Phil Nugent knows how to write about films.
Here is his favourite Easter film, Bring me the Head of Alfredo Garcia:
Also, here is the Monty Python sketch that the article references:
"If one spends too much time knocking down and polemicizing against weak arguments, sooner or later all opposing arguments start looking weak."
Yes, he definitely targets weak arguments, but that’s because he’s conducting a war, not a debate. Krugman believes (or at least he’s said so on many occasions) that his opponents — Republicans and “right-wing” (his term) economists — are either themselves malicious or dupes of malicious people, who (consciously or not) are pursuing goals that will result in massive negative results, on the order of trillions of dollars of loss, hardship and death. He believes he needs to win this battle on the stage of national opinion (and for better or worse, he is on it), or these terrible things will happen.
Picayune details like whether or not specific little arguments are right or wrong are irrelevant, and that’s why he reacts so rudely to you — as an average person might to the argument that “at least the trains ran on time.” He thinks that if he grants any ground to you or any other “right-wing” footsoldiers, he may lose the war, and then the truly evil (again, his words) will use that as ammunition to enact policies that will harm billions of people. I imagine that’s why he rarely repeats all the free trade stuff that he wrote in the 90′s — that position has been overrun by the enemy. He no doubt continues to believe those words then to be true, but talking about them today doesn’t serve the greater purpose.
I don’t want to armchair psychologize or demonize Krugman, because I feel everyone tends to think like that: when you’re opposing something that is truly wrong, no one goes out of their way to analyze their arguments, or take care to ensure they’re addressing only the strongest points of the apologists. I feel like he’s taken a form of Pascal’s wager: when the risk is so great, can he afford to let any doubts fester?It is cool to see such a widely-read economics debate take a turn towards philosophy. The question of whether people do better by picturing their intellectual interactions as group play or as wars is quite a deep one I think, but not so deep that it isn't totally obvious who is right in this case!
The BBC news website today ran a prominent story featuring claims by some lobbyists that many GPs support the government's NHS bill.
The results of a recent survey according to which 90% GPs would support the RCGP in calling for the NHS bill to be withdrawn can be found here http://www.rcgp.org.uk/news/press_releases_and_statements/health_bill_survey_results.aspx
This shows unambiguously that the quoted lobbyists' views are highly unrepresentative of those of GPs as a whole.
Since it does not mention this important information, the BBC story gives the impression that GPs support the NHS bill, when in fact the opposite is true.
Please change the story so as to mention the survey results.
Many thanks for your message, and interest in the site. The story does reference the fact that the Royal College of GPs is opposed to the government reforms.
Our extensive coverage of the reforms over many months has given a lot of prominence to the opposition of many of the leading professional groups (see examples below).
In this instance we felt it was newsworthy that a group of doctors had come out in favour of the reforms, partly because this is not an organised voice from which we have heard much.
We strive for balance in our news coverage at all times, and while it may be true to say that the majority of doctors have deep concerns about the reforms, this is not a universal view.
Thank you for your prompt reply, which I find deeply unsatisfactory.(i) As far as I or cntrl-f can see, neither the phrase "Royal College of GPs" nor any other information about GPs' overall opinions appears in the article in question. Your claim that "The story does reference the fact that the Royal College of GPs is opposed to the government reforms" is therefore incorrect. I am astonished that you have made such an incompetent error.
(ii) Whether or not your coverage has "given a lot of prominence to the opposition of the leading professional groups" is irrelevant to my complaint, which was that your article gives a misleading impression of GPs' opinions.(iii) Your account makes your standards of newsworthiness seem bizarre and arbitrary. Needless to say there are many other unrepresentative groups whose organised voices rarely feature on the front page of your website.(iv) I do not understand what you mean by 'balance' in this context. I struggle to think of an interpretation of the word that would override the duty, which your article strikingly neglects, to give the public an accurate impression of the distribution of GPs' views about healthcare reform.I repeat, please update your article to make it less misleading, using the information I have provided.
Racism1: A state of affairs where members of some races are systematically disadvantaged compared to members of other races
Racism2: The claim that there are true race-based generalisations
Racist1: Someone who promotes Racism1
Racist2: Someone who believes in Racism2
(i) Is it bad to be a Racist2?
(ii) If the answer is "sometimes" (clue: I think it is), then when?
(iii) Is there a connection between the two kinds of racism? If so, what is it?I want to think about these a bit and then write some more. In the meantime, is this a good rational reconstruction so far? Are there forms of racism that these definitions don't capture or do they label things as racism incorrectly? Also any good articles on this subject would be appreciated.
Cancer’s a Funny Thing
I wish I had the voice of Homer
To sing of rectal carcinoma,
Which kills a lot more chaps, in fact,
Than were bumped off when Troy was sacked.
Yet, thanks to modern surgeon’s skills,
It can be killed before it kills
Upon a scientific basis
In nineteen out of twenty cases.
I noticed I was passing blood
(Only a few drops, not a flood).
So pausing on my homeward way
From Tallahassee to Bombay
I asked a doctor, now my friend,
To peer into my hinder end,
To prove or to disprove the rumour
That I had a malignant tumour.
They pumped in BaS04.
Till I could really stand no more,
And, when sufficient had been pressed in,
They photographed my large intestine,
In order to decide the issue
They next scraped out some bits of tissue.
(Before they did so, some good pal
Had knocked me out with pentothal,
Whose action is extremely quick,
And does not leave me feeling sick.)
The microscope returned the answer
That I had certainly got cancer,
So I was wheeled into the theatre
Where holes were made to make me better.
One set is in my perineurn
Where I can feel, but can’t yet see ‘em.
Another made me like a kipper
Or female prey of Jack the Ripper,
Through this incision, I don’t doubt,
The neoplasm was taken out,
Along with colon, and lymph nodes
Where cancer cells might find abodes.
A third much smaller hole is meant
To function as a ventral vent:
So now I am like two-faced Janus
The only* god who sees his anus.
I’ll swear, without the risk of perjury,
It was a snappy bit of surgery.
My rectum is a serious loss to me,
But I’ve a very neat colostomy,
And hope, as soon as I am able,
To make it keep a fixed time-table.
So do not wait for aches and pains
To have a surgeon mend your drains;
If he says “cancer” you’re a dunce
Unless you have it out at once,
For if you wait it’s sure to swell,
And may have progeny as well.
My final word, before I’m done,
Is “Cancer can be rather fun”.
Thanks to the nurses and Nye Bevan
The NHS is quite like heaven
Provided one confronts the tumour
With a sufficient sense of humour.
I know that cancer often kills,
But so do cars and sleeping pills;
And it can hurt one till one sweats,
So can bad teeth and unpaid debts.
A spot of laughter, I am sure,
Often accelerates one’s cure;
So let us patients do our bit
To help the surgeons make us fit
*In India there are several more
With extra faces, up to four,
But both in Brahma and in Shiva
I own myself an unbeliever.
Fairly understandable!In early October 1957, on the fifth date of a two-week tour of Australia, Penniman was flying from Melbourne to appear in front of 40,000 fans in concert in Sydney. Shocked by the red hot appearance of the engines against the night sky, he envisioned angels holding up the plane. Then, while he performed at the stadium, he was shaken by the sight of a ball of fire that he watched streak across the sky overhead. He took what was actually the launching of Sputnik 1, the first human-made object to orbit the earth, as another sign to quit show business and follow God. The following day he departed Sydney on a ferry and threw his $8,000 ring in the water to show his band members that he was serious about quitting. The plane that he was originally scheduled to fly back home on ended up crashing in the Pacific Ocean, which he took as confirmation that he was doing what God wanted him to do.[58]
It is a northern country; they have cold weather, they have cold hearts.
Cold; tempest; wild beasts in the forest. It is a hard life. Their houses are built of logs, dark and smoky within. There will be a crude icon of the virgin behind a guttering candle, the leg of a pig hung up to cure, a string of drying mushrooms. A bed, a stool, a table. Harsh, brief, poor lives.
To these upland woodsmen, the Devil is as real as you or I. More so; they have not seen us nor even know that we exist, but the Devil they glimpse often in the graveyards, those bleak and touching townships of the dead where the graves are marked with portraits of the deceased in the naif style and there are no flowers to put in front of them, no flowers grow there, so they put out small, votive offerings, little loaves, sometimes a cake that the bears come lumbering from the margins of the forest to snatch away. At midnight, especially on Walpurgisnacht, the Devil holds picnics in the graveyards and invites the witches; then they dig up fresh corpses, and eat them. Anyone will tell you that.
Wreaths of garlic on the doors keep out the vampires. A blue-eyed child born feet first on the night of St John's Eve will have second sight. When they discover a witch--some old woman whose cheeses ripen when her neighbours' do not, another old woman whose black cat, oh, sinister! _follows her about all the time_, they strip the crone, search for her marks, for the supernumerary nipple her familiar sucks. They soon find it. Then they stone her to death.
Winter and cold weather.
Go and visit grandmother, who has been sick. Take her the oatcakes I've baked for her on the hearthstone and a little pot of butter.The good child does as her mother bids--five miles' trudge through the forest; do not leave the path because of the bears, the wild boar, the starving wolves. Here, take your father's hunting knife; you know how to use it.
The child had a scabby coat of sheepskin to keep out the cold, she knew the forest too well to fear it but she must always be on her guard. When she heard that freezing howl of a wolf, she dropped her gifts, seized her knife and turned on the beast.
It was a huge one, with red eyes and running, grizzled chops; any but a mountaineer's child would have died of fright at the sight of it. It went for her throat, as wolves do, but she made a great swipe at it with her father's knife and slashed off its right forepaw.
The wolf let out a gulp, almost a sob, when it saw what had happened to it; wolves are less brave than they seem. It went lolloping off disconsolately between the trees as well as it could on three legs, leaving a trail of blood behind it. The child wiped the blade of her knife clean on her apron, wrapped up the wolf's paw in the cloth in which her mother had packed the oatcakes and went on towards her grandmother's house. Soon it came on to snow so thickly that the path and any footsteps, track or spoor that might have been upon it were obscured.
She found her grandmother was so sick she had taken to her bed and fallen into a fretful sleep, moaning and shaking so that the child guessed she had a fever. She felt the forehead, it burned. She shook out the cloth from her basket, to use it to make the old woman a cold compress, and the wolf's paw fell to the floor.
But it was no longer a wolf's paw. It was a hand, chopped off at the wrist, a hand toughened with work and freckled with old age. There was a wedding ring on the third finger and a wart on the index finger. By the wart, she knew it for her grandmother's hand.
She pulled back the sheet but the old woman woke up, at that, and began to struggle, squawking and shrieking like a thing possessed. But the child was strong, and armed with her father's hunting knife; she managed to hold her grandmother down long enough to see the cause of her fever. There was a bloody stump where her right hand should have been, festering already.
The child crossed herself and cried out so loud the neighbours heard her and come rushing in. They knew the wart on the hand at once for a witch's nipple; they drove the old woman, in her shift as she was, out into the snow with sticks, beating her old carcass as far as the edge of the forest, and pelted her with stones until she fell down dead.
Now the child lived in her grandmother's house; she prospered.
"There could only have been two possible explanations: either the maze did exist, or it didn't exist".
"...but he had unearthed something valuable in the Loch, something just as valuable as a Plesiosaurus."
"As a child, Danny Robbins wanted to be a detective like Sam Spade, but instead he became a humourist on the radio, which is noble and exhilarating in its own way, but then again it isn't."Also here is Jon Ronson's website, wherefrom all these links are.