The first recorded polygraph test in history Above: Erasistratus the Physician Discovers the Love of Antiochus for Stratonice by Benjamin West (1772)
"By the time of Erasistratus, the
celebrated Greek physician and anatomist (300-250 B.C.), we find very
definite attempts to detect deceit and these, interestingly enough,
appear relatively objective in method (i.e., feeling the pulse). One
such attempt is related by Plutarch and others. It concerned the love
of Antiochus for his step-mother, Stratonice, and his efforts to
conceal it from his father, Seleucus I of Syria, surnamed Nicator.
"Nicator, formerly a general in the conquering army of Alexander the
Great, had married the beautiful Stratonice. Sometime after this
marriage, Nicator's son (of a former wife), Antiochus, began to lose
weight and to languish in an unknown disease. Nicator, whose
associations with Alexander the Great had made him familiar with
Alexander's respect for learning, decided to patronize learning
himself and to look about for a capable physician who could cure his
son's ailment. He called to his court Erasistratus, who had gained
renown for his discussions of the functions of the brain and nervous
"When Erasistratus arrived at the court he acted on the
current suspicion that Antiochus may have developed a consuming
passion for the beautiful woman his father had married. In discussing
with Antiochus the virtues of Stratonice he found occasion to feel
Antiochus' pulse, and its tumultuous rhythm made him sure of his
suspicions. Consequently Erasistratus informed the monarch that
Antiochus was infatuated by Stratonice. Indeed, significant
circumstantial evidence was to support this diagnosis: the second
Stratonice was begotten of the intimacies of Antiochus and the Queen."
But when Father Brown is told about a "pulsometer" in G.K. Chesterton's story "The Mistake of the Machine" (1914):
"'What sentimentalists men of science are!' exclaimed Father Brown, 'and how much more sentimental must American men of science be! Who but a Yankee would think of proving anything from heart-throbs? Why, they must be as sentimental as a man who thinks a woman is in love with him if she blushes. That's a test from the circulation of the blood, discovered by the immortal [William] Harvey; and a jolly rotten test, too.'"
From my favourite book about art, Seeing is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees: A Life of Contemporary Artist Robert Irwin by Lawrence Weschler:
Bob had been headed south from Paris toward Morocco, when, passing through Barcelona, he first heard about Ibiza, a small island off the Spanish Mediterranean coast. He continued to North Africa, but several weeks later, for no particular reason — it was cheap, it was warm, it was said to be peaceful — he ventured out to the dry, barren island. In subsequent years Ibiza (pronounced “E-be-tha” by native Castilians) became known as something of an artist’s colony, a winter resort, but during the season Irwin spent there, it was still utterly remote. On the edge of a barren peninsula, Irwin installed himself one day in a small rented cabin and then did not converse with a soul for the next eight months.
Today, when he talks about it, he can’t explain why it happened. It just did, gradually, this distancing of himself from the world: the night walks in Paris, the North African desert, and then, by an ineluctable process, this season on Ibiza.
He does recall how it felt: “It was a tremendously painful thing to do, especially in the beginning. It’s like in the everyday world, you’re just plugged into all the possibilities. Every time you get bored, you plug yourself in somewhere: you call somebody up, you pick up a magazine, a book, you go to a movie, anything. And all of that becomes your identity, the way in which you’re alive. You identify yourself in terms of all that. Well, what was happening to me as I was on my way to Ibiza was that I was pulling all those plugs out, one at a time: books, language, social contacts. And what happens at a certain point as you get down to the last plugs, it’s like the Zen thing of having no ego: it becomes scary, it’s like maybe you’re going to lose yourself. And boredom then becomes extremely painful. You really are bored and alone and vulnerable in the sense of having no outside supports in terms of your own being. But when you get them all pulled out, a little period goes by, and then it’s absolutely serene, it’s terrific. It just becomes really pleasant because you’re out, you’re all the way out."
He had brought along a pad and some drawing supplies, but he did not use them. Instead he just sat on a rock, isolated. "I mean, there were people," he clarifies, "but they were simply not people. They were just part of the landscape. These people were from another world, another time, fishermen in broken-down barks, farmers scraping the scrabbly ground. We had nothing in common, certainly not language – there was no contact. There was this outcropping, and then the Mediterranean carving up the pumice below, and inland some forests, fir trees. You ate whatever the fisherman took in that day. Time became kind of unreal."
He thought about less and less. Finally he just thought about thinking. No longer calibrating his thoughts in terms of a social reality, in terms of how he would have to square them with the realities of the world, he almost stopped thinking in terms of language. There was a slow purification of thinking; he speaks of arriving at pure ideas, stripped of any worldly ambitions or motives.
"Ideas, when they get like that," Irwin explains, "then you can really get into the game of reason. You can really sit down and reason the nature of what you are thinking. When you peel all those layers away and you arrive at just the qualities of the ideas themselves, it becomes very clear and very simple as to what they are what they are and do what they do. Then, later, when you bring back in the motives and the aspirations and the rationales, you can begin to see how they in turn alter the ideas."
He stayed through the winter, an unseasonably cold winter endured without hot water or heating. The months passed. Spring arrived. One evening, walking into the nearby village, he saw a poster for Singin’ in the Rain — in Technicolor with Gene Kelly. The screening was due to begin in just a few minutes in the town’s tiny, creaky, old theater. He walked in, was suffused for an hour and a half with the sound sets and palm trees of Southern California. “That broke the spell!” He left, walked back to his stucco cabin, packed his gear, and was gone the next morning. A week later he was back in Los Angeles.
I am not the world's most empathetic
person. On the empathy scale I'd put myself about level with Ultron.
Sometimes I think there may only be one situation in life where I am really capable of
feeling pain on behalf of another human being. And that's when a
friend of mine goes to New York for a week and they don't eat very
well. That is a tragedy that can haunt my conscience for months
It's especially poignant to me because
it's so easily averted. No tourist in New York need ever eat badly.
(Money no object! On a budget of $20 a day you can eat the best food
of your life if you tramp the 7 line in Queens.)
With that in mind, I feel it may be
time to present my findings from the many long visits to New York
I've made over the past few years. Here is the Google Map I've made.
The trouble is, I have a real
collector's mentality about restaurants, meaning I tend to visit each
place only once, and the next time I want to try somewhere new.
However, for me, recommending a restaurant based on one visit is
horribly unscientific and irresponsible, because my enjoyment of any
given meal has so much to do with who I'm with, who's paying, how
much I've had to drink etc. (Footnote: perhaps those factors don't affect
professional restaurant reviewers. But I do believe that you simply
don't know very much about a restaurant and its food if you've only
eaten there once. That's why I find it hard to take seriously any
inspection less rigorous than the New York Times' critics', because
they eat a long series of meals, or even, in one famous case, two meals simultaneously.)
So in the following recommendations I'm
giving priority to businesses I've patronised two or more times.
Here are my seven favourite bars in New
York. (Yes, I'm doing bars as well.)
Booker & Dax (East Village –
Amor y Amargo (East Village –
cocktails: aged spirits and bitters)
Henry Public (Cobble Hill –
cocktails: general sense of limitless wellbeing)
Torst (Greenpoint – craft
Gowanus Yacht Club (Carroll
Gardens – beer in the sunshine)
Decibel (East Village – sake)
Lucky Dog (Williamsburg –
Here are some more bars that I've found
to be reliable fall-backs in their respective neighbourhoods, listed
roughly in order of how close they got to making it on to the
Doris (Bed Stuy), 4th Avenue
Pub (Park Slope), The Library (Lower East Side), The
Brooklyn Inn (Boerum Hill), Sel Rrose (Nolita), Home
Sweet Home (Chinatown), Sunny's (Red
Hook), Ontario Bar (East Williamsburg), Brooklyn
Social (Carroll Gardens), Sophie's (East
Village), Spuyten Duvil (central Williamsburg),
Congress (Cobble Hill), Crown Victoria (west
Williamsburg: summer), Black Bear (west Williamsburg: winter),
Vol de Nuit (West Village), Pencil Factory
(Greenpoint), Fulton Grand (Clinton Hill), The Breslin
And here is a short list of bars that
I've only been to once but that made such a pleasant impression on me
that I'm willing to recommend them all the same:
Kirakuya (Koreatown), Beverly's
(Chinatown), 124 Old Rabbit Club (West Village),
Proletariat (East Village), OTB (south
Williamsburg), Hank's Saloon (Boerum Hill), Bossa Nova
Civic Club (Bushwick), Bearded Lady (Prospect Heights),
Bait & Tackle(Red
Hook), Nights and Weekends (Greenpoint),
On to food. If you said to me, 'Ned,
I'm spending a week in New York, please tell me where I should eat in
order to experience the best of what the city has to offer (limiting
your recommendations, of course, to restaurants you've visited at
least twice, because this isn't some sort of happy-go-lucky
free-for-all)' I would supply the following list, which has a strong
bias towards Asian food, because that's what I'm into:
Xi'an Famous Foods (Shaanxi
Chinese, various locations), Momofuku Noodle Bar (Asian, East
Village), Momofuku Sssam Bar (Asian, East Village), Mission
Chinese Food (Chinese, Lower East Side), Roberta's
(Italian, Bushwick), Spotted Pig (British, West
Village), Pok Pok Ny (Thai, Red Hook), Somtum Der
(northern Thai, East Village), Hot Kitchen (Sichuan Chinese,
East Village), Keste (Neapolitan pizza, West Village), Ivan
Ramen (ramen, multiple locations), Chengdu Heaven (Sichuan
Chinese, Flushing), Taste of Northern China (Henan
Trinidad Roti Shop (roti, Bed Stuy), Rockaway Taco (tacos,
Rockaway), Shake Shack (burgers,
multiple locations),Oddfellows (ice cream, multiple
locations), Num Pang (Cambodian sandwiches, multiple
locations), Hanco's (Vietnamese sandwiches, multiple
locations), Meat Hook Sandwich Shop (sandwiches, East
Williamsburg), Saltie (sandwiches, central Williamsburg),
Dough (doughnuts, multiple locations), Biryani Cart
(kati rolls, Midtown), variousBBQ carts in downtown
Flushing (Xinjiang Chinese, Flushing), various taco trucks in
Jackson Heights (tacos, Jackson Heights)
And if you said to me, 'Ned, I'll
permit you to trample over every empirical principle you hold dear
and name some restaurants that you've only visited on a single
occasion but nonetheless feel prepared to endorse on that basis as
among the finest of their kind' this is what you would get:
The Dutch (American, SoHo),
Mighty Quinn's (Southern BBQ, multiple locations), Biang!
(Shaanxi Chinese, Flushing), La Vara (tapas, Cobble Hill),
Tortilleria Nixtamal (tacos, Corona), Danji (Korean,
Hell's Kitchen), Ayada (Thai, Elmhurst), Khao Kang
(Thai, Elmhurst), Kitchen 79 (Thai, Jackson Heights), Arepa
Lady (arepas, Jackson Heights), Prime Meats (American,
Carroll Gardens), Malai Marke (Indian, East Village), Ganesh
Temple Canteen (dosas, Murray Hill)
Of all the restaurants that I have
emblazoned with the royal seal here, the only ones that I'd
characterise as expensive are The Dutch, La Vara, Prime Meats and
Momofuku Ssam Bar. The rest are moderate or cheap (although if you are really determined to throw your money around, a few will permit that in fine fashion). Anyway, everything's on the Google Map. If you use
it, please email me and tell me what you thought.
And for completeness' sake, while I'm here promoting my journalism, it occurs to me that I never put a link on this blog to my essay for Aeon about Donald Judd.
Here is a section that I very regretfully had to cut from the William Gibson piece for reasons of space:
Gibson has described the internet as a
component of our 'global, communal prosthetic memory'. In that
spirit, I didn't bother to ask him very much about his personal
history, because he detailed it so comprehensively in a 2011 Paris
Review interview which is available for free online. All the same, he
did tell me one fascinating story about his past that I'd never come
across in the dozens of interviews with him that I'd read (although
I've subsequently discovered from Google, our most dependable
prosthesis, that he has mentioned it in the course of at least one
First, some background. One of the
most rewarding qualities of Gibson's work is the thoroughness and
precision with which he describes inanimate objects. You might think
of Gibson as the poet of the virtual, but really he's always been
much more about the actual. If fiction strives, as James Wood puts
it, 'to open the pores of our senses and feel the world', I'll
take Gibson over nearly any author of so-called 'realist' literature.
We live among objects, and it's still through objects that the future
creeps up: today a cheap smartphone or a polyethylene running shoe,
tomorrow a vat-grown hamburger or a 3D-printed sniper rifle. If a
writer reserves his or her best prose for faces and landscapes and
weather and other pretty things that have always looked the same, he
or she is giving only the vaguest account of real life, compared to
the exceptional tangibility of Gibson's work.
'When I started,' Gibson told me, 'I
had a list of what I regarded as deficiencies in genre science
fiction. There was a story I read – I have no idea who wrote it –
where the character looks out of the porthole of a spaceship and sees
a prone figure wearing “silver boots”. And those “silver boots”
made me so mad. Were they tarnished sterling? Were they Vegas lamé?
Just the laziness of it. I thought, “This is one of the reasons the
other writers don't take us seriously.” If it was worth doing this
ridiculous thing of imagining what the future might be like, it was
worth doing it less fuzzily.' (At this point I must apologise for
referring inadequately to my 'dictaphone' in an earlier paragraph. It
was in fact a Chinese-made Olympus WS-110 digital voice recorder
dating from the first generation iPod era when plastic in a hospital
shade of white was briefly a signifier of advanced technology.)
'Something else that fed into it,' Gibson went on, 'was a kind of
political awareness that everything in the human universe was made by
a person, or by a machine that had been made by people. And there
also may be, I sometimes suspect, a kind of borderline autistic
fascination with objects. Not everyone shares it, but there's much
more of it evident now on the internet than was previously evident in
the world, so I feel less odd about having it.'
Tracing this tendency back, he told an
innocuous story which practically made my jaw fall off when I heard
it because it seemed to explain so much about the work of one of my
favourite living writers. 'The only writing teacher I ever had was in
a high school composition class and he was someone he wrote contract
specifications for the US military. He talked a lot about his job,
and about how if he didin't describe the thing exactly, and then it
arrived and it went wrong, the Pentagon was stuck paying for it. He
would have us do exercises describing a wooden pencil to that
Ernest Hemingway spoke fondly of his
time as a cub reporter at the Kansas City Star, where the official
style guide instructed him to 'use short sentences. Use vigorous
English. Eliminate every superfluous word.' To me, Gibson's story
about the high school teacher is equally revelatory. Of course, it's
not the whole picture: Gibson would not have found that class so
stimulating if he had not had a preexisting interest in squinting at
objects through the loup of prose, just as Hemingway would not have
gone for that newspaper job if he had not had a preexisting interest
in getting manly deeds down on paper with a minimum of fuss.
Nevertheless, to use a Gibson phrase,
it's a 'nodal point' in his biography – not only because of the
writing exercise itself, but also because the teacher was working for
the Pentagon. One of the constants of his work is that we live in a
sort of military surplus society, where military technologies,
methodologies and philosophies are forever leaking into civilian
"And then the bastards chose to fire off three more flares followed by a stream of miscellaneous rockets that burst prettily among the stars. Of course! Bright idea! This was for the sake of watchers in the valley who might be inquisitive about the mysterious explosions high up the mountain. They were having a party up there, celebrating something. What fun these rich folk had, to be sure! And then Bond remembered. But of course! It was Christmas Eve! God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay! Bond's skis hissed an accompaniment as he zigzagged fast down the beautiful snow slope. White Christmas! Well, he'd certainly got himself that! But then, from high up above him, he heard that most dreaded of all sounds in the high Alps, that rending, booming crack! The Last Trump! Avalanche!"
from On Her Majesty's Secret Service by Ian Fleming (1963)
"I've got a very good publisher's reader, William Plomer, who's a great poet and an extremely nice man, and he said some time ago that I never put in any exclamation marks. This stuck in my mind, and so in my last book I put in exclamation marks like pepper. And my publishers stupidly enough left them in. Then I get a fierce review from The New York Times saying not only is Ian Fleming a very inferior writer but he has the girlish trick of putting in exclamation marks all over the place."
I have just finished Being No One: The Self-Model Theory of Subjectivity by Thomas Metzinger. It took me ten months, on and off, so finishing it feels like a Life Event. The book is 635 pages long and extremely technical; it's a difficult read, in other words, but I found it exhilaratingly difficult. And my picture of the human condition has been permanently changed, which is all you can really ask of a book. This change only amounts to a bunch of tweaks and polishes, admittedly, because I was already pretty sympathetic to the worldview expressed here, but they're tweaks and polishes at the deepest metaphysical levels. For those without any philosophical training, Metzinger has published a shorter, more accessible version called The Ego Tunnel. I haven't read that, so I can't authoritatively recommend it, but what I can recommend without reservation is Peter Watts' terrific SF novel Blindsight. That book is in some respects an 'adaptation' of Metzinger's theories, and I bought Being No One after finding it discussed in Blindsight's appendix, which is an agreeable route by which to arrive at a philosophy book.
I don't know that I have the mental resources at the moment to write anything substantive about Being No One, so I'll just finish with a short passage chosen almost at random from the many I highlighted. Consciousness is sometimes regarded as a sort of gift from God that allows human beings to appreciate the external world in all its plenitude; Joyce and Proust came to mind when I encountered this idea that consciousness is, on the contrary, a way of narrowing the external world to a manageable and unambiguous sliver.
"One main function of conscious experience may be to construct a final phase in a process of reducing information, data, and uncertainty originating in the buzzing, blooming confusion of the external world. As recent research into bistable phenomena (e.g., see Leopold and Logothetis 1999) has vividly demonstrated, if two incompatible interpretations of a situation are given through the sensory modules, then only one at a time can be consciously experienced. The generation of a single and coherent world-model, therefore, is a strategy to achieve a reduction of ambiguity. At the same time, this leads to a reduction of data: the amount of information directly available to the system, for example, for selection of motor processes or the deliberate guiding of attention, is being minimized and thereby, for all mechanisms operating on the phenomenal world-model, the computational load is reduced."
Small talk between spies in 1956, from the memoir Undercover by E. Howard Hunt
There came a night when both Samoilov
and I were guests at a diplomatic affair and found ourselves standing
next to each other. He offered me a Russian cigarette, which I
declined. Nervously lighting one and puffing it, he seemed to be
searching for a conversational subject when he suddenly blurted, 'You are a friend of the Chernikovs.'
'Yes. You knew them in Shanghai.'
Shanghai, I thought. Who? Then I
remembered Valentin and Marusha. My memory might have been faulty,
but not the KGB files. Pleasantly I asked, 'How are they?'
'Fine, fine,' Samoilov said. 'They
have three fine children now.'
'Is he still with Tass?'
'No, oh, no. He is now a diplomat.' He
smiled almost mockingly. 'Like ourselves.'
Glow is published in one week. This is the first of my books to be directly inspired by music. Almost every minute that I spent working on it, I was listening to a playlist of songs that evoked the atmosphere I wanted for the story. With some trepidation, I have shared that playlist on Spotify.
A few notes:
1. Not all the songs from the playlist are available on Spotify. The missing songs are here, here and here.
2. In Glow, I never specify exactly what genre of dance music is being played at the raves and on the radio, because I don't want the book to seem dated as soon as it's published. And the songs on this playlist are not supposed to represent the music heard in the book (for one thing, you can't really dance to them).
3. A lot of these songs may bear a superficial resemblance that most unfashionable of '90s genres, chill-out. Personally, I think they all share an undercurrent of dread that renders them unsuitable for hotel lobbies and tanning salons. At the same time, if you've read the book, you'll know that chill-out isn't a totally inappropriate reference point, because, after all, it began during the rave era as music to take the edge off people's drug experiences.
4. This post does not represent an enthusiastic endorsement of Spotify or its business model. Like many people, I worry that Spotify may be grievously undermining the long-term sustainability of the art form that it purports to promote. And yet to my shame I use the site anyway because it's so convenient. Which is a predicament in which we all seem to find ourselves increasingly often these days. Anyway, if you like any of these songs, please do purchase the MP3s. And my book.
If any further events are confirmed I will add them to this post.
In other news related to author Ned Beauman, my first ever published science fiction story can be found in the new issue of Arc magazine. It's called 'Specious Present' and it's about a commodities trader in near-future Istanbul.
My third novel, Glow, is published by Sceptre two months from today, and I've written a Frequently Asked Questions about it. Because the book isn't out yet, most of
these Questions I haven't even been Asked once, let alone Frequently.
And it might seem a bit too
early to start talking about it in detail.
of proof copies have already gone out, and I'm told that reviews are
already being written. So the
following FAQ is for interviewers and reviewers, anticipating some of
the more obvious questions that they might have. General
readers will not find any of this information very
interesting, and should not bother to read it.
Still, just in case, I've made sure not to spoil any of the plot.
Last night I saw Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Because I've spent most of my career writing fiction about the 30s and 40s, and I'm quite meticulous about avoiding anachronisms (except when I introduce them deliberately), it was interesting to see a Hollywood film about a heroic anachronism: Steve Rogers is frozen in 1943 and wakes up in the present day. Unfortunately, no effort is made to make the character speak in the language of an adult from that era (with a few rudimentary exceptions e.g. Steve refers to Peggy Carter as his 'best girl'. Carter is about 100 years old at that point but is played, as in the previous film, by 32-year-old actress Haley Atwell. Impressive CGI is used to age Atwell's face, but she hardly bothers to adapt her vocal timbre to match, giving the unsettling effect of an old person speaking in a young person's voice, which is inadvertently quite appropriate in the context of this screenplay.)
In one scene, Steve is in a lift with Nick Fury, and he says something like, 'In my time, they used to play music in elevators.' This irritated me so much that I almost couldn't enjoy the rest of the film. 'I don't know exactly when "elevator music" was introduced,' I thought to myself, 'but it couldn't possibly have been earlier than the 50s or the 60s. There's no way a guy from the 1940s would have a nostalgic memory of elevator music. These writers are so lazy. Why didn't they hire me as a script consultant or something?'
But today I found out I was wrong!
'On May 31, 1931... New York City unveiled the 102-story Empire State Building,' writes Joseph Lanza in his book Elevator Music. 'Music had to be piped into the elevators, lobbies and observatories to give people at least some illusion of continuity amid the disorder. One particular incident shows just how much elevator music became part of the historical record. On July 28, 1945 an Army B-52 bomber on a cross-country mission crashed into the Empire State Building's 79th story. Flames shot up the elevator shafts, damaging glass cables and threatening to engulf fifty people stuck inside of a glass-encased observatory on the 88th floor. The front-page article in the July 29th New York Times reported: "Even at this terrifying juncture, however, the 'canned' music that is wired into the observatory continued to play, and the soothing sounds of the waltz helped the spectators there to control themselves."'
So they really did have elevator music in Captain America's time. All the same, I maintain that it would have been installed in a relatively small number of commercial buildings, and an army officer from the Lower East Side would not have spent so much time in elevators with elevator music that an elevator without elevator music would later seem worthy of comment. I was at least 15% correct in my cantankerous pedantry.
"A tunnel, with about 6 feet of head room and 1800 feet long, would be dug from the U.S. sector in Berlin to the buried cables some 900 feet within the Soviet-occupied sector. A spacious building, ostensibly a military warehouse, was constructed to serve as an on-site headquarters and cover the entrance to the tunnel. It would also explain the to and fro of our personnel, and mask the movement of engineering equipment. Before the digging began, experiments in tunnel construction were conducted in New Mexico and in Surrey, England. The disposal of 3200 tons of earth was dealt with in daily increments... From the outset American personnel, hidden in the apparent “warehouse” and armed with binoculars, maintained a twenty-four-hour-a-day watch of the area stretching from the warehouse to the tap site into the Soviet sector. As dawn broke one morning, the watcher dropped his binoculars, pushed the panic button, and shouted that a dusting of snow was melting on the warm ground above the tunnel. The melted snow marked the tunnel path from the warehouse to the tap site as precisely as if it had been laid by a surveyor’s transit. The crisis was eased when the first half hour of early-morning sunlight melted all of the light snowfall. A few hours later, Harvey had contrived a temporary solution to the problem: in mid-winter and without any explanation, squads of Quartermaster soldiers stripped every available air conditioner from Army premises throughout Berlin. There is less that need be said about the cesspool inadvertently breached as the tunnel engineers navigated beneath a bombed-out farm, or the laundry that had to be established in the warehouse to cope daily with the inexplicably soiled clothing of those working underground."
"Once upon a time (say, for Dante), it must have been a revolutionary and creative move to design works of art so that they might be experienced on several levels. Now it is not. It reinforces the principle of redundancy that is the principal affliction of modern life." Susan Sontag, 1966
"Every good work should have at least ten meanings." Walter de Maria, 1972