Missives from Samsara

I agree whole-heartedly with Ryan Holiday’s take on Didion’s quote. I consider myself extremely fortunate about my travel experiences thus far. Indeed, I would even say I am relatively well traveled. That said, most of my close friends have seen more of the world that I have.

I didn’t really travel beyond California until I was in college. I roadtripped with parents once to southern California. Freshmen year I drove out with a friend to Utah. It wasn’t until I went to England for my junior year abroad that I really ‘traveled.’ Luckily, I was able to see a lot of Europe that year. Besides the big cities, I have very fond memories of Bedous, France and Korfu Island, Greece. Since then, memorable places I’ve visited include Chang Mai, Thailand and driving the Al-Can Highway from Portland up to Anchorage.

Having friends that are so well traveled helps keep the travel bug alive. Hearing about their advantures motivates me to keep checking places off my list. My Top 5 list at the moment (it is always changing, of course) of places I want to visit include: 1) Quebec City 2) Nova Scotia 3) Copenhagen 4) Sydney and 5) Anywhere in New Zealand.

Thinking about traveling, I realize there are certain parts of the world I’m just not that interested in visiting. I don’t know what that says about me, but it’s true. I suppose I wouln’t ever turn down an opportunity to go to one of these places, but with so many places to visit, there are definitely tiers of interest that are real for me.

Didion’s quote also lands because it connects with parenting in my mind. I feel like it is a duty of a parent to try and expose their children to as much travel as they can afford. The reason, in my mind, is connected with the argument Holiday was making with Didion’s quote in his book about wisdom. Specifically, seeing other parts of the world, experiencing other cultures, and meeting different people all help us become more wise as we become less insular.

I teach in a public high school so I hear cuss words pretty regularly. I also happen to cuss a fair amount myself, though hopefully not often in earshot of others who might be offended. When I come across the f word in a book, it doesn’t faze me much. It is usually used in an appropriate context and I treat it like any other word.

Recently while reading Bill Belichick’s book On Winning, he redacted the f word in a sentence. I was a bit aghast. As a football coach, I’m 100% sure he cusses regularly and probably does it more than a typical person at work, given his job as a coach of professional (and now college) football players. Honestly, I thought it was pretty lame. Who does he think is reading his book? Who is he trying not to offend? Indeed, to me it was self censorship on behalf of the type of guy who is into football but gets offended by ‘bad words.’ The feelings of such a snowflake should not take priority. Overall, though this is an inconsequential take, it is a lame move in my book. It treats the reader like a child. Just say what you mean, Bill. When the word is redacted but has the ‘f’ in front, the word still appears in the mind of the reader, after all. The redaction doesn’t really work.

Now, Diane Ravitch on the other hand, isn’t afraid to include a four letter word like the f word in her memoir. She is actually quoting the civil rights activist Bayard Rustin, but the fact that she treats her readers like grown ups is appreciated. Also, considering the context, the word’s use is appropriate. Fuck nazis, right?

In Diane Ravitch’s memoir An Education, which I am thoroughly enjoying (!), I came across a word I was not familiar with. The word is ‘quisling.’ Chat bots being my new reading companions, I quickly looked it up.

The word is of relatively recent vintage, being coined during World War II. Apparently, a Norwegian fascist named Vidkun Quisling collaborated with the Nazis in his home country during the war. Thus, the word refers to someone who betrays their own country, or own group, by collaborating with the enemy. Benedict Arnold came to mind immediately when thinking about this. Thus, a quisling is a traitor. **Great word! **

Not surprisingly, Quisling was put on trial after the war for a variety of crimes and was found guilty. He was executed by firing squad in October 1945 in Oslo. He was buried in an unmarked grade, and his surname now is equated with treachery. A fitting end, I’d say.

Napoleon’s soldiers learned that “living off the land” often meant making others starve. Those soldiers were mostly conscripts who had no choice but follow orders and face the gruesome consequences. In America our veterans are volunteers, yet they still know better than anyone that war is not abstract—it’s human, filled with folly and unimaginable human suffering. This Veteran’s Day, let’s honor not only the bravery of those who serve, but their deep understanding of what war actually asks of them, and the world.

I recently came across Shaka ka Senzangakhona in three different books over the past two weeks, and I found his story too striking not to share. I first came across him in The Narrow Corridor, where the authors discuss his unique military innovations and brutal, but successful leadership. A few days ago, he appeared in General Stanley McChrystal’s book On Character. McChrystal shared a story about how Shaka made his warriors dance on ground covered with sharp needles and if they flinched, they were executed. Finally, in The Birth of the Modern, he was brought up in the context of the history of southern Africa during the early 19th century, when he reigned. I love it when such serendipity pops up in my reading.

Anyway…born around 1787 and dying in 1828, Shaka became king of the Zulu in what is now KwaZulu-Natal in South Africa from 1816 to 1828.

What fascinates me is how he took a relatively minor clan and, through bold military, social and political reforms, built it into a dominant power in his corner of Africa. His success arose because he reorganised the Zulu regiments, introduced new weaponry and tactical formations, and absorbed neighbouring groups under Zulu rule.

At the same time, Shaka’s reign is drenched in blood and controversy. His mother’s death in 1827 triggered a wave of harsh decrees—including mass-executions, bans on planting or using milk, and demands of mourning—that turned many of his own people against him. He was also apparently so paranoid that his heir might depose him, that if any of his concubines became pregnant, he had them killed. Not surprisingly, he was assassinated by his half-brothers in 1828.

In my reading, I’ve found myself wondering: how do we reconcile the visionary-leader and the ruthless-tyrant in one figure? His life makes me think of people like Alexander the Great and Napoleon, who are often idolized, but who both caused tremendous suffering as a result of their military pursuits. I’ll continue to reflect on how each of the three authors portrays Shaka, as successful military leader and cruel tyrant, and invite you to do the same. How does his story challenge our ideas of leadership and legacy? What lessons (or warnings) does his rise and fall offer us today?

I recently came across a term I wasn’t familiar wtih–sui generis. Upon reflection, I know I’ve come across it before, but maybe only once or twice in all my reading and I had to look it up to learn what it meant. The phrase means ‘unique’ or, more technically, ‘of its own kind.’ It is Latin. It’s used to describe something that doesn’t fit neatly into existing categories; something truly original. Philosophers often use it to describe phenomena that are irreducible — things that can’t be fully explained by reference to anything else, such as consciousness. In music, I suppose Miles Davis' Bitches Brew fits the description. Certainly every psychedelic experience is sui generis, as language tends to fail in its usual ability to accurately describe.

Of course, each of us, and each sober, conscious moment is also sui generis. This is hard to see sometimes because we automatically sort everything we come across. We categorize. Our brain does it to help us survive and it is hardwired into us. However, beneath the categories are unique moments, perceived by unique people. Indeed, we are all mavericks and ultimately uncategorizable. In times like these, when our politics leads us to stereotype and heap people into convenient groups, this ancient concept reminds me to try and see differently. It also encourages us to revel in our peculiarities, as Ursla K. Le Guin said.

I treated myself today to a long browse at Powell’s downtown. I walked out with two books, neither of which I had on my radar going in. I noticed after I left that the two books had a something in common: They are both books about American intellectuals who at various times in their lives took positions that didn’t align with their initial ideologies. In the case of education expert Diana Ravitch, her views morphed from conservative to liberal over her adulthood. In the case of Hitchens, who is one of my real intellectual heroes, he was a loud supporter of America’s war in Iraq, despite his position leading up to the war as a staunch leftist. He didn’t become a conservative, but he took a controversial position that rankled many on the Left that previously tended to agree with him.

New York City made history yesterday electing immigrant politician Zohran Mamdani as their new mayor. It got me thinking about New York, which is a city I love and have been fortunate to visit many times (and will soon be visiting again). Then this morning, the quote below appeared in my daily Readwise email. The quote is from The Weirdest People in the World by professor Joseph Henrich. The quote notes the fact that big, beautiful, diverse cities like New York are more innovative than the sum of their parts. I think many of us intuit this, but in the book Henrich explains the research and the logic. However, innovation isn’t the reason I love places like New York, but it is adjacent to what I love–the vibrancy, the opportunity for serendipity, the randomness, the deep layers of culture, and the variety of experiences available.

These admirable and enjoyable elements of modern urban life contrast vividly in my mind with what I see when I drive through rural America. I’m always shocked by how depressed and poor rural America feels. Small town America just gives off defeated vibes to me. I don’t mean to insult people who live in rural places. I’m only expressing my reaction when passing through and I am certainly not condemning or criticizing people who prefer to live in rural areas. To each his own.

Nevertheless, the point Henrich makes with this quote, and in his book generally, is that cities drive innovation and progress. As a fan of diverse, electric places like New York City, I’m not surprised.

This research makes a few points that are interesting, relevant, yet slightly counterintuitive. According to this article, by Complexity Science Hub Vienna, the number of close friends people have has increased over the past fifteen years (starting between 2008 and 2010). This coincides with the rise of smart phones and social media. However, political polarization has also increased. According to the article, those consistently expressing liberal views rose from 14% to 31%, while those holding conservative views increased from 6% to 16%. The researchers explain that since most people have more close friends, they are more likely to cut ties with one who has different political beliefs then they do. That means more of us have friend groups that see the world they way we do politically. In other words, there are less ‘bridge friends’ who help expose us to different viewpoints. The end result is less dialogue and more breakdown of our democracy, both of which are becoming enormously dangerous at present.

Another interesting angle has to do with Dunbar’s number, which suggests we can only maintain about 150 meaningful relationships, with roughly 5 close friends in our innermost circle. This research shows we went from 2 close friends to 4-5 around 2008-2010—so we’re actually approaching the upper limit of what Dunbar predicted for our intimate circle.

Thus, it can be said we are not exceeding our cognitive capacity for friendships; we’re just filling it differently. Social media didn’t give us superhuman social abilities. Rather, it made it easier to maintain more connections within our natural limits. But here’s the problem: when you’re at capacity with like-minded friends who are easy to maintain online, there’s no room (or motivation) for the harder work of bridging divides with people who think differently.

In other words, Dunbar’s Law explains why the doubling of close friends leads to polarization: we’ve hit our cognitive ceiling, so we’re now optimizing for similarity and comfort rather than diversity. Our social “budget” is maxed out on echo chambers.