One of the pleasures of watching the new Doctor Who as it’s live-broadcast in a theatre with a number of dedicated Whovians (Northampton chapter) in attendance is that when the Sontaran on screen goes “Sontar-ha!”, you hear several people behind you respond instantaneously with a reflexive “ha!”. If you’re going to open with a section sending up the Doctor’s previous incarnations, it’s important that these people laugh at your jokes – which they did, knowingly but also cheerfully. The reactions from that contingent were generally warm and appreciative – there was an audible “well done, Mr Wheatley” at the end.

(Irrelevant aside: when I was growing up in Ross-on-Wye, the local vicar was a Rev. Paul Wheatley, later Archdeacon of Sherborne, who reminded me somewhat of Roger Delgado as The Master.

Not really - it's Roger Delgado
The Ven. Paul Wheatley, Archdeacon of Sherborne

His response, when my mum told him “my son thinks you look like The Master”, was “how does he know I’m not?”. Which was quite cool of him, really).

My 11-year-old daughter, who’d never particularly been into the series before, was also enthused – it was the right kind and amount of scary, the story was good and it looked cool. So, that’s two important criteria of success met: please the fans, entice the n00bs.

Two things seem to have happened to Stephen Moffatt since the end of the last season. The first is that he’s had time to think, and has apparently realised that giving your audience time to think – and something to think about in that time – is one of the marvellous things Who can do. This episode had lots to say about masks, veils, the faces we put on, and about the permutations of identity over time. What about the Doctor is invariant under regeneration? Each new Doctor poses a different answer, or a different part of the answer, to that question. Capaldi’s “am I a good man?”, is worth chewing on a bit, especially because the “I” in question is so unsettled: does he mean this “I”, the “I” he is going to be from now on, or the ancient and inscrutable alien underneath, the “I” he has always been, who is somewhat beyond Good and Evil and is not necessarily (in spite of appearances so far) a “man” at all? Another clergyman of my acquaintance liked to speculate about Who’s implied Christology – are we to think of the Doctor as “wholly human and wholly alien”? (So that was how Jesus survived the crucifixion – two hearts…)

The other thing that’s happened with Moffatt is that he seems to have spent some time considering the shortcomings of the previous series with the help of a focus group consisting entirely of Laurie Penny. Either that or he’s just sat down with a big stack of Sarah Waters books, and gone “lesbians in Victorian period costume with cockney accents – righto!”. I’m hoping we’ll see more of the Clara that was promised in her first appearance last season – clever, boshing, with stuff to do – and less ornamental sass and “oh my stars!”-ing. It’s difficult for any episode of Who to pass the Bechdel test, just because all the other characters are fairly inevitably going to be talking about the Doctor for much of the time, but there were definitely moments here where the female cast were going about business that was distinctly, authentically their own, and that was encouraging.

Here’s an awkward question, just to be annoying: why do we have to pick out the black girl in the classroom flashback to be the inspiration for the white woman’s defiance? Doesn’t she kind of get reduced to a bit of a gif in the process? You know, the way tumblrists love using images of African-American women going “hell no” or whatever to illustrate their disdain for things? There’s probably a name for this. It’s become a bit of a cultural tic, and is no doubt fairly harmless as such things go, but I do think this giffification – there’s a name for it, in case one is wanted – is what those same tumblrists would probably call “problematic”. On the one hand, it’s no bad thing if your demotic iconography puts Rihanna or RuPaul right alongside Patrick Stewart and, um, Benedict Cumberbatch. On the other, you maybe need to think a bit about what you’re stealth-essentialising in the process. Anyway, don’t listen to me.

Oh, one more thing. Just because Strax is a Sontaran doesn’t mean he’s not also a comedy ethnic minority sidekick, even (and perhaps especially) if the actor playing him is white. Don’t get me wrong: I love Strax, he has a lot of great lines, Dan Starkey’s extremely funny. But the running joke is that he’s a foreigner from a campily-militaristic empire of swarthy barbarians who tries but often amusingly fails to understand how civilised people do things, and isn’t it just hilarious to dress him as a butler? This is jarring in (modern) Who, the same way having Madame Vastra yell “in the name of the British Empire” is jarring. Come on, Madame Vastra – you’re the sole surviving Silurian lizard-person from the Time Before Humans, in a Victorian-costumed-cockney-lesbian relationship with a woman you have to pretend is your maidservant (although Moffatt can’t resist making it obvious that they’re both actually getting some sort of kick out of the whole arrangement). Fuck the British Empire.

R.I.P. Robin Williams

The pejorative most often thrown Robin Williams’s way was “sentimental”. Dead Poet’s Society is sentimental; Good Will Hunting was sentimental. The Fisher King is a hugely sentimental confection (although Terry Gilliam has quite a lot to do with that).

Often what Williams was portraying was deep loneliness; and lonely people have sentimental turns. Commonplace words like “love” and “acceptance” get capitalised, become the Love and Acceptance on which entire worlds pivot. You make a big deal about these things because they’re difficult, elusive, never quite seeming to work out; redemption can happen in fantasy at least (although the fantasy itself is not redeemable).

I think his work will bear rewatching with an eye to its strangeness, its estrangement. Jumanji, already a weird and troubled film, gets considerably weirder when Williams emerges from the box, a lost child grown adult. Even the aggravated kookiness of Mork and Mindy jaunts along over an ostinato of disconnection and anxiety (Mork is an outcast from Ork, a misfit wherever he finds himself). It is not easy to live in this world.

Can it really be true, as wikipedia reports, that the landlord of Fred and Mindy’s music store was named “Arnold Wanker”?

A Moldbuggian Howler

When it comes to being whizz at programming, Moldbug fails the basic comprehension test:

“Even forgetting the macros, it’s pretty easy to see why you don’t need dynamic higher-order programming. For example, a very common operation on functions is to compose them – you have f(x) and g(x), you make h(x), defined as f(g(x)). In the right formal model, a compose operator is really no different from addition. And once you have first-class functions – which are not absolutely necessary, but certainly useful – it seems like a trivial extension.

But is it what you, the programmer, want to do? Actually, no. It is simply bad programming style. Its only effect is to make your program less comprehensible.

Because in a language with first-class functions but without dynamic higher-order programming, all you need to do is build a data structure which is the ordered pair (f(x) g(x)), and define h(x) as an operation on this structure. This may be slightly more cumbersome for the programmer. At least, if one line of code counts as ‘slightly more cumbersome.'”

No. That is not how function composition works.

I will now briefly try to describe why this is wrong, why it is elementarily wrong, and why Moldbug is both a n00b and a scrub.

Let’s say we have two functions, f : List a -> Int and g : Int -> Int. f takes a list and returns its length; g doubles the integer passed to it. We wish to compose both functions to make a new function, g . f = h : List a -> Int, which takes a list and returns double its length.

Suppose we try to do as Mr Yarvin proposes, and create an ordered pair (f(x), g(x)). f(x) will take a list, x, and return its length. g(x) will take an integer, x, and return x*2. We cannot pass the same x to both f and g, since no x can be both a list and an integer (not even in Python!). There is no therefore no way to construct this ordered pair.

The function h does not in any case take a pair of inputs. It takes a single input, a list, and returns a single output, an integer.

Function composition works by chaining functions together, so that the output of one becomes the input of another. If we wanted to apply a function h to the outputs of both f(x) and g(x), the “composition” operator would have a completely different signature, viz:

compose’ : (a -> b) -> (a -> c) -> (b -> c -> d) -> a -> d
compose’ f g h x = h (f x) (g x)

Which is also, nota bene, a damn sight easier to write and use if you’re using a sensible language that handles partial application properly. And nobody, literally nobody, calls it “dynamic higher-order programming”. Not least because it’s all worked out at compile-time anyway.

Reasons of Space

Cover of "The Production Of Space", by Henri Lefebvre
It’s mostly made in China these days

“The logical space of reasons” is a figure of speech, and a telling one. C20th philosophy is full of phase spaces and logical spaces, rhetorical spaces and epistemic spaces, from Wittgenstein’s Logische Raum and Heidegger’s Spielraum through to the smooth and striated spaces of Deleuze & Guattari. Spatialisation is one way to “go transcendental”: the movement from point to space is always a virtualising movement, a movement in the direction of overarching (rather than “underlying”) logic, higher-order organisation.

Henri Lefebvre’s argument about spatial metaphors is, more or less, a reworking of Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological centreing of spatial intuition on the body: for “the body” as that of an individual phenomenal subject, Lefebvre substitutes the social body. For Lefebvre, the contouring of “mental space”, with all its various metaphorical deployments in philosophy and mathematics, is consequent upon the structuring and restructuring of social and geographical space, in particular the space of the city. One could always see Lefebvre’s own project of tracing shifts in the structure of social space as outlining a kind of space of spaces within which such transformations could be plotted; but that would seem somewhat against the spirit of it.

The critical question here concerns the status of the transcendental, relative to the social (and historical, geographical, physical etc) matrix of which it is the transcendental. A “logical space of reasons” might be one sort of thing in a city where argumentative cliques congregated in coffee shops and bars to debate the latest pamphlets and manifestos, and another in a remote village with a primarily oral culture, where collective decision-making and tribal identity were mediated by the same stock of stories and story-tellers. Or – and the use of “space” as metaphor predisposes us towards this alternative – we might be trying to talk about differently-situated instantiations of the same thing, transcendentally speaking.

The key notion that I draw from Zalamea’s metaphorical deployment of sheaf theory is that there is not one “space of reasons”; that the transcendental is only available on condition that one navigates from space to space, constructing “spaces of spaces” through transcendentalising operations. That is why it makes sense to me to argue that the space of reasons is not a “full body”, and is in fact incompletable. There is not an independent space of types, governing a subordinate domain of values: type and value are inextricably entwined.

Two rationalist subjectivities

Reason is not the already-accomplished apparatus of rationality, and the space of reasons can never be laid out in its totality under a single gaze. In short, it is not a “full body”, sufficient and all-comprehending.

The Pigtronix “philosopher king” guitar effects pedal.

Neither can a “rationalist project” be oriented by the thought of one day completing rationality, or take the measure of its accomplishments based on their perceived proximity to such a goal. Rationality is locally perfectible – there exist problems to which there are solutions, and even classes of problems to which there are general solutions – but not globally: there is no universal procedure which will render every circumstance as a problem to which there is a solution.

There is no end of phrases, and no end to the task of linking phrases together.

The obscure subject of a rationalist politics will be that which, in the name of a “full body” of accomplished (or to-be-accomplished) rationality, calls for everything to be restored to order. Society organised according to geometric principles! Its speech purged of fallacies, its politics free of antagonism…

We know that such an obscure subject must devote itself increasingly to destruction, culminating in a frenzy against the real. Only the destruction of error can restore the integrity of the full body; and there is no end of error.

The faithful subject of a rationalist politics will be that which proceeds by proofs, which is to say by logical invention. To trust in reason is to trust in a generic capacity, without any guarantee drawn from the particularity of this or that person or community. It is to trust in the next step of the proof, without the certain knowledge of the world’s approval (reason can still scandalise the world).

The obscure subject has no need of fidelity, since there is literally nothing left for it to prove. All that remains is the identification – and consignment to perdition – of the infidel.

It is by no means the rationalist orientation in politics that has generated the most ferociously indiscriminate instances of this subjective figure.