Fire and Knowledge

John Adams by David McCullough

I read this book from January 15 – 29, 2005. It was one of the most enjoyable and informative books I have read this year. I was never a history buff and always did poor in history classes during school–it never interested me. But this book helped raise my interest in history and introduced me to a slew of other historians. But most of all, it put flesh and bones on the Founding Fathers. They were people who were not perfect and had less than perfect ideas. After reading this book, I felt for the first time that I understood the basic formations of American ideology—a sad case for someone who had been in American education for 15 years!

And with that, I leave you with the publisher’s description:

In this powerful, epic biography, David McCullough unfolds the adventurous life-journey of John Adams, the brilliant, fiercely independent, often irascible, always honest Yankee patriot who spared nothing in his zeal for the American Revolution; who rose to become the second President of the United States and saved the country from blundering into an unnecessary war; who was learned beyond all but a few and regarded by some as “out of his senses”; and whose marriage to the wise and valiant Abigail Adams is one of the moving love stories in American history.

This is history on a grand scale — a book about politics and war and social issues, but also about human nature, love, religious faith, virtue, ambition, friendship, and betrayal, and the far-reaching consequences of noble ideas. Above all, John Adams is an enthralling, often surprising story of one of the most important and fascinating Americans who ever lived.

Available Editions (Amazon): Paperback | Hardback

Available Editions (BookCloseouts 68-74% off!): Paperback | Hardback

Here is John Marstall’s response–and a most excellent response it is.

For those just jumping in, here are the previous links:

• John’s Article: A Word Wrapped in Light
• My First Thoughts on His Article
• John’s Comment and My First Response
• John’s First Response [you are here]
• My Second Response
• John’s Second Response
• My Final Response

John’s Response

Josh,

This is exactly the kind of discussion I was intending to provoke. Thanks for taking the time to consider my argument at length and present these counterpoints.

I want to reiterate that I am, in fact, very sympathetic to Postman’s emphasis on the value of the written and spoken word. I said that I don’t disagree with Postman in general, and I stand by that. Imagery typically does not inhabit the same realm of discourse as do typography and the spoken word. What I am offering, or attempting to offer, is not a refutation of that claim but an exception. The reach of this exception is not yet fully understood. It may be a small exception, or it may turn out to be quite large. Either way, I do not consider myself to be overthrowing Postman’s arguments — because, in general, his concern for well-reasoned discourse is an excellent rule of thumb. (As you point out, we could not be having this discussion in icons; at least, not with the present state of visual language being what it is.)

If I were feeling very ambitious, I might choose to quibble just a bit with the claim that the illiterate cannot be as rational and intellectual as persons of letters. Reason is not a product of any communication medium or technology; it is something innately human, and I would want to believe that thoughtful individuals in pre-literate societies were every bit as capable of forming and comprehending arguments as any professor of literature is today. Of course, the illiterate still have access to the tools of spoken language; but even acknowledging that, I would want to assert that reason is the underlying faculty, and is expressed or worked out in the form of language. I expect you would probably agree with this; I am simply adding a clarification to your claim.

This clarification becomes important when we shift from thinking about human words to considering the divine Word. The original Greek expression, used of Jesus, is actually logos ; which means something like “reason” or “ordering principle,” — not necessarily a spoken utterance or set of written symbols per se. I mention this because the truth of Jesus-as-the-Word is sometimes heralded as a basis for bibliocentrism, or book-centeredness, when in my opinion it simply doesn’t require that. It points strongly to logocentrism, sure — but in the sense of logos as reason and not merely as certain word forms. The early church, after all, did quite well in its limited literacy.

Note also that Jesus is the Word incarnate; as God’s first and final Word to us, it’s worth pointing out that Jesus was visible as well as audible. He could be perceived as a body; but more than that, he could be witnessed as an actor in history. His actions told us something about God, even without verbal articulation. Something akin to this kind of signification is what I have in mind when I am working in the realm of icons — demonstrative, rather than expository.

However, if this is true, something is wrong with your assertion that only words can communicate propositional content. Jesus proposed a way of life in the way that he lived. Intentionally or not, I do this for my own friends and for my children. You are doing it every day for the people around you. Choosing one course of action over another means that you put your stamp of approval on that choice; it is a message in a wordless medium, and it’s a far from insignificant part of what we “say” to others. The proposition expressed is, “This is the way to live.”

What I am suggesting is the possibility of meaningful communication without an easily identifiable syntax. However, you can reject this possibility and still agree that visual language can be cognitive. This is because there is an identifiable syntax in visual language. I went over a few examples in my article, but I’ll just reiterate one: The largest part of the icon is the most conceptually central. Smaller parts represent concepts which modify or derive from the main element. Analogously, we can think of these as icon “subjects” and “predicates,” though I expect the comparison is not exact. The example I gave was two inverted icons: one a larger document “badged” with a smaller person, or user; and the other a larger user badged with a smaller document.

These two icons, while composed of the same images, mean demonstrably different things. In fact, when I first posted my article, I had accidentally reversed the two images. So in my exposition I was referring to the first icon as if it were the second, and vice versa. The interpretations I offered for each design were therefore incorrect — and one of my readers recognized the error. This person wrote to say that my explanations of the icons were completely wrong, and hadn’t I got something reversed? Indeed, that was exactly the case; and I was able to correct my mistake. What’s extremely interesting about this exchange is that we both knew I had made a mistake. We both recognized that the visual configurations required different meanings than the ones I had apparently offered.

In short, we both recognized the same visual syntax.

Now, if this is true, then most of your counter-argument is based on a wrong assumption. You wrote:

“1) they [images] do not have syntax, therefore 2) they cannot communicate propositional truth which 3) makes it impossible to refute any assertions, because it does not have assertions. And without making assertions, 4) they cannot communicate anything abstractly. Hence images 5) do not cultivate the “higher reasoning” skills that words do.”

I agree with the logic of your deductions there (with the possible exception of deriving #2 from #1, as above); but I deny that the initial premise is actually true. Images certainly can have a syntax, and — in the case of icons — probably often do. That this syntax is less well understood than written or spoken syntax does not mean it isn’t there. It simply means designers and academics have their work cut out for them in taking visual language further. We need to explore what areas might be well-served by ideography; and what areas will always require verbal discourse. We need to catalog what visual language conventions are already well-established, and guide new ones into common usage. For me, this is something of an exciting new frontier. The endeavor may well not go anywhere; but then again, it might.

That there can be a syntax to ideography also suggests the possibility of visual abstraction. You quote a passage from Amusing Ourselves to Death, concerning the particularity of images. In it, Postman says, “Photography is a language that speaks only in particularities. Its vocabulary of images is limited to concrete representation. Unlike words and sentences, the photograph does not present to us an idea or concept about the world, except as we use language itself to convert the image to idea.” (Later in the passage, Postman seems to show he is talking about imagery in general, with photography acting as a representation of a wider medium.)

I find this to be a remarkably weak argument, and I wonder if it only makes sense to Postman because he is so committed to the superiority of spoken and written discourse. It is definitely true that one can take a photograph of that tree or that person, and mean nothing more by the result than a suggestion of the specific thing itself. However, it’s also true that we use images to stand in for general classes of things all the time. The geometric woman leading her angular child by the hand on the roadsign seen at a school crossing is not intended to refer to any particular mother, nor the child to any particular student. These objects simply mean “parent” and “child,” and are easily understood in that general sense. This, of course, is the kind of abstract communication icon designers engage in every day.

(Nor are photographs excluded from working in this way. I often see photos of mountains or trees located in other areas of the world and, having no idea where the photograph was taken, understand the subjects as “mountains” or “trees.” One also sees photos of crowds meant to stand in for “people,” “mankind,” “diversity,” “community,” and so on. Photos of businesspeople are used to suggest “the business world.” In fact, this is exactly the kind of use for which stock photography exists. The particular subject is interchangeable; it’s the concept that the user of such photos is after. That the intended meaning suggests itself as a range of ideas rather than as a single word is unproblematic — that’s simply the difference between an ideogram and a logogram. This use of images of particular things in abstract ways seems to me to be such a commonplace occurrence as to be incontrovertible.)

This brings us to your assertion that “There is no possible way that an icon representing truth can match a propositional statement of what truth is.” However, I’m pretty sure I made a good stab at doing exactly that. You may contend that my propositional statement was wrong, or that I articulated it badly. Nonetheless, the proposition I was putting forward, visually, seems to me to be very obvious from the art. The design is a larger triangle, with latitudinal and longitudinal lines — such as one would see on a globe — accompanied by a smaller copy of the same, appearing to rise from the original.

The intended proposition, of course, is none other than the very quote you drew from Phiip Kenneson: “Truth is merely the word for the way the world really is, which we are trying to picture or mirror with our knowledge.”

Thanks again for your thoughtful response.

John

For those just jumping in, here are the previous links:

• John’s Article: A Word Wrapped in Light
• My First Thoughts on His Article
• John’s Comment and My First Response [you are here]
• John’s First Response
• My Second Response
• John’s Second Response
• My Final Response

Yesterday, John Marstall responded to a brief commentary I made regarding his article “A Word Wrapped in Light.”  Since my response to his comment ended up being quite longer than I expected, I have decided to make it it’s own entry instead of replying as another comment.

John Marstall is an exceptionally talented icon designer and currently works at Firewheel Design.

John’s Comment

Hi Josh,

Thanks for mentioning my article. I hoped to make it clear that I wasn’t disagreeing with Postman in general; just questioning the sharp dichotomy that he (and others) assume between image and type.

I’m sure I don’t "understand the epistemology" fully, but it’s something I’m very interested in. (Epistemology was a focus of mine in my university philosophy studies.) I’d be interested to hear what you think is lacking in the argument. Feel free to email me or post a follow-up, if you like.

Thanks,

John Marstall

My Reply

John,

Thank you for your charitable response to my off-the-cuff commentary to your article.  It was not meant to be a comprehensive response, just a first reaction, as I am sure you can tell by my lack of detail.

In looking over your article a second time, I must say that I am impressed with the depth of insight you write with.  I also enjoyed the occasional humor.  It is a very well written  and well reasoned article.

In your comment on my site, you remarked:

I hoped to make it clear that I wasn’t disagreeing with Postman in general; just questioning the sharp dichotomy that he (and others) assume between image and type.

My response to this would simply be that questioning the epistemological differences between typography and imagery would be disagreeing with Postman in general (and specifically), since he goes to great lengths in all of his works to show that imagery and typography do not inhabit the same universe of discourse. In one such paragraph, explains:

Almost all of the characteristics we associate with mature discourse were amplified by typography, which has the strongest possible bias towards exposition: a sophisticated ability to think conceptually, deductively and sequentially; a high valuation of reason and order; and abhorrence of contradiction; a large capacity for detachment and objectivity; and a tolerance for delayed response. (Posman, Neil.  Amusing Ourselves to Death, pg. 63)

In other words, without a foundation of typography (without which your argument could not have been developed in the first place) people are not as rational and intellectual as they would be if they had a strong foundation of typography.  Postman argues this magnificently in Amusing Ourselves to Death, which has convinced me in what I am arguing for now.

You asked what I thought was lacking in your argument.  My response would be that I think the article is very well argued, but my main concern is that you do not interact with the full-force argument that Postman has make in his works.  That is significant to me, since Postman has expertly argued for the view that when the word is exalted, reason is exalted; when imagery is exalted, frivolousness is exalted.  He would also argue that we are regressing back into an oral and imagery-based culture, which has resulted in the flowering of "show business" and amusement to which has brought us to the brink of killing the progress we have made through the printed word.

So, with that in mind, I would argue that even though icons do make people "think" to some extent (and I mostly agree with your assessment there) there is still the epistemological bias of images to deal with.  That is, 1) they do not have syntax, therefore 2) they cannot communicate propositional truth which 3) makes it impossible to refute any assertions, because it does not have assertions. And without making assertions, 4) they cannot communicate anything abstractly.  Hence images 5) do not cultivate the "higher reasoning" skills that words do.

That doesn’t mean you are making people stupid.  Most of them already are stupid due to our cultural regression.  Icons may be the best medium to communicate something in a computer interface.  But that doesn’t mean icons should be placed on the same pedestal as words. Asking questions that deal with the benefits and purpose of the technology would be helpful here.  For instance, what is the purpose of this computer interface in the first place?  How is it helping people?  Is it only because it makes something quicker and more efficient?  Is making something quicker and more efficient beneficial to society?  How?  Are the icons communicating better than words?  Why?  Is it only because it looks better?  Takes up less space?  Easier to comprehend?  There are not always easy answers (or answers at all) to such questions.

To take the questions back even further, I quote Postman.  He lists his own questions regarding information and its usage:

What is information?  Or more precisely, what are information?  What are its various forms?  What conceptions of intelligence, wisdom, and learning does each form insist upon?  What conceptions does each form neglect or mock?  What are the main psychic defects of each form?  What is the relation between information and reason?  What is the kind of information that best facilitates thinking?  Is there a moral bias to each information form?  What does it mean to say that there is too much information?  How would one know?  What redefinitions of important cultural meanings do new sources, speeds, contexts, and forms of information require?  Does television, for example, give a new meaning to "piety," to "patriotism," to "privacy"?  Does television give a new meaning to "judgment" or to "understanding"?  How do different forms of information persuade?  Is a newspaper’s "public" [and we should add Internet’s "public"] different from television’s "public?  How do different information forms dictate the type of content that is expressed? (Amusing Ourselves to Death, pg. 160)

Let me be more specific to the article now.  In it you said:

As you might imagine, we do not think the dichotomy succeeds. We disagree with the notion that images cannot be as cognitive as written words. In our work, we have found that images have a tremendous capacity for conveying content. [emphasis mine]

You are saying two different things here (which I have emphasized by italics), one that I agree with and one that I disagree. I agree with "images have a tremendous capacity for conveying content."  We may disagree about what kind of content is conveyed, but I do think that images can convey content—otherwise they would be useless.  However, I disagree with the idea that "images [can] be as cognitive as written words."  The keyword there is "as."  That is incorrect.  Postman is worth quoting at length here because he goes right to the root of this:

Photography [we could substitute “imagery” for “photography” throughout this quote] and writing (in fact, language in any form) do not inhabit the same universe of discourse. . . .

Photography is a language that speaks only in particularities.  Its vocabulary of images is limited to concrete representation. Unlike words and sentences, the photograph does not present to us an idea or concept about the world, except as we use language itself to convert the image to idea.  By itself, a photograph cannot deal with the unseen, the remote, the internal, the abstract.  It does not speak of “man,” only of a man; not of “tree,” only of a tree.  You cannot produce a photograph of “nature,” any more than a photograph of “the sea.”  You can only photograph a particular fragment of the here-and-now—a cliff of a certain terrain, in a certain condition of light; a wave at a moment in time, from a particular point of view.

And just as “nature” and “the sea” cannot be photographed, such larger abstractions as truth, honor, love, falsehood cannot be talked about in the lexicon of pictures.  For “showing of” and “talking about” are two very different kinds of processes.  “Pictures,” Gavriel Solomon has written, “need to be recognized, words need to be understood.”  By this he means that the photograph presents the world as object; language, the world as idea.

For even the simplest act of naming a thing is an act of thinking—of comparing one thing with others, selecting certain features in common.  Ignoring what is different, and making an imaginary category.  There is no such thing in nature as “man” or “tree.”  The universe offers no such categories or simplifications; only flux and infinite variety.  The photograph documents celebrates the particularities of this infinite variety.  Language makes them comprehensible.

The photograph also lacks a syntax, which deprives it of a capacity to argue with the world . . . . Its testimony is powerful but it offers no opinions. . . .  Photography is preeminently a world of fact, not of dispute about facts or of conclusions to be drawn from them.  But this is not to say photography lacks an epistemological bias. . . . The photograph itself makes no arguable propositions, makes no extended and unambiguous commentary.  It offers no assertions to refute, so it is not refutable. . . .

The new imagery [the fierce assault on language made by forms of mechanically reproduced imagery that spread unchecked throughout American culture], with photography at its forefront, did not merely function as a supplement to language, but bid to replace it as our dominant means for construing, understanding, and testing reality. . . . The new focus on the image undermined traditional definitions of information, of news, and, to a large extent, of reality itself. . . . the picture forced exposition into the background, and in some instances obliterated it altogether.  By the end of the nineteenth century, advertisers and newspapermen had discovered that a picture was not only worth a thousand words, but, where sales were concerned, was better.  For countless Americans, seeing, not reading, became the basis for believing. (Amusing Ourselves to Death, pg. 71-74)

This is seen most clearly in your example of "truth" with an icon.  There is no possible way that an icon representing truth can match a propositional statement of what truth is.  Consider the following five definitions of truth:

To say of what is, that it is not, or of what is not, that it is, is false; while to say of what it is, that it is, and of what is not, that is not, is true. (Aristotle)

Man is the measure of all things. (Protagoras)

What then is truth? A movable host of metaphors, metonymies, and; anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed, canonical, and binding. (Friedrich Nietzsche)

Truth is merely the word for the way the world really is, which we are trying to picture or mirror with our knowledge. (Philip Kenneson)

Truth is a property of propositions that correspond to the way things are. (Ronald Nash)

There is no way that an icon can convey that kind of cognitive information—unless one already has read and understood the definitions—and then it can only “be recognized”—it is not conveying abstract thought but only the symbol of it (and it is beside the point to ask which definition the symbol might refer to).  Therefore, the icon simply comes alongside of the foundation of the word and represents it.  The icon conveys content (a better term might be “symbolizes content”), but surely the icon does not contain the same cognitive ideas as a written statement.

So that would be my main concern regarding what you are saying.  I think I would agree with much of what you said based on "images have a tremendous capacity for conveying content."  It is when you say they are "as cognitive as written words" is where I draw the line and cannot agree.

That being said, I continue to believe that your article is helpful in many ways to other designers and how they think about imagery.  I thank you for putting your time and energy into it and hope you will consider thinking about this topic more and perhaps even write another article or two about it!

Most Respectfully,

Josh Sowin

Today, dear readers, I give you a delightful (as delightful as a story of a madman can be) short story. It is from The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club by Charles Dickens. It should be noted that Dickens wrote this when he was twenty-four years old. He was a genius. Enjoy!

A Madman’s Manuscript

“Yes! — a madman’s! How that word would have struck to my heart, many years ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me sometimes; sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright! I like it now though. It’s a fine name. Shew me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of a madman’s eye — whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a madman’s grip. Ho! ho! It’s a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at like a wild lion through the iron bars — to gnash one’s teeth and howl, through the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain — and to roll and twine among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah for the madhouse! Oh, it’s a rare place!

“I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used to start from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared from the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merriment or happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood, and the marrow of my bones; that one generation had passed away without the pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it would revive. I knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and so it ever would be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded room, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I knew they were telling each other of the doomed madman; and I slunk away again to mope in solitude.

“I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here are long sometimes — very long; but they are nothing to the restless nights, and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember them. Large dusky forms with sly and jeering faces crouched in the corners of the room, and bent over my bed at night, tempting me to madness. They told me in low whispers, that the floor of the old house in which my father’s father died, was stained with his own blood, shed by his own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one generation before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived for years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent his tearing himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth — I knew it well. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha! ha! I was too cunning for them, madman as they thought me.

“At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared it. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trick I was playing them after their old pointing and leering, when I was not mad, but only dreading that I might one day become so! And how I used to laugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how well I kept my secret, and how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me, if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would have turned, and how fast he would have run, if he had known that the dear friend who sat close to him, sharpening a bright glittering knife, was a madman with all the power, and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, it was a merry life!

“Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasures enhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept secret. I inherited an estate. The law — the eagle-eyed law itself — had been deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman’s hands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Where the dexterity of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? The madman’s cunning had over-reached them all.

“I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I was praised! How those three proud overbearing brothers humbled themselves before me! The old white-headed father, too — such deference — such respect — such devoted friendship — he worshipped me! The old man had a daughter, and the young men a sister; and all the five were poor. I was rich; and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of her needy relatives, as they thought of their well-planned scheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! To laugh outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.

“Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister’s happiness against her husband’s gold. The lightest feather I blow into the air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body!

“In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been mad — for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered sometimes — I should have known that the girl would rather have been placed, stiff and cold in a dull leaden coffin, than borne an envied bride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heart was with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her troubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve the poverty of the old white-headed man, and the haughty brothers.

“I don’t remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long black hair, which streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or close. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down — that form is her’s; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but I know them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago — it comes fresh from the grave; and is so very death-like.

“For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendour in which she lived; — I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power, whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied — yes, I pitied — the wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not live long, but the thought that before her death she might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.

“For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire. A fine sight the grand house in flames, and the madman’s wife smouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too, and of some sane man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and all through a madman’s cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin bright edge would make!

At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had been weeping; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started — it was only a passing dream. I leant forward again. She screamed, and woke.

“One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I know not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sunk upon the ground.

“Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance.

“They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.

“Doctors were called in — great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bed-side for weeks. They had a great meeting, and consulted together in low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest and most celebrated among them, took me aside, and bidding me prepare for the worst, told me — me, the madman! — that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my arm. With one effort, I could have hurled him into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place her under some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. I! I went into the open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my shouts!

“She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, ’till the tears came into my eyes.

“But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me when I was alone, at home, jump and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and no one knew I was a madman yet.

“I remember — though it’s one of the last things I can remember: for now I mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange confusion in which they get involved — I remember how I let it out at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched fist into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when I think of it. There — see how this iron bar bends beneath my furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries here with many doors — I don’t think I could find my way along them; and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here, to show.

“Let me see; — yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me — urgent business he said: I recollect it well. I hated that man with all a madman’s hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly up-stairs. He had a word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together — for the first time.

“I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little thought — and I gloried in the knowledge — that the light of madness gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so soon after his sister’s death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore, to demand this explanation.

“This man had a commission in the army — a commission, purchased with my money, and his sister’s misery! This was the man who had been the foremost in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me; well knowing that her heart was given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform! The livery of his degradation! I turned my eyes upon him — I could not help it — but I spoke not a word.

“I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was a bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and as I laughed — I was very merry then — I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was afraid of me.

“‘You were very fond of your sister when she was alive’ — I said — ‘Very.’

“He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his chair: but he said nothing.

“‘You villain,’ said I, ‘I found you out; I discovered your hellish plots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before you compelled her to marry me. I know it — I know it.’

“He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me stand back — for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke.

“I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to tear his heart out.

“‘Damn you,’ said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; ‘I killed her. I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will have it!’ “I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror, and closed with him; and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floor together.

“It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall strong man, fighting for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again, though a madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and clasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple; his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue, he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter.

“The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman.

“My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty and freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a hatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banisters, and in an instant was in the street.

“Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise of feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether: but on I bounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wild shout which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was borne upon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a rustle and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily to the earth. When I woke I found myself here — here in this gray cell where the sunlight seldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner. When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries from distant parts of this large place. What they are, I know not; but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the first shades of dusk ’till the earliest light of morning, it still stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain, and watching my gambols on my straw bed.”

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Top 100 Gadgets of All Time

An amusing read. Only a time such as ours would rate four Apple products over the Abacus (#60)! Yes, folks, now you know: products that have had life cycles of five years are better than a tool that was used centuries upon centuries! And yes, the fuzzbuster (#44) beat the Abacus as well! The people who wrote this must have off-the-chart IQ levels!

Brian ‘Head’ Welch Leaves Korn, Citing Moral Objections To Band’s Music

Guitarist Brian “Head” Welch, a founding member of Korn, has left the band and has rededicated his life to Christianity, according to the group’s management.

“Korn has parted ways with guitarist Brian ‘Head’ Welch, who has chosen Jesus Christ as his savior, and will be dedicating his musical pursuits to that end,” a statement from the band reads. “Korn respects Brian’s wishes, and hopes he finds the happiness he’s searching for.”

(hat tip: BHT)

What Are Video Games Turning Us Into?

This is worth the read, especially if you are one of those parents who let their kids play video games. This is scary stuff, and it is amazing to me that people don’t think it is a big deal. While the article does not draw conclusion anywhere near as “conservative” as I am, it does one well just to think about the effects that are presented.