Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

Mr. Spock, Pseudo-scientist

Wednesday, April 15th, 2020

I’m one of those aging folks who still remember the original run of Star Trek (no colon, no The Original Series or any other kind of elaboration — just Star Trek). It was a groundbreaking show, and whether you like it or not (there are plenty of reasons to do both), it held out a positive vision for the future, and sketched a societal ethos that was not entirely acquisitive, and not even as secular and materialistic as later outings in the Star Trek franchise. The officers of the Enterprise were not latter-day conquistadors. They were genuine explorers, with a Prime Directive to help them avoid destroying too many other nascent cultures. (Yes, I know: they violated it very frequently, but that was part of the point of the story. Sometimes there was even a good reason for doing so.)

It also offered the nerds among us a point of contact. Sure, Captain Kirk was kind of a cowboy hero, galloping into situations with fists swinging and phasers blazing, and, more often than not, reducing complex situations to polar binaries and then referring them either to fisticuffs or an outpouring of excruciatingly impassioned rhetoric. Dr. McCoy, on the other hand, was the splenetic physician, constantly kvetching about everything he couldn’t fix, and blaming people who were trying to work the problem for not being sensitive enough to be as ineffectual as he was. But Mr. Spock (usually the object of McCoy’s invective) was different. He was consummately cool, and he relied upon what he called Logic (I’m sure it had a capital “L” in his lexicon) for all his decision-making. He was the science officer on the Enterprise, and also the first officer in the command structure. Most of the more technically savvy kids aspired to be like him.

It was an article of faith that whatever conclusions Spock reached were, because he was relying on Logic, logical. They were the right answer, too, unless this week’s episode was explicitly making a concession to the value of feelings over logic (which happened occasionally, but not often enough to be really off-putting), and they could be validated by science and reason. You can’t argue with facts. People who try are doomed to failure, and their attempt is at best a distraction, and often worse. 

Up to that point, I am more or less on board, though I was always kind of on the periphery of the nerd cluster, myself. I suspected then (as I still do) that there are things that logic (with an upper-case or a lower-case L) or mathematics cannot really address. Certainly not everything is even quantifiable. But it was the concept of significant digits that ultimately demolished, for me, Mr. Spock’s credibility as a science officer. When faced with command decisions, he usually did reasonably well, but when pontificating on mathematics, he really did rather badly. (Arguably he was exactly as bad at it as some of the writers of the series. Small wonder: see the Sherlock Holmes Law, which I’ve discussed here previously.)

The concept of significant digits (or figures) is really a simple one, though its exact specifications involve some fussy details. Basically it means that you can’t make your information more accurate merely by performing arithmetic on it. (It’s more formally explained here on Wikipedia.) By combining a number of things that you know only approximately and doing some calculations on them, you’re not going to get a more accurate answer: you’re going to get a less accurate one. The uncertainty of each of those terms or factors will increase the uncertainty of the whole.

So how does Spock, for all his putative scientific and logical prowess, lose track of this notion, essential to any kind of genuine scientific thinking? In the first-season episode “Errand of Mercy”, he has a memorable exchange with Kirk: 

Kirk: What would you say the odds are on our getting out of here?

Spock: Difficult to be precise, Captain. I should say approximately 7,824.7 to 1.

Kirk: Difficult to be precise? 7,824 to 1?

Spock: 7,824.7 to 1.

Kirk: That’s pretty close approximation.

Spock: I endeavor to be accurate.

Kirk: You do quite well.

No, he doesn’t do quite well. He does miserably: he has assumed in his runaway calculations that the input values on which he bases this fantastically precise number are known to levels of precision that could not possibly be ascertained in the real world, especially in the middle of a military operation — even a skirmish in which all the participants and tactical elements are known in detail (as they are not here).  The concept of the “fog of war” has something to say about how even apparent certainties can quickly degrade, in the midst of battle, into fatal ignorance. Most of the statistical odds for this kind of thing couldn’t be discovered by any rational means whatever.

Precision and accuracy are not at all the same thing. Yes, you can calculate arbitrarily precise answers based on any data, however precise or imprecise the data may be. Beyond the range of its significant digits, however, this manufactured precision is worse than meaningless: it conveys fuzzy knowledge as if it were better understood than it really is. It certainly adds nothing to the accuracy of the result, and only a terrible scientist would assume that it did. Spock’s answer is more precise, therefore, than “about 8000 to one”, but it’s less accurate, because it suggests that the value is known to a much higher degree of precision than it possibly could be. Even “about 8000 to one” is probably not justifiable, given what the characters actually know. (It’s also kind of stupid, in the middle of a firefight, to give your commanding officer gratuitously complex answers to simple questions: “Exceedingly poor,” would be more accurate and more useful.

This has not entirely escaped the fan community, of course: “How many Vulcans does it take to change a lightbulb?” is answered with, “1.000000”. This is funny, because it is, for all its pointless precision, no more accurate than “one”, and in no situations would fractional persons form a meaningful category when it comes to changing light bulbs. (Fractional persons might be valid measurements in other contexts — for example, in a cannibalistic society. Don’t think about it too hard.) 

Elsewhere in the series, too, logic is invoked as a kind of deus ex machina — something to which the writer of the episode could appeal to justify any decision Mr. Spock might come up with, irrespective of whether it was reasonable or not. Seldom (I’m inclined to say never, but I’m not going to bother to watch the whole series over again just to verify the fact) are we shown the operation of even one actual logical operation.

The structures of deductive reasoning (logic’s home turf) seldom have a great deal to do with science, in any case. Mathematical procedures are typically deductive. Some philosophical disciplines, including traditional logic, are too. Physical science, however, is almost entirely inductive. In induction, one generalizes tentatively from an accumulation of data; such collections of data are seldom either definitive or complete. Refining hypotheses as new information comes to light is integral to the scientific process as it’s generally understood. The concept of significant digits is only one of those things that helps optimize our induction.

Odds are a measure of ignorance, not knowledge. They do not submit to purely deductive analysis. For determinate events, there are no odds. Something either happens or it doesn’t, Mr. Spock notwithstanding. However impossibly remote it might have seemed yesterday, the meteorite that actually landed in your back yard containing a message from the Great Pumpkin written in Old Church Slavonic now has a probability of 100% if it actually happened. If it didn’t, its probability is zero. There are no valid degrees between the two.

Am I bashing Star Trek at this point? Well, maybe a little. I think they had an opportunity to teach an important concept, and they blew it. It would have been really refreshing (and arguably much more realistic) to have Spock occasionally say, “Captain, why are you asking me this? You know as well as I do that we can’t really know that, because we have almost no data,” or “Well, I can compute an answer of 28.63725, but it has a margin of error in the thousands, so it’s not worth relying upon.” Obviously quiet data-gathering is not the stuff of edge-of-the-seat television. I get that. But it’s what the situation really would require. (Spock, to his credit, often says, “It’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before,” but that’s usually just prior to his reaching another unsubstantiated conclusion about it.)

I do think, however, that the Star Trek promotion of science as an oracular fount of uncontested truth — a myth that few real scientists believe, but a whole lot of others (including certain scientistic pundits one could name) do believe — is actively pernicious. It oversells and undercuts the legitimate prerogatives of science, and in the long run undermines our confidence in what it actually can do well. There are many things in this world that we don’t know. Some of the things we do know are even pretty improbable.  Some very plausible constructs, on the other hand, are in fact false. I’m all in favor of doing our best to find out, and of relying on logical inference where it’s valid, but it’s not life’s deus ex machina. At best, it’s a machina ex Deo: the exercise of one — but only one — of our God-given capacities. Like most of them, it should be used responsibly, and in concert with the rest.

Do you still have that old double-dactyl thing…?

Monday, May 7th, 2012

Okay…now for something a mite silly. Of the various things I’ve published in one medium or another over the years, the one that people still e-mail me asking about is not actually anything serious — but this. It’s not widely available any more, so I thought I’d put it where those who want it can find it. It may also give my students in Latin IV and Western Literature to Dante something to chuckle at. I submitted it to a list of Latinists back in 1995, in response to a double-dactyl contest that had been announced there. For those who were looking for it, here it is. For those who just stumbled on it, I hope you enjoy it. For those who consider me humorless…perhaps you’re right. For those who find it out of place in this serious context…well, flip ahead to the next item or back to the last one…


I realize that the deadline for the double-dactyl competition has come and gone. I also realize that these do not qualify as Proper Double-Dactyls because:

a) there is an irregular overlapping of the sense occasionally into the first verse, which is properly off-limits to all but the obligatory nonsense, and

b) I have dispensed summarily (though, I think, for good cause) with the placement of a name in the second line of every stanza (a concession that cost three permanent punches on my poetic license — but I suspect it’s about to be revoked anyway).

Nevertheless, they do preserve the other features of the form, and constitute a cycle, as it were, of Almost-proper Double-Dactyls, maintaining a one-to-one correspondence of stanza to book of the Aeneid, something that has not, to my knowledge, been attempted before. One wonders why.

Their propriety on other, less formal, grounds, I decline to consider, and encourage the reader to do the same. The fact that they are only slightly and/or obscurely salacious (and not at all vicious) will strike some as a virtue, others as a deficiency; it is, for the time being, an unalterable function of my own mild and retiring nature. I must accordingly leave it to my readers to pronounce on the eligibility of these nugae for admission to the elect and spiritually rarefied company of classic double-dactyls.

To do so will of course require a certain amount of imaginative energy, since the corpus comprises so few real classics. The same task has already caused some discomfort for the author. Though one is inevitably stimulated by the freedom of a new species of verse, still it is a pity that this one is itself so young and its traditions so relatively slight, and there are so few verses eligible for allusive parody. We must manufacture them by exercising the power of hypothesis to — nay, beyond — its furthest reasonable extent. Then, what wonders emerge! Who can imagine what an Archilochus could have done with so potent a form in a siege: who can doubt that he would have reduced whole poleis by suicide, making that cast-off shield of his unnecessary? What clear little rivulets might Callimachus not have fashioned on this irrational bipedal Parnassus? What ripe mysteries could not Sappho have enclosed within the ambit of the Aeolic Iggledy Piggledy?

And yet my particular undertaking here is an epic one, and of a Latinate mold as well. It presumes (for sake of argument) all those Hellenic and Hellenistic antecedents and more. It presumes as well an entire early history of Latin double-dactyls, and invites us to suppose them as we may. It is obvious on reflection, surely, that the twelve thousand Ennian double-dactyls that never made it into Warmington’s collection would have afforded an unparallelled mine of six-syllable words, elaborately compounded by insertion, one into another. It seems similarly apparent that Lucretius could have written double-dactyls without much altering his general procedure at all. And imagine, for a moment, the Catullan hexasyllabic in all of its pumicexpolitous glory — darkly ironic and bitterly playful. What a lot we have lost to the fact that the double-dactyl was not contrived sooner. I like to think that these very verses here presented (rendered dashingly into Latin, of course) would have afforded Vergil himself a quicker and easier, if not a better, recusatio when pestered by Augustus to produce an epic. Surely the Princeps would have known better than to ask for more. And this is but the beginning. What could the Nachleben of such a work have been? Would Augustine have wept over the fourth double-dactyl? I think not. He’d have had to confess other things. Would Dante have sought another guide, or would the Divine Comedy have been much more comedic, and much less divine?

Be that as it may, it is our mortal lot to patch up as we can the deficiencies of the past, and to this mighty and thankless work I have here set my hand. Lest I appear a mere Johnny-come-lately to this particular area of historical repair, I hasten to point out that the first version of this nugatory opus had in fact been completed before I learned of the similar (and wholly admirable) efforts of some of my colleagues to render the Iliad into limericks. It seems fitting, though, that whereas that has been an accretive product of many authors’ labors (one might say an instance of traditional poetry, growing in our midst, even while we debate whether such a thing is possible), my contribution, like the poem on which it is modeled, is the product of a single vision, howso astigmatic: which is to say, I bear the blame for it entirely myself. That its relationship to its model is one of Very Free Interpretation is granted, and need not, I think, be pointed out in any critical essays; note of all other defects, real or imagined, should be carefully written down and sent to dev.null@nowhere.edu, where they will receive the attention they deserve. In conclusion, I should also warn one and all that any attempt at Deconstruction by anyone anywhere, with or without the proper credentials, will be vigorously resisted to the fullest extent permitted under the prevailing laws.

Which being said, for the amusement of those of my fellow Latinists still possessed of a sense of the absurd (which, given the state of the discipline, must be most of us), I offer the following:


Aeneas Reductus,
or,
The Epick Taym’d

            I.
Arma virumque ca-
nobody’s suffered as
pius Aeneas, the
      Trojan, has done:
so he tells Dido, that
Carthagenetical
Tyrian princess and
      bundle of fun.

            II.
“Arma virumque, ca-
cophonous noises came
down through the floor of a
      large wooden horse;
that night all Hellas broke
pyromaniacally
loose, wrecking Troy, sealing
      Helen’s divorce.

            III.
“Arma virumque, ca-
lamitous ruin has
followed me everywhere,
      run me to ground;
now I, across the whole
Mediterranean,
find myself searching for
      something to found.”

            IV.
Arma virumque, Ca-
lypso had no better
luck when she tried to keep
      arms on her man;
Dido does dire deeds
autophoneutical
(Suicide’s shorter, but
      it wouldn’t scan).

            V.
Arma virumque, ca-
priciously Juno has
fired up the blighters to
      burn all the ships;
pius Aeneas says
(labiorigidly):
“Build some new galleys, guys:
      then — watch your slips.”

            VI.
Arma virumque, ca-
no one expects to get
out when they once have gone
      down into hell;
heroes, though, packing a
patrioracular
promise, appear to come
      through it quite well.

            VII.
Arma virumque, ca-
tastrophe hatches to
cancel the wedding — a
      hitch in the plan:
Turnus, the mettlesome
Rutuliprincipal
lad, grows so mad as to
      nettle our man.

            VIII.
Arma virumque, ca-
nonical topics: a
good man, Evander, now
      enters the field;
Venus grows fretful, and
matriprotectively
calling on Vulcan, buys
      sonny a shield.

            IX.
Arma virumque, can-
tankerous Turnus tries
storming the camp — hopes to
      clean up the plains;
Nisus and Co., caught in
noctiprogredient
slaughters, are slaughtered in
      turn for their pains.

            X.
Arma virumque, (ca-
tharsis unbounded!) young
Pallas, Evander’s son
      buys it, poor pup;
Venus’s son fixes
responsibility —
sees that the prime bounder’s
      number is up.

            XI.
Arma virumque, Ca-
milla the Volscian
makes for the Latins a
      splendid last stand;
leaving a legacy
axiomatical:
“Trust no Etruscan who’s
      eyeing your land.”

            XII.
Arma virumque: can
’neas put Pallas’s
fall from his mind, sweeten
      bitter with verse? —
“But that reminds me…” — so,
semperspontaneous,
he does to Turnus two
      turns for the worse.

Copyright © 1995, Bruce A. McMenomy