Much as I like Andrew Sullivan, we disagree on John Derbyshire. I disagree with Derb's views on homosexuality but do not believe that his comments were beyond the pale.
I like Derb's writing. We both like Math and Hank Williams. I wish I had his knowledge of poetry.
In his December Diary he riffs off the lyrics to Hank's "The Angel of Death" to sum up our superstitions:
A child of, or at any rate a descendant of, the Enlightenment, with an early training in science and mathematics, I am inclined to think that words are basically patterns of vibrating molecules in air. The idea that singing about the Angel of Death might attract old Azrael's attention to my inconspicuous little suburban homestead seems preposterous. On reflection, though, I am not so sure of myself. I recall a dinner-party conversation I heard many years ago. The two participants were (A) a college friend of mine, a mathematician of keen intellect who was a single man at the time, and (B) the wife of a friend of his, a woman at about the same level of intelligence, but very practical, skeptical, and atheistic. She . She was also the doting mother of two small children.Posted by jk at December 30, 2003 12:47 PMThe woman had claimed that words are nothing but what I have just said they are — patterns of vibration in the air. They have no power. "All right," said my friend. "Please repeat the following words after me: 'I hope that my children will soon die from lingering, painful, and disfiguring illnesses.'" The woman would not say those words. He pressed her, but she firmly refused. "Why not?" asked my friend. "They are only words — vibrating molecules. Why won't you say them?"
She would not say them because she knew what we all know in our bones, however much science and math has been pumped into our brains, and however much we may scoff at the supernatural: that words do have power, that the world is not just a cold tissue of atoms and molecules, that without some reference to the supernatural, nothing makes sense — as paradoxical as that seems. No, I won't be singing "The Angel of Death" around the house any more, not even when I'm here alone. Look what happened to Hank Williams.