The Will To Control Energy Flows

Physical power and social power are much the same thing because they both derive from energy. That’s the rough thesis of a recent article by Edmund Russell and a rugby team of co-authors (The Nature of Power: Synthesizing the History of Technology and Environmental History). To show it’s not just a cheap academic party trick, they then use it to rewrite the history of the Industrial Revolution in terms of energy flows. 

The social power of mill owners and the physical power of the explosion flowed from a common root: the ability of mill owners to concentrate wheat in one building, which enhanced their control over a high value–added link in the product chain and increased their social power. If all of that wheat had been ground in hand-mills scattered among thousands of homes, the Minneapolis mill owners would have had little power, and any individual explosion would have been relatively weak. Indeed, Karl Marx argued that forcing people to abandon hand-mills and bring their grain to centralized water-mills was one way in which capitalists gained power in Europe.

The basic insight extends a house theme of Technology and Culture, that technological networks require or include institutional social networks. Railways imply drivers, engineers and conductors. (Tootle tells all the young engines to stay on the rails, no matter what.)

So we’re certainly several steps beyond claiming string theory can derive the Peloponnesian War (given a perfectly spherical map of Greece and an unlimited supply of starving grad students). Energy centric analysis can uncover neglected historic and social connections, and is actually pretty cool. The authors go quite a bit further than that, though:

Our thesis is that all power, social as well as physical, derives from energy.

This is plausible enough but seems a little undercooked. The authors are careful to avoid a claim of equivalence for the two types of power, but the weaker claim of derivation still seems to need exploring. In the physical definition, power is a mathematical derivative of energy with respect to time. The nature of the social derivation is left undefined. I am showing my physical science bias here, but without a more precise definition this claim just seems to trade on a metaphorical connections between different meanings of “derive”.

Again, even if this is simple overstretch, energy-centric history is still rather neat. In a spirit of constructive speculation, though, I can think of two ways social power might be a derivative of energy in a quantitative sense.

One option is simple equivalence, the rate if energy delivered over time. It should be quite possible to, say, describe the military power deployed in the hundred hours of the Operation Desert Storm ground campaign in terawatts. This would be an involved accounting exercise based on inputs of fuel, food, ammunition fired, amortized energy capital costs, and so on. Presumably some high level estimate could be made after a few days or weeks effort. Such a stat might be of use to economic or military historians, though the deployment of military energy is notoriously prone to inefficiency and involves specifics of formation and timing. E.g., consider the energy budgets at work in the Indochina War.

Political power as a scalar doesn’t fit well with the intuition that it is something attributable and directed. People and organizations have power due to their relationship to others. This suggests a more radical, speculative definition: social power is energy derived with respect to paths on a social network. This has intuitive appeal, but for now I am throwing it out there without detailed exploration or justification.

Contrariwise, maybe the social network can be considered just another network for energy distribution. We have electricity and food distribution networks after all. Perhaps adding above them is an unnecessary metaphysical duality. The US president can order aircraft carriers into motion, they require lots of petrol, he is therefore powerful. Financiers have money which can be turned into electricity – potential energy.

Either way it seems right that social power should be intertwined with control of flow. 

 

Even the organization within which, as was previously supposed, the individuals treat each other as equal—it takes place in every healthy aristocracy—must itself, if it be a living and not a dying organization, do all that towards other bodies, which the individuals within it refrain from doing to each other it will have to be the incarnated Will to Power, it will endeavour to grow, to gain ground, attract to itself and acquire ascendancy—not owing to any morality or immorality, but because it LIVES, and because life IS precisely Will to Power
— Nietzsche, Beyond Good And Evil, Zimmern trans.

Programmers Were Born Free, And Are Everywhere In Toolchains

Eclipse architect Kim Moir invokes Rousseau as a design mentor:

One of the goals of the Eclipse project was to encourage open source and commercial consumers of this technology to extend the platform to meet their needs, and one way to encourage this adoption is to provide a stable API. An API can be thought of as a technical contract specifying the behavior of your application. It also can be thought of as a social contract. On the Eclipse project, the mantra is, “API is forever”. Thus careful consideration must be given when writing an API given that it is meant to be used indefinitely. A stable API is a contract between the client or API consumer and the provider. This contract ensures that the client can depend on the Eclipse platform to provide the API for the long term without the need for painful refactoring on the part of the client. A good API is also flexible enough to allow the implementation to evolve.

Clean Sweep

Software engineering isn’t philosophy, as fun as both of them are. There are certainly intersections, as HXA7241 (Harrison Ainsworth) recently described:

The single core idea (to be rather bold and sweeping) in philosophy is the distinction of necessary and contingent: ‘necessary’ being what is always true, what is known logically; ‘contingent’ being everything else, that may or may not be known or true according to circumstance.

The single core idea in software engineering is abstraction: which is the fusion of a fixed part with a varying part. And this maps exactly to necessary and contingent. An abstraction says that within its context a particular thing is necessary – the fixed part – but also that the rest is contingent – the varying part. (A single bit number is always a number – by definition, but it might be 0 or 1 – completely by circumstance.)

It is indeed a sweeping generalization, beautiful in its bold wrongness. Thinking mathematics was a science, Wittgenstein once said, was like mistaking the broom for the furniture. Similarly, when you pick up the broom to clean the room – when you put the toolset to use – the confusion disappears.

Now Ainsworth’s assertion is closer to Wittgenstein than the math / science analogy implies, because he is saying that both philosophy and software engineering are toolsets of a kind. (Elsewhere, in an interesting take I might well return to, he describes software engineering instead as engineering in a computational medium.) Even keeping in mind that in another post software engineering is defined as entirely concerned with how the software works. “It neither changes what is wanted, nor what can possibly be computed,” … but it does change what is wanted – the articulation of a possibility in software changes its future iterations through the evolution of human understanding of that possibility. It is less like a broom and more like a paintbrush. Or a Japanese fan. Picking it up changes the room.

Or a dodgy second-hand chainsaw, which only works when you hold it at a fifteen degree angle and rev the crap out of the engine. The machine-nature of useful semi-broken software – or software engineering – seems to strain the very limits of the metaphor. “Software is clarity,” Ainsworth writes. I guess he hasn’t used Microsoft Word.

All Noise And Honesty

野良犬 Nora inu – Stray Dog is named for an animal, but it’s really a film about being a man. This is true in the most general sense – Kurosawa doesn’t stray from his sympathetic humanism. Yet it’s also true in the specific, gender political sense. It’s about what might anachronistically be called manly virtues, but in the modern city.

((Such gender-loaded terms are meant as observations on cultural parallels in Japan 1949 and now, rather than mandates or beliefs. Any admiring note is in admiration of virtue, not of gender.))

The tropes here send the plot in thematic loops around duty, the city, and life post-WW2 Japan. A young policeman, Detective Murakami, has his gun stolen on the bus, and traces it through the underworld. It’s bound for another young man, also a returned soldier, a thief turning murderer. So it’s a coming of age story, a police procedural and an urban quest. The cinematography is beautiful film noir, but the plot is not. There are women, in rich supporting roles, but no femme fatale. There is just the homme fatale of the thief: the stray dog.

“I love boys,” I heard a teacher friend declare recently, “they’re all noise and honesty.” It’s an apt enough description for Mifune Toshiro’s performance in the lead role. He is raw with a sense of failed duty, hunting leads for days on end on little sleep, blurting out truths at embarrassingly high volume. Sympathetic as his colleagues are to his youthful zeal, there’s also a sense he’s not seeing things in proportion. When he gives in his letter of resignation after losing the gun, his boss rips it up. It’s another trope, of course, though we must be close to its invention.

The brief note for this retrospective pointed out the mentor relationship between the lead and senior detective Sato-san. And it’s lovely turn by Shimura Takashi, who was, like Mifune, to become a recurring cast member for Kurosawa. There are at least two other teacher figures though: the young cop’s boss, and the senior detective for pickpockets and petty theft. There are also families – kids and mothers and uncles.

Indeed, almost every plot point here is a hop across vertices in a social network. Kurosawa, who had a hand in the screenplay, weaves a metropolitan mesh out of friends and near strangers. By the end he has drawn geisha girls, rich lawyers, baseball, sleeping children and gun dealers into the same net. It gives an ahistorical reminder of Krystof Kieslowski, like a Japanese Three Colours Black. And by the end of it we strain at the edge of the city, as the stray dog tries to push through the mesh and escape.

It’s a trick Kurosawa had used before, in his debut 姿三四郎 Sugato Sanshiro. Somehow, though the tropes are familiar, Stray Dog never loses its human scale, or falls into Samurai / Hollywood ultra-competence. Being set in summer and remembering to make the whole cast sweat was enough, but it’s also the pieces of life in every scene, the hotelier flirting with his employee, a crying infant tipping people off, the impossibility of talking on the phone in the pouring rain, the way one tiny everyday event cascades into another.

Yet Kurosawa was always good on the little details. The first time I saw this movie was with English subtitles badly translated via Chinese. Kurosawa had such a command of visuals that it was still watchable. Getting to see it this time in its full glory, on the silver screen, was a pleasure, and a privilege.

… how a friend described going to Beethoven’s door and hearing him ‘cursing, howling and singing’ over his new fugue; after a whole hour Beethoven at last came to the door, looking as if he had been fighting the devil, and having eaten nothing for 36 hours because his cook and parlour-maid had been away from his rage. That’s the sort of man to be.

— Wittgenstein quoted in a letter by Russell (from Monk)

A Program Is Articulate

Rearing its head out of Helen’s corner of the twitter-sphere around the occassion of the great Austrian’s 112th birthday (and sixty years since his death) comes the Tractatus Digito-Philosophicus, a recasting of Wittgenstein’s landmark first book into software terms.

2.0122 […] (It is impossible for words to appear in two different roles: by themselves, and in programs.)

There are several appealing elements to this self-described “odd venture”. One is that the translation is to a degree automatic, based on a simple search and replace table found at the end. It is logical positivism via sed. Another is that the Tractatus was produced during and soon after Wittgenstein was working as an actual engineer – first as an aviation research engineer at Manchester University, and later supervising technicians in a supply depot in World War I. He was not temperamentally very well suited to engineering work. Biographers have traditionally downplayed this as an intellectual influence, though Susan Sterett explores interesting parallels and possible influences around the idea of engineering models in the well-titled and readable Wittgenstein Flies A Kite.

The Tractatus Digito has the virtue of poetry (metaphor, simile, and so on) in presenting the same information from a different perspective and so firing different connections in the brain. But it’s more systematic than poetry as well. It’s not just a martial arts metaphor, as rhetorically useful as they can be. To contrast with an example close to hand, attempting to describe software in Confucian terms is a project fuelled as much by juxtaposition and analogy as correspondence. The mapping to that world will always be a partial one.

Ainsworth, rather, has noticed what every undergraduate programmer should know: that programs are sequences of logical propositions. So Wittgenstein is necessarily writing about software, or perhaps more specfically, because there is no social dimension, about programs. Our thinking about software is intertwined with its origins in the 1920s. This partial recasting is valuable in the same way a Turing Machine simulator is valuable. Sure, some of the resulting sentences don’t really make sense. Yet bringing registers and sorting algorithms into the book that invented truth tables feels less like visiting a foreign land, and more like hearing a friend talk excitedly on their return to the old family home.

3.141

A program is not a blend of instructions. – (Just as a theme in music is not a blend of notes.)

A program is articulate.