text. People with presbyopia or low vision often rely on Command or Control plus and minus repeatedly while reading. Inverting these keys is effectively an accessibility regression.

I believe one of the core pillars of user experience is not to confuse users and not to make them think unnecessarily.

A child standing on the shore of the Mediterranean and a child standing on the shore of the Pacific should share the same bright hope for their future and for the future of mankind. Humanity has conquered mountains and mastered sea and air, but it has yet to grasp, and spread universally, the hope of a harmonious future.

I recently lived through a conflict between two states in South Asia (Pakistan and India), being a resident of one, and then again saw this volatility unfold in my neighbourhood, i.e., Iran and Israel. There is nothing worse than finding yourself in the ravages of war. Being in war makes you question not only your future but also mankind’s.

There are events in history compared to which the conflict I experienced amounts to not much. I came across an article titled “Hiroshima,” which was published in The New Yorker in 1946 and written by John Hersey.¹ It covers details of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. It reveals unimaginable human suffering in a way that few others have captured in writing. It’s a powerful piece of writing, and it appears to be one of the most seminal pieces ever published in The New Yorker. According to Wikipedia,² it was later published as a book, which never went out of print and sold millions of copies. After reading it, you walk away with sober reflection on how much horror and suffering human minds are capable of inflicting on each other.

According to this New Yorker piece, as a result of the bombings, around one hundred thousand people lost their lives: “They reported that 78,150 people had been killed, 13,983 were missing, and 37,425 had been injured. No one in the city government pretended that these figures were accurate—though the Americans accepted them as official—and as the months went by and more and more hundreds of corpses were dug up from the ruins, and as the number of unclaimed urns of ashes at the Zempoji Temple in Koi rose into the thousands, the statisticians began to say that at least a hundred thousand people had lost their lives in the bombing.”

The helplessness and suffering that people had to endure in bombings of this scale is, I think, among the starkest examples modern history offers. The few who survived were so helpless they couldn’t help those who needed help, because the latter far outnumbered the former. Consider this excerpt from the piece:

“Under many houses, people screamed for help, but no one helped; in general, survivors that day assisted only their relatives or immediate neighbors, for they could not comprehend or tolerate a wider circle of misery. The wounded limped past the screams, and Mr. Tanimoto ran past them. As a Christian he was filled with compassion for those who were trapped, and as a Japanese he was overwhelmed by the shame of being unhurt, and he prayed as he ran, ‘God help them and take them out of the fire.’”

The details of the suffering were horrifying. I’ll never forget this part of the piece: “Mr. Tanimoto found about twenty men and women on the sandspit. He drove the boat onto the bank and urged them to get aboard. They did not move and he realized that they were too weak to lift themselves. He reached down and took a woman by the hands, but her skin slipped off in huge, glove-like pieces. He was so sickened by this that he had to sit down for a moment.”

After reading this piece, and realising thatWorld War II claimed an estimated 70-85 million lives,³ and then surveying the wars of the past few years, one cannot help but ask: Have we learned from history? What is the future of mankind?

Today, many nation-states have a lot of power and it looks like these states want to dominate one another, and indiscriminate violence against innocent and guilty alike is a price they do not hesitate to pay.

As I grow older, I find myself more worried about all this. I am not glued to the news, I try to limit how much I consume, but I do read headlines and sometimes a weekly magazine. And while I am by no means an expert on these matters, living through a war with your loved ones is the kind of experience that forces you to think.

Why do I get more worried now than when I was younger? Maybe because now I have a family and children whose future I worry more about than mine, and I want them to live in peace. I do not want to live to see fear of life in their eyes because there is no situation in life in which you feel more helpless. Or maybe the worry is an outcome of wishful thinking on my part, that mankind can make more progress in peace than in chaos.

Chaos has also created conditions for progress, as the cycle of peace after World War II suggests. Such progress, however, has also led to more chaos, as technological advances have produced even more terrifying weapons of destruction. Humanity’s wisdom should not rest on creating such weapons; it should be used to prevent destruction I believe. Is that wishful thinking? I hope not. Just as imagining a world of total violence paints too dark a picture, imagining total peace may also be too naïve. Still, too many wars in a single decade is not something one can take comfort in.

What, then, is the future of mankind?

I just finished reading a book titled Unpopular Essays by Bertrand Russell⁴ (mathematician, philosopher, and a Nobel Prize winner in literature), which appeared in 1950. In the book, an essay titled “The Future of Mankind” made me think. Almost seventy years ago he was thinking about the future of mankind. I feel that, had he been alive today, he would still be asking the same questions.

To say that the human race has not made any progress in the last seventy years would be unfair, but have we, at the same rate, acquired the wisdom to make peace, to eradicate hunger, and to eliminate poverty? My life, liberty, and property are more secure than they would have been thousands of years ago, but I just wish we had less misery and more harmony.

Russell starts the essay by observing that:

“Before the end of the present century, unless something quite unforeseeable occurs, one of three possibilities will have been realised. These three are:

1. The end of human life, perhaps of all life on our planet.

2. A reversion to barbarism after a catastrophic diminution of the population of the globe.

3. A unification of the world under a single government, possessing a monopoly of all the major weapons of war.”

One can take some comfort in knowing that even a world-class mathematician and Nobel Prize winner can still be slightly off about certain things. Thankfully, we did not witness the end of humanity in the last century, nor did we see a catastrophic collapse of the global population, and the world order continues to shift. Yet this does not take away from the fact that much of his reasoning in the essay is thought-provoking and written in lively prose. And he was not entirely wrong, for peace and harmony still elude us.

On the first possibility, he observes that vastly improved technology may one day disintegrate life, and “the last survivor may proclaim himself universal Emperor, his reign will be brief and his subjects will all be corpses.”

Today the destructive power we hold in our hands is far greater than in the past. Its sheer scale makes us more vulnerable to catastrophe. Wars fought with nuclear weapons carry huge risk of extinction. How can such wars be deterred? Roger Fisher, a professor at Harvard Law School, once proposed a striking idea to prevent nuclear war: he suggested implanting the nuclear codes in a volunteer.⁵

“My suggestion was quite simple: Put that needed code number in a little capsule, and then implant that capsule right next to the heart of a volunteer. The volunteer would carry with him a big, heavy butcher knife as he accompanied the President. If ever the President wanted to fire nuclear weapons, the only way he could do so would be for him first, with his own hands, to kill one human being. The President says, ‘George, I’m sorry but tens of millions must die.’ He has to look at someone and realize what death is—what an innocent death is. Blood on the White House carpet. It’s reality brought home. When I suggested this to friends in the Pentagon they said, ‘My God, that’s terrible. Having to kill someone would distort the President’s judgment. He might never push the button.’”

What if Fisher’s protocol were taken further, not just one volunteer, but two or three, perhaps even someone close to the President himself? The point is not practicality or cruelty, but to make a decision carrying existential risk inseparable from its consequence, seen at the smallest, most immediate scale, right before your eyes.

The second possibility presents some optimism to Bertrand Russell, as he thinks “it would leave open the likelihood of a gradual return to civilisation, as after the fall of Rome.”

The third possibility he suggested could be realised in various ways, as he notes: by victory of the USA, or by victory of the (then) USSR, or by agreement, or by an alliance of governments that desire an international government. He notes that, “Any pretended universal authority to which both sides can agree, as things stand, is bound to be a sham, like UNO.” What worries me is that what looked like a sham seventy years ago is still, in many ways, a sham today. Institutions like the United Nations (UN) or the International Criminal Court (ICC) do exist, and they represent progress. But their failures and these recent wars are hard to ignore.

Russell’s third possibility, the unification of the world under a single authority, is difficult to imagine even today. And I am not necessarily endorsing it. But it raises some questions: What systems of accountability actually restrain the powerful today? When decisions that affect millions of innocent men and women are made by a few men, where can ordinary people turn for justice?

The author then explains why he preferred a victory for America. He believed that America respected values he cherished: freedom of thought, freedom of inquiry, freedom of discussion, and humane feeling. But one has to ask, does America, in its dealings with other states, always respect these values, or does it sometimes show contempt for them? It is true that world powers have helped other states progress. One feels it dodges freedom of thought, freedom of discussion, and humane feeling when decisions are made without diversity, intellectual rigor, empathy, or genuine debate, decisions that leave millions of people, young and old, trapped in ignorance, poverty, violence, and hunger. Should not there also be more transparency about debate and how much knowledge of history and culture the experts have when they make decisions that can shake the world?

Mr. Russell suggests he observed those values more in the USA than in Russia, hence his reasons for supporting America over Russia. He then notes American dynamism over Russian:

“One can hardly imagine the American army seizing the dons at Oxford and Cambridge and sending them to hard labour in Alaska. Nor do I think that they would accuse Mr Atlee of plotting and compel him to fly to Moscow. Yet these are strict analogues to the things the Russians have done in Poland.”

He further notes:

“In America, if you are a geneticist, you may hold whatever view of Mendelism the evidence makes you regard as the most probable; in Russia, if you are a geneticist who disagrees with Lysenko, you are liable to disappear mysteriously. In America, you may write a book debunking Lincoln if you feel so disposed; in Russia, if you write a book debunking Lenin, it would not be published and you would be liqui-dated. If you are an American economist, you may hold, or not hold, that America is heading for a slump; in Russia, no economist dare question that an American slump is imminent. In America, if you are a Professor of Philosophy, you may be an idealist, a materialist, a pragmatist, a logical positivist, or whatever else may take your fancy; at congresses you can argue with men whose opinions differ from yours, and listeners can form a judgment as to who has the best of it.”

It is hard to deny the freedom that scholars once enjoyed in American academia, but given recent events, can we as outsiders not hear the footsteps of powerful forces echoing through its corridors? Yes, academia in the U.S. still offers near-utopian freedom of thought compared to many of its counterparts in Asia, yet one cannot help but grow skeptical about the degree of freedom it truly allows today. In academia today, the simple act of speaking your mind can feel as if it puts your life at risk.

Russell’s argument for American scholarly freedom, I think, still has some merit, but there are a few more aspects of academia worth discussing in light of mankind’s future.

It seems that some, certainly not all, notable Western theorizing rests on distance. The thesis that the world is statistically safer may be true in aggregate, yet it ignores the lived experiences of those in war zones, refugee camps, or failed states. I have lived through conflict. I sometimes read analyses by outside experts that influence those in power, but some of them seem far removed from the reality on the ground. Without lived experience, deep roots, and knowledge of history, culture, and local ways of life, I find it hard to believe anyone could pose solutions with the intellectual rigor, empathy, and sincerity needed to honor both sides of suffering in a conflict. Also, scholarly studies should treat their subjects according to the principles of equality. When scholarly work is built on the assumption that the subjects of study are not equals, it naturally invites skepticism. If, as a scholar, you write about liberty and representative government but make it clear that such views cannot apply to your colonial subjects because they are civilizationally, if not racially, inferior, you fan the flame of the belief that Western scholarship often grows from the idea that the West must dominate while others must be dominated.⁶ I feel that close engagement with ordinary people, grounded in principles of equality and humility, could make one more hopeful about academia’s contribution to the future of mankind.

Another thing in academia and education policy that can help our souls, souls often caught in the extreme excitement stirred by algorithms engineered by the smartest minds of our generation for corporations driven by profit, is the promotion of humanism, literature, and debate. The absence of humanism and literature, especially in technical schools, is troubling (and I can say this with certainty about parts of South Asia). We need more literature and more humanism, especially in times when we are increasingly surrounded by technology, because it is literature and humanism that can bring a sympathetic touch to an argument. The discipline of humanistic study can temper the ecstasy and chaos unleashed by technology. After all, as Nietzsche once noted, is it not the arts and the aesthetic phenomenon that justify existence and the world?⁷

Further, the culture of tolerance and debate is something I believe schools should cultivate in students with more zeal. Today, academia should be worried, because even within the walls of schools, freely sharing your opinion carries life risks. The ability to debate with humility escapes many, even long after they have graduated. To digest and absorb a point of view completely opposite to your own, with respect and kindness, should be normal for anyone who has spent a few years in school. When educated men measure strength by the pitch of their voice and the harshness of their words, it shows that societies have allowed schools to raise them through an education system that has weakened, not strengthened, them. If academia could prepare mankind for better reasoning, meaningful debate, and greater tolerance, it would be a service for the future of mankind.

My other concern is whether powerful nations and leaders are truly fighting hunger, poverty, and disease with all the force and vigor they could gather. Yes, some health indicators over time show progress, but they could have been far better. You have to witness not only widespread poverty and sickness but also the helplessness of the poor and the sick to believe it. I have. You have to see the growing power and opulence of the rich alongside the decline of the poor in some places to grasp the full picture. I have. And then you realize that while statistical optimism may paint a rosy image, it can hide suffering behind it.

Russell in the same essay notes, “We all need to recognise the need to restrain murderers, and it is even more important to restrain murderous states. Liberty must be limited by law, and its most valuable forms can only exist within a framework of law. What the world most needs is effective laws to control international relations.”

If that need is met, the world will be a far better place, not just for us, but for our children and for generations to come. No conflict has ever been truly insurmountable for mankind, and I choose to remain hopeful that we will find ways to build a more harmonious future.

After all, as Emily Dickinson reminds us in her poem “Hope is the thing with feathers,” hope is the song that never stops, even when it has no words.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

So what is the solution for a better future of mankind? I do not pretend to have one. I only wish we had more peace. But is peace possible without leaders accountable not just to their own people, but to humanity? Is it possible without treating war crimes as crimes rather than politics? Is it possible without better education, deeper historical awareness, and technology placed not only in the hands of the powerful but also the vulnerable? The journey toward peace is long and difficult, but not impossible.

What more can we do?

At the state level, powerful leaders must act with seriousness and sincerity. They should place the interests of ordinary men and women above their own egos. When a leader’s ego is bruised by benign questions from journalists, and he insists such questions may harm the nation the journalists represent,⁸ one begins to doubt his earnestness. Leaders of powerful states should bring order, not chaos. I know this may be wishful thinking, but the alternatives look frightening

At the state level, treaties can also help. Treaties like the Montreal Protocol,⁹ which were universally ratified, could provide some direction.

At the individual level, you have to remember that your voice is powerful. Vox Populi, Vox Dei (the voice of the people is the voice of God). Your voice can shape public opinion. Strong public opinion can fuel social movements, and social movements led with good conscience can make this world a better place. Forceful, reasoned public opinion and the movements it inspires can build a collective conscience capable of pressuring those at the top. If there is one thing the powerful are sensitive to, it is the collective voice, because once it reaches critical mass, it can rattle the citadels of power.

We have to be mindful that if seventy years ago the atomic bomb was the only threat, today we face additional ones: climate change and artificial intelligence (AI). AI comes with enormous promise, but even the “Godfather of AI” has warned that there is some chance it could wipe out humanity in the next three decades.¹⁰

As much as I wish we had no more conflicts, they will never disappear from the face of the earth. Endless pride, boundless ambition, feelings of revenge, and extreme nationalism will keep lighting the fuse. What we can do is strive for cultures where dignity is not tied to senseless domination, and where empathy means not just sympathy for those suffering on our side, but for those on the other side too. John Hersey’s piece in The New Yorker was not just a good work of art, it documented suffering with an almost unreal objectivity in some places and started a whole new discussion. We need to document suffering better, not only in data but in stories. Because statistics can comfort, but stories make injustice unforgettable. That is why your voice matters more than you think.

Endnotes:

1. Hersey, John. “Hiroshima.” The New Yorker, August 31, 1946. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1946/08/31/hiroshima.

2. Hiroshima (book). Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiroshima_(book).

3. World War II casualties. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_War_II_casualties.

4. Russell, Bertrand. Unpopular Essays. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1950.

5. “Roger Fisher (academic) – Preventing Nuclear War.” Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Fisher_(academic)#Preventing_nuclear_war.

6. Said, Edward W. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon Books, 1978.

7. Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Birth of Tragedy. 1872.

8. “Trump Clashes with Australian Journalist over Business Deals in Office.” BBC News. https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c9qn0zzqxvxo.

9. “Montreal Protocol.” Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montreal_Protocol.

10. Hern, Alex. “Godfather of AI Raises Odds of the Technology Wiping Out Humanity over Next 30 Years.” The Guardian, December 27, 2024. http://theguardian.com/technology/2024/dec/27/godfather-of-ai-raises-odds-of-the-technology-wiping-out-humanity-over-next-30-years.

I was able to read several books this year. Here are some books I loved reading in 2024.

Cicero Letter to Friends: Volume 1

Cicero was a Roman statesman, and not only was he an orator of the highest order, but he was also a captivating writer who penned beautiful prose. There are few individuals in history who have written prose more beautiful than his. In fact, he wrote such exquisite Latin that, at one time, education literally meant reading Cicero, Cicero, and some more Cicero.

This book is a collection of letters, translated from Latin to English, that he wrote to friends, family members, and colleagues. Sometimes, he wrote letters because he was concerned about a friend’s health; other times, he wrote to his family because he was worried about their well-being or needed to give them directions. Occasionally, he wrote to friends and colleagues to curry favor for people he knew.

Let me share a few excerpts. Sometimes he would talk about books, as in:

In my command here I have put into practice the whole Education of Cyrus, a work which I read so often that I wore out the book.

What follows is Cicero asking a friend for a favor for another friend:

Now, my dear Paetus, be a friend, and take the whole affair upon yourself, and relieve Fabius of the worry. We need your name and sound judgment, and your personal influence too. Don’t let the brothers get into litigation and become embroiled in discreditable lawsuits. Mato and Pollio are Fabius’ enemies. Briefly, I assure you that I cannot write down in full how much you will oblige me if you put Fabius’ mind at ease. He thinks, and persuades me, that it all depends on you.

Even though I was reading English translations of his letters, his prose remained captivating, even in translation. There are two reasons I like this book. First, it offers insight into the old times, life back then, and how things were. Second, he wrote engaging prose, sometimes even lyrical. Among countless examples, here are a few phrases I enjoyed:

Please rest assured that my solicitude for your credit increases every day, though your own integrity and clemency have so enhanced it that any addition seems impossible.

Another one:

If he proves himself worthy of his forbears, as I expect and hope he will, some part of the credit will go to you. If he stumbles, the damage will be entirely his, not yours at all.

And this one has a nice ring to it:

If you do what is best for your health, you will best comply with my wishes. So think it over in that clever head of yours. I miss you, but I love you. Loving you, I want to see you fit and well; missing you, I want to see you as soon as possible. The former, there, must come first. So make it your chief concern to get well. Of your countless services to me this will be the one I shall most appreciate.

How beautifully he weaves simple words to convey emotion.

In the truest sense of the word, he was a man of letters. Writing prose like his isn’t something an ordinary individual can easily emulate.

Mathematical Logic for Computer Science by Ben-Ari

I wanted to brush up on logic for computer science, and this book came highly recommended by someone I trust. It did not disappoint. It’s a technical book, heavy on theory, so I had to read it slowly, ensuring I absorbed everything as I went along.

Some books aren’t easy to read and aren’t rewarding either, while others aren’t easy to read yet are rewarding. This one wasn’t easy, but it was certainly a rewarding experience for me. The best part of the book was its use of a first-principles approach.

The book covers propositional logic, deductive systems such as Gentzen (I even blogged about it) and Hilbert, Binary Decision Diagrams, SAT solvers, First-Order Logic, Temporal Logic, verification of sequential programs, and verification of concurrent programs. The last three topics intrigued me the most, and I liked the way the content was presented so much that I bought another book by the same author and read it.

Philosophy as a Way of Life by Pierre Hadot

I came across this book accidentally, but I’m so glad I did. Pierre Hadot was a French philosopher who could not only philosophize but also write simply—an ability not common among top-tier philosophers, if I may say so with respect.

This work explores themes on how to use philosophy to live better lives. What better purpose could philosophy serve than this?

Hadot believed that the purpose of ancient philosophy was to transform souls, which is why philosophical teaching was primarily given in oral form. Nothing stirs the soul like a good spoken word, and the written part was, for the most part, a complement to this oral teaching. The oral tradition and dialogue were at the center of philosophy. While it was important to present the solution, it was even more important to show the “path traversed together in arriving at this solution.”

This book offered insights that were outside my sphere of knowledge. For one, if you want to truly understand why Marcus Aurelius wrote his Meditations the way he did, then this book is for you. You learn why he sought to reform rather than inform. You also discover the framework he used to write down his meditations. Further, you learn about Epictetus and his philosophy. For instance, one should not content oneself with philosophical discourses or texts, but strive to live a good life. As Epictetus once said, “our only occupation should be the cure of ourselves.” The essence of philosophy, then, is to produce good actions, to live virtuously and not viciously, to pursue truth and not ignorance.

He also talks about spiritual exercises in this book, which is both interesting and worth a post in its own right.

Philosophy shouldn’t be confined to specific institutions or individuals. Instead, we all should be able to use it to refine ourselves, to dialogue with others and with oneself, to examine our conscience, and to be masters of ourselves. The idea is not for anyone to “satisfy himself with discourse, with the conceptual architecture that he has constructed, without putting into question his own life.” Hadot calls this a perpetual danger of philosophy, where a philosopher takes refuge in the “reassuring universe of concepts and of discourse instead of going beyond discourse in order to take upon himself the risk of the radical transformation of himself.”

I feel Pierre Hadot’s aim in writing this book was to make philosophy accessible to common men and women, to help us use philosophy to live better lives. I believe he succeeded. There is much in this book that can serve us well.

Asechylus’s Oresteia

Aeschylus was not just a soldier but also the father of Greek tragedy and a figure whose influence still echoes through his works. He won first prizes often at the Dionysia (an ancient Greek festival that included theatrical performances of tragedies and comedies). Oresteia, a winner at the Dionysia, was a trilogy that explored the themes of justice, vengeance, and the evolution of societal order.

There is much wisdom in the trilogy. This following famous quote about “learning by suffering” is in the first play:

Zeus, who set mortals on the road
to understanding, who made
“learning by suffering” into an effective law.
There drips before the heart, instead of sleep,
The misery of pain recalled: good sense comes to men.

His thoughts on human psychology and the way he crafted his stories are why I liked this book. I have to admit, there is a lot in it that I need to absorb. I’ll surely be re-reading this one sometime soon. It’s one of those books that one ought to read multiple times in life because I’m certain that every time we read it, it will offer something new.

Principles of the SPIN Model Checker by Ben-Ari

There are technical books that are thick and heavy yet offer little, and then there are books that are short yet offer insight and ignite your interest and curiosity even further. This book gave me both insight and a deeper curiosity about the subject.

This book introduces the SPIN model checker and exposes the reader to the nuances of verifying programs using SPIN. A nice feature of the book is how it explains concepts using thoughtfully developed, freely available tools (such as jSpin) that the author created for pedagogical purposes.

It’s a demanding book, but the content was interesting. The book presents details about concurrency, temporal logic, non-determinism, advanced SPIN topics, and even case studies. I’ve already written a few blog posts about the topics I explored while reading this book, and I plan to write more. Overall, it’s a good book. I’m sure I’ll revisit the latter half again.

Born Standing Up by Steve Martin

It’s a nice, short, and moving memoir by the comedian and actor Steve Martin. The book details his early working days at shops and clubs, his relationships, and eventually his rise to fame. He shared his struggles, his failures, long hours of practice, his reflections to refine his craft, and his efforts to find his own unique voice as a comedian. Any memoir that only talks about successes and never discusses struggles, rejections, or weaknesses is suspect. This one is not. What I like about his writing is that it feels candid and, at times, funny.

From reading the book, it’s clear that recognition for one’s work takes time. What you can’t control is how and when you get recognition. What you can control is how hard you work and persevere. He firmly understood what he could control and focused on that. His was a long journey, full of obstacles, but he never gave up. He kept refining his craft, kept working, kept improving, and finally, he earned the recognition he much deserved.

Reading this book reinforces the idea that success is nine times patience times effort times reflection times some luck.

Less Than One by Joseph Brodsky

Joseph Brodsky was a poet, an essayist, and a Nobel Prize winner. This book is a collection of essays, and some of them are quite profound. One of his essays on Dostoevsky is particularly insightful; it left such an impression on me that I reflected on it and wrote an essay of my own.

He is one of those writers who frequently shares wisdom about literature or the human condition in his writing. You don’t stop reading him because he keeps you so engaged by offering insights on the topic at hand.

He’s also one of those writers who gives you unexpected angles on familiar things. For instance, his essay on Dostoevsky offers subtle insights into why Dostoevsky’s work is immortal.

One difference between masters and beginners is that masters have explored and mastered details that beginners may not even notice. Similarly, another takeaway from this book is understanding how experienced literary connoisseurs interpret and analyze literary works. The way he untangles and interprets some literary pieces, and the depth and detail he explores, isn’t just insightful—it’s something that someone like me couldn’t even notice at first. He has a whole essay on W.H. Auden’s poem, and the way he delves into it is simply fascinating.

All in all, it’s a good book with some thought-provoking writing.

A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula Le Guin

I had never read anything by Ursula Le Guin, but then I came across some excerpts of her work online, and I thought I should give her a try. I was also going through a phase in my life where I believed reading more fiction would help power up my imagination. I picked this book up, and I liked it.

On the surface, it’s about wizards and magic, but there’s more to it. Every now and then, Ursula Le Guin sprinkles in some wisdom.

One reason I like this book is how the plot folds and then unfolds. Another reason is that you come across phrases that make you pause and think, like:

It is very hard for evil to take hold of the unconsenting soul.

Or this:

To light a candle is to cast a shadow...

Or this:

I had forgotten how much light there is in the world, till you gave it back to me.

I enjoyed the book, and I plan on exploring and reading more of her work.

The Best of Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore was a Bengali poet, writer, composer, philosopher, social reformer, and Nobel Prize winner. I admire philosophers who not only talk but also put their words into action to better the world. Tagore not only left behind a remarkable body of work but also tried to make the world a better place through his actions—such as opening a school, which now boasts a list of distinguished alumni.

This book contains his essays and plays. It’s a big volume, and I bought it because it includes his most notable works, although, for now, I was mainly interested in his essays. Some of his essays are thought-provoking. His reflections on education, nationalism, and other topics are not only stirring but also showcase literary brilliance. The man could write.

Here is one of his quotes I particularly like:

The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life.

The Strangest Man by Graham Farmelo

This is a good biography of arguably the most brilliant scientist, Paul Dirac, famous for co-inventing the most revolutionary theory in the last hundred years or so—the theory of quantum mechanics. Paul Dirac was a man of very few words, hardworking, and a brilliant scientist who took pride in the beauty of mathematics.

Sometimes I believe an appalling childhood is a precondition for genius; Dirac had one. He once said, “I never had a childhood.” But thankfully, he received a superb education. He was not known to talk much, even during his childhood. The only time he spoke was when he politely corrected the errors of his teachers. Dirac believed he was a geometrical thinker, probably due to his excellent technical drawing skills learned at school. Eventually, he earned a PhD at Cambridge, and as a scientist, he never looked back. There is so much in this book that I should probably write about in a separate review sometime.

Dirac was also quite a character, and making small talk with him wasn’t easy. He once responded to the comment, “It’s a bit rainy, isn’t it?” by walking to the window, returning to his seat, and stating, “It is not now raining.” He was very careful with his speech; he once said, “I was always taught not to start a sentence until I knew how to finish it.”

His contributions to the field of physics are seminal. He definitely led a life worth living. I found this an engaging biography and thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

The argumentative Indian by Amartya Sen

I had not read any of Amartya Sen’s work before this book. Mr. Sen is a notable scholar and a winner of the Nobel Prize in Economics. It’s stimulating work as well as easy to read.

Although parts of South Asia are not commonly known to have an argumentative gene, Amartya Sen convincingly shows that Indian history is deeply rooted in an argumentative tradition. He masterfully weaves evidence and tales to make his point. There is much I learned that I didn’t know, even though I’m from South Asia (which was a bit embarrassing). For instance, I learned how poets from the working classes questioned social divisions and the barriers of disparate religions. He also cites historical evidence showing how the argumentative tradition was firmly rooted in India’s history. For example, Ashoka’s remarkable interest in the rules of discussion in the third century BC is evident in one of his edicts: “A person must not do reverence to his own sect or disparage the beliefs of another without reason.” In parts of South Asia today, different sects still find it difficult to sit and settle their differences even when the state intervenes, yet a few centuries ago, the king Akbar arranged interfaith dialogues.

Sen also thoroughly presents a convincing case for how India’s intellectual accomplishments were marred by biases associated with its colonial past. His critique of James Mill’s (father of John Stuart Mill) work on Indian history is particularly insightful.

This book also introduced me to Tagore and his ideas, such as his views on education and his critique of patriotism and nationalism.

Additionally, the book discusses the accomplished Indian filmmaker Satyajit Ray (who was awarded an Oscar for lifetime of cinematic excellence). After reading about him, I watched some of his movies, which are not only fascinating but also thought-provoking. Simple storytelling, yet stories that make you think.

Overall, this book illuminated some corners of my brain—it was educational.

Human, All Too Human by Nietzsche

Nietzsche wasn’t trained as a philosopher; he was trained as a philologist, and he had a way with words. He wrote penetrating thoughts about culture, society, morals, arts, and politics in this multifaceted work. You may disagree with Nietzsche on ideas he considers first-rate, but you cannot disregard him as a second-rate writer.

Nietzsche uses an aphoristic style, which Wikipedia defines as: “An aphorism is a concise, terse, laconic, or memorable expression of a general truth or principle.” Why did he use that style? Perhaps because of his severe and disabling health problems. Or maybe he prized the aphoristic style because he believed “brevity is the soul of wit.” Some of the aphorisms in the book indeed show sharp wit.

One might speculate that his aphoristic style could lead to incoherence of thought in this work. I don’t find that to be the case. In several places, I found him laying the foundations for some of his notable ideas, such as will to power. One cannot be incoherent and simultaneously lay out influential ideas in philosophy.

One major theme I took away from this book is to bring anything I believe under much stronger scrutiny; only such scrutiny can bring us closer to the truth. The subtitle of the book is A Book for Free Spirits. What does he mean by a free spirit? It’s someone able to liberate themselves from the chains that hinder them, to scrupulously scrutinize ideas, and to show determination to undertake tasks requiring excellence, strength, and courage to break away from conventional values, traditions, and societal expectations.

In Nietzsche’s own words, a free spirit feels like a wanderer, rejects dependence on things like honors, money, or official positions, and is thankful for the struggles and uncertainties of life. A free spirit is curious and daring, works tirelessly, uses resources carefully, is inventive and flexible, and has a love of solitude.

On being bound by tradition, in one of his aphorisms he says:

The less men are bound by tradition, the greater is the fermentation of motivations within them, and the greater, in consequence, their outward restlessness, their mingling together with one another, their polyphony of endeavors.

On habits in drawing conclusions, he observes:

The commonest erroneous conclusions drawn by mankind are these: a thing exists, therefore it has a right to. Here the conclusion is from the capacity to live to the fitness to live, from the fitness to live to the right to live. Then: an opinion makes happy, therefore it is a true opinion, its effect is good, therefore it itself is good and true.

In the book, one can also see Nietzsche developing and laying the foundations for his ideas, such as will to power. For example:

The reason the man of power is grateful is this. His benefactor has, through the help he has given him, as it were, laid hands on the sphere of the man of power and intruded into it: now, by way of requital, the man of power in turn lays hands on the sphere of his benefactor through the act of gratitude. It is a milder form of revenge. If he did not have the compensation of gratitude, the man of power would have appeared unpowerful and thenceforth counted as such. That is why every community of the good, that is to say originally the powerful, places gratitude among its first duties. Swift suggested that men are grateful in the same degree as they are revengeful.

On intellect and morality, he writes:

One has to have a good memory if one is to keep a promise. One has to have a powerful imagination if one is to feel sympathy. So closely is morality tied to the quality of the intellect.

There is an interesting chapter titled From the Souls of Artists and Writers—interesting because art and writing interest me. On the sudden occurrence of inspiration versus gradual work leading to excellence, he states:

Artists have an interest in the existence of a belief in the sudden occurrence of ideas, in so-called inspirations; as though the idea of a work of art, a poem, the basic proposition of a philosophy flashed down from heaven like a ray of divine grace. In reality, the imagination of a good artist or thinker is productive continually, of good, mediocre and bad things, but this power of judgement, sharpened and practised to the highest degree, rejects, selects, knots together; as we can now see from Beethoven’s notebooks how the most glorious melodies were put together gradually and as it were culled out of many beginnings.

Nietzsche also shares a recipe for becoming a good novelist:

The recipe for becoming a good novelist, for example, is easy to give, but to carry it out presupposes qualities one is accustomed to overlook when one says, ‘I do not have enough talent.’ One has only to make a hundred or so sketches for novels, none longer than two pages but of such distinctness that every word in them is necessary; one should write down anecdotes each day until one has learned how to give them the most pregnant and effective form; one should be tireless in collecting and describing human types and characters; one should above all relate things to others and listen to others relate, keeping one’s eyes and ears open for the effect produced on those present; one should travel like a landscape painter or costume designer; one should excerpt for oneself out of the individual sciences everything that will produce an artistic effect when it is well described; one should, finally, reflect on the motives of human actions, disdain no signpost to instruction about them, and be a collector of these things by day and night. One should continue in this many-sided exercise some ten years: what is then created in the workshop, however, will be fit to go out into the world. What, however, do most people do? They begin, not with the parts, but with the whole. Perhaps they chance to strike a right note, excite attention and from then on strike worse and worse notes, for good, natural reasons.

On why thinkers write badly, Nietzsche remarks:

Most thinkers write badly because they communicate to us not only their thoughts but also the thinking of their thoughts.

And on who is the best author, he states:

The best author will be he who is ashamed to become a writer.

Nietzsche also has interesting thoughts favoring idleness:

Scholars are ashamed of otium (leisure). But there is something noble about leisure and idleness. If idleness really is the beginning of all vice, then it is at any rate in the closest proximity to all virtue; the idle man is always a better man than the active. But when I speak of leisure and idleness, you do not think I am alluding to you, do you, you sluggers?

And in another aphorism about leisure, he notes:

The man who lies ill in bed sometimes discovers that what he is ill from is usually his office, his business, or his society, and that through them he has lost all circumspection with regard to himself: he acquires this wisdom from the leisure to which his illness has compelled him.

This is the only book from which I want to share the most. Right now, as I write this, just like a child who wants to show all his favorite toys to his friends, I want to share all my favorite thoughts from this book. I have to admit, I have never read a philosopher who had more penetrating thoughts in a book. Some of his ideas hit you like a thunderbolt. His writing is penetrating, and he makes his point in as few words as possible. He means business. He should be read.

If you enjoyed this essay, or if it struck a chord with you, I would be honored if you shared it with someone who might appreciate it. Writing gives my life meaning—it’s a pursuit I hold close—and your support, whether through a subscription, a one-time donation, or a recommendation, motivates me to keep going. For this, I am deeply grateful. Thank you for being part of this journey.

Joseph Brodsky is a name I wasn’t familiar with until a few months ago. I read about him for the first time in one of the pieces in The New Yorker magazine. I enjoyed reading that piece. Whenever I like some writing that makes a good impression of another author, then often I do more research about the recommended author and if the appeal remains I go ahead and buy their books and either put them in the library to be read later or, if the urge is strong, I try to read as soon as I get my hands on them. So I went ahead and bought a book of essays, titled “Less than one”, by Joseph Brodsky. 

I’m glad I did. 

He didn’t write ordinary essays, some of his essays are profound. Just as a beautiful sunrise captures your gaze, some of his insightful prose holds your attention. Joseph Brodsky’s mastery of language isn’t surprising given his background as a poet, the mastery shines through in his prose. If you enjoy reading good prose, you’ll miss out on a real treat if you don’t read prose written by a skilled poet like him.

As an aside, I just discovered that he died at the age of 57 and, judging by the amount and quality of his wiring, it seems he lived quite a life (not to forget he also won a Nobel prize for literature).

Anyway, back to his essays. One of his essays is about Dostoevsky, one of the great Russian novelists, and it’s a profound one not just because it’s about a profound writer but because it offers some subtle insights about Dostoevsky’s work.

Immortality of Dostoevsky’s art is unquestionable; his art will likely continue to live on. One of the first questions that Brodsky tackles in his essay is why do Dostoevsky's works preserve their relevance? Brodsky notes (though the following is quoted at the top, but repeating here for convenience):
“Along with air, earth, water, and fire, money is the fifth natural force a human being has to reckon with most often. This is one, if not the main, reason why today, one hundred years after Dostoevsky’s death, his novels preserve their relevance.”

Money never followed Dostoevsky; he had to follow it. Just as sharks pursue their prey, debtors and deadlines pursued him. There is a story about him that gives chills. He once signed a contract with a publisher on perilous terms: if he missed the deadline, the publisher would gain the rights to all his current and future works. He had one year to complete the project, but he did nothing for eleven months. In the final month, he hired a stenographer and dictated the entire book to her and, remarkably, he finished the book just in time. (And a few days later, he married the stenographer, a fitting celebration perhaps.) It's somewhat comforting to know that even great minds procrastinated heavily! But yes, they also produced timeless art. 

Near the start of the essay, Brodsky notes: “For the best way to avoid mistakes in dealing with the future is to perceive it through the prism of poverty or guilt.”

There is something to ponder here. The road from poverty to prosperity is never guaranteed, but poverty can drive people to prosperity if people develop the required discipline and relentless drive for excellence. The lives of many great men and women stand as a testament to this.

Brodsky then comes back to the part where he connects the dots about why money is the reason Dostoevsky's work preserves relevance. Brodsky shares an excerpt about Dostoevsky from the diary of Russian socialite Elizaveta Stackenschneider:

“. . .  but he is a petit bourgeois, yes, a petit bourgeois. Not of the gentry, nor of the clergy, not a merchant, nor an odd ball, like an artist or scholar, but precisely a petit bourgeois. And yet this petit bourgeois is the most profound thinker and a writer of genius . . . Now he frequents the house of the aristocracy and even those of the high nobility, and of course he bears himself with dignity, and yet the petit bourgeois in him trickles through. It can be spotted in certain traits, surfacing in private conversation, but most of all, in his works . . . in his depiction of big capital he will always regard 6,000 rubles as a vast amount of money.”

And Brodsky comments:

“What Mme Stackenschneider, a product of her epoch’s social stratification, calls petit bourgeois is known today as middle class, as defined in terms of annual income and not social affiliation. In other words, the said amount means neither great riches nor screaming poverty, but a tolerable human condition: a condition that makes one human.”

And he continues:

“A writer who regards six thousand rubles as a vast amount of money operates, therefore, on the same physical and psychological plan as the majority of people; i.e., he deals with life on its own general terms, since, like every natural process, human life gravitates toward moderation. Conversely, a writer who belongs to the upper echelon of society or to its lower depths will invariably produce a somewhat distorted picture of existence, for, in either case, he would regard it at too sharp an angle. Criticism of society (which is a nickname for life) from either above or below may produce a great read; but it’s only an inside job that can supply you with moral imperatives.

Furthermore, a middle-class writer’s own position is precarious enough to make him view what goes on below with considerable keenness. Alternatively, the situation above, due to its physical proximity, lacks in celestial appeal. Numerically, to say the least, a middle-class writer deals with a greater variety of plights, increasing, by the same token, the size of his audience. In any case, this is one way to account for the wide readership enjoyed by Dostoevsky, as well as by Melville, Balzac, Hardy, Kafka, Joyce, Faulkner. It looks as if the equivalent of six thousand rubles ensures great literature.”

This is an incisive observation. It’s not to say that the rich can’t write but, generally speaking, and as Brodsky hints above, a precarious financial condition is often a precondition for great literature, especially one with moral imperatives. There is something profound about the human condition which is not too rich and not too poor to have sensibilities required to produce great literature. Just enough suffering that fuels great literature. 

Perhaps there is another reason, beyond the precarious position of the middle-class writer: a middle-class person must navigate every twist and turn of life on their own. And when you confront life at every turn, you can’t escape its realities. You inevitably notice nuances of human psychology and morality that a wealthy person might miss, as luxuries can keep them at a distance.

Life wasn’t easy for many great writers, and honestly, there would have been nothing remarkable about their lives if they had been easy. Many struggled financially. I randomly looked up the profiles of a few Nobel prize winners in literature. Though my data sample is small, none of them had a great financial situation when they were starting as a writer. Gabriel García Márquez, a Nobel Prize winner, while writing his magnum opus One Hundred Years of Solitude, “sold his car so his family would have money to live on while he wrote. Writing the novel took far longer than he expected; he wrote every day for 18 months. His wife had to ask for food on credit from their butcher and baker as well as nine months of rent on credit from their landlord.” [1] The road to greatness for him wasn’t built with riches. Those 18 months seemed far from a “tolerable human condition,” and you’ve got to give him credit for mustering all his talent and courage to not only produce, under such difficult circumstances, another book, but to create a remarkable work of fiction that brought South American literature into the spotlight. Most people lose their wits when they don't know how they'll put food on the table next month.

Another Nobel prize winner, William Faulkner, was born in poverty. He first attempted to join the army but later dropped out. “After dropping out, he took a series of odd jobs: at a New York City bookstore, as a carpenter in Oxford, and as the Ole Miss postmaster. He resigned from the post office with the declaration: ‘I will be damned if I propose to be at the beck and call of every itinerant scoundrel who has two cents to invest in a postage stamp.’“ [2] Definitely not great riches nor screaming poverty. He also had the courage of a genius because not many have the courage to put out the beck and call of their masters. “By 1932, Faulkner was in need of money. He asked Wasson to sell the serialization rights for his newly completed novel, Light in August, to a magazine for $5,000, but none accepted the offer.” [2] Life must have not been easy for Faulkner. 

For another Nobel prize winner, Gabriela Mistral, “Poverty was a constant presence in her early life.” [3] Poverty was a stimulus for another winner, Albert Camus: “ His identity and poor background had a substantial effect on his later life.” [4] 

One needs to further this analysis of evaluating financial well-being of great writers with a larger data pool, but none of the above writers had great riches. It seems that a certain kind of financial struggle often serves as a catalyst for writers to produce great works. That may not be true for all writers from all kinds of social and financial backgrounds, but some seem to thrive only under such circumstances. 

Another question that often captures my attention, as a writer and a reader, is what makes Dostoevsky a great writer? His narratives? His writing style? Brodsky believes it’s neither. He observes:

“Almost without exception, all his novels are about people in narrow circumstances. This kind of material itself guarantees absorbing reading. However, what turned Dostoevsky into a great writer was neither the inevitable intricacy of his subject matter nor even the unique profundity of his mind and his capacity for compassion; it was the tool or, rather, the texture of the material he was using, i.e., the Russian language.”

He adds:

“Its polysyllabic nature (the average length of a Russian word is three to four syllables) reveals the elemental, primeval force of the phenomena covered by a word a lot better than any rationalization possibly could, and a writer sometimes, instead of developing his thought, stumbles and simply revels in the word’s euphonic contents, thereby sidetracking his issue in an unforeseen direction. And in Dostoevsky’s writing we witness an extraordinary friction, nearly sadistic in its intensity, between the metaphysics of the subject matter and that of the language.

He made the most of Russian’s irregular grammar. His sentences have a feverish, hysterical, idiosyncratic pace and their lexical content is an all but maddening fusion of belles lettres, colloquialisms, and bureaucratese. True, he never wrote at leisure. Much like his characters, he worked to make ends meet: there was always either creditors or a deadline. Still, for a man beset with deadlines, he was extraordinarily digressive, and those digressions, I venture to say, were prompted more by the language than by the requirements of a plot. Reading him simply makes one realize that stream of consciousness springs not from consciousness but from a word which alters or redirects one’s consciousness.”

I must admit, it takes some mastery of language to recognize the subtle role of language, as Brodsky did. After all, only a star can fully appreciate the beauty of another star.

I do wonder though if Dostoevsky’s digressions were only due to the nuances of Russian language? Did not his own suffering, of being a victim to epilepsy and then of Siberian exile, play any part in his narrative explorations? Was it not his intent to dig deeper into moral questions that play some part in his narrative explorations?  I believe all this suffering must have played some role in shaping his thoughts and imaginations. A person who hasn’t endured hardship may struggle to capture the subtle complexities of human behavior when faced with adversity.

There is another insight about Dostoevsky that struck a chord with me. Brodsky notes near the end of the essay:

“From classicism, he took the principle that before you come forth with your argument, however right or righteous you may feel, you have to list all the arguments of the opposite side. And it is not that in the process of listing them one is being swayed by the opposite side; it is simply that the listing itself is a mightily absorbing process. One may not in the end drift away from one’s original stance, but after having exhausted all the arguments on behalf of evil, one utters the creed’s dictums with nostalgia rather with fervor. This, in its own way, also fosters the case of verisimilitude.”

This is beautifully expressed. Few can argue their opponent's case better than the opponents themselves. Rare, very rare is this skill, probably because it’s not easy to develop. But when someone possesses it and uses it masterfully, we must listen. Dostoevsky had this gift. Perhaps that’s why we still pay attention to his works. Life would be a little calmer if all were trained to adopt this approach whenever we found ourselves in disagreement.

Overall, the essay sparked some interesting thoughts on the life of a great writer. It’s enlightening to read a critique of Dostoevsky’s work by Joseph Brodsky—not just because his prose is above average, but also because his unique polyglot skills and extensive reading make his perspective stand out.

And it’s hard to refute Brodsky about the fact that being able to argue better can enrich fictional arcs; it can open up many pathways for the writer to follow in his narration that otherwise wouldn’t have been possible. Such an author can offer readers not just a richer reading experience but also a richer emotional experience. If fiction broadens our general awareness, then the writing of an author skilled in analyzing different viewpoints and adept at using language to probe the depths of the human experience also offers us a more profound emotional journey. A journey that stirs our souls. 

Is there some correlation between an author's financial situation and the quality of their fiction writing? It's possible that the authors' financial conditions influence how they shape their characters, how their characters talk and act, or even how their characters transform over time. As Brodsky noted, you have to be in a certain kind of a financial situation to gather subtle insights about human psychology and morality. Although this poses an interesting dilemma for those that are financially well off and still want to write with incredible depth: how do they gather such subtle insights? Because though you can adapt the lifestyle of a financially struggling person, it's hard to replicate the state of mind of an impoverished individual. A wealthy person aiming to write great fiction might move into a middle-class neighborhood to experience the "tolerable human condition," but as long as their pockets remain full, they cannot truly capture the mental anguish of someone facing real financial hardship.This line of thought deserves an essay of its own though. 

In the end, Brodky’s insightful insights about a great author makes his essay a special one. 

References:

1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gabriel_Garc%C3%ADa_M%C3%A1rquez 

2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Faulkner 

3. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gabriela_Mistral 

4. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Camus 

Life has been busy lately. Being a husband, a son, a father, and a full-time worker takes time. Despite all this, the idea of starting a Substack has been on my mind for a while. A constant voice in my head that keeps saying, “Why don’t you start writing on Substack?” I would like to answer this question. 

So, why start writing on Substack? 

Primarily, because I like writing. At some point in my life I’d like to dedicate myself full time to it. Given everything that’s going on around me it’s not a possibility right now, but I aspire to do it at some point. 

One reason I like writing is how it clarifies your thinking. There is no tool better than writing that highlights unclear thinking. It’s hard to write a clear and crisp argument. But it’s easy to spot a bad one in writing. That’s the power of writing. 

If something is powerful, it’s valuable. Writing has indeed been valuable to me. In the past, writing forced me to see how unconvincing some of my arguments were. And, on occasion, writing also enabled me to see how my opinions had some merit. Writing can strip your thoughts of all ornaments and make them stand naked in light of truth. If finding truth is your goal, then it’s in the crucible of writing that you separate truth from falsehood.  

Apart from seeking truth, what other motives drive people to write? George Orwell tried to answer this in one of his essays, titled “Why I Write.” For why people write he gave four reasons, namely: sheer egoism (desire to seem clever), aesthetic enthusiasm (pleasure of prose), historic impulse (feeling of responsibility to preserve truth), and political purpose (desire to push for societal or political change). Well, I don’t think the first two motives exist in me for I am not clever; I am not saying this out of false modesty but I know some really smart people and I know how far I am from being one. Of aesthetic enthusiasm I’m also not a fan. It’s not to say that I don’t think prose and style don’t matter, they do; in fact, of prose and style I’m a student, but they aren’t my ultimate reason to write. Duty to truth is important to me and so is societal change.

 I will briefly say a few words about these two. First about duty to truth. 

What’s a better aim for life than pursuing truth? Truth ought to be the ultimate goal. I don’t claim to know the truth in every instance, but to strive for it, I’d like. When Juvenal once said “dedicate one’s life to truth” he couldn’t utter better words. There is no better aim for oneself than dedicating one’s life to truth. In search of truth, fewer tools can be more helpful than writing. 

Second as for societal change, if we see injustices it’s our duty to speak. For injustices I see in my society, I have been writing op-eds in local daily newspapers. One thing not clear to me right now is whether a lot of people on Substack would like to hear my thoughts or stories about Pakistan society. So depending on what I find out in the next few months, I’ll either write those thoughts here, or I’ll keep them in local daily newspapers.  

For why I write, there is one more reason. Often I jot down things to help answer questions that my elder son raises and for which I have no good answers on the spot. In those cases, to bring order to my thinking, writing helps.

Moreover, as I navigate the passage of life, writing has also become an introspective tool, especially as I get older and I have people close to me either passing away or moving away (due to jobs or better opportunities). This gives me more space, and solace. What better use of solitude can I find than writing down my thoughts, publishing them, and then through my writing I might be able to find like-minded folks? 

The best thing about writing is that you can converse with people not just in the present but also from the past. One great mind I recently conversed with through writing was Michel de Montaigne. And my God, what a fine writer he was. I would like to end this by echoing some of his thoughts. He says to the reader on the first page of his book containing his essays:

“This book was written in good faith, reader. It warns you from the outset that in it I have set myself no goal but a domestic and private one. I have had no thought of serving either you or my own glory. My powers are inadequate for such a purpose. I have dedicated it to the private convenience of my relatives and friends, so that when they have lost me (as soon they must), they may recover here some features of my habits and temperament, and by this means keep the knowledge they have of me more complete and alive.”

I also write this in good faith, reader. To serve you I would love but I have no thought of serving my own glory as my powers are inadequate for such a purpose. I have dedicated it to the private convenience of my family and my solitude so my family and friends may have the knowledge of me more complete and alive. 

Montaigne warns his readers by saying:

“Thus, reader, I am myself the matter of my book; you would be unreasonable to spend your leisure on so frivolous and vain subject.”

This I fear. I wouldn’t like to waste your time, my dear reader. I might fail but I will at least try to make sure I give it my best just as Montaigne did his best, and whenever I read him I never feel I have spent my time on a vain subject. And so I hope to leave you, reader, having found some value in my words.