Of Cheese Making Computer Overlords

Next time somebody tells you that you should never
use multiple inheritance,
look them straight in the eye and say,
"One size does not fit all."
If they respond with something about
their bad experience on their project,
look them in the eye and repeat,
slower this time,
"One size does not fit all."

Marshall Cline, C++FAQ Lite

In a classic example of Baader-Meinhof, having never before heard the word 'singularity', I suddenly found myself hearing about it all the time. Initially, it was a friend interested in the technological kind who introduced me to the concept, but soon thereafter it began to mushroom in conversation everywhere: black holes, limits, power laws. Suddenly the name of the film `Event Horizon` made a lot more sense.

It happened, then, that this inconsequential realisation was idly forming in my mind one day just as I was reading about the hidden complexity of wishes. So what of it? In the article the author argues a non-sapient genie could never be trusted to grant you a wish, since to make the correct choice it would have to understand all of its non-explicit suppositions, ones which you yourself may not even be aware of. One moment you tell your genie 'quickly, get my Mother out of the burning building', the next her disembodied bits fly past you as a boiler explosion propels her far away from the center of the house: the quickest way of getting her out, but perhaps not what you had in mind. Somehow this reminded me of Google image search.

As human beings we're quite a bit better at making choices than our non-sapient silicon friends, but we are still far from perfect. Take the realm of justice. Were we to act as the wish-granting genie of a man who was asking for a book of good laws - how could we respond? Informed by a history of moral philosophy, we might advise the man that any decisions he makes must be consistent, that they must treat everyone as equal unless there are relevant reasons for treating them otherwise, in which case the unequal treatment should be proportional to its cause. But this is hardly very helpful.

Using a parable from a book by the philosopher David Miller, imagine the man had been given £100 to allocate between five people. The rules given so far would instruct him to treat them equally; or differently, but only to do so for relevant reasons and in proportion to them. Thus, the five men might be his employees and the £100 their weekly bonus: then, he should reward each based on the contribution made to the joint enterprise. If he is an aid worker and the five men members of a destitute group, he should look at the urgency of their needs and split the money accordingly. Or the £100 may be the prize to an essay competition, in which case all of it should go to the author of the best piece. It may also be a lottery win, with the six men part of a syndicate which required the sum to be split equally.

In other words, despite having some idea of the general principles involved, a just decision must be highly contextual. The rules are few and the exceptions many. For instance, we may say the principle of equal treatment is paramount. But in a given context, need, right deserts, promising and contracting, restitution and compensation are all things which trump it.

The lack of context is what will make the genie propel your Mother out of the burning building and what makes computers hopelessly bad at making intelligent decisions. What our patron above had wished for was not the wisdom of doing the right thing in this or this other particular circumstance, but a theory of justice - a formal specification of how to resolve any situation. Of course, had we had that, we would had achieved a sort of ethical singularity. We could program a computer to do it. But we can't.

The Stuff of Thought

If olive oil is made from olives, what do they make baby oil from?

A writer is someone who writes.

But fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce,

hammers don't ham and haberdashers don't haberdash.

If the plural of tooth be teeth, should the plural of booth be beeth?

One goose, two geese - so one mouse two meese?

If a man wrote a letter, perhaps he also bote his tongue.

Richard Lederer,  Crazy English

Why do we have noses that run and feet that smell?

Random Person on the Internet

How much money should the insurer have paid out to Larry Silverstein, the leaseholder of the World Trade Centre site? Silverstein held insurance policies that stipulated a maximum reimbursement for each destructive `event`. So was he due $7bn (two towers, two collapses, two events), as his lawyers argued, or was he due only $3.5bn (one plot, one event)? With this unusually expensive debate over semantics, I was introduced to Steven Pinker's book on `The Stuff Of Thought`*.

If you are a native English speaker, you'll probably have no trouble picking the correct sentence from the choices offered below:

• Tex nailed posters onto the board.
• Tex nailed the board with posters.*

• Serena coiled a rope around the pole.
• Serena coiled the pole with a rope.*

• Ellie covered the bed with an afghan.
• Ellie covered an afghan onto the bed.*

• Jimmy drenched his jacket with beer.
• Jimmy drenched beer into his jacket.*

• Hal loaded the wagon with hay.
• Hal loaded hay into the wagon.

But how do you do it?! And why does one of the sentences in the pair sound so odd? Since both phrases are equally as successful at conveying the meaning (would you ever be puzzled by someone saying Amy poured the glass with water ?), what is it that makes one of them wrong? Why can't all verbs work in both a content-locative construction (which is the formal name of phrases where the content is the focus) and a container-locative one (where it's the container that sits under the spotlight)?

• Hal loaded the wagon with hay.    < --- container-locative (A)
• Hal loaded hay into the wagon.    < --- content-locative (B)

How in fact do speakers (and, more intriguingly, small children) work out that certain verbs can't appear in otherwise perfectly good constructions? Or work out that certain other verbs can? (Notice that in the last pair, both sentences are equally valid). Here are then two formal questions:

1. Question #1: Can one teach a computer to reliably generate a content-locative construction given a container-locative one? (And vice-versa?)
2. Question #2: Can one identify the property of verbs which designates them to the two camps - those that work in both constructions (as in load) and those that don't (as in drench)?

Virgin Mary on a Cheese Sandwich?

Often, seemingly haphazard linguistic patterns such as the above are in fact underwritten by a formal rule. For instance, the mystery of why -er and -est can't be applied to certain adjectives (you can't be specialer that your friend or the beautifulest in the world) found its match when someone noticed they can only work with words that are monosyllabic (redder, nicer, older) or have at most an insubstantial second syllable (prettier, simpler, narrower).

The oddity concerning the verbs above (with some that work only in content-locative constructions and other only in container-locative ones) puzzled linguists for some time. This was, in part, due to the influence of computer scientist-cum-linguist Noam Chomsky, whose work made people inclined to think of language rules as operations of cut-and-paste. Saying that the locative rule concerning contents and containers cared about the meaning of the verb was like claiming that 'your word-processing program refused to cut and paste words with certain meanings while happily doing so with all the other ones'.

But as it turns out, meaning matters. The content-locative constructions can be thought of as saying "A causes B to go to C" (Hal loaded hay into the wagon.) while the container-locative that "A causes C to change state (by means of causing B to go to C)" (Hal loaded the wagon with hay.) These two ways of thinking about the same event are a simple and elegant explanation of why the locative rule allows certain verbs to take on the first construction, others the second and others still both of them:

A rule of semantic reconstrual (the gestalt shift): If a verb means "A causes B to move to C" it can also mean "A causes C to change state by means of moving B to it". In both cases, the affected entity (B for meaning #1, C for meaning #2) should be expressed as the direct object.

Now, words in Hal loaded hay into the wagon and Hal loaded the wagon with hay don't just move around for no particular reason. The rule says the affected entity must go from oblique object to direct object. Still - the rule so far only answers Question #1. What about why some verbs can make the transition while others cannot?

Stick Men

To answer that, the first thing you must notice about the pairs of sentences above is that the two formulations are not perfectly synonymous. When one loads hay into a wagon it can be any amount (even a couple of pitchforks). If, on the other hand, the wagon is loaded with hay then we might reasonably expect it to be full once the action has been completed. Linguists call this subtle difference the holism effect.

The holism effect is not a mere accident, but rather follows from the very nature and purpose of the locative rule: to change the focus from the content to the container or the other way around. And it reveals something about how the mind conceives such a change. In fact, the holism effect applies to direct objects in general**:

• Moondog drank from the glass of beer where the glass is an oblique object of from, and is consistent with him taking only a few sips, while
• Moondog drank the glass of beer where the glass is now a direct object, means he's drunk all of it.

A Direct Object is a pretty important syntactic role (second only to the Subject and Predicate). The glass is more in the mind's forefront in the second sentence then in the first. In the examples above, the affected entity is always the Direct Object, and doesn't quite make it to Subject rank only because an agent is also present in the sentence (and we care more about agents than we do about objects, perhaps for evolutionary reasons, since agents can eat you while objects tend to be more passive***).

In fact, sometimes the holism of the affected entity (the Direct Object) rubs off onto the agent herself (the Subject), as if the mind is presented with 'a sensuous image of an entity so saturated with stuff or bits that the mind blurs the two and apprehends the entity as doing what the stuff or bits ordinarily do':

• Bees are swarming in the garden.
• The garden is swarming with bees.

• Juice dripped from the peach.
• The peach dripped with juice.

The reason this is even possible is because the English language treats a changing entity (usually the Direct Object) in the same way that it treats a moving one (usually the Subject). This for instance doesn't happen in Romanian****. Ray Jackendoff, a linguist, explored much of how words denoting motion in a physical space often come to denote change (a kind of metaphorical motion) in a state-space, as in

• The manager kept Petro at work.
• The doctor kept Pedro well.

• Chris went to Paris.
• Chris went crazy.

We, in fact, use metaphorical translations of space concepts all over the place (we say stock markets have risen and that our mood went down). Good is up and bad is down, the future is in front of us and the past behind and events on a time scale travel towards us (the end of the night drew nearer) or away from us (the meeting was moved back to Monday) - though they can also stand still and wait for us to come to them (we were approaching January).

Furthermore, when we conceptualise an entity moving in state-space we apply the same schematization to it as we do to things moving in the physical world. This means that 'when the mind conceptualises an entity in a location or in motion it tends to ignore the internal geometry of the object and treat it as a dimensionless point'. And since we say a wagon goes from empty to full the same way we say a car has gone from London to Paris, it now makes perfect sense that the wagon does not allow intermediate states in the container-locative construction: spatially we tend to think of the car as either in London or in Paris, not giving much thought to the road in between.

Finally we now have all the ingredients required to answer Question  #2: that it is both the meaning of the verb as well as the meaning of the construction which inform us of which verbs can accept the locative alternation. This allows us to understand why we can Throw a cat into the room but cannot Throw the room with a cat - since we cannot conceptualise throwing something into a room as enough to change the state of that room.

Another example. To pour means to allow liquid to move from A to B in a continuous stream. It specifies a relation (letting not forcing for instance) and the attribute of the motion (slow perhaps). It says something about the motions but nothing at all about the state of the container: you can pour water in a glass (making it full), onto the floor (making it wet), over a person (making her angry), but nothing predictable happens to the receiver. In that way it is different from spew, splash and spray which say intrinsically something about how the state of the container has changed: something can be spewed, splashed or sprayed but not poured. Which is why we can say Hannah poured water into the glass but not Hannah poured the glass with water. Fascinating, isn't it?

* This is a book I warmly recommend - all the examples above are shamelessly cherry-picked from there. Also, you might want to check this guy out on TED, his talks are usually quite entertaining.

** Remember, in the locative rule, first the container was the direct object (Hal loaded the wagon with hay), then the content (Hal loaded the hay into the wagon).

*** Just by the by, when an object becomes active, as in the tree that's about to squish you, or the car that's about to run you over, both linguistically and mentally they become agents which is why we say that we tend to anthropomorphise objects when they do things. As it turns out, this might be one of the reasons why the concept of deities comes so naturally to most of us (since natural phenomena happen, it is a mental reflex to ascribe agent features to them). But more about that in a another post.

**** Albinele bazaie in gradina cannot become Gradina bazaie cu albine.

Control

Lacking the normal, protective barriers of inhibition,
the normal, organically determined boundaries of self,

the (...) ego is subject to a lifelong bombardment.

He is beguiled, assailed, by impulses from within and without,

impulses which are organic and convulsive,

but also personal (or rather pseudo-personal) and seductive.

How will, how can, the ego stand this bombardment? Will identity survive?

Can it develop in face of such a shattering, such pressure - or will it be overwhelmed (...)?

[Can it be] held whole and sovereign or [will it] be taken over,

possessed and dispossessed,

by every immediacy and every impulse.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat

Certainly, here Oliver Sacks is talking about Tourette's . But is this not, grotesquely exacerbated, an eerily accurate portrayal of a certain temperamental disposition? A lurid reminder? It is hard not to occasionally remember how the mantra that we belong to ourselves may readily disappear: now a second nature reality, tomorrow a fugitive phantom, the stuff of thought, held in place only by a painfully conscientious process of the rational mind.

Living in a world void of any certainty, a permanent anxiety looms beneath the surface of every moment. All action, thought, decision - however simple and inconsequential - carries the burden of a Damocles' sword. Tomorrow's ego fears the temper and resolutions of today's. And when tomorrow lies permanently under the sharp blade of a potentially radical change of heart - how can the ego not live in a state of permanent anxiety? There is no control. One is merely swept away from one shore to another, where its reason must constantly dock and deal - held in a state of painful, permanent acuteness - with whatever happens to have come its way.

There is a lot to be said about the comfort of feeling at peace with one's own identity - a sense of self that does not shift and metamorphose incessantly, right from underneath the stand of reason. That does not make the ego a stranger to his own mind, stranger still to all of his loved ones. That braves the flow of time. That stays recognisable, giving some support to this illusion of the permanency of the soul. That tomorrow it shall not awake trapped - stripped of its proprioception of the psyche - into the unrecognised, unassumable and sometimes ghastly imprisoning life of a past-self long gone.

Making Sense

'I'm like a sort of living carpet. I need a pattern, a design.

(...) Could one have the design without the  carpet

(but this seemed like the smile without the Cheshire cat)?

Oliver Sachs, The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat

I once said to my friend `managing people is a lot like programming` - one must take the work at hand and break it down into smaller, more readily achievable tasks; ideally, these must be such that they can be independently planned, coordinated and completed; the separate modules and their outputs must interface coherently with one another, and be scheduled and synchronised and  aggregated into a working, meaningful solution; the people to whom they are assigned, much like technology, must be fit for purpose, have the abilities required for the job, be well understood, expressive. Perhaps the reasoning we apply to software engineering can be equally useful at trying to engineer the execution of a plan.

But wait. Programming is also a lot like putting together IKEA furniture: the assembling of complicated aggregate structures, out of confusingly numerous constituent parts, many of which incomprehensible in isolation, their coming together never obvious from the onset, and their composition - if ever at all possible - only achievable by the holding of the puzzle pieces all at once, like thoughts in one's working memory, a mind-boggling n-dimensional puzzle, all up in the air, in some impossible, gravity-defying edifice, until one suddenly gets a grasp of the whole and that last bolt or thought or detail, which hitherto lay unnoticed on the floor, suddenly and magically ties everything together.

And in fact programming is indeed very much like creative writing too, whose object is never the work of an orderly and structured weaving of one's thoughts, like the neat laying of bricks in the efficient erection of a building, but a Sisyphean struggle: a constant stretch, incessant tensing of one's mind against the pained, almost spasmodic clenching and explosion of one's thoughts - all to achieve that one, brief, precious, fragile flash of balance, when it all holds together, all at once, improbably suspended, into that splendid, always sought for, much desired something meaningful.

Who are we but the conceptual vocabularies within which we represent our world? And what is the world but the absolute, integral sum of these vocabularies? A beautiful, infinite, almighty Semantic Singularity, into the depths of which, lured by our yearn to understand, we will be irretrievably forgotten.

Please share:

The Trouble With Easter*

Cognitive science and behavioural psychology tell us that there are certain fundamental problems which we as humans must learn how to solve pretty fast if we are to become successful and fully functional inhabitants of our surrounding world. These include the ability to distinguish between inanimate objects and 'agents', recognising faces, parsing speech, reading other peoples' intentions and avoiding contaminants. Because they are essential, these cognitive systems evolve fast, in an automatic way and without effort. Because they develop in this way, they are prone to false positives (for instance, our propensity for recognising faces means we see them everywhere: in the clouds, in blots of paint, in pictures of the surface of Mars and various cheese sandwiches). Cultural ideas which speak to these cognitive systems are more readily absorbed than those which do not. It is no surprise then that religions should be so successful. They speaks to not one but all of them.

Cake is to God What Ball Is To Chicken
Babies only a few months old know that books (which must be contacted in order to move) are unlike people or animals (which can happily move by themselves). This is a fundamental distinction. Inanimate objects obey the laws of physics and causality, they behave in predictable and mostly well understood ways. Agents on the other hand, have minds of their own and, as such, can act upon their surroundings according to their own rules.

Experiments with both children and adults have shown that whenever an inanimate object starts to behave in an unpredictable way, people immediately start to reason about it as if it were an agent. You can verify this by looking at the language they employ. Inanimate objects are spoken of in the passive voice (a book is read and an apple is eaten), while agents - in the active one (people read and go places). Thus, when you start talking about your computer as not wanting to work or your SatNav deciding to take you on a different route, you are succumbing to the view that things which do not behave following an obvious pattern must have a mind of their own.

A notion of God speaks directly to this inclination. From a wander at why the Sun rises and sets at regular intervals there is only one step to the notion of a Sun God. This sort of reasoning spawns what is known as 'natural religion' and it underwrites in great part our readiness to believe in the existence of intelligent invisible agents.

Keep It Simple
We have evolved to derive rules and find patterns. It is easy to reason about a metal ball shattering a glass window when thrown at it, because there is a reason for this to happen: it is a common pattern, the same one each time. It is difficult to become religious about things which are well understood, such as the ball shattering the window. There is no God of balls shattering windows in the same way that there is a God of Existence.

Keep It Neat
Explanations which involve design or purpose are far more readily absorbed, than whose which merely explain observation, but do not interpret it. Experiments have shown that children accept creationism as an explanation for the origin of life far more easily than evolution, even when they are formally educated towards the latter. One study showed that children aged 5 found it more sensible for a tiger to have been 'made for eating and walking and being seen at the zoo' than the idea that 'though it can eat and walk and be seen at the zoo, that's not what it's made for' (Journal of Cognition and Development, vol. 6, p.3). Again, the idea of a Designer falls immediately into place with this propensity.

Until Seen Otherwise
When reasoning about things, it makes perfect sense to formulate whichever hypothesis we perceive to be the easiest to falsify. This is why we have working ideas such as 'innocent until proven guilty' or mathematical proof by contradiction. When it comes to truthfulness, the easiest hypothesis to invalidate is that X is telling the truth: one instance of a lie is sufficient to show otherwise. When it comes to the minds of others, the easiest hypothesis to invalidate is that everyone else is all-knowing: one instance of their limitation is enough to disprove it.

One experiment gave a group of 5 to 7 year old Maya children a gourd which, while normally holding tortillas, held on this occasion boxer shorts. They were then asked which of a number of agents (including the Catholic god known as Diyoos, the Maya sun god, the forest spirits, a bogeyman-like creature Chiichi' and a human) would know without looking the contents of the gourd. The youngest of the children guessed that all of them would. By the age of 7, most guessed the gods would know, but the human probably wouldn't. That the minds of other agents are not all-knowing is something we learn by practice and are taught by culture.

Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness
Temples and sacred spaces, along with a notion of purity and the rituals which are meant to protect it speak directly to our need of recognising and staying away from contaminants. Incidentally, this sort of fear is very politically useful - a fear of contamination translates easily into an aggression towards possible contaminants. It is also shared by all types of humans - liberals as well as conservatives become religious about purity: whether it is the purity of the food and drinks they are willing to put inside their bodies, or that of the planet itself.

I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours
Finally, religion speaks to our need to read the intentions of others, which is a prerequisite of collaboration. In smaller communities, kinship (being blood related) and reciprocity (expecting something in return) sufficed for enforcing this sort of behaviour amongst individuals. In small hunter-gatherer communities, where everyone knew everyone else, the Gods had no moral concern. There was no need to. Alas, as communities grew larger, individuals started to misbehave under the cloth of anonymity. This is when an all-knowing, all-seeing and morally concerned God becomes terribly useful. This too is where requiring adherence to a series of expensive and hard to fake rituals (such as praying five times a day) helps identify free riders.

Experiments have shown again and again that people who, prior to performing a task, were prompted to think of God or religion were far less likely to cheat at it. Unfortunately, the same effect was achieved by prompting people to think of secular reminders of moral authority, words such as civic, jury, or the police. Secular society has taken over the functions traditionally performed by religion, by way of juridical institutions and mechanisms for enforcing contracts, private property and so on. The worlds most cooperative, peaceful and prosperous societies are ones in which religion has become largely a private matter better kept outside of public life. To quote from Ara Norenzayan's article '[they have] climbed religion's ladder and then kicked it away'.

A Beautiful Mind
All of these 'maturationally natural' cognitive systems underwrite what is known as 'natural religion', which is largely unscrutinised and spontaneous. There is, of course, the other kind: slow, deliberate and conscious reflection about the meaning and truth of religious claims - 'theology'. Theology sets doctrines and abstract formulations of natural religions which are conceptually complex and difficult to understand, e.g. God being three persons. Because of this, theological correctness is difficult to enforce, as the mental propensities of natural religion constantly intrude.

Experiments across cultures and religious systems have consistently shown that even after being asked to recite and affirm a set of doctrines, people still immediately abandon theological correctness in favour of popular religion. Here, science might be warned by the woes of theology. If God being three persons is a difficult concept to grasp, then what hope is there for quantum mechanics, or evolution or Maths? To quote from Robert McCauley, 'science is far more complicated than theology. Its esoteric interests, radically counter-intuitive claims and sophisticated forms of inference are difficult to invent, learn and communicate'. Scientists and theologists alike might try to explain Easter, whether by a story of resurrection or an anthropologically traceable festival of Spring. But in the end we all know it's all about the eggs.

* Easter is a good time to talk about God. I recently read a series of articles which I thought were quite interesting, so what follows is a summary of all of them. The originals can be found in the 17 March 2012 issue of the New Scientist.

Legacy

'We are all of us born in moral stupidity, taking

the world as an udder to feed our supreme selves'

George Elliot, Middlemarch, ch. XXI

There were once three wise men. Every day they would get together and deplore the lousy state of affairs in the world, the wide spread suffering and deprivation, the pointless wars people waged against one another, the lack of a vision and purpose of life itself. Discussing, they each tried to conceive ways in which they could contribute to making the world a better place. Thus, the first man founded a trade and became a merchant; the second founded a cult and became a cleric; and the third founded a school and became a teacher.

Employing their outstanding wisdom and sagacity, they all became successful in their respective paths. The merchant grew his trade into a successful enterprise which employed many hundreds of people and brought wealth and prosperity to all its employees. His vision and knack for the workings of the market won him respect amongst his people and everyone followed his lead with utmost enthusiasm and devotion.

The cleric gathered many followers. His sermons eased the ills of a great deal of people and soothed a great deal of souls. The members of his church were kind and thoughtful and with them carried their kindness and their thoughtfulness to the families and the communities to which they belonged. Under the guidance of his wisdom, the inevitable hardships of life became more bearable, the quarrels which aroused amongst people were readily settled and the hopeful collaboration within the community brought it well-being and affluence.

Finally, the teacher taught many tens of students in his school. His lessons opened their minds and helped fulfil their full potential. His graduates went on to live happy and prosperous lives and to make the lives of those around them equally as happy and as prosperous. The outstanding skill and passion the teacher showed for his classes inspired and won the affection of hundreds of people and through the benefits of knowledge his community became very successful.

But as time went by the three men began to feel the nearing of old age. One day, after many years, they got together to talk about how they may pass on their legacy to future generations. They argued for many days over which would be the best way to do this and finally they each decided to attempt a different approach. The merchant wrote a book of rules, detailed and authoritative, which would provide guidance in any foreseeable situation. The cleric decided to go the way of duty and tradition, and began to teach a set of practices to some of the most intelligent members of his church. Finally, the teacher chose to go the way of virtue, and began to teach his students which values had to be praised and which vices had to be condemned.

Soon thereafter the three men died. Their legacy was prised and revered and their communities carried on in its spirit for many years. But soon time took its toll. The merchant's book of rules began to become outdated. Situations aroused that were not anticipated, new challenges faced those in charge of conducting his business. The cleric's tradition began to be perverted; the men to whom he passed on his wisdom began to forget the details of his teachings and, as generations replaced one another, the original customs insidiously began to change. To prevent the tradition from fading, some clerics tried to write it down. But the writings were sometimes poorly phrased or incomplete and those who inherited them often failed to interpret them accurately and adequately. Some were even malicious and self-serving, perverting the spirit of duty to further their own ends. Finally, the teacher's school began to fall short of its calling. The new teachers were less able and less visionary. They often sounded doctrinal and dry. The virtues they still tried to instil within their students often did not resonate with the needs and challenges of modern life. The teachers, lacking wisdom, failed to understand how to adapt. Thus, the rules became dogmatic, the traditions - dated, the virtues - obsolete.

Many centuries later, a group of young people scurried silently along the corridors of their town's old museum. When they came to the entrance hall, they were brought before a portrait of the three wise men, which stood hanging beneath the words These wise men held the secret to a prosperous, glorious living. Leaning to his friend, one of the students scoffed: "Selfish bastards, keeping all that knowledge to themselves".

 The Garden Of Earthly Delights, a triptych by early Netherlandish Master Hieronymus Bosch

The Circle Of Trust

Human beings are ethical animals. I do not mean that we naturally

behave particularly well, nor that we are endlessly telling each other what to do.

But we grade and evaluate, and compare and admire, and claim and justify.

We do not just 'prefer' this or that, in isolation.

We prefer that our preferences are shared; we turn them into demands on each other.

Events endlessly adjust our sense of responsibility, our guilt and shame,

and our sense of our own worth and that of others.

Simon Blackburn, Ethics

'Trust is something you can only lose once' - Constantin Noica

Trust is one of these things we all think we know something about. We claim to deserve it from others and expect others to be deserving of our own. Being approached with caution and reserve offends us and no righteousness is more soothing than the anger at having been deceived.

Above all, trust is a precious currency. It keeps lawyers, insurers and estate agents in business more or less forever.

And where insurance policies don't apply it must be gained through painstaking displays of authenticity and loyalty. One must prove oneself and time must tell. Once earned, it must be guarded, with carrot and stick from malice and stupidity.

Still - more fragile is earnestness, optimism and joy. Freedom from the dismal, sullen fear of a broken heart. Trust you may regain, faults you may redeem. New patrons may stumble upon you and your credit history may be left behind. But this talent of living wholly and without reserve - that, well that perhaps really is something you can only lose once.