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We now know that memories are not fixed or frozen, like Proust’s jars of preserves in a larder, but are transformed, disassembled, reassembled, and recategorized with every act of recollection.

Memories are often our own creations. If our memories are fallible, then our beliefs are shaped by them as well. My tendency is to value rationality and believe that there is one true version of events, or one realized history, but it is often difficult, if not impossible, to arrive at that truth.

If there is no easy way to separate memory from truth, and if our beliefs are often wrong or shaped by our external environment, then the truth may sometimes be impossible to determine. In those cases, we might as well adopt interpretations that improve our lives and make the world a better place.

Here’s Maria Popova summarizing Oliver Sacks’s view and pondering whether the fallibility of memory may be essential to creativity.

Excerpts:

We, as human beings, are landed with memory systems that have fallibilities, frailties, and imperfections — but also great flexibility and creativity. Confusion over sources or indifference to them can be a paradoxical strength: if we could tag the sources of all our knowledge, we would be overwhelmed with often irrelevant information.

Indifference to source allows us to assimilate what we read, what we are told, what others say and think and write and paint, as intensely and richly as if they were primary experiences. It allows us to see and hear with other eyes and ears, to enter into other minds, to assimilate the art and science and religion of the whole culture, to enter into and contribute to the common mind, the general commonwealth of knowledge. This sort of sharing and participation, this communion, would not be possible if all our knowledge, our memories, were tagged and identified, seen as private, exclusively ours. Memory is dialogic and arises not only from direct experience but from the intercourse of many minds.

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Eleanor wrote an article about her gym membership experience in China. Regardless of the field, I also prefer coaches who are skilled practitioners themselves, maintain high standards, and remain passionate about their craft. External standards, such as those set by employers, may ensure competence, but intrinsic motivation is what sustains excellence.

Competition governs almost every aspect of Chinese life. From the notoriously gruelling university entrance exams to industrial price wars, success depends on standing out from a vast pool of hardworking rivals…

Oxygym’s standards for staff are exacting. They are assessed according to nine criteria, each stricter than the last…Male and female trainers are expected to maintain body fat below 15 per cent and 20 per cent, respectively, while passing physical tests befitting Navy Seals. Male trainers must deadlift twice their body weight, run 2.7km in 12 minutes and complete 15 unassisted pull-ups. For women trainers, the requirements include deadlifting one and a half times their body weight and 24 consecutive push-ups. While trainers are permitted to exercise on the gym floor, they are discouraged from visibly sweating while doing so.

When I ask Will what a trainer’s personal fitness level has to do with their teaching ability, he appears surprised by the question. “Even if a trainer is very experienced, if they are fat and don’t take care of their appearance, clients won’t want lessons with them,” he says. “The coach should represent an aspiration. They should embody what the student hopes to become.” If a trainer fails to meet those standards, there is a long queue of applicants waiting to take their place.

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Nabeel on what makes art great: 1) Great art is not predictable or obvious, it is surprising. 2) Great art contains multiple overlapping layers of echoes. 3) Great art contains more meaning than can be paraphrased.

Here’s a Jackson Dahl podcast with Tyler and Nabeel.

Excerpts:

In good human works, every detail feels carefully chosen.

Great artworks are hard to compress (i.e. have high information content); slop is easy to compress. 

We barely see everyday objects because we are so used to them (low novel information again), but great art can make you see these objects afresh, the way a child might. 

This strangeness is essential for the effect of great art, because we like to make sense of things, and if we make sense of things too easily they are not interesting to us; great works of art are therefore necessarily somewhat difficult to grasp the meaning of, their meanings are multiple and constantly shifting, and they require a pleasant kind of effort to make sense of.

Great literary works are full of these hidden patterns, which silently create a kind of electric charge of coherence across the text as you are reading, and which contribute to the feeling that we are reading something intentionally knit together as an aesthetic whole.

…not only do you have to surprise readers in interesting and precise ways, but you also have to make sure that multiple patterns cohere across the entire work and are not simply local and uncorrelated.

There’s a feeling of limitless depth that is unique to the really great works: it feels like you can always find more patterns, more coherence, more beauty on rereading. Or that more readings will give you a deeper understanding, but never a perfect or complete one.

Another facet of depth is mystery. Good art is always a bit under-explained. It allows you to speculate. Characters may have multiple motives. 

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Advice from someone making a living as an artist.

Excerpts:

Most people who enjoy making art should not try to make it their full time job. When you turn an avocation (hobby) into a vocation (job) you have to do new things you do not enjoy…Even the work itself can become a burden because you now have to make it. Amateurs can wait for inspiration; professionals must create every day.

You can look at art through an aesthetic lens (how does it look?), a technical lens (how is it made?), an emotional lens (how does it make you feel?), an interpretive lens (what does it mean?), and a political lens (what does it say about our world?).

There are a set of things that excite you artistically, and there are a set of things that the public enjoys, and you are looking for something in the intersection of those two sets. You can make work that is commercially successful while still staying true to your artistic interests.

Just make art that excites you, and make enough of it that you eventually make work that resonates with people.

Art is absolutely an expression of yourself. But your art is not you. Try not to entangle your ego with your art. 

I have heard this approach referred to as “shots on goal” — the more shots you take, the more likely you are to succeed. If you are too scared to show your work to anyone or too defensive about the feedback you receive, you will have fewer shots on goal and thus less chance of making a living as an artist. 

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From The Economist’s obituary on David Hockney:

Having decided on the composition, he used props and photographs, played with perspectives, and paced out measurements in the studio: all the techniques he’d learned at art school and since. Mostly, though, he was working from the heart. Painting was how he made sense of the world…

Painting 18 hours a day, seven days a week, he finished it at last the night before the shippers came to take it to America. He felt like his hero Picasso, who liked to say: “I’m not painting; I’m exploring.”…

He stopped worrying about being contemporary and set about creating his own kind of art, art of his own time…

Finding new ways of making art filled his life with a sense of renewal…

Soon he would swap paints for pixels, becoming just as adept at painting portraits and landscapes first on his phone, then on an iPad. In 2012 he covered four walls of the Royal Academy with iPad paintings of one particular bend of one lane in east Yorkshire, on every day of the year and in every sort of light. Just before covid-19 struck in 2019 he moved to Normandy, and posted digital pictures of the emerging spring. These were later turned into a massive galleria, a cathedral of green, enough to fill L’Orangerie in Paris. If his poolside painting of the man in the peachy-pink jacket was a snapshot of a moment when he was 35, he described his final work as his Bayeux Tapestry, a long walk through a whole life.

From BBC’s obituary:

He had simply followed one rule: “Paint the things you love”…

He was single-minded and devoted to drawing. The wartime shortage of paper restricted his early efforts to the kitchen floor and hymn books in church…

Hockney’s appearance may have been flamboyant but his work ethic was Protestant. For 12 hours a day, he worked furiously at his easel…

His work-rate remained prodigious. He placed a sign at the foot of his bed in Notting Hill, telling himself to “GET UP AND START WORK IMMEDIATELY”.

If he grew tired of drawing, Hockney would take photographs, do etchings or design operas. He was haunted by the feeling he wasn’t doing enough…

Few artists have been more excited by technology than Hockney…

Hockney’s new passion was landscapes: the traditional pastime of the weekend amateur.

He moved to Bridlington, where his sister and elderly mother now lived, and began to paint the Yorkshire Wolds.

Each summer, the teenage Hockney had cycled here from Bradford to earn pocket money on local farms. 

The countryside was beautiful and brought back memories of working on the harvest and sleeping in barns with his friends.

For Hockney, this was just as much a paradise as California in the 1960s.

He stood outdoors in all weathers, he painted hundreds of scenes of lush meadows and roadside verges. They were often on a monumental scale.

It was an old man’s challenge to an art scene focused on the young, the cynical and the conceptual.

And Shelia Hicks on her work from Maria Popova:

I don’t even think about art. People want to pull me into the art thing all the time… Is this art or isn’t this art… What is art? I think people do what they feel like doing, and not authenticating things. These podcasts and these interviews and this reportage and these exhibitions, a lot of it has to do with trying to authenticate things, validate things. Here in Paris, we have a hundred exhibitions opening every week. What are we validating? And if you’re not validated and if you’re not being exhibited, what are you doing? Are you wasting your time or are you just simply doing what you feel like doing and that you like doing?

When I made this, I didn’t make it with any intention that it’s supposed to be craft or art or design or decoration. Or what is it? It just is. Take it or leave it.

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Rebecca Watson wrote that nostalgia can be an antidote to loneliness. As an introvert with many pursuits, a few close friends and family, I seldom feel lonely. Still, I am drawn to the feeling of nostalgia. Revisiting places where I once lived, studied, or worked puts me in a contemplative mood and invites me to reflect on my past experiences.

Excerpts from the article:

It’s a curious thing, seeking the site of memories: like a dog chasing its own tail. It’s impossible to meet the memory. Those spaces live on in your mind, edging towards unreality, becoming dreamlike. 

I was connecting memories back with the world, pulling them into reality. But the task, of course, was impossible to achieve: the present only reinforced memory as individual, intimate, unrepeatable. Each spot was united by there being no sign that I had been there previously. Time having passed was part of the pleasure, so was the fact that I was irrelevant to these places — that they belonged to me only as much as the series of people who had since passed through them.

Nostalgia can become negative when you wish for a reality that probably never existed — or romanticise a past state in order to attack the present. But in its best form, nostalgia is an antidote to loneliness — it un-collapses time, which is by necessity condensed, drawing out your life behind you like a snail’s silver trail. The feeling is of being both magnified and a speck amid a vast landscape.

Nostalgia, on the other hand, is a phenomenon of layers: the passage of time, our relation to it, how others intersect with that memory or point in time.

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“I don’t see that it makes any point that someone in the Swedish Academy decides that this work is noble enough to receive a prize. I’ve already got the prize. The prize is the pleasure of finding the thing out, the kick in the discovery, the observation that other people use it. Those are the real things. The honours are unreal to me.” — Richard Feynman

Kevin Kelly thinks we should live our most improbable life, because it has less competition, offers more unique rewards, and makes us harder to replace.

Here is what you gain with your most improbable life:

The authentic you. Your particular mix of talents, native abilities, personal inclinations, genetic limits, life experiences, and ambitious desires points to a mixture that is distinctly unique – if it is allowed to blossom. The further you move in that direction, the more you-like you become.

The more you-ish you become, the less competition you have, because you are occupying your own niche. Less competition means you don’t have to be in a race; you can relax and focus on your strengths. You have the space to become even more you, and even less likely.

The more you occupy a category of one, the easiest it is for you to appreciate this trait in others. It becomes easier to see past the conventional, to identify authenticity, and to encourage the improbable in others…

Finally, the less predictable you are, the less likely you are to be replaced by AIs. Machines are efficient, and they are powered by the predictable. Current LLMs are trained to generate the most predictable solution. So far they are not very good at duplicating what a creative, one-of-a-kind improbable human can produce. To distance yourself from the machines, aim to be as improbable as you can be.

But what if our interests are quite “average”? Or what if the unique combination of our interests and abilities is not valued by society?

One solution, as Sandeep Swadia suggests, is to consciously assess our interests and focus on those that reinforce what we do and benefit us in some way (for example, those that give us more optionality or stability). But doesn’t this planning framework contradict Kevin Kelly’s main idea by making the process more predictable?

I prefer another piece of Sandeep’s advice: focus on hobbies that bring us joy, help us learn, allow us to express ourselves, or connect with a community.

I’m fortunate enough not to have to worry too much about making a living. And as I’m in midlife, there is no excuse not to live more authentically. Time spent on my interests and hobbies is already a reward in itself. Anything else is a bonus.

For example, piano, drawing, basketball, and badminton may not be a rare combination in market terms. None of these hobbies is likely to make me irreplaceable in society. But together, they shape the kind of life I want to live. Piano gives me a way to connect with music and occasionally perform with my children and friends. Drawing helps me observe more carefully and express visual ideas. Basketball and badminton keep me active, competitive, and connected with others. In the end, perhaps living one’s most improbable life is not about being marketable or irreplaceable. It is about arranging life around the things that make us feel most alive and meaningful.

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Henry Oliver wrote an article comparing two of my favourite authors, Jane Austen and Adam Smith. Both have a deep understanding of human psychology and behaviour. I’ve admired Knightley’s and Darcy’s character and self-command ever since I read Jane Austen’s novels when I was young.

Excerpts:

Smith argued that people want to be praised and to be praiseworthy. That they want to be loved and to be deserving of love. Smith says we must be virtuous to be happy. His virtues are prudence, benevolence and justice. His vices are pride and vanity. “The proud and the vain man . . . are constantly dissatisfied,” he writes. The route to virtue is through “self-command”. Therefore we must achieve “superiority over the most ungovernable passions of human nature”.

Self-command is a question of willpower, education, habit. It comes from being bred in “the bustle and business of the world” when we are exposed to “violence and injustice of faction”. To those who are miserable, Smith advises in The Theory of Moral Sentiments, “do not mourn in the solitude of darkness . . . Live with strangers, with those who know nothing or care nothing about your misfortune.” 

As the economists Bohanon and Vachris write, both Smith and Austen prioritise self-control as a means of achieving balance and self-improvement. By attaining the skill of self-command, Marianne is able to cultivate virtue.

What marks out the capacity to improve, in Smith, is being able to see ourselves as an “impartial observer” would see us…Emma is unable to improve morally until she takes Knightley’s advice. Like Marianne, she must learn to see like those with more self-command. It is when Emma sees things as Knightley does that she is able to reform. “I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me,” she acknowledges to Knightley.

Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.

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Noah Smith has written a good article on making and having friends after age 30. For an introvert like myself, big groups and frequent socializing events are too draining. However, I do enjoy occasional small group gatherings with friends or interesting people. The challenge is consciously planning and seeking out opportunities to make these connections happen, even if only occasionally. Smith also touches on what constitutes close friendships.

There’s no hard-and-fast boundary between close friends and more casual friends; it’s a spectrum. Closeness tends to develop gradually over time, and it feels a little different in each case…

There are basically two things that define a really close friendship: understanding, and interdependence. Your close friend has to understand who you really are, and you also have to know that you can count on them if you need help. If a friendship has only one of those things and not the other, it’s not really a close one. 

Understanding gets built up over time, but it can’t reach a truly deep level without confessions. We all have certain things that we’re reluctant to tell other people about ourselves — not necessarily secrets, but core truths of our lives that we don’t like yelling at everyone we meet at a party. Occasionally these might be facts about your life, but usually they’re just vulnerabilities and desires and fears. 

In order to make a really close friend, you have to tell them at least some of those things, and they have to tell you theirs. You have to have moments when you open yourself to another person and make yourself vulnerable to them. And you also have to have moments where they do this for you. You don’t both have to do it at the same time, but it has to happen on both sides….

The other thing you need for a close friendship is interdependence — you need to know you can rely on your friend, and they need to know they can rely on you. There’s no way to prove this in an absolute sense, of course — you’ll almost certainly never know if your friend would really lay down their life for you, because that sort of situation almost never actually comes up…

And I agree with his conclusion:

So I think you have to work at it. Having friends is one of the most important components of a complete, fulfilled human life. It’s just too important to leave entirely to chance.

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Silence, introversion, otaku-like obsession, nature, mindfulness, discipline, flowing with the seasons, balance, minimalism, quality, and politeness–all of these align with my personality and preferences. No wonder Japan is my favourite country.

Link to the article.

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