John Logie Baird, who 83 years ago today gave the first public demonstration of his new invention, the television, also had quite the history when it came to inventions in general.
My favourite little anecdote is that he caused a power cut across the whole of Glasgow when attempting to turn graphite into diamonds. And who said alchemy died in the middle ages?!
picture, books, review, tldr, columbine, history, violence, psychology, media,
Columbine, by Dave Cullen, is the defining narrative of what happened on April 20, 1999 in that school, the events leading up to it, and the aftermath. It is stunning in what it achieves, both in terms of the detail in which it delves into the events and the people, and in terms of the thoroughness of the research.
Cullen starts with a second-by-second, shot-by-shot walkthrough of the day itself, then jumps back and forwards in time to show how the killers developed their plan (and there was a plan), and then the police investigated the massacre.
Relying on the huge volume of documentation amassed by the police investigation, extensive interviews with the survivors, investigators and just about anyone connected with the shooting, and most dramatically using Harris and Klebold’s own words from their journals and videos, Cullen is able to reconstruct the entire sequence of events.
He does so in a clinical, unemotional way, but not so distant from the subject as to appear cold and disconnected. Indeed, it’s pretty easy to spot which people he feels the most sympathy for, usually those he has interviewed over and over again in the decade since the shooting. Sometimes he gets a bit too close to these people, and I couldn’t help but feel that they were given a touch too sentimental a going-over, but that’s a minor gripe.
Perhaps the most important part of the book is the debunking of the most commonly held myths surrounding Columbine, and particularly the killers’ motives. They weren’t Nazi-sympathisers, they weren’t outcasts, they weren’t bullied, they weren’t Jock-haters, they weren’t gay, they weren’t part of ‘The Trenchcoat Mafia’, they weren’t Marilyn Manson fans, and they weren’t warped by violent films and video games.
Cullen perhaps lets his mask slip a little when calling out the media for jumping to such conclusions and repeating them ad infinitum until we can no longer think of Columbine without the above mistruths clouding our judgement. He explains why this occurred, but criticises the media for failing to correct themselves as quickly as they spread the rumours.
There was no single cause, nothing on which to hang blame for the massacre, other than the killers themselves. Harris and Klebold, particularly Harris, were fucked up. For want of a better way of describing it, they were born evil. Harris was probably a psychopath, in the clinical sense, and Klebold’s depression manifested itself in fits of rage.
Cullen strains to make the point that the parents aren’t to blame, and nor is anything else. He fully subscribes to the idea that some people are mentally ill in this manner, and some of those people act on their psychopathic impulses with horrifying results.
And the horrors at Columbine could’ve been worse. A lot worse.
I was completely unaware that the entire plan was to blow up the school, and everyone inside it. The guns were to shoot those fleeing the burning building. There were even extra bombs timed to go off in the car park when the police and media arrived.
It was only through the (relative) ineptitude of Harris and Klebold’s bomb-making skills that no more than the 13 died. The plan was to make McVeigh’s exploits look mild in comparison.
And the killing was designed to be indiscriminate. Harris just wanted to kill humans, no matter who they were. They didn’t target jocks, the religious or anyone else. They only targeted everyone.
As Cullen points out, “of course, Eric would enjoy killing jocks, too, along with niggers, spics, fags, and every other group he railed against.” This is probably the most disturbing aspect of the book, that someone can wish death upon every single other person on the planet.
The investigators and the media wanted to leap upon a why for the massacre, but for many years this couldn’t be provided. So many other theories were put forward, as listed above. Maybe the fact that it was indiscriminate killing was too horrifying a theory to put in print, to put into the public consciousness.
Because if it’s indiscriminate, how can we protect against it? That’s a real fear for many people.
I think we forget just how much this event, this massacre, changed society. Yes, something like 9/11 changed air travel and international relations forever, but Columbine created a complete distrust of the younger generation, which has yet to fade. Parents and the elder generation actively fear the young, the teenagers, nowadays.
But if this book does nothing else, it says that you can’t fear a generation, no more than you can fear a race, a kinsfolk, a religion. Certain people are just fucked up, and as much as we try to help them, or to protect against their impact, we can’t do so 100%.
The survivors whose stories are detailed in this book are its saving grace, in terms of a positive message. Almost every single one has grown beyond the effects of the shooting, and not it let define their lives. It brings a tear to your eye to read passages describing someone learning to talk, to walk, to feel again, but they do it.
They do it because they must, because they won’t let the actions of a mad-man dictate their lives for them.
Some do fall into the trap of letting it rule them. One father who lost his son has become a relentless campaigner for not forgiving, for not forgetting, and for pretty much seeking vengeance. His story is sad, to be honest, because he’s lost some of his humanity.
I can’t begin to fully describe the detail that this book goes into, as it is exhaustive. Journals are laid bare, videos are transcribed, police reports are pored over. I doubt that any line in the book hasn’t been fact-checked a hundred times over, and it’s this level of research that gives it its authority.
This is how every single-subject book should be: scholarly, yet journalistic. Detached, yet so vivid in its descriptions and eye for detail that you’re practically inside the heads of each person on the page.
It’s beautiful, but horrifying.
I finally got round to watching Inglourious Basterds yesterday, and it’s a little surprising that it took me so long to do so, given that I’m a huge fan of Tarantino’s work.
Unsurprisingly, Basterds was tremendous. It was witty, violent, intelligent, well-acted and beautifully shot. It had Tarantino trademarks, both visually and in the dialogue, but it also fits nicely within the WWII genre, although with a modern flourish.
The story starts off pretty simply: Brad Pitt’s character leads a team of Jewish American soldiers in Nazi-occupied France, aiming to spread fear by killing as many Nazis as they can in horrific ways. From there, various subplots and twists lead towards a grand finale in Paris, which is a fantastic set-piece.
As ever with a Tarantino film, the plot is sometimes secondary to the dialogue and character interaction. Basterds is very, very talky, and usually not in English. According to the IMDB, only 30% of the dialogue is in English, with French and German the dominant languages. I found it quite amusing to see how the German dialogue was translated in the subtitles, because they’re often saying something subtly different from the translation, resulting in a few untranslated jokes and lines.
Tarantino shows that he is a master of dialogue in whichever language is being used, alternately ratcheting up the tension and providing comic moments. He has a gift for knowing exactly how to set the mood of a scene, and when to turn that scene on its head.
The acting is solid too. I loved Brad Pitt’s ridiculous character, especially in the cinema foyer towards the end of the film. The man has incredible comic timing, but also nails the apathetic, Nazi-hating nature of his character. And that accent? Woah!
The two high-ranking German officers are menacing, clinical, and genuinely scary, as you would expect. Yes, a little bit of a caricature, but then in this film many characters are. Landa in particular is a great example of quiet, psychopathic authority, and someone who you just wouldn’t fuck with.
The rest of the support cast are solid, and I liked BJ Novak’s cameo which comes to the fore towards the end of the film. Daniel Bruhl cements his status as probably the best young German actor around, and Til Schweiger is criminally under-used.
It really is a great film, highly worth seeing. A lot of criticism was directed towards Tarantino after his part of Grindhouse, which I loved, for being a film about essentially nothing, about dialogue more than plot. Basterds has an absolutely rock-solid plot, and it feels as if not a single word is wasted at any point, despite the dialogue being strong and lengthy. It’s all necessary, which some of Grindhouse wasn’t.
Tarantino at his very best? Absolutely.
This week’s Economist is a double-issue for the Christmas period, and in addition to its usual coverage of politics and business, it contains a number of essays and features on slightly off-the-wall topics. Well, relative to its usual content, that is.
There’s a good piece on Socrates and how his methods of debate apply to modern-day USA; an examination of whether progress is really the yardstick to measure by; an attempt to answer the question of which language is the world’s hardest [SPOILER: it’s not !Xóõ].
My favourite piece, however, was an obituary of sorts for the last two British soldiers from World War I, who both died this year. 2009’s Remembrance Sunday was the first with no surviving WWI veterans alive, and this article details how that war has now fully passed from memory to history.
The two soldiers (Harry Patch and Henry Allingham) declined to talk about their experiences until they were over 100 years old, and when they did the images were still incredibly raw. Their thoughts towards war are recorded here, and it is quite choking to read.
Highly recommended, if a little depressing.
NOTE: The article might be behind a paywall. I’m logged in automatically, so not sure which articles are free and which aren’t.
I spotted these random little figures whilst I was out getting lunch earlier. They’re on a building on Hatton Garden, at the corner of St Cross St, and I wondered what they were.
The plaque to the left of the doorway explains that this building used to be a church, and then became a charity-run school at the end of the 17th century. That lasted until WWII when the interior got bombed to pieces. After the war it was rebuilt and converted to offices, but these figures (clothed in scholarly garb) were replaced as a nod to the building’s previous life.
Incidentally, Hatton Garden is one of those weirdly-numbered streets you find from time to time. Most British streets have odd numbers on one side, and even on the other, both increasing in the same direction. Number 1 is opposite 2, 3 opposite 4, and so on.
This street however, counts from 1 to around 60 on one side, then from 61 (ish) upwards on the other in the reverse direction. Number 11 is opposite 108, for example. One of those little oddities…
Thankfully, one area had its own template apology letter which it insisted local officials should send to their hosts after disgracing themselves the night before: Yesterday, having drunk too much, I was intoxicated as to pass all bounds; but none of the rude and coarse language I used was uttered in a conscious state. The next morning, after hearing others speak on the subject, I realised what had happened, whereupon I was overwhelmed with confusion and ready to sink into the earth with shame. Yep, we’ve all been there the morning after: ready to sink into the earth with shame. It’s good to see that over a millennium later, we’re still the same as we ever were. Only now our drunkenness is usually fully documented for posterity as well…
A brief summary: Quarterback: #35, JFK Wide Receiver: #16, Abraham Lincoln Safety: #1, George Washington Memorable Plays QB JFK pulls out a win with a Hail Mary play known as the “Cuban Missle Crisis” Safety Washington takes out King George III’s knees in his signature move, the Cherry Tree WR Lincoln runs the reverse, frees slaves Awesome. I helped with this!!!
Reblogged from: pterodactyls
Originally posted on: Pterodactyls
400 years ago today, Galileo first demonstrated his telescope to a group of merchants, and changed the face of science, religion and society forever.
This year really is one for scientific anniversaries: 400 years since Kepler’s laws of planetary motion; 200 years since Darwin’s birth; 150 years since Origin Of Species; 100 years since the discovery of the magnetic South Pole; 50 years since the first photos of the dark side of the moon.
Just realized that…
in 80 years, we will all be dead and then there will be millions of online accounts (tumblr, flickr, twitter, facebook) that belong to dead people. Just a weird thought.
What strikes me about technology and its use in archiving nowadays is that keeping records of your life for posterity is no longer just for the upper classes. When we look back at history, all of the written records are from the higher echelons of society: Pepys’ Diary, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Byron’s letters, Newton’s notes, etc.
In the modern world, that ability to record has been opened up massively. Yes, more people are literate, but access to the tools has also improved exponentially. There’s still very far to go, in terms of reaching the third world, but that situation will also improve over the next 100 years, to the point where the technology to record our lives is available to all, and will be second-nature.
This also applies to pictorial evidence too: the kind of people that could afford to have themselves immortalised in paintings were kings, queens, barons, noblemen, knights, politicians. Today, I can take a photo of my mate in a pub and it will exist (somewhere) forever. The means to show ourselves to future generations is so simple and cheap nowadays that we will leave a much bigger historical footprint than our ancestors.
[Wow, I really do ramble on sometimes!]
Reblogged from: lacey
Originally posted on: Lacey's tumblr
At this moment, exactly 40 years ago, man first set foot on something other than the planet Earth. Neil Armstrong climbed down the steps of the Eagle and uttered these words, which have now passed into legend:
That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.
I am absolutely fascinated with all things space, and the moon landings are one of my favourite topics. I particularly like reading about the details of contingency plans, such as Richard Nixon’s prepared speech to the nation should the mission fail with Armstrong and Aldrin stranded on the surface.
Another little minor factoid worth pointing out is that the first words spoken after the lunar lander had made contact with the moon’s surface were not the famous “The Eagle has landed”, but a more mundane “Contact light! Okay, engine stop. ACA - out of detent” by Aldrin.
But it’s absolutely unequivocal that Armstrong’s words here were the first spoken by someone physically setting foot on the moon. And what powerful words they are, full of hope and admiration for the achievements behind getting that man to the moon.
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