The 20th century was witness to the birth of what is arguably the most popular device in the history of mankind: the television. TV is a communications technology that has revolutionised the delivery of information, entertainment and artistic expression to the masses. More recently, we have all witnessed (and participated in) the birth of the Internet, a technology whose potential makes TV pale into insignificance in comparison (although, it seems, TV isn't leaving us anytime soon). These are fast-paced and momentous times we live in. I thought now would be a good opportunity to take a journey back through the ages, and to explore the forms of (and devices for) media and communication throughout human history.
Let me begin with a little bit of high school revision. Fossil fuels are composed primarily of carbon and hydrogen. There are basically three types of fossil fuels on Earth: coal, oil, and natural gas. It's common knowledge that fossil fuels are the remains of prehistoric plants and animals. That's why they're called "fossil fuels" (although they're not literally made from prehistoric bones, or at least not in any significant amount). Over a period of millions of years, these organic remains decomposed, and they got buried deep beneath rock and sea beds. A combination of heat and pressure caused the organic material to chemically alter into the fuel resources that we're familiar with today. The fuels became trapped between layers of rock in the Earth's geological structure, thus preserving them and protecting them from the elements up to the present day.
Hang on. Let's stop right there. Fossil fuels are dead plants and animals. And we burn them in order to produce the energy that powers most of our modern world (86% of it, to be precise). In other words, modern human civilisation depends (almost exclusively) upon the incineration of the final remains of some of the earliest life on Earth. In case there weren't enough practical reasons for us to stop burning fossil fuels, surely that's one hell of a philosophical reason. Wouldn't you say so?
WWI was one of the most costly and the most gruesome of wars that mankind has ever seen. It was also one of the most pointless. I've just finished reading The First Casualty, a ripper of a novel by author and playwright Ben Elton. The novel is set in 1917, and much of the story takes place at the infamous Battle of Passchendaele, which is considered to have been the worst of all the many hellish battles in the war. I would like to quote one particular passage from the book, which I believe is the best summary of the causes of WWI that I've ever read.
The human body is a self-sustaining and self-repairing entity. When you cut your hand, when you blister your foot, or when you burn your tongue, you know — and you take it for granted — that somehow, miraculously, your body will heal itself. All it needs is time. However, there are many injuries that are simply too severe for the body to repair by itself: in these cases, help may be needed in the form of lotions, medicines, or even surgery. Why is this so? With all its vast resources, what is it that the human body finds so difficult and so time-consuming in healing a few simple cuts and bruises? Surely — with a little bit of help, and a lot more conscious concentration — we should be capable of repairing so much more, all by ourselves.
There are a great many people in this world — particularly in third-world countries — that spend their entire lives performing jobs that are dangerous, labour-intensive, unhealthy, and altogether better-suited for machines. I've often heard the argument that "it's better that they do what they do, than that they have no job at all". After visiting the hellish mines of Potosí in Bolivia, I disagree with this argument more strongly than ever. I'm now 100% convinced that it's better for jobs as atrocious as this to disappear from the face of the Earth; and that it's better for those affected to become unemployed and to face economic hardship in the short-term, while eventually finding newer and better jobs; than to continue in their doomed and unpleasant occupations forever.
It's become popular in recent times for people to quit their boring day jobs, and instead to work full-time on something that they really love doing. We've all heard people say: now I'm spending every day doing what I enjoy most, and I couldn't be happier. Call me a cynic, but I am very dubious of the truth of this approach. In my experience, as soon as you turn a pleasurable pastime into a profession, you've suddenly added a whole new bucket of not-so-enjoyable tasks and responsibilities into the mix; and in the process, you've sacrificed at least some of the pleasure.
We humans are naturally selfish creatures. Perhaps it's just me, but I think that the nature of this selfishness changes over time. As children, we are obsessed with owning or possessing things: our entire lives revolve around having toys, having food, having entertainment. But as we get older, we seem to become less concerned with having things, and more concerned with doing things. This strikes me as a fascinating change, and also as one of the key transitions between childhood and adulthood.
Evangelism. For centuries, many of the world's largest and most influential religions have practiced it. The idea behind evangelism is that one particular religion is the one true way to find G-d and to live a good life. It is therefore a duty, and an act of kindness, for the followers of that religion to "spread the word", and to help all of humanity to "see the light". I say to all evangelists: stop shining that accursed light in my face!
For many years, a certain scene from a certain movie has troubled me deeply. In The Matrix (1999), there is a scene where the character 'Neo' is killed. Stone dead, no heartbeat for over thirty seconds, multiple bulletholes through chest. And then he comes back to life. Up until now, my friends and I have always derided this scene as being 'fake' and 'medically impossible'. But like Neo, I believe that I may finally have the answer.
Every gardener has a little patch of this planet that he or she loves and tends to. To these people, a patch is more than just a rectangular plot of land filled with dirt and flora. It is a living thing that needs care and attention; and in return, it brings great beauty and a feeling of fulfilment. The same is true of programmers the world over, and of the countless patches of code that they lovingly maintain throughout cyberspace.