Adam Gopnik on Stories & Science

Good science is more like Proust than Mr. Popper’s Penguins; its stories startle us with their strangeness, but they intrigue us by their originality, and end by rewarding us with the truth, after an effort. It is the shock good stories offer to our expectations, not some sop they offer to our pieties, that makes tales tally, and makes comtes count. The story that tells us only that we like all kinds of stories lacks that excitement, that exclusionary power, which is the only thing that makes us want to hear stories at all.

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/05/can-science-explain-why-we-tell-stories.html#ixzz1vheSMDdd

"I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in and stops my mind from wandering..."

In "Social Animal: How the new sciences of human nature can help make sense of a life" in the 17 January issue of the New Yorker, David Brooks writes:

"Brain science helps fill the hole left by the atrophy of theology and philosophy."

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[Post title refers to this.]

A Maxim (for the new year)

A Maxim

by Carl Dennis, printed in The New Yorker, June 7, 2010

To live each day as if it might be the last

Is an injunction that Marcus Aurelius

Inscribes in his journal to remind himself

That he, too, however privileged, is mortal,

That whatever bounty is destined to reach him

Has reached him already, many times.

But if you take his maxim too literally

And devote your mornings to tinkering with your will,

Your afternoons and evenings to saying farewell

To friends and family, you’ll come to regret it.

Soon your lawyer won’t fit you into his schedule.

Soon your dear ones will hide in a closet

When they hear your heavy step on the porch.

And then your house will slide into disrepair.

If this is my last day, you’ll say to yourself,

Why waste time sealing drafts in the window frames

Or cleaning gutters or patching the driveway?

If you don’t want your heirs to curse the day

You first opened Marcus’s journals,

Take him simply to mean you should find an hour

Each day to pay a debt or forgive one,

Or write a letter of thanks or apology.

No shame in leaving behind some evidence

You were hoping to live beyond the moment.

No shame in a ticket to a concert seven months off,

Or, better yet, two tickets, as if you were hoping

To meet by then someone who’d love to join you,

Two seats near the front so you catch each note.

More poems by Carl Dennis in The New Yorker.